I love James Bond, and one of things I love is that the good guys and bad guys are so polite and courteous. They dress in dinner jackets and play poker and drink champagne for hours and hours before deciding to kill one another. Even at the end they follow the Miss Manners handbook to the letter: “The game is yours, Mr. Bond--now pardon me while I faint, as my lower intestines appear to be sloshing onto the floor.”

In real life it’s not like that at all. It’s “Godless heathen” this and “Bloodthirsty tyrant” that. And there’s absolutely no gentlemanly sparring before sending in troops to fight horrible battles.

I’d like to propose that the leaders of the world take a little time before declaring hostilities. They can play a game of cards or go skeet shooting or something, and slowly take each other’s measure. Then if they’re still ticked off, they can settle the matter like civilized people--using laserbeam deathtraps and exploding wristwatches.

Grownup: Go to bar.  Drink Guiness.
High school: Hang out at 24-hour Denny’s.  Eat pancakes.

Grownup: Have dinner with parental and sibling units.
High school: Have dinner with parental and sibling units, but less of a thrill; you eat with them every night of every week.

Grownup: Make cocktails.
High school: As a result of looking 12 years old, don’t even get carded in market checkout line--just laughed at.

Grownup: See cool, poorly distributed indie movie like City of God.
High school: Stuck in small town. Stuck in ‘80s.  See Short Circuit starring Ally Sheedy.

Grownup: Go on a pleasant hike using woodsy, gorgeous East Bay trail.
High school:  No hiking; lacking requisite inner peace.  Full of angst and turmoil.  Sit in room and listen to The Smiths.

Grownup: Do chores that improve home and car.  Feel good about oneself.
High school: Do chores that improve parental units’ home and car.  Feel tired; consider unionizing.

Grownup: Instant Message a friend who lives very far away, have fun conversation.
High school:  Internet not invented yet.* In order to “instant message,” must board plane, fly across country, commit breaking and entering, sneak up, yell loudly into friend’s ear: “Hello!  LOL!  How R U?”

*Emoticons only possible using elaborate paper mache constructs and felt markers.

What’s with all these corporate franchises that use “hut” in the title? Pizza Hut, Sunglasses Hut. Americans can’t relate to this; we live in nice houses and apartments. We’re lucky if we know from Jabba the Hutt.

Sometimes I like to joke here at “Geese Aplenty.” Sometimes I kid.  Sometimes, on rare occasions, I even josh.

But there comes a time when joking is bad.  Wrong.  Inappropriate.  And the most important time? Ironic Video Joke #10 in the rental store.

You know what I’m talking about.  How many times have you heard a friend make an Ironic Video Joke before finally deciding on a real option?  How many times have you done it yourself?

“Let’s rent Corky Romano.”
“Oh I know, let’s pull an all-nighter and check out the first season of Dawson’s Creek.”
“I’d really like a Kevin Costner film festival.”

This is quality comedy.  Millions of people have shared a laugh at such harmless tomfoolery.  But as a point of social convention, it’s imperative to recognize that Ironic Video Joke #10 is where this good natured funning passes the boundary from whimsical to annoying.  Double digits is where you begin to risk life and limb.  If you cross this important boundary and chortle something like “Quick, let’s reserve our copy of David Spade’s magnum opus Joe Dirt,” don’t be surprised if the other person grabs you by the collar and shouts:

“Enough!  Can we get past the self-referential, winking irony that is the hallmark of modern society?  Is it wrong to admit that we want cinema to help us feel?  To connect with real emotions?  Are we so intent on distancing ourselves from our humanity with postmodern abandon that we can’t bring ourselves to say that we genuinely want to rent Akira Kurosawa?  Orson Welles?  John Hughes?  Please, please, I implore you--let the video title that next escapes your lips not be in an ironic throwaway, but rather a title that you actually might want to rent and view!”

“Resident Evil.”

“Damn you.  Were you not listening?”

“No, I’m serious.”

“Oh.”

Of course now you have a different problem altogether, laced with its own set of social minefields, which may require its own post at a later time.

License plate: Ms 2ude
Your ‘tude may help you enjoy
Your new voodoo curse.

I saw a sign recently advertising “Aikido for Kids.”

No frickin’ duh it’s for kids, Einstein. Why do you think they call it “AiKIDo?”

Otherwise it’d be “Grown-Up Fu” or something.

Many Sunday mornings I can be found in Gaylord’s, a coffee shop on Piedmont Avenue.  It’s a hip little mom and pop place staffed by people with colorful hair and multiple piercings.

On the block directly adjacent to Gaylord’s, in full view of its patrons, is a Starbucks.  There’s little hair coloration there and even fewer piercings.  A lot of briefcases, though.  And palm pilots.  And laptops.

I don’t get involved in the whole “down with evil corporations” thing.  (Except those Bechtel folks and maybe Dolly Madison.  I don’t trust Dolly Madison. She looks warm and nurturing but serves up cavity-inducing desserts to impressionable children?  I bet she also tried to eat Hansel and Gretel.) I frequent Gaylord’s for two reasons: the layout is more open and sunny, and they make a killer cafe au lait. (Or “Cafe Ole’!!!” as the staff shouts whenever they serve one up.) I don’t take sides.  Heck, I often go to Starbucks during the work week. 

But after staying in Gaylord’s for an hour or two, surrounded by punks and goths and grad students reading Frantz Fanon and Noam Chomsky, while the speaker plays Cat Power and Deathcab for Cutie, the vibe gets to you.  You begin to sneer at those Starbucks people through the window.  You seethe with self-righteous discontent.

When you get up to leave, caffeine buzzing in your soul, you have an overwhelming urge to wave a sign in front of their door.  I don’t know what the sign would say--maybe “STOP STARBUCKS FROM KICKING HELPLESS KITTENS” or whatever they’re accused of doing these days.  Or maybe hassle the people sitting inside: “Did you enjoy your homogenized beverage?  And did you pick up a wonderful CD sampler of World Music Classics, handpicked by Starbucks marketing executives to ensure an authentic multicultural experience?” Or failing that, maybe just moon them all.

If you read about me being arrested for public indecency some day, you’ll know that I didn’t make it off Piedmont Avenue before the buzz from the Cafe Ole’!!! wore off.

The famous French/Belgian scientist, Menage Viagra, dropped his suitcases.  They hit the carpet with a muffled << PORN >> sound, causing a bottle of poison marked “XXX” to fall out. 

“Let me get that for you.” Breathless and sweating, due the cabin’s 110 degree temperature, the hot stewardess picked up the bottle and handed it back to him.  The bottle of poison was for use in a scientific experiment, but even so, it was barely legal.

In fact, the girls who worked with Viagra avoided it.  Sometimes he wished those girls would toughen up a bit.  Like the time they had difficulty learning how to use a webcam to share scientific data.  In frustration, he had shouted at them: “It’s EASY.  Webcam.  GIRLS!”

Acknowledging the flushed stewardess, and accepting a virgin daquiri with a cherry twist, the scientist smiled and said “Thank you.” But his mind was on his daughter’s financial aid assistance for a special private school for girls (erected in 1969).  The application they had filled out together seemed to throb in his memory, mocking him with its first two questions: DESIRED FIRST YEAR TUITION:  FREE SEX:  FEMALE

Still, his daughter was vying for a cheerleading scholarship, which helped her chances; they had ironclad academic standards but very loose cheerleader rules.

Viagra sighed, and fiddled with a photograph of his cat, Entendre.  It was such a beautiful snapshot of the pussy that he was going to have doubles made.

He turned his mind back to his work.  “It’s been a long journey of serious scientific discovery, academic research, and profound intellectual labor, but--” He smiled hopefully--"We’re nearing the climax.”

There’s an outside chance that I’ve seen every episode of “Saved by the Bell.” (The original class, not those poseur “New Class” kids with the token Screech.)

My eyes welled up a bit the first time I saw “Somewhere in Time” starring Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour.

My eyes welled up a bit the first time I saw “Robocop” (the part where all the cops turn against him and start shooting him and it’s just very sad).

I not only settle for the path of least resistance, I settle for the path that lets me sleep until noon.

I once had a dream where I was dressed as a superhero, and I was strolling up and down in front of other superheroes solemnly intoning: “I trust we’re all going to be extra careful on patrol tonight.  Now more than ever we must protect the citizenry.”

Girl drinks are tasty and they have cute colors.

My high school prom date (junior year) threw up on the highway because I took the turns too fast on our way back from a nice dinner.

Put “Achy Breaky Heart” on the jukebox and there’s a better-than-average chance that I’ll burst into song.

Even if there’s perfectly good food in the house, I find it almost impossible to resist the clarion call of a frozen pizza--the gross kind that bleeds greasy orange sauce.

Despite the universal female disdain for “tighty whities,” I always feel as though boxer shorts are the first garment one dons on the way to assembling a full-fledged clown suit.

One of my favorite pontificators on quotidian existence, Dan, wrote about how he likes a particular squeaky door in his workplace because it sounds like a duck.  He recommends that his readers find something trivial but amusing and absurdist in their professional environments that provides comfort and solace during hard times.

I have a little something like that.  A Vice President of my department, who is no longer with the company, once noticed that the job I perform is completely different than my official job description, since my job radically changed after I started doing it.  She asked me to write up a new description that reflected my actual duties.

So I did, and at the end of the document I put:

Additional qualifications:

Equal parts dog and cat person

Must be able to yodel

Skilled at necromancy

And she approved the whole description without reading to the end, and Corporate HR never read to the end, and now it’s part of my official job description, and it’s sitting in my file, and sometimes when I’m having a hard day, this gives me joy.

I’m thankful for eagle-eyed people like Abby who spot the pop culture monstrosities that I overlook.

She wrote:  “Starbucks sponsors the Independent Film Awards. Allow me to pick out the two keywords in that sentence in order to make the ten-thousand-spoons-when-what-you-really-need-is-a-fork deliciousness crystal clear. Starbucks. Independent. Yeah, that’s what I thought they said.”

You’d think I’d be satisfied with that brilliant slam on Alanis Morrisette; but no, I can’t put the item out of my mind.  It’s clear that I won’t be able to exorcise this demon until I make a dumb joke about it.  So here goes:

“I’m sure we’re all looking forward to the My Big Fat Non-Fat Cinnamon Latte Award.”

Hey.  I really do feel better.  Now I can go outside and play.

I see tons of movies.  I mean, a lot.  But without fail, every year, I see only a handful of Oscar nominees.

This year is no exception.  I’ve only seen two of the best picture nominees.  And for one reason or another, every single nominee annoys me.  Let’s find out why:

Gangs of New York. Wait a minute.  You mean DiCaprio wasn’t actually killed at the end of Titanic?  That was just a special effect?  And now he’s in yet another sweeping three-hour epic?  Michael Moore can call off the dogs; we know why Columbine happened.

Chicago. Musicals turn me into the grumpy father from Monty Python’s Search for the Holy Grail: as soon as characters open up their mouths, I want to run in and shout “Stop that!  Stop that singing immediately!” The whole genre is lost on me.  Except for Fiddler on the Roof, Man of La Mancha, that Buffy episode, and anytime I feel like belting it out in the shower.

The Hours. I read the book and it was decent, but I’m boycotting the movie.  Nicole Kidman as Virginia Woolf?  There’s a brilliant casting idea.  If you must acknowledge Kidman’s work, couldn’t you just make up a category called “Best Performer with a Fake Nose”?  You could throw in Roberto Benigni from Pinnochio, Stitch from Lilo and Stitch, and Jennifer Aniston from The Good Girl.

The Two Towers. I saw this one and it was okay, but I don’t appreciate the glamorization of leading men with beards.  Listen to what girls talk about these days: it’s Aragorn this and Aragorn that.  I don’t like beards.  They’re itchy to grow and they leave little red scratchy marks on the faces of others.  Hollywood needs to get a social conscience and stop brainwashing our youth with the message that if you grow a beard, you’ll play a key role in the eradication of ancient evil forces.

The Pianist. I concede that this is a great movie and a genuine work of art.  I’m as sick of Holocaust movies as you are, and the first half offers nothing new, but the final half is riveting and it ends up being about larger issues of art and destiny.  No really.

Still, all Holocaust movies must have a contrived, sentimental scene that wrenches you out of the reality of the story.  In this case--I’m not spoiling anything significant here, but skip down if you’re Mr. or Mrs. Anal Guy or Girl about these kinds of things--prisoners from the Warsaw Ghetto are waiting to be carted off to camps.  A man starts reading aloud from a dog-eared copy of “Merchant of Venice"--Shylock’s speech, of course.  “If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die?” As if you’d be reading Shakespeare and making profound literary statements when you’re half starved and about to be sent to Hell. 

The scene is equivalent to the one in Schindler’s List (which did not appear in Thomas Keneally’s book, Mr. Steven “I Should Just Stick with The Goonies” Spielberg), where Schindler starts pulling stuff out of his sock drawers: “These jockey shorts!  I could have sold them on Half.com and saved one more life!  These Trojans!  I didn’t require such extravagant luxuries!  I had benevolent goodness to spread on this Earth!’

Or however that scene goes.  I tried to put it out of my memory by beating myself about the head with a croquet mallet, so I may be fuzzy on a few details.

Next time: I get seriously annoyed about the nominees for “Best Key Grip.”

The inestimable Kerry from the Safeword suggested I submit my new word, “slothpants,” to the Pseudo Dictionary.  I’m pleased to announce that the word is now officially part of the pseudo-lexicon.

This is a perfectly fine intermediary step until it’s accepted by the Oxford English Dictionary.

Also a priority item: getting White House Press Secretary Ari Fleischer to legally change his name to “Avid Flashdancer.”

Lounging around in sweatpants is so comfy that I never want to go running in them and get them all sweaty.  Which is odd, seeing as they’re sweatpants and all.

Therefore, I’m officially changing the name of the garment.  They are now called “slothpants.” I think this makes more sense.

If you refer to them as “sweatpants” in my presence, thus reminding me that I don’t actually have the power to rename a word in the English language, we are totally done with one another.  I mean it; you can’t come over to my house or anything.

Do you think Maggie Gyllenhaal would be willing to get married just so she could acquire a last name that people could pronounce and spell?*

It’s totally worth putting a call in to her agent.

*Dear reader: Please keep it to yourself that having a last name that sounds like a first name carries its own unique set of nomenclature confusions.  I appreciate your support in this matter.