I was browsing for birthday cards inside a party supply store yesterday and I overheard a lady ask the salesperson: “Do you have any of those blue and white ribbons that I can use for a baby shower?”

“Yes we do, but I’m afraid they’re blank; we’re out of the ones that say ‘Baby Shower’ on them.”

“Ohhhhh.  This is terrible.  I’ve been to four stores and everyone’s out of them!”

I applaud this woman’s perspicacity.  It is absolutely crucial that the blue and white ribbons at a baby shower actually say “Baby Shower” on them.  Using blank ribbons could be disastrous.  Why, if I had a nickel for every time I’d been at a baby shower and the lack of appropriate signage caused everyone to wander around, Memento-like, after the first few minutes:

“I feel so woozy.  Why are we here?  What are we celebrating?”

“I don’t remember either, but I seem to be holding a giftwrapped bag of diapers.  Perhaps we’re celebrating someone’s birthday?  Someone’s 100th birthday?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  I’m towing a plastic wheelbarrow with a big ribbon on it. Clearly we came here to help someone with their barn raising.”

Me: What’s the big deal about Georgia, anyway?

She: It’s in a strategic position.  They’re planning to build a pipeline through Georgia from neighbouring Azerbaijan to Turkey.

Me: How did you get so good at geography?

She: I like to flip through the Atlas sometimes for fun.

Me: Oh yeah, me too, totally.  But, y’know, I just started.  So don’t tell me the ending or anything. 

I am posting about the Sylvester the Cat incident because I believe it will serve as a cathartic experience for my friend Heather.  She brings up the suit all the time.  She wasn’t even there when I wore it.  It’s a sick obsession, Heather.  You need help.  If you force your child (conveniently named “Gregory") to wear a Sylvester the Cat suit for some future Halloween outing, I’m seriously calling the authorities on you.

Six years ago this month I was a starving graduate student trying to earn some Christmas money.  I went to a temp agency.  I told them about my academic credentials and my vast knowledge of English literature.  I took a typing test (120+ words/minute) and demonstrated proficiency in many computer-related applications.  They said, “Fantastic.  We need you to dress up like Sylvester the Cat.”

Dramatic recreation by trained professional.  Do not try at home.

It turned out that the creator of Sylvester the Cat was attending a special birthday party at the Warner Brothers store in Boston’s Copley Square, and I was to hang out in front and promote the event.  I assume the guy is dead by now. He was old and senile, and constantly groping the female store employees.  When they sat him down to cut the birthday cake, he waved the knife around like Anthony Perkins.  Everyone felt lucky to get out of there alive.

I mostly stood out front of the store.  An employee was with me at all times, because I could barely see or move, and I could only be in the suit for fifteen minutes at a time.  It must have been 120 degrees in there.

I did learn one thing.  I learned that people react differently to Sylvester the Cat than they do to Greg Howard:

A greasy looking guy and his two friends flashed fifty dollars in front of me.  The guy said, “I’ll give you this if you tell me whether you’re a guy or a girl.” I shrugged, and they walked off laughing, taking their drug money with them.

A woman came up to me and started talking to me like we were best friends.  She showed me photographs she had taken for postcards and calendars.  She was very, very lonely.

Many beautiful women squealed, ran over to me, and hugged me.  It’s not that I ever disputed that an asexual cartoon character gets more action than I do, but it was depressing to see the hypothesis proven to such a degree.

Only one part of the experience bothered me.  Because the suit was so hot, I couldn’t wear pants inside of it.  So I had borrowed some Speedy Gonzalez boxer shorts from the store to assist with my constant robing and disrobing in front of female employees.  At the end of the evening, when I took off my cat head for the final time, sweat literally splashed on to the floor.  I was disgusting.

But they still didn’t let me keep the boxer shorts.

You might say to me: Greg, what are the chances that your brother and his wife will decide to start a family?  A few weeks ago, I would have said “Right.  They’re a pair of DINKS (Dual Income, No Kids). You’re more likely to see Donald Rumsfeld joining Earth First.”

Of course, if you asked me now, I’d say that my sister-in-law is expecting a girl who will arrive in April.

When I was first told the news, I thought--

Well, actually, I didn’t think anything at first.  That’s because I couldn’t hear myself think.  My brother was too busy boasting about the fact that he and his wife only had to try a week before succeeding: “My boys know how to aim.” And then he did a little motion in the air that looked like John Travolta having an aneurysm.

But as soon as I could hear myself think, I thought:  “I’m going to have to be an uncle.” And I immediately thought of the only role model I’ve ever known: my uncle Dan.  And that made me aware of how families get stuck in patterns that repeat themselves from generation to generation, and not always in a good way: my uncle Dan wasn’t necessarily the best role model for an uncle that one could imagine.  But I thought of him instantly.  Because he’s all I knew.

Let me clarify.  He wasn’t a bad guy.  In fact, in the beginning, he was awesome.  He wrestled with me and my brother while keeping coins locked up tight in his clamped palms; you had to pry open his fingers in order to get the goods.  And he took us on walks with his metal detector, in which he’d sweep the ground looking for sunken treasure.  The metal detector made a beeping sound when it hovered over metal, and each time we thought we might be millionaires.  And so we were, if by “millionaires” you mean “proud owners of bottle caps.”

You might think: hey, all of these stories involve money.  Well, yeah.  What’s your point?  Uncle Dan kicked ass.

Until he completely fell out of touch with us.  He moved away and didn’t leave any contact information.  To this day, we’re not sure where he is.

Reasons have been advanced for this behavior:

He had some emotional problems to deal with, and so he cut himself off from everybody.

He was jealous of my father’s success and his family, and so he cut himself from everybody.

He died, and so he cut himself off from everybody.

Or it could be a combination.

This happened years ago, so I haven’t had an uncle for a while.  I’m not sure one needs an uncle.  I have fully functioning parental units, and a sibling unit who is more than fully functioning--

(Just ask him about it.  Travolta with an aneurysm, I tell you.)

But, I mean, I liked Dan.  And I wanted him around.  So as I think of the only uncle role model I’ve ever known, as well as the tendency for family members to repeat each other’s mistakes through the generations, I have come to two conclusions:

1. I should be a really kickass uncle just like Dan was in the early years.  I mean, maybe the girl won’t want to wrestle for coins or whatever.  But I’ll come up with something else.  Maybe skeet shooting or wildebeest hunting.
2. I will never, ever leave her as long as I have anything to say about it.

And so I won’t.

When you work at a company that deals with venture capitalists, you sometimes go to networking events and talk to venture capitalists.

Venture capitalists are people who give other people money in order to start companies.  In return they take a share of those companies, often in the form of stock options, that they eventually sell for a profit.

When you get a bunch of venture capitalists in a conversation, you can sometimes learn a lot.  Unfortunately, you also often get an exchange like this:

“I work with Steelpoint Ventures, and we manage a $1 billion fund.”

“Oh.  Well, I work with Redbridge Ventures, and we manage a $1 billion fund with a 50% return on investment.”

“Oh.  Well, I work with Steelbridge Ventures, and we manage a $1 billion fund with a 50% return on investment and lots of great synergies.”

At this point I can’t take it anymore.  So I interject:  “I work in marketing, and I manage my annual salary which is less than each of you make in a week.  I’m currently accepting donations so I can buy Buffy Season 5 on DVD.”

Everyone visibly relaxes, since there’s nothing to prove as long as I’m in the room, and the conversation continues on a normal track.

Normally I love to dissect movies after seeing them.  You can’t shut me up.  You have to oil my tongue every fifty miles.

But as I sat in the car after seeing Matrix Revolutions, I could only try to soothe my pounding head.  To try to will the pain away.  To feel human again.

Meanwhile, my friend chattered away: “But if the nature of the Matrix was like this, then Neo did this and this and this...”

Finally, I had to interject: “Look, you’re trying to come up with elaborate explanations to cover up the gaping holes in the plot.  The answer is simple...it’s bad writing.  It was a bad script.  It was a bad movie.”

“No no no, you don’t understand.  If the Matrix is like this, then you this and this and this.”

Finally, I managed to say my goodbyes and drive across the Bay Bridge to home.  I walked into my place and heaved a sigh of relief.  I could start to put the horrible movie behind me.  To let it fade into my past, like the time I lost my blanket in a New York Hotel.  (I was five.) Or the time I lost a spelling bee.  Or the time I didn’t ask out the French girl in college. 

(Actually, that last one is still with me a bit.)

My thoughts began to settle themselves, and I thought about the week ahead.  Another event to plan.  A press release to finish.  A white paper to research.  Discussions and meetings and emails.  I relaxed even further.  I was full of a zen-like peace.

Then my phone rang.  I picked it up.

My friend’s voice bleated at me: “Okay okay okay.  But if the Matrix was this, then you have to agree that this and this and this and this.”

My serenity was wiped away.  My peace was blown into smithereens.  I staggered into the raging thunderstorm, wind pelting my face, and I screamed to the heavens: “DAMN YOU WACHOWSKI BROTHERS.  You stole two hours of my life.  And you made my friend act like a dork.  I WILL NOT REST UNTIL YOU ARE DESTROYED!”

Of course, I had to take a moment to think about whether I meant that or not.  After all, you have to respect the sheer amount of gratuitous lesbian sex that the Wachowski brothers gave the world in their first movie, Bound.

But no, even that did not balance the scales.  “DESTROYED, I TELL YOU!”

And then I donned a pair of black sunglasses (although it was already pitch black outside), a trenchcoat, and I swooped into the heavens on my mission of pretentious, cliche-ridden vengeance.

I keep running into religious people who aren’t religious the way I expect them to be.  Two examples: a Buddhist who didn’t seem to care about the Four Noble Truths (i.e. desire causes suffering), and a Christian who didn’t think that accepting Christ as one’s personal savior is a prerequisite of the faith.

“But that has to be a prerequisite of the faith,” I said.  “It’s what makes you a Christian.”

“That sounds too narrow to me.”

“Well, if you just believe in God without the Christ bit, that makes you more of a Deist, don’t you think?”

“You’re just throwing around a lot of terms you learned in a religious studies class.  You’re also trying to be logical. Religion is about faith.  How do you feel?”

“I feel hungry.”

And then they refuse to keep talking to me, and I find myself still confused as well as really wanting a snack.