The problem with seeing a popular exhibit on its near-to-last day is that you’ll be engulfed in waves of human flesh while you’re trying to feed your spiritual side.  You inch along, craning past the rows of humanity, trying to catch a glimpse of the artistry on display.  And every once in a while you do.  But for the most part, you have to find the art where you can--which, generally, means right in front of you.

Formalism—Some dweeb is wearing a suit and tie.

Futurism - A bored husband keeps checking his watch and willing the hands to move faster.

Expressionism—Some old lady keeps scrunching up her face while she peers up at the paintings.

Cubism—Some blockhead is talking on his cell phone.

Then there’s the neck that’s right in front of you, which appears to be blotchy from overexposure to the sun; this individual has clearly begun her “red movement.” And now she’s gone, replaced by the broad shoulders of a man who is starting his own, hitherto unnamed school of art, which apparently centers around large quantities of dandruff.

On the positive side, when the surrounding text describes the primary artist as a “colourist,” this makes sounding smart much easier.  The jargon of art criticism usually gives me a headache, but who can screw up the use of a term like “colourist”?  You swing your hand at a large painting, and expound to your friend:

“Now, you’ll note the use of blue in this painting.  And why do you think there is such a use of color?”

“Because Marc Chagall was a ‘colourist.’”

“Exactly!  Now, note this painting over here.  Why the heavy use of green?”

“Because he was a greenist.”

“Don’t be flip.”

Maybe this whole Schwarzengegger thing isn’t so bad after all.  He’s stated that he’ll be so busy fixing California’s problems that he’ll have no time to make movies.

I wonder if I can get Rob Schneider to run for office.

I told a friend of mine that I wake up every morning to the local KQED and NPR station, because I can’t stand morning DJs.  She said, “I’d never get out of bed if I woke up to NPR.  It’s too soothing.”

Well, it starts off that way.  The low, mellifluous tones of NPR tickles my ear and tugs at my brain.  I am not close to waking up.  But then, the meaning behind these tones begins to register:

“Hamas and Islamic Jihad are feeling the increased military pressure and have begun working together.”
“The Environmental Protection Agency is easing the regulations on businesses who wish to upgrade their equipment.”
“Charles Taylor’s Revolutionary United Front was known for hacking off the limbs of civilians.”

I’m awake.  I’m bolt upright.  I’m off to the shower.  And I’m carrying a baseball bat with me for protection.

In short, NPR will only fail to wake me up when there’s world peace.  And when that happens, who will be listening to the radio anyway?  We’ll all be at a humongous block party with dancing, dunk tanks, and face painting.  Oh, and we’ll all be naked.

Whenever I’m minding my own business in a store and some salesperson barges over to me and asks if I’m finding everything I need, I like to turn the question around and say “Yes, just fine, thanks.  And are you finding everything you’re looking for?” Because nine times out of ten, the philosophical query will cause them to break down and sob over their misspent lives.

Whenever a girl is asked to name her ideal qualities in a partner, “He has to make me laugh” is almost always near or at the top of the list.  But guys don’t indicate that they share the same priority.  They don’t seem to care much about having a girl with a sense of humor.

I’m pretty sure this is because all guys really want is a girl who will fall into an erotic, hypnotic trance whenever they snap their fingers and whisper the code word “Snickerdoodle.”

Don’t click “more” unless you have the stomach to see office politics at their most brutal and vindictive.  You have been warned.

Between Texas and planning my event, gym time has suffered recently, so my workout yesterday was both short and somewhat nausea inducing.  On top of that, I once again encountered my old nemesis--the Butt Blaster.  Other pieces of equipment in the gym have normal names like Star Trac and Health Rider.  Is it absolutely necessary that I’m forced to look around nervously before using this particular device?  It’s a stretching machine, for God’s sake.  There’s no call for that kind of label.

I don’t see why they can’t simply go back to the genus and phylum of the equipment in order to provide accurate, non-humiliating names.  For example, if this was a cartoon and Wile E. Coyote had ordered the machine from Acme, everything would freeze in mid-air and under the machine you’d see something pragmatic and soothing like “Buttockicus Stretchikus.”

My first few days at college, I didn’t know a soul so I wandered into the dorm lobby and hung out by the pool table.  Eventually I started playing with an asian student.  Eventually I met his friends, and 15 years later three of us are still close friends who live and work in northern california.  One of them is getting married in December, which means I now know his fiancee and her friends and her family.  Yesterday, at a restaurant to sample the food that’ll be served at the wedding banquet, I stood out as the lone caucasian at a table of chinese and filipino guests.  From a blurry distance, I probably looked like a marshmallow floating on top of a sea of butterscotch.

My friends obviously speak English but their parents’ skills tend to be dicier. The nice thing is, the parents will talk to you anyway.  It doesn’t matter whether you understand them or they understand you.  The bride-to-be’s mother turns to me and says something that sounds like:

“Konichiwa don how?”

I respond, “I definitely have a problem with steel tariffs even if the short-term impact is to the protect the working class.”

“Yes, yes!  Konichia don how.”

And we can go on like this for several minutes and end happily by drinking tea.  The point is to be social, even if the exchange of information is highly limited. 

The food tasting itself was also educational.  I eat chinese food frequently, but this was serious banquet food and it carried its own set of unique traditions.  I learned to watch everyone else before helping myself to the next course.  Otherwise, I’d get involved in a conversation like:

“You like those kneecaps of braised duck?”

“Oh yes, delicious--”

“NO NO, do not throw bones away!”

“Oh.  What do I do with them?”

“You take the bones and you hurl them at the other members of the wedding party.  The flailing of poultry parts reminds us that every beginning also has an ending.”

Is it really necessary for my CFO to pop into my cube at the exact moment I take a break to watch the online “Dawn of the Dead” trailer?

(Chatting with the CEO of Friendster)

Me: Thanks for speaking at our event.

Him: No problem.

Me: I have to ask you something that everyone asks you all the time.

Him: Okay.

Me: Will you be my Friendster?

Him: Heh.  You know, my rule is that I have to have met the person at least once.  I get dozens of requests every day from people I’ve never met.  A Friendster network is supposed to be about real friends and acquaintances.  I don’t understand people who add strangers or famous people.  Internet people are weird.

Me: Now I feel bad about having added Mila Kunis. 

Today was the day of an important

that I organized, featuring important speakers such as the CEO and Founder of


meaning that I had to dig myself out of my comfortable little cube and actually wear a


And it all went well but I was tired and somewhat stressed so afterwards I took a bottle of leftover

And I believe I’ll be coming into work much later than you will today.

Browsing for a sofa causes three distinct reactions in me.  Only one of them is particularly pleasurable.

The first reaction comes from shopping in IKEA.  At first you’re happy, because everything is so cheap.  You bounce up and down on everything and look at the price and feel giddy.  But then you realize the sofas are kind of flimsy.  They’re easy.  They’re...well, let’s not split hairs.  They’re a bunch of wanton little tarts.  Cheap little things that catch your eye but basically can’t hold up to hard use.  And you feel pretty irritated about this, because IKEA has a play area where children can entertain themselves while parents shop.  What kind of company would have such immoral furniture when children are present?  Figures it’s a Swedish company.  Pervs.

Then there’s the more upscale venues like Ethan Allen.  Oh, how the sofas flatter your back and your buttocks.  And oh, how they’ll blowtorch your wallet.  You wonder: is there any way to flatter the back and the buttocks without all those zeroes?

The most pleasurable reaction, though, comes when you see a couch with bright red stripes and frilly pillows and big, gaudy armrests covered with brass tacks.  But it’s not just the look; it’s also the $4,000 price tag.  And you realize you can’t afford it, but more importantly you have absolutely no interest in it.  This is the pleasurable sensation: it’s unaffordable but you don’t desire it.  And you stand there for a good ten minutes, grinning at it and gloating.  The salesperson floats over to you: “May I answer any questions?” And you reply, “Yes, I’m just curious as to whether Raggedy Ann designed this sofa before or after kicking her crack habit.”

Why is it that everyone who shares my first and last name bugs the living spit out of me?  Either they play for the Dave Matthews Band and already snatched GregHoward.com, or they’re a Republican house member, or they wrote that crappy “Sally Forth” strip, or they’re a complete bozo like this yutz.

I’m seriously about to go all Highlander on every last one of these cretins.

Watches the dancers.

Makes up unique insults to throw at the visiting team: “Our guys are taller than your guys.  They’re tall.  They’re, like, 5’10” if they’re an inch.  You are all short.”

Watches the dancers.

Watches the dancers.

Does a Shaggy impression every time Dirk Nowitski does something cool.

Watches the dancers.

Has disturbing conversations with 9-year olds, who ask:

“You’re from California?”

“Yup.”

“Man, I can’t believe what they say about Schwarzenegger.”

“....huh?”

“They’re all, like, he touches girls.  In a bad way.”

“Uh.”

“That’s what they’re saying.  I mean, c’mon, he was the Terminator.”

“Uh.”

“He would never do that...would he?”

“Look, there’s only one thing I know for sure about Schwarzenegger.  And I’ll tell it to you.  Are you ready?”

“...yeah.”

“He looks better in a tank top than I do.”

Dirk Nowitski of the Mavericks and Shaggy from Scooby Doo: Separated at birth?

*The Mavs totally won.  More to the point, beer was present.

One of the reasons I chose pMachine for my new blogging software--as opposed to, say, Movable Type--is the ability to “future date” my posts.  This means that I can write a post and have it appear on my site whenever I want.

For example, take this post.  Judging from the time stamp, it appears to have been written in the late afternoon.  Not so.  I wrote it at about 6 a.m.  But I didn’t want it to appear until 5 o’clock, because shortly after 5 I should be deplaning in Texas so I can attend a conference.  I wanted to write about the day when I hadn’t experienced yet, and post it automatically when I had, in fact, experienced it.

So what was my future-past-day like?

Around 7:00 a.m. I clutched a tall mug of coffee, walked about six blocks from my apartment to a nearby garage, and voted in the California governor recall election. As I looked at the ballot--which not only contained over 100 candidates, but also two truly inane propositions--tears streamed down my face.  A little old lady smiled at me, touched my arm, and said “Aren’t you glad to live in a democracy where you can exercise your right to vote and help affect the future of this great state of ours?” I wiped my eyes, turned to her tenderly, and dumped my coffee over her head.

On the plane, babies screamed from all directions.  It was Hell’s version of stereo 5.1 sound.  Faced with this situation, I did what I always do: loudly read select passages from Jonathan Swift’s 1729 essay, A Modest Proposal:

“A child will make two dishes at an entertainment for friends; and when the family dines alone, the fore or hind quarter will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned with a little pepper or salt will be very good boiled on the fourth day, especially in winter . . . Those who are more thrifty (as I must confess the times require) may flay the carcass; the skin of which artificially dressed will make admirable gloves for ladies, and summer boots for fine gentlemen.”

I smiled in contentment as the gasps of adults begin to overtake the sound of mewling infants, and babies were quickly shushed.

I read most of Max Barry’s Jennifer Government

.

I ignored the person next to me loudly prattling about garden perennials for as long as I could.  Eventually, it was necessary to drop a stronger hint by wearing my Walkman and singing along to the Donnas: “You thought you’d leave me broken hearted/Well, you might have if you weren’t SO RETARDED.”

In preparation for seeing a Mavericks game that evening, courtesy of a colleague who works in the Texas office, I read the sports pages so I could find out what kind of sport these so-called Mavericks play.  Initial hypothesis, based on name of team: some kind of game involving unbranded range animals.

I left the plane, stepped on Texas soil for the first time in my life, and was promptly attacked by a herd of bison.

That’s what my day was like.  How was yours?