I always get thrown off when people greet you in that “European” way of thrusting their face at you, turning to the side slightly, and then semi-kissing your cheek.

It’s not that I’m not an affectionate guy.  I like to shake people’s hands, or if I know them well, I like to give them a brief hug.  Yes, even my guy friends (if they can deal with it, which they usually can’t).

But this is America.  And when it comes the faux cheek kissing thing, it’s my feeling that brave, upstanding soldiers like Mel Gibson fought the British so we didn’t have to greet people in that bad-teeth-socialist-mistress-on-the-side-red-wine-swilling manner.

Basically, someone lunging at me with their lips is bound to elicit a singular, visceral response.  Especially if the individual is female.  And if said individual gets upset because they didn’t expect to end up with a mouthful of tongue, I’ll simply say, “Look, I respect your traditions for welcoming friends and acquaintances, and I expect you to afford me the same courtesy.”

What’s up with that pretentious apostrophe in his name?  Does it stand for a missing letter?  Or perhaps letters?  Perhaps spelling out “I suck”?

Yes, I know I should have made that joke two decades ago, but they didn’t have blogs back then.

This is a post about “Jumping Jack Flash”; it could also be about any one of fifty or sixty other songs that have followed me around ever since I can remember.  But I’m choosing this one.  It pounces on me when I least expect it.  The radio, a mix tape, my own CD.  The guitar riff twists and snaps like a loose power cable, and I stop whatever I’m doing.  That includes talking (shut up; I’m trying to listen).  That includes breathing (I’m purple and you’re ugly, but at least I’ll soon have air). That includes driving (get the hell out of my way; I’m not steering or braking for the next four minutes).

I like the Stones, but I’m not the world’s biggest fan.  I don’t have all their albums.  I’ve never even seen them in concert.  But “Jumping Jack Flash” tears into me every single time.  It’s not like I hear the song; it’s more like the song hears me.

I pay homage to those who have dared cover it. 

Aretha Franklin?  God bless you.  The movie with Whoopi sucked, but your cover isn’t half bad.  It reimagines the guitar hook so that it grinds against you insistently, like the hottest slow dance you ever had in high school.  It’s not on a par with the original, but it’s not bad.  I R-E-S-P-E-C-T you, sweetheart.

Peter Frampton?  You’re before my time, and I couldn’t care less about your lame music.  The fact that Frampton Comes Alive is one of the best-selling records ever just leaves me cold.  But you tried.  You put some heart into the cover.  You may live.

Terence Trent D’arby?  Your albums are overpriced even when they’re in the dollar bin.  But at least you know a good song when you hear it, even if you’re not worthy to record it.

And what about the Stones themselves?

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking that there’s something melancholy about loving a song as old as this one, because you know that the people who created it are sick of it.  Is there anything sadder than watching an aging rocker belt out his biggest hit for the 10,000th time?  Decades ago, Mick Jagger famously said that he didn’t want to be singing “Satisfaction” when he was 60.

But in a recent interview, Keith Richards was asked: “What if you were sentenced to death and given a final wish?  What would you want?”

And you know what that blackened, charred scarecrow of a man said?  He said, “Please just let me play ‘Jumping Jack Flash’ one more time.  Just one more time before I die.’”

Because he knows.

He knows that he’s a flawed man--a talented musician, maybe, a genius, perhaps, but nonetheless only a human being-- who somehow managed to redirect a thunderbolt and bring it crashing down to earth.  Who tapped into something large and gorgeous. Who transcribed what God sounds like when He is happy and insane in front of six billion people, shattering harps into brilliant gold pieces.

A few people have asked me if I’m planning to catch one of Ashcroft’s performances during his national tour, in which he visits several American cities and defends the Patriot Act.

I gotta tell you: I just can’t do it.  There’s nothing more disappointing than seeing a performer you love long after that performer’s glory days.  Inevitably, the show turns out to be a bunch of crummy new material and it lacks the energy of the artist’s earlier work.

Now, two years ago?  Absolutely, I would have been there.  I would have waved my bic, swaying to and fro as Ashcroft talked about the need to destroy constitutional liberties and protect Americans from future terrorist attacks.  He would have been confident, impassioned, and bold.  I would have cheered on my feet, stayed for the encore, and bought the T-shirt.

But now?  He’ll be defensive and grumpy, drilling down into the specifics of wire tapping and right-to-know search procedures. 

I bet he won’t even perform “Hotel California.”

A weekend in Yosemite to celebrate one’s parents’ 40th wedding anniversary.  A time to ponder life’s choices and opportunities, and to acknowledge that some things stay the same even while most other things change.

And, being a five hour drive, it’s also a time to get tired of one’s CD collection and catch up on Top 40 radio.  Fortune favored me during this radio bonding session: I was delighted to discover a charming new chanteuse called Mya.  In listening carefully to several selections from her musical oeuvre, it was clear that her influences include most of the great masters: Mozart.  Dvorak.  Schubert.  Menudo.  Wahlberg.

I was particularly enchanted with a frothy little pop confection called “My Love is Like Whoa,” featuring the smash hit lyrics:

My love is like Whoa
My kiss is like Whoa
My touch is like Whoa
My body’s like Whoa

And so on.  In addition to this being, in my opinion, a highly skilled use of figurative language (poetry fans will note the use of simile in each line!  Keanu Reeves fans will note the use of ‘Whoa’ in each line!), I think these lyrics also offer an excellent idea for blind dates.  After all, ‘Whoa’ can mean pretty much anything.

So let’s say a friend sets you up with a blind date.  He asks, “How should I describe you to her?”

“Tell her I like movies and scuba diving and long walks on the beach.  Oh, and also, that my love is like Whoa, my kiss is like Whoa, my touch is like Whoa, my body’s like Whoa.”

Then, when you finally meet her, she can’t hold anything against you.  “Hey, you’re the ugliest guy I’ve ever seen.  I guess you meant ‘Whoa’ in a bad way, not a good way.”

“I’m afraid so.  In this particular case, ‘My body’s like Whoa’ is shorthand for ‘I have thinning hair, love handles, and a zit the size of Jupiter.’ And since we’re taking this opportunity to be straightforward and honest, I should mention that we’re totally going Dutch.”

The following post is absolutely no reflection on my wonderful, beautiful, fabulous real life friends who read this site.

Or any of their furry dependents.

However, sometimes I find myself a little surprised when I meet one of my friend’s pets--let’s call it Cujo, from the Steven King novel about a rabid dog who tears humans apart--and I am somewhat taken aback by said pet’s aggressive behavior.  I.e., the dog gnaws on my hand, or jumps on top of me, or almost knocks a wine glass out of my hand.

And the friend says “You just have to know how to deal with her.”

And I have to say: “I totally could, if I hadn’t left my suit of armor and morningstar mace at the cleaners.”

Sunday is the one year anniversary of this site.  Generally I resent it when people put “tip jars” or “wish lists” on their site, because I feel that blogs are free by nature and their creators shouldn’t ask for handouts.  However, in recognition of a year’s worth of blogging, I’m going to break my own rules.  If you received any enjoyment at all out of this site, I’d really appreciate it if you’d peruse my wish list and purchase one of the items for me.  It would mean a lot to me.

I’m really grateful for all the people I’ve touched over the past year. I don’t mean in regards to this site--no one cares about any of the crap here.  I mean all the people I’ve physically touched.  In fact, there are several restraining orders against me right now, so if I suddenly disappear you’ll know the reason why.

I’m declaring war on any bookstore that doesn’t immediately reclassify Margaret Atwood’s newest book Oryx and Crake under “science fiction.”

It’s a story about an apocalyptic future in which genetic experiments wipe out the majority of human beings, allowing a new species to emerge.  Get it?  The future.  Genetic science.  Sounds a bit like...hmm...science fiction?  Or at least speculative fiction.

But no.  Margaret Atwood is a big hoopty-doo writer who won the Booker Prize and teaches at a university and is beloved by English professors everywhere, so that means she’s “legitimate.” And that means--?  Her novel gets classified as “literature” in every single bookstore I’ve visited. As though the genre of science fiction isn’t a legitimate art form.  (Which the very existence of Oryx and Crake disproves.)

And Atwood isn’t the only one to get this treatment.  Bookstores seem intent on keeping books out of their appropriate genre if deemed to be sufficiently hoity toity.  Even if it’s a brilliantly written piece of genre fiction, they insist on classifying it as “literature"--which is another word for “realism.”

Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold?  Right, that shouldn’t be in the fantasy section.  Because IT’S VERY COMMON THAT DEAD GIRLS COME DOWN FROM HEAVEN AND TOOL AROUND WITH THEIR FAMILY.

Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut?  That shouldn’t be in science fiction, because ALIENS ALWAYS HELP WAR VETERANS LEARN TO TIME TRAVEL.

Animal Farm by George Orwell?  That shouldn’t be in fantasy.  Because ANIMALS ALWAYS STAND AROUND AND TALK.  WHY, JUST YESTERDAY I HAD A CONVERSATION WITH MY CAT.  I SAID “HELLO CAT” AND MY CAT SAID “HEY” AND I SAID “WHATCHA DOING” AND HE SAID “COUGHING UP A HAIRBALL” AND WE HAD A NICE CHAT.

This serves as my only warning, bookstores.  Get with the program or I’m going to visit every single one of you. And you know what I’m going to do?  I’m going to shuffle all the books around and put them in the categories that I deem appropriate.

Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections?  It goes in “Child Development,” so you learn how not to raise your kids.

Anne Patchett’s Bel Canto?  It goes under “Humor.” Because, you know, the takeover of a south american embassy with dozens of innocents held hostage?  It is to laugh!

Dave Egger’s Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius?  It goes in “Self Help,” so whiny people can read it and take comfort that Eggers is even more annoying than they are.

Bookstores, take heed.  I’m here to design book jackets and kick butt--and I’m all out of book jackets.

Yeah, I know she’s not actually in the race.

(Although she seems to be the only person who isn’t.)

But I’ve seen a lot of movies.

And I know that she’s the only person ever to defeat Arnie.

(Batman is disqualified.  The movie where he beat Arnie gave me a physical pain in my head that lingers to this very day.)

Linda’s got the style, the class, and she totally knows what to do with an AK-47.

Where she stands on the issues:

General philosophy: “There is no fate but the one we make.”

On childrearing: “Raise your children like they’re going to grow up to lead a rebellion against a bunch of cyborgs.  Because, y’know, they might some day.”

On Arnie: “He’s a tough one, but he’s still vulnerable.  For example, I could drop him in a pit of molten lava or something.”

Hamilton for governor!

blah blah Michelle Rodriguez blah blah blah blah blah blah
blah blah blah blah blah blah blah Michelle Rodriguez blah blah
bad dialogue bad dialogue bad dialogue bad dialogue
bad bad dialogue Michelle Rodriguez bad dialogue bad
lame action lame action lame action lame action lame action
lame action lame action lame action Michelle Rodriguez
cliche cliche cliche cliche cliche cliche cliche cliche cliche cliche
cliche cliche cliche cliche Michelle Rodriguez cliche cliche

Final Rating: Two Thumbs Up!

I have a ton of work to do.  My department’s priority list is a mile long, and there’s urgent deadlines attached to every item.

So I think I’ll spend the entire day deciding whether I’d rather be a zombie or a vampire, if it came down to a situation where I was forced to join the legions of the undead.

So far I’ve only got “zombies eat brains” and “vampires drink blood,” and both of those are in the “Pro” column.

A sign of the fall of western civilization is, in my opinion, the fact that young people--particularly males--no longer have to make a concerted effort to find nudity.

In my day, this was an undertaking of monumental proportions.  We had to coerce our older sibling units to let us have their Penthouse mags, an enterprise which often required wheedling, whining, and room cleaning services.  Even more difficult was sneaking into R-rated movies, which often backfired.  Imagine teaming up with a friend, risking life and limb to bypass ushers, and eventually getting into The Blues Brothers and Aliens--only to find out that neither film contained any nudity whatsoever. You’d leave the theater in disgust:

“Christ, what a ripoff.”

“But Greg, the alien was naked, at least.”

“Shut up.”

Even movies that, by all rights, should have been wall-to-wall skin often came up empty.  The teen comedy Just One of the Guys told the touching story of a cute girl who became a cross-dresser so she could join the high school football team and become a star player.  Locker room scenes!  Hasty clothes changing!  Hormones and romance!  And--wait for it--no nudity.

What was up with that?  It was rated R for...what?  Adult language?  That means my math class was rated R, but no pinhead waving a flashlight ever tried to check my ID at the classroom door.

You know the scene that starts off American Pie, where the hero is watching scrambled cable channels in an attempt to see a flash of bare breast?  Girls laugh at that scene first.  It takes guys a few minutes longer.  We’ve been trained from early childhood to examine scrambled channels and locate their hidden bounties.  We don’t realize at first that the scene is a joke.  And that it’s on us.

But kids today?  They have the Internet.

And don’t get me started on CyberNanny or JerryFallwellSurf or whatever lame program is sold to parents in order to slow down the inexorable march of history.  Growing up, we all knew a kid down the block whose parents would buy him cases of porn, beer, and crack cocaine--"It’s better that he become a drug-addled sexaholic while we’re in the house, rather than do it behind our backs"--and there’s even more of those kids today.  They can hack the programs, kill the software, and unleash torrents of cybersin for their friends and colleagues.

And what will be the result?

Nudity just won’t cut it anymore.

Mark my words.  Without having to work for it any longer, guys will cease to be tantalized by the thought of bare skin.  In the space of a generation, human nudity will become as exciting as a pair of gym socks.

People won’t even bother covering up anymore, unless there’s a practical reason like weather conditions.  At times the fashion will be to expose one breast, sometimes two, sometimes a left breast and a right buttock--

And no one will care.  It’ll be like those photos in National Geographic where everyone’s stark naked and carrying bowls of water on their heads.

Female readers may be getting excited now.  They’re thinking, “My God.  Imagine the possibilities when guys are no longer obsessed with what they see. They’ll learn to appreciate emotions and feelings.  After centuries of conflict and distrust, men and women will come together, form a glorious, harmonious union, and usher in a golden age of gender relations!”

Get real.

Let me clarify the picture for you: with the visual no longer a priority, guys will flock to brand-new kinds of Internet sites.  These sites will be different than the ones we know today.  They’ll cater to guy-specific mental dysfunctions, ones that will spring to the foreground of male consciousness after years of being sidelined in favor of electronic fleshgardens.

Sites such as:

OedipusLite.com—Our hot girls look a little bit like your mother!  Just enough for you to feel comfortable and familiar but not enough to creep you out!  It’s a delicate psychological balance, but our team of hotties totally carries it off!

AngelOrTart.com—Is she the charming girl next door or a wanton sexpot?  There’s no need to decide!

ComeHereGoAway.com—Sick of girls being too distant?  Sick of girls getting too close?  Our scorching hot fillies call you when they feel like it and but otherwise won’t give you the time of day.  You’ll always stay “interested” and feel the thrill of the chase, and never have to settle down into a normal, adult relationship!*

*Absolutely NO ONE UNDER 18 allowed....and NO ONE OVER 18 in terms of mental maturity.  Please have your PatRobertson Password ready!

Hmmm.  You know what?  Now that I’ve written all of this down, I’ve decided it’s a bunch of malarkey.  Society will become indifferent to nakedness about the same time that Rick Santorum appears on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.  Sorry that you read this entire post for nothing!

This site has been around long enough that it’s about time I engaged in full-on hatred and spite with someone I’ve never met.  Because, y’know, that’s what people do on the Internet.  They get upset about politics, and religion, and which Captain of the Enterprise was better, and so forth.

I now have my foe.

It started when Krissa compared her real-life encounters with me and popular blog-type Joshua Newman, and decided that she couldn’t choose between us in terms of overall entertainment value.

This response caused Joshua to send me an email full of hate and venom, to which I responded in kind.*

This will end in blood, my friends.  In blood.

*Yes, I misspelled “appalling” in my response.  You try to write an email on a tiny laptop in the middle of a meeting while keeping a straight face so nobody asks you what the hell you’re doing.

New rule: If I’m going on a trip via Jet Blue, no celebrities are allowed to die.

I’m not kidding.  I’ll follow them around ahead of time and make sure they’re in good health.  Peter O’Toole, Chuck Berry, Wilford Brimley, Monica Bellucci.

(Yes, that’s right.  Monica Bellucci.  She’s getting on in years, and she requires constant supervision.  No you shut up.)

The Jet Blue thing is an important part of this equation, because they’re an economy airline that has satellite TVs at every seat.  So if you get tired of reading on the flight you can flip on CNN or MSNBC.

Which is completely useless if a celebrity died the night before, because you’ll learn two things about the state of the world: Jack and Squat.  No world events.  No business updates.  Instead, it’ll be clips upon clips of movies, interviews, and award ceremonies with some dead famous person.

Bob Hope was a particularly annoying choice, because, I’m sorry, didn’t we all finish mourning him about ten years ago?

I could have sworn that everyone in the United States put on black clothing sometime around his 90th birthday bash on ABC, where he was carried onstage in a wheelbarrow and his opening monologue went something like this:

“Urrgh.  Acckkghh.”

Then he was carried off again and Brooke Shields appeared to do something perky for an hour.

That’s when we all felt his loss, and talked amongst ourselves about his wit, his charm, and his hilarious antics in movies like Road to Lithuania or whatever.  Last week?  Purely ceremonial.

I’ll tell you one thing:  I don’t believe in taking unnecessary risks.  I’m staying put in my own lovely city at least until Ronald Reagan kicks it.