I had a great and relaxing Thanksgiving with my family.  However, the work day that immediately preceded it was surprisingly stressful.  It gave me an anxiety dream that night.  In the dream, I went on a business trip and twice left my hotel building without any pants.  Since I didn’t have any pants, I also didn’t have any keys, so I was effectively locked out of my hotel.

Fortunately, both times I happened to carry my cell phone.  I was able to call a special company that assists people who lock themselves out of their hotel room without pants.  A sort of Triple-A for the publicly naked.

The second time I had to call, I was extremely embarrassed.  But I felt better after talking to the helpful operator.  “We’ll send someone right over,” she said.  “Don’t worry.  This sort of thing happens all the time.”

I’m pleased to report that this Thanksgiving will be a secure one for the American people. Although President Bush recently took part in the annual tradition of pardoning a turkey on the White House lawn, he did not engage in this trivial pasttime without an eye on the bigger picture.

Despite the pardon, the turkey was not set free--but rather shuttled off to the Guantanamo Bay detention facility in Cuba to be questioned about taking part in a highly suspicious gathering of like-minded fellows.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Last year around this time I listed a bunch of things for which I’m truly thankful.  Well, this year I’m not in the mood.  So instead I’m going to list a bunch of things I hate.

National Novel Writing Month. Who the hell came up with this lame idea?  Crank out 150,000 words in 30 days?  What’s the point?  Your novel will suck.  In all candor, your novel would probably suck if you worked on it for a year, but seriously, it’s going to suck.  Why can’t everyone just paint something really fast?  At least that way you can pass it off as “abstract” or something.  You can’t spew out a badly written novel and pass it off as art.  Well, unless you’re Dave Eggers.  Listen, if you want to let your fingers fly all over something for no good purpose, leave your keyboard alone and come over to my place and give me a back rub.

Songs that have sound effects such as beeping that make you think your cell phone is ringing when you drive. “All I Need” by Air might be a nice song, but it has a synthesizer riff that makes you say “WHAA--!  It might be the CEO!” And you grasp for your phone and you veer out of your lane and by the time you’ve figured out the situation you’ve slid into a crosswalk and killed a family of five.

Shopping for my family.  I have no idea what the hell they want.  Although my brother is having a daughter, so screw it, I’ll just buy him a whole bunch of Gerber’s baby food.  And then I’ll get a whole bunch of Gerber’s baby food for my parents so they can re-gift it.  My niece is going to be my ticket to a stress-free holiday!  I love her already!

Speaking of “holiday.” I actually heard some cretin complain about the word “holiday” because it stands for ‘holy day,’ and that’s a religious phrase and therefore it offends him.  Hey, you know what offends me?  Morons.  You’re all Mr. Picky in regards to linguistics, but I bet you also use an apostrophe when you spell out decades, i.e. 1970’s.  Admit it, you do.  Bite me.

Norah Jones.  I was tolerant of her because I figured that Grammy would send her straight to oblivion just like Paula Cole and Hootie & the Blowfish.  But they still play her crap. Bland music.  Bland voice.  Bland name.  Who the hell calls their kid Norah Jones?  Mr. and Mrs. Jones, if you’re reading this, you’re on my list.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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.

Girls are better at breaking up than guys.  Many of them instinctively understand how to do it with a minimum of pain and angst.  I was once dumped by a girl with nearly supernatural abilities in this regard; she made me feel full of worth, confidence, and self-actualization.  I was halfway home, singing Disney songs, before reality hit me: “There’s a bluebird on my shoulder�hey, waaaaaaaiiiit a minute.”

In contrast, guys are generally pretty bad at it.  They might try to be smooth, but the situation gets the better of them and they panic: “I’ve been doing some thinking, and I feel that...well, look, I have prostate cancer.  And if you keep going out with me, you’re going to get prostate cancer too.  We need to stay far, far away from each other.  It’s okay to cry.”

I mention this because my friend Meredith told me that one of her ex-boyfriends is breaking up with people using the same line that she used on him.  This made me curious, so I said, “What line did you use?”

“I said, ‘I don’t have a list of exes.  I have a list of friends.  Let me know if you’d like to be on it.’”

I was impressed, of course, because that’s pretty smooth.  But Meredith didn’t know whether to be flattered or appalled that this guy has appropriated the line and is using it on others.

In my opinion?  She has nothing to worry about.  Like I said, guys end up panicking and they lose control of the situation.  Neil Armstrong flubbed his line when he walked on the moon�he was supposed to say “One small step for a man,” but he left out the article.

Similarly, this guy may think he’s got the perfect way to dump someone, but he’ll screw it up all the same: “I don’t have a list of friends.  I have a list of exes.  You’re on it.  I mean, you’re a friend who’s now an ex, and you’re on my list.  Christ!  Okay, look.  I have prostate cancer.”

He waits patiently for you to perform...every single day.

She only visits if you can rise to the occasion.

But you can’t write.  You can’t post.  You can’t waste time on the Internet like you know you should.

You suffer from Blog Block.  Don’t let it ruin your life.

Introducing new Blogtrex!

Blogtrex is a new prescription drug that unblocks the blood vessels cutting off circulation to necessary parts of your body.  Once you take Blogtrex, you’ll find:

Witty things to say about current events!

Hilarious commentary about your day-to-day life!

Heartfelt confessions that really make your readers think!

Words will spill from your fingertips like you’re some kind of blogging badass. People will link to you because they want to be you.  Wil Wheaton will ask for your autograph.

Don’t delay. Find out if Blogtrex is right for you.  Talk to your doctor today!*

*Warning: Side effects of taking Blogtrex include but are not limited to losing your job, pissing off your friends and family, ruining your relationships, carpal tunnel syndrome, obssessively Googling yourself, and engaging in Google warfare like a total ‘tard.  Please do not take Blogtrex if you are a heavy drinker, a light drinker, or have consumed any beverages of any kind.  Please do not take Blogtrex if you are pregnant or have ever been birthed by a pregnant woman.

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.

Several online health sources reported yesterday that researchers have found the obesity gene.

I want to be delicate about this, but c’mon--it took them this long to find the gene?  It’s not exactly the smallest gene of the bunch, if you understand what I’m saying.

Basically, we have a bunch of researchers who have real trouble finding the broad side of a barn on a sunny day.

I wanted to make mulled wine this weekend, so I went to the supermarket to try to buy a package of pre-made spices.  No go.  So I visited the Piedmont Market, a chic little place that stocks gourmet stuff, and asked one of the staff if they had what I needed.

“Oh, well, that’s a little seasonal.  We probably don’t have that yet.  But if you visit the spice aisle, you can probably find the ingredients to make it from scratch.”

Oh that’s helpful.  If I wanted to make it from scratch, I would have done that in the first place.  Believe me, I know what I’m doing when I force myself to use pre-made ingredients. *

Later, a friend condoned this ludicrous state of affairs: “Well, mulled wine is sort of seasonal.  I mean, people don’t drink it in July.”

Yes, but this is November, goddamn it.  Furthermore, if I’m in Costco five days before Halloween and they’re already hawking huge, cardboard-and-light nativity decorations for suburban front lawns--yet I still can’t find mulled wine packages at the local market--then someone is out of sync with the season and the holiday spirit in general, and it sure isn’t goddamn me.

*While making the mulled wine from scratch that evening, I unpeeled an orange only to find that said orange was, in fact, a grapefruit.  I had just grabbed something big and orange from the produce section without reading the signs or even looking at the fruit closely.  I’m lucky I didn’t end up with one of those “Caution: Wet Floor” signs.  This is why people don’t let me into their kitchens.