SF: “Can you spare some change?”

NYC: “Can I have your autograph?”

An NYC highlight was meeting the lovely and charming Krissa, who took me from the gaudy trappings of midtown to the eclectic neighborhood of Alphabet City.  Bars and weird shops aren’t new to anyone who lives in the Bay Area, but there was a difference.  I think in San Francisco people are self-conscious about the urban planning; they put a lava lamp shop here and a bunch of beads there and then they jam to Phish for a while.  In Alphabet City, we walked past a shop that said “CAPPUCCINOS AND TATTOOS”; right across the street was a daycare center.  It struck me as unpretentious and effortless.  Drop off the kid, get your caffeine fix, slap on a snake coililng around a crucifix.  It’s obvious!

In barhopping we also came across a place advertising--and I’m almost sure I’m remembering this right--a Happy Hour from 1-9 pm. That’s not a happy hour; that’s happy day.  The only thing we were lacking was Fonzie.  And although we finished our drink at 9:15, the bartender offered to give us more at happy hour prices, which meant we were suddenly on Happy Hour Overtime.

We eventually settled in an outdoor cafe with an overhanging ceiling.  It had a painted mural in the background and green vegetation with actual grapes curling overhead.  Krissa added that the waitresses are sometimes scared of the mice that scurry across the floor, and this seemed very New York to me; lovely stuff to look at way up on high, but duck your head down and a rodent might nip you on the nose.

Krissa, a long-time “blog friend” turned cosmopolitan hostess and tour guide, was effortessly cool and conversational, and in fact is the kind of person you can immediately talk to on a very intense level.  Topics included love, death, family, sex, and getting a charley horse in one’s buttocks.  If you get to know her, maybe she’ll show you where the cool kids go too--but you didn’t hear it from me.  I intend to keep her my New York secret.

“Excuse me, can you tell me if Times Square is close to here?”

(Pretzel vendor clutches sides with laughter)

“Yes, yes mister, this is 52nd street, you go up ten blocks and you’re on 42nd street.”

Me: “Oh, right.  Thanks.”

(Pretzel vendor nods, still helpless with laughter)

Friend: “I guess technically we should have known that.”

Me: “Especially since I was in 42nd Street back in high school.  I sang ‘Shuffle off to Buffalo,’ for God’s sake.”
------
Me: “Flight attendants from Israel?  So, is Israel kind of a stressful place?  I mean, you read the papers, it seems you walk into a cafe and order a triple espresso, and you get both a great caffeine jolt and a face full of shrapnel.”

“No, no, that is just to sell papers, Israel, it is a beautiful place. Best food, best people in the world.  Ask anyone, ask those people there.”

(Points to dance floor.)

Me: “Oh, you know them?”

“No, I do not know them.  Any Israeli you meet?  They have the ability to spot other Israelis anywhere.”

Me: “I’m totally the same way.  Except I can only spot people who watch Buffy.
------
Then there was an entertaining but failed attempt to get into a club that was celebrating, and I am not making this up, Gene Simmon’s magazine Tongue. They’re letting in truckloads of young hotties and we got the “You’re not on guest list A, B, C, D, or any list through Z” treatment.  It’s not that I don’t know I’m old and unhip, but I had no idea I was older and more unhip than Gene Simmons.

I’ll get my revenge.  Wait until I’m famous and publish my bestselling magazine Clavicle; we’ll see who gets the last laugh.

May or may not have Internet access for the next several days.  In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if those of you with blogs would shut the hell up for a change so I don’t have so much to catch up on when I get back.  Okay?  Thanks, I knew you wouldn’t mind.

Scene: Work.  Characters: Me, the department director, and the Director’s Adorable Eight-Year Old Daughter (D.A.E.Y.O.D.)

DAEYOD: (pointing at me) Who’s that?

DIRECTOR: That’s Greg.

DAEYOD: What does he do?

DIRECTOR: He’s the Word Monkey.

(I snicker and turn to talk to someone else.  I am interrupted by a gentle tapping.  I turn around, and DAEYOD is staring up at me with saucer-like eyes.)

DAEYOD: If you’re the Word Monkey, what does “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” mean?

ME: I don’t know, but I do know that the sound of it is really quite atrocious.

(DAEYOD collapses into giggles and starts playing with juggling balls.)

ME: (hopes scene doesn’t eventually become traumatic childhood memory when she realizes that she never received an answer to her question)

It really gets on my nerves every time I’m reading the news and the Palestinian prime minister is referred to as “Mahmoud Abbas, also known as Abu Mazen.” What’s up with that?  The rest of us don’t get two names.  I don’t get to be “Greg Howard, also known as Ace Strongchin.” Just choose one and get over yourself.

Maybe it’s a curse.  Maybe as a young child he offended some great malevolent power, who pointed a hoary finger at him and intoned, “Unless you can manage to implement the Israel/Palestine roadmap, you will forever be known as ‘Mahmoud Abbas, also known as Abu Mazen.’ You will need to get those names monogramed on your bath towels.  Do not disobey me.”

“Oh yeah?  And what if I’m unable to implement the roadmap?”

“Then for the rest of your life, you’ll have doubled your chances at being called for jury duty.”

On a completely unrelated note, I’m pleased to say that I’ve only done three or four of Daniella’s Things Not to Do if You Want a Second Date.

If you’re going to pull up alongside me at a red light, you better damn well be making a right-hand turn.  Because if you’re simply positioning yourself to gun it and cut in front of me when the light turns green, you have sorely misapprehended the situation.

I may drive a Civic, but I’m quicker on the gas than you are.  I will totally Fast and the Furious all over you until you’re forced to drop back, humiliated--your tailpipe between your legs.

And the bards will sing of my victory and my name will live for centuries in the annals of song, and they will hoist tall mugs of mead in my honor.  Or, rather, since this is the East Bay, tall cans of Foster’s.

The Rant:

If I’m in a reasonably upscale establishment and I order a martini, don’t waste my time with a staggeringly inane question such as “Gin or vodka?”

Gin is the default option.  If I wanted vodka, I would have said “Vodka martini” or “vodkatini.” I’d expect the question at some bozo trendy place staffed by 20something morons, but not in a real bar. This is like buying underwear and having the salesperson ask you, “Now, do you expect to wear these around your waist or on top of your head?”

All you need to do is ask me if I want it shaken or stirred, and I’ll have sufficient reason to twist your nose like a corkscrew.*

The Awkward Moment:
She: Go ahead, ask her anything about the Brat Pack. She knows everything about them.

Me: (Turning to Other She) Okay, what was the name of Ally Sheedy’s book of poetry?

Other She: Huh?

Me: She says you know everything about the Brat Pack.

Other She: No no, I know everything about the Rat Pack.  Ask me anything about Frankie or Dean.

(Uncomfortable silence as everyone suddenly realizes that I, Greg, have admitted that I know the name of Ally Sheedy’s book of poetry.)

Me: Uh...so, how about that governor recall campaign?

Overheard:
He: When are you supposed to stop breastfeeding?

She: Definitely by the time the child is able to ask for it.

He: Right.  ‘Mom, I’m thirsty’ is definitely a tip off.

*Don’t start in with me on James Bond.  He doesn’t actually drink shaken martinis either.  Yes, yes, I know he’s all “Shaken, not stirred,” but next time you watch one of the movies, study the reaction of the person serving him.  That person gives Bond a look that says “Oh I get it, he’s not really asking for a shaken martini, which doesn’t exist; he’s telling me something subtle about his psychological profile, which is that he gets very stressed in the course of his day but doesn’t lose his composure.  He must do something dangerous for a living.  I’m guessing inner city teacher or postal worker.”

You’re throwing off my damn average.  The number one search hit to this site is “Geese,” and it’s almost always by someone on an AOL account.

Well, knock it off.  I want the top search hits to be

“Greg rocks”
“Best blog ever”
“Lauren Graham needs a date”

etc.  So listen up: there are no geese on this site.  Anywhere.  Whatsoever. The title of this blog is just one of those cruel tricks of fate.

Well, okay, there are some geese below.  But aside from the geese below, there are no geese on this site.

(Trivia note: All these geese are thinking to themselves, “Boy, if we had opposable thumbs and could type, we’d never sign up for AOL.)

*Yes, I’m on a haiku trip.  Deal with it.

Bend it Like Beckham
A feel good triumph
But I only had eyes for
Ms. Keira Knightley.

Finding Nemo
How to find a fish?
Sexually ambiguous
Sidekicks can help tons.

Hulk
An artsy Hulk flick
I’m meant to think deep deep thoughts
Time to take a nap.

Whale Rider
The whale had blubber
And as Pai achieved her dreams
I also blubbered.

Pirates of the Carribean
Pirates are cool, but
Next up is Haunted Mansion
Quit while you’re ahead.

Terminator 3
He saved us again
But I won’t cast my vote for
Governor Arnie.

So you think you’re all Mr. Grownup.

You got yourself a little education, and a little job, and a little place.

You’ve kicked the small town dust off your boots and you’re large and in charge.

Whatever.

If you can still spend a Saturday at the place where you grew up with a tractor and--

(no, I’m sorry, that’s two tractors)

--two tractors and a humongous pile of rocks, while wearing a M*A*S*H T-shirt, a borrowed baseball cap, and a pair of “TUFF GUY"-brand gloves, then you’re still…

Mr. Hick.

Mr. Hayseed.

Mr. Farmboy.

And that’s okay.

Little pink houses for you and me, baby.

Little pink houses.

Redraw Gogh
I’ll pass.  I was taught in art class that anyone who cuts off his ear has more passion, and hence more talent, than I do.  Oh, and also that I can’t draw my way out of a paper bag.

Whoa Dr Greg
Boy, if I had a dime for every time I heard that back in my teaching days.  Usually it would be after I was running so late for class that I forget to put on my belt and my pants fell down in the middle of a lecture.  Good times, good times.

Hard We Grog
As “grog” is an archaic term meaning “alcholic beverage,” I tend to concur.  Hard we grog indeed!  That is, if you don’t count that I’m pretty much trashed after three beers.

Ha Dr Egg Row
Yes, ha ha, that is funny!  Dr. Egg Row!  Ha ha ha ha ha...wait, what?

Hard Greg Ow
I’ll have something truly hilarious to say about this one.  Truly.  Side-splittingly funny.

Uh, that is, as soon as my folks get bored with this site and go read something else.

(Fun Anagram Link courtesy of the polylingual srah.)

It’s not that my weekend was boring; I loved it.  But I doubt it would come across as interesting to others.  Therefore, I think it would be cool if my life transitioned from scene to scene using those little computerized letters that you see in the movies.  You know--the kind the movie people throw it in to give a sense of high-tech excitement.  The kind that produces a little electronic tapping sound that no computer in the world actually makes.

The problem is, the high-tech letters would pump up the energy level but then the subsequent, banal dialogue would ruin everything.  For example:

THURSDAY, JUNE 3
PARKWAY THEATER
OAKLAND, CA

(Audience gets very excited seeing these letters spill themselves across the screen, accompanied by electronic tap-tapping--then, scene begins:)

“I’ve got over 100,000 people in my network on Friendster."

“Holy mother of God.  How do you have that many?”

“Well, I don’t just invite my friends to join.  I also ask people I dislike, and who actively hate me in return.”

“And they accept?”

“Sure.”

“But--they’re not actually friends.”

“Greg, you really don’t get Friendster, do you?”

Or:

SATURDAY, JULY 5
ENDINBURGH CASTLE PUB
SAN FRANCISCO, CA

“So you guys are fighting a lot?”

“I wouldn’t say a lot.  And it’s okay.  The makeup sex is great.”

“Oh, well, that’s nice.”

“Sometimes I even sort of pick a fight just to get to the makeup sex.”

“Uh...and this is working out for you?”

“Well, I think she’s starting to catch on.”

See what I mean?  I think I need to throw out my entire life and hire brand-new writers.  Make the dialogue snappy along with the cool high-tech transitions.  For example, my Sunday night should have been more like this:

SUNDAY, JULY 6
HOUSE OF SIBLING UNIT
SAN FRANCISCO, CA

“So where do you want to eat?”

“That’s all you can think about at a time like this, Scully?”

“I’m not Scully.  I’m your brother, Geoff.  I’ve known you your entire life.”

”That’s just what the goverment wants you to think.”

We sell arms to jerks
And I hate Avril LaVigne
But you’ll get better.