Here are some recent search engine terms people have used to find this site:

Oprah’s oven mitts
That’s right, baby. I’ve got ‘em and you can’t have ‘em. You go see how easy it is to break into Oprah’s kitchen.

geese attacking people
I think we all knew that Fox TV execs were running out of ideas. Also in development: “When Animals Rob Banks.”

Yahweh and Phil Collins
One of my favorite duos too. They sang “Separate Lives,” right?

geese, getting rid off
Simple. Just use Oprah’s oven mitts.

If the weather holds out in the Bay Area, I’m going skydiving this Sunday. I’m too cheap to hire a lawyer, so I’m using this post to indicate my legally binding last wishes.

My initial plan was to leave everything I own to the people who read this site. I have accumulated many “materialistic things” that are “expensive” and “valuable,” and I knew these “precious commodities” would need a good home if I didn’t survive the experience.

But then I thought about the ancient Egyptians, who buried all sorts of stuff in their tombs because they believed that dead people would be able to carry it to the afterlife. And I thought: what if the Egyptians were right and you can take it with you? After all, they made all those pyramids.* I just can’t take the chance. So, I’m sorry: I’m going to have all my “luxury items” and “big ticket purchases” buried with me. You can’t have any of it.

Because heaven wouldn’t be heaven without Buffy Seasons 1-3 on DVD.

I really hate the expression “A yeoman’s effort,” i.e. “He made a yeoman’s effort to finish the project on time.” Why is a yeoman’s job any more difficult than the others? I see this as very unfair to the rest of the crew.

My theory is that a bunch of yeomans did this themselves. They were drinking scotch and goofing off, and one of them said “When we get to shore, let’s make a point of saying ‘a yeoman’s effort’ to mean something hard or difficult. It’ll catch on like wildfire. Then we’ll get all the glory for this trip, even though the guy who did all the work was actually the coxswain.”

I received an email this weekend. Here’s what the email said:

Subject: YOUR SPRINT BILL IS READY

Hello GREG HOWARD:

THIS MESSAGE IS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SPRINT BILL IS NOW AVAILABLE FOR YOUR REVIEW. TO VIEW AND PAY YOUR BILL, PLEASE LOG ON WITH THE ENCLOSED LINK. THANK YOU FOR USING SPRINT CUSTOMER CENTER.

Here is my response:

Hello SPRINT:

I KNOW I’M ONLY A MARKETING GUY AT A SMALL FIRM AND I DON’T WORK FOR A BIG SHOT PHONE COMPANY, BUT EVEN I KNOW THAT IT’S RUDE TO WRITE CUSTOMER-DIRECTED EMAILS IN ALL CAPS. IT’S CALLED SHOUTING. IS AOL YOUR PARENT COMPANY OR SOMETHING? ON AN UNRELATED NOTE, IT’S DUMB THAT YOU’RE NAMED AFTER A FAST RUN. PACIFIC BELL HAS A NORMAL NAME AND SO DOES MCI. IF YOUR COMPETITION WAS NAMED “JOG” OR “SKIP” IT WOULD MAKE MORE SENSE. GET WITH THE PROGRAM. IN CLOSING, I HATE YOU.

SINCERELY, GREG. 

I recently remarked to my friend John that it would be nice if the gym card girls remembered us once in a while.  We’re at the gym 3-4 times a week at nearly the same time of day, but without fail they always ask us for our photo I.D. as well as our membership cards.  And then, because they’ve been dutifully trained in customer service, they call us by our names...but only after peering at the computer screen and slowly picking out our information.  So 3-4 times a week, we both hear:

“Thank you, Mr................................................................”

(Somewhere in the world, a broadway musical is written, rehearsed, and performed.  Glaciers move.  Continents drift.)

“......................................Howard!  Mr. Bobincheck!  And enjoy your workout.”

This is a laudable customer service ethic.  But you know what would be more impressive?  Remembering us.

This didn’t used to bother me.  It’s not like either of us take the time to make small talk and establish a connection with the staff.  So it’s understandable that they don’t remember our names.

But the other day I forgot my shorts at home and didn’t feel like bagging the workout, so I bought a pair at the gym store.  I spent several minutes with the staff girl, picking through possibilities.  I was forced to settle on a long, black, baggy pair with a “reversible” bright blue side.  I said, “This will be fine, because after this I’m auditioning for M.C. Hammer’s comeback video.”

And she laughed--not in a I’m laughing all the way to the bank with the commission from these shorts kind of way, but rather: Goodness!  I’m barely old enough to understand that dated pop culture reference, yet I appreciate its hilarity.  Well met, good sir, well met!

But a few days later, we walked through the door and the same girl was behind the counter.  I smiled at her, and in return I got: “May I also see your photo I.D.?  Thank you Mr..............................................................................Howard, and enjoy your workout!”

Maybe I’m just too nondescript.  I’m seriously thinking about dressing up as a traffic cone for the rest of my life.

Howie
Howard Cosell
Gregory Peck
Greggers
Gregor
Gerg
Greggy Tah*

*Mid ‘90s appellation.  Lasted the duration of the fame for one-hit wonder Geggy Tah and their catchy-yet-largely forgotten hit “Whoever You Are,” featuring the poetic lyrics “All I want to do is to thank you/Even though I don’t know who you are/You let me change lanes/When I was driving in my car.”

Greg the Egg
Greg the Great Grape Ape
Oreo*

*Working in a movie theater during college, the “G"s on my name tag were abnormally large and looked a lot like “O"s.  So patrons would lean forward and say “I’d like a medium-sized popcorn and a coke....OREO?” This carried over into being a camp counselor that summer: “OREO!  You’re on go-cart and canoe duty.”

Still in widespread use:
Greggles*

*Frequent email salutation from sibling unit Geoff.

Myson*

*Not really a nickname; email salutation used by maternal unit to address either son.  Also signs emails “Lovemom.” Meant to be affectionate and distinct, not an Orwellian neologism i.e. “plusmom,” “doubleplusmom.”

Greg Ho, a.k.a. HoHo*

*Used throughout place of work in order to distinguish me from company vice president Greg Hammond.

Dishonorable mention:
Ace*

*Attempted to claim this nickname in sixth grade on account of word sounding cool.  Ultimately aced nothing in sixth grade.  Nickname never caught on.

So I’m emailing my friend Rosemary, and she’s going out on a date with her neighbor in France who looks like Johnny Depp, and she’s all “Johnny Depp is hot,” and I’m all “Then you’ll want to see the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie,” and she’s all “No way, they’re not really making a movie out of the Disney ride,” and I’m all “Way,” and she’s all “That will suck even with Depp,” and I’m all “There’s never been a movie with a talking skeleton that sucked.” And now that I’ve written this down, I’m convinced that I totally won that argument.

There’s a few people who read this blog who are in or trying to get into the entertainment industry.  Hear me now and believe me later: you can’t fail by greenlighting a movie with a talking skeleton.* I’m giving you gold here.  No you shut up.

*No, that does not mean more movies with Lara Flynn Boyle.

What’s up with these Japanese mirror sites of people’s blogs, including mine, which have been modified to include a porn link at the top?  Seriously guys--this is just pathetic considering how you rocked in the ‘80s.  You shrank all those microchips and stuff.

But it’s not too late to regain your glory days.  Knock off the copycatting and go invent a Cheez-It cracker that doesn’t get all gummy in my mouth, or something.

I posted a week ago about my neighbor with the amputated leg, and my fear of saying something inappropriate when I brought him dinner.  A few people asked me how it went.  Well, I didn’t say anything inappropriate.  But as it turned out, speech wasn’t my real problem.

I have this bad habit, you see.  When I’m in a neighbor’s apartment, I can’t help but turn my head around and look at everything.  This is because my own place needs a little work; it requires new light fixtures, carpet, and a few other items.  So I’m fascinated by what other people in my building have done with their places.  That’s in addition to my obsessive need to see what other people own in the way of books, CDs, and DVDs, because it tells you tons about the person.

A creative writing professor once told me that you could reveal the nature of your protagonist by describing the books in his or her bookshelf.  I believe this to be true.

So I’m in the apartment of my neighbor and he’s looking hearty and healthy, albeit in a wheelchair. I’m shaking his hand and I’m in the middle of some sentence like “It’s nice to meet you; I hardly ever see anyone from the first floor--” And meanwhile, my eyes are taking a guided tour:

Holy cats.  Is that a sofa or the corpse of a butchered buffalo?
What a fine overhead light in the living room.  I deem it to be elegant yet manly.
Why, I believe that to be a VHS copy of Career Opportunities starring Jennifer Connelly.

I suddenly realize that I’ve trailed off practically in mid-sentence, and my neighbor is staring at me.  It occurs to me that he has no idea that I’m being rude but in a benign, Martha Stewart-y way; he probably thinks I’m being rude in a I could so take everything in this place while this guy is asleep.  What’s he going to do, bite my kneecaps off? sort of way.

An awkward moment hangs between us.  I half expect him to snarl, “I may look helpless, but this wheelchair comes direct from Q-Branch; all I have to do is tap this button and a pair of heat-guided missiles will turn you into raspberry preserves.”

But then I pull out my chicken divan, and the moment passes, forgotten and unmourned, into the mists of time.  Because my chicken divan melts all hearts and cures all ills.  He beams, “This will last me for three days!” And I congratulate him on his perspicacity, because that’s exactly how long that particular 9x13 pan of delight will yield its bounty.

And my neighbor?  One of things he does is run a troop of Eagle Scouts.  This is particularly impressive to me, because I quit cub scouts after year two (citing my distaste for “communist uniforms").  He’s continuing to run the troop even in his current state.  In fact, he’s not slowing down his lifestyle at all.  I think this week, I’ll make a point to work a little harder at--well, everything.

1. Irony!  I was sentenced to anger management after seeing the movie of the same title.  I think it was because I stormed out of the theater, bodily injuring three ushers, a popcorn maker, and a ticket seller, screaming “That wasn’t a comedy.  I paid money for a comedy.  That was a tragedy of Sophoclean proportions.”

2. What possessed the Cannes Film Festival to invite Meg Ryan to join its panel of judges?  This is the woman who made French Kiss, Proof of Life, and Sleepless in Seattle of her own free will.  She wouldn’t know a good film if it bit her. This is like saying to the designer of the Hindenbergh, “You know, we really groove on your style.  How about coming to our airshow and giving us your expert opinion?”

3. The USA network is aptly named; it embodies the spirit, generosity, and good old-fashioned customer service of the American way.  Here’s an example.  Let’s say you’re working from home, and decide to watch Octopus, a fine, artistic film about a gigantic sea monster who eats people.  And let’s say your spirit is elevated by this marvelous cinematic feature, and you feel a little teary-eyed to see it end.  You want more of this narrative masterwork.  What should come on after it?  Why, Octopus II: River of Fear. God bless you, USA network.  God bless America!

Couldn’t take advantage of friends and family rates, on account of being lone.

Calls became too expensive when phone service refused to substitute “roaming” charges with “ranging” charges.

Tonto: “Kemosabe, if you don’t change ringer from William Tell Overture, I walk.”

There’s a weird sense of community in my building, which is why a neighbor knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to sign up to make dinner for one of the residents. Why? Because the resident suffered a terrible infection that resulted in one of his legs being amputated. Since he is not “ambulatory"--meaning, he won’t be roller blading any time in the near future--people were being asked to schedule a night in April, cook a meal, and help the guy out. I said sure--I mean, why not? I feel bad when I misplace a sock. I can only imagine how it feels to lose a leg.

Here’s the problem: When I bring the guy his dinner, I’m going to say something completely inappropriate and completely by accident. It’s just the kind of thing I do. I’ll try to make small talk, and end up with something remembling this:

“Hey, I think it’s great that people are pitching in until you’re back on your feet.

“Uh...whoops, I guess I just stepped in it. What I meant to say is--I’m glad people are putting their best foot forward.”

“Look--hey--you know, I love those china plates. Did they cost an arm and a leg?”

Right now you’re throwing heavy objects at your computer screen, desperately trying to make it stop--"If Greg wants to go to Hell, fine, I’ll even knit him a homemade handbasket; he has no right to drag us along for the ride.” Sorry about that. I owe you an immortal soul. I’m just exorcising all of this now so I don’t actually say something along those lines. But I’m done now. I’m through. Really.

Besides, it’ll be fine. We’re just going to hang out a little and talk. We’re just going to, y’know, kick it.

With the hour I lost to daylight savings time, I could have

Dear Neighbors,

You may hear some noise coming from unit #306 between 7-7:30 pm on Friday. My partner and I are engaging in an exercise routine that requires us to keep our voices at a high pitch part of the time.

I’ve done that exercise routine too. But no one has to raise their voice until the one playing the maiden says “You may have ruthlessly abducted me, Mr. Pirate, but I will simply scream until I am rescued!”

The party was fun but exhausting.  After staying up cleaning until the wee-hours-made-even-more-wee-by-damn-daylight-savings time, I slept late and spent all Sunday wearing slothpants and my M*A*S*H* T-shirt.  Which isn’t as lazy as it sounds; that shirt makes me eminently more qualified to assist with war-related medical emergencies as they arise.  I mean, not as qualified as a medical degree would make me, but I’m not interested in splitting hairs with you.

Here’s the thing, though: if even a third of your guests decide to bring you a bottle of wine, do you know how much wine you end up with?  I’m convinced that Robert Mondavi never had any interest in being a wine entrepreneur.  He simply threw a few parties, looked at the sea of bottles he had collected, and said “Screw it.  I’m going to tear off the labels, slap on my own name, and turn a profit on these bad boys.”

This raises an interesting point. If you go to a party thrown by a wine magnate, what do you bring? You can’t give him a bottle of wine. He’d look at it and snarl “Yeah thanks, I was really short on that. Enjoy the damn party.”