1. Use the word “boondoggle” whenever possible, even if it has nothing to do with anything.  I.e. “I can’t decide what to name my cat.” “Perhaps you should name your cat ‘Boondoggle.’”

2. Write my novel.  Already got a great first sentence: “Ashley had everything: beauty, money, intelligence, and syphilis.”

3. Post a picture of me in the badass trenchcoat I got for X-Mas; I look like Fargo North, Decoder.

4. Corollary to #3: stop making pop culture references that are 20 years out of date.

5. Be more sensitive to her needs.

6. Stop talking to my friends who work in the entertainment industry.  I became extremely depressed after two people told me that Lauren Graham is a primadonna and everyone hates working with her.

7. Accept more endorsement deals for “Geese Aplenty.” But start modestly (kitchen magnets, bubble blowers) before moving to high-end products (luxury cars).

8. Spend more time at the office.  I don’t want to say on my deathbed “If only I had written more ad copy.”

9. Beef up reading habits--get through entire funnies section each day, up to and including “Marmaduke.”

10. Become prison pen pals with Martha Stewart.

Well, it’s like this.  I used to have a pet cow called Bessie.  I kept her in my apartment.  Whenever I sat down to watch TV, she’d jump on my lap and often broke my ribs.  I also had to hold down three jobs in order to feed her.

The final straw, though, was when we played “catch” and I threw a ball at her and she crashed through the wall into the next door unit.  My neighbors ended up suing me after one of them was sent to the emergency room.

So after all of that, I figured screw it, might as well eat her.

But that was an excellent question!

Ever get one of those emails that sends a chill through your soul?  Such as:

“I think we should just remain friends.”
“The company will no longer require your services.”
“XXX Are you satisfying her??! XXX akjdhjk”

Dad sent me one of those emails right before I left to visit everyone for Christmas:

“If you want mince pie for dessert, try to find one. They are so out-of-favor I could not find one in Santa Rosa. I don’t have time to make one.”

I suddenly felt woozy.  I had to sit down.  Except I was already sitting down.  So I lay on the floor.  The cat crawled on my head and pretended to be a Davy Crockett cap.

I wasn’t thunderstruck because I’d have to figure out where to buy a mince pie.  I knew that Walker’s Pie Shop in Berkeley would not only have mince pies, but they’d have extra ones for Christmas Eve and I could just stroll in and buy one.

No, I was upset because I realized Dad was right: very few places sell mince pies anymore.  They’re a dying art.

Just out of curiosity, I called the local bakery down the street:

“Hi, I’m wondering if you sell mince pies.”

“Uhhh...let me check..................................(rustle rustle rustle).............yeah, hello?”

“Yes.”

“We don’t sell mince pies.  But if you want, you can buy some jars of mincemeat and make it yourself.”

Thanks a lot, Emeril.  Next time you call the fire department to save your burning house, I hope they dump a bunch of hoses on your lawn and drive off.

My father and I don’t agree on very much.  We do agree that any movie with a spaceship is worth watching with an open mind.  We think that Jane Austen is funny.  We think my mother is nice.

We also like mince pies, although my situation is somewhat more desperate than Dad’s because I never cared much for pumpkin.  If mince pies vanish into oblivion, I’ll be stuck eating those apple turnover thingies from McDonald’s.

Near as I can tell, this is happening because mince pies are a tough dessert.  They taste a little strong.  They’re not a namby pamby little fruit pie.  They make you sit up and take notice.  But that’s too much for today’s lazy, mechanized society where everyone TIVOs everything and skips past the commercials--they can’t even stand to fast forward them like they did in my day, using a good old-fashioned remote control.  People sit in overstuffed chairs and passively receive opinions beamed to them from seemingly benevolent (but in reality evil) figures such as Bill O’Reilly, John Ashcroft, and Ellen DeGeneres.  Former Mouseketeers lip-sync their way to stardom while aging action stars slash budgets with as much numerical acumen as their own illiterate children, who snore over algebra homework in nearby voucher-fed private schools where students have their chauffeurs on speed dial and gag over Shakespeare but quote dialogue from The OC with double-whipped-mocha-induced abandon--

Uh, anyway.  My point is, I’m doing my part to save civilization.  I’m going to eat mince pie.  Even in this world gone wrong.  Even as the tide of history turns against me.

Even if--God help us all--I have to start making it myself.

You may have read that California experienced a 6.5 quake today.  I was sitting in front of my computer, writing an article about my company for a trade publication, and the four-story office began to sway like a palm tree.

Many people wonder why someone might stay in California given our vulnerability to quakes. I thought I’d help address the issue.

1. We’re badasses.  There is no more frontier to explore, so we prove our worth as men and women by staying in one place and surviving the tremors.  It puts hair on our chest. 

2. As a corollary to number one: other states are weenies.  They have no natural disasters to worry about except a few limp wristed tornadoes and floods.  Come talk to me when a live volcano errupts in the middle of your town square; otherwise, go shovel snow or chase cattle rustlers, whatever it is you do to occupy your time.

Even the states that used to be tough have fallen into disrepair.  When I visited New York this summer I found NYC to be completely different from the hard-as-nails urban jungle I remembered from the early ‘90s. I was there for several days and only exchanged gunfire with the citizenry three times. It used to be Van Damme; now it’s Pixar.

3. California earthquake insurance ($10,000 annual premiums for $75 worth of coverage) prevent us from foolishly frittering our money away on things like food and entertainment.

4. If we’re lucky, the portion of the state that’s not us will break off into the sea. Which means?  Instant beachfront property!

I think this lays the matter to rest.

I’ve lived in my place for over a year now, and I figure it’s about time to decorate it.  I’ve read a lot of Martha Stewart-y articles, and they’re all unanimous on the same point: don’t worry if you can’t buy everything you want all at once.  Simply buy the first piece you can afford, and eventually you can acquire the rest.

So this weekend I went out and bought a beverage coaster.

In going to see the movie that I made fun of in the below post, we discovered that the theater lobby had a pinball machine based on the movie that I made fun of in the below post, and said pinball machine was malfunctioning so it perpetually had 20 credits to play.  We played for, like, a year.

I feel very badly that I mocked the franchise that has been so generous to me, and which has given me so much.  I retract everything.  And believe me, when I play pinball I need it to be free pinball.  You know that deaf dumb blind kid?  Well, my wrist isn’t nearly so supple.*

*Don’t worry if you didn’t get that joke.  It means you are young, and you will inherit the earth some day while I turn to dust in my grave.  And while we’re on the subject, I need you, young person, to do some things while you’re inheriting the earth and I’m turning to dust.  Such as:

I have a real issue with the primary plot point of Lord of the Rings, in both its book and movie incarnations.  The entire conflict between good and evil hinges on the ability of a defenseless Frodo to creep into the territory of the enemy, sneak into the stronghold of Sauron, and drop a magic ring into Mount Doom. 

As far as military strategies go, it’s not exactly a showstopper.  I doubt Napoleon Bonaparte is spinning in his grave, thinking ”Dang I didn’t even have to lose all those men at the battle of Eylau.  I could have picked that annoying private from the fifth regiment, sent him across the Russian tundra by himself, and ordered him to kick the Czar in the ‘nads.”

And who came up with this masterpiece of a tactical maneuver?  Gandalf.

A wizard!

Call me old fashioned, but I think a wizard earns his keep by turning the evil overlord into a newt, thus avoiding the need for battle and countless lost lives.  I don’t think coming up with a desperate plan that doesn’t even involve magic qualifies someone as a master of the mystic arts.

Following the same logic, I could launch people into the air using a gigantic slingshot and call myself an airline pilot.

I’m sure Tolkien revised out a scene in his original manuscript that went like this:

“So let me get this straight,” said Frodo.  “You have no real plan for defeating Sauron that involves your own magical abilities, or the strength of arms.”

Gandalf shifted uncomfortably.  “Not as such.”

“The entire fate of Middle Earth rests on me and my heterosexual life-mate, Sam Gamgee, and we have about a 1 in 1 billion chance of success.”

“Yes, yes, that’s pretty much it.”

“And I don’t even get to shag Arwen because the bearded guy with the hairless feet is all over that action.”

Gandalf held up a finger.  “Correct on all counts, young Frodo.  However, it’s a long, arduous journey to Mount Doom.  This means you and Sam will get plenty of time and several chapters to pledge fealty to one other, whine incessantly about missing home, and sing a whole slew of really annoying songs.”

Frodo and Sam slapped each other high fives. “Dude, we’re so there!”

My friend AJ and I watched a few episodes of the old Muppet Show last night.  I know those shows were made decades ago, but still--when Scooter poked his head from behind the curtain and said “Linda Carter, Linda Carter, fifteen seconds to curtain, Miss Carter!"--it was just amazing how young he looked back then.

I’ve decided that if a driver in front of me suddenly makes a turn without signaling, I have the legal right to ram them.

I’m willing to discuss specific guidelines with an appropriate representative from the DMV, but the overall point is non-negotiable.

Step One: Impending Disaster
Working out.  Find second wind due to catchy pop song.  Toe is tapping, heart is pounding.

Step Two: Getting Deeper
- Ask friend about the song, smirking “Usually I hate the crap they play in here, but that was a cool song.  I guess they’re moving away from crap Top 40, eh?  Ha ha ha ha ha.”
- Friend shoots me an odd look.  “Uh, that was Pink.”
- Oh.  Well, okay, whatever, I’m not a music snob.  “What was the title?”
- “I dunno, but she sang it on Saturday Night Live last weekend.  Look it up on the web.”

Step Three: Nancy Clueless
Spend work time Googling reviews of last weekend’s Saturday Night Live.  See plenty of references to Pink’s musical performance, no mentions of specific song title.  Becoming slightly obsessed.

Step Four: This is How John Walker Lindh Got Started
Actually end up on official Pink message board.  Read forum threads that contains such pearls of wisdom as:
“hahahah, u cee her on snl?  She rawked, dude, but I could see her buttt krack, lol!”
Refreshed by this chance to rub virtual shoulders with the future of America, but disturbed because no one bothers to mention the title of the song.

Step Five: Not a Brainstorm, More of a Light Shower
- Realizes that song must be current Pink single.  Google “Pink first single new album.” Immediate success: Song title is “Trouble.”
- Acquire song. Listen to it several times.  Endorphins kick in.  Fully expect that this exorcism has put the matter to rest.  Go to bed and sleep the blissful sleep of angels.

Step Six: Head Like a Hole
Get up the next day.  Shower.  Go to work.  Something seems wrong.  What is it?  Oh.

“Song stuck in head” is an understatement.  Ironically named “Trouble” is clamped tight on medulla oblongata like a remora on a shark.

Step Eight: Back to Google Again
Now researching medical organizations that will perform lobotomies on request.

Don’t.

Don’t let the best man use a black Lexus for the bride and groom’s transportation.  Sure, it looks nice.  But apparently there is a branch of Chinese tradition that considers black to be an unlucky color for a wedding car.  Imagine a suburban lawn covered with elderly relatives whose jaws drop when you arrive.

Corollary: Don’t suggest riding with the bride and groom because “my whiteness will offset the evil of the car.” No such loophole exists in the tradition.  Although it should, because it totally makes sense.

Don’t smuggle tiny bottles of Jack Daniels in the pockets of your tux, because it looks like you’re happier to see the bridesmaids than you actually are.

Corollary: Next time, get all Sarah about it and strap a flask to your leg.

Don’t sit way up front near the dance floor, because this means when the dragon dancers start, you will have a ringside view of dragon ass.  Later, when giving red envelopes to the dancers (containing money, a tradition for rewarding people who help with the wedding), suppress urge to say “I’m looking forward to staring at the buttocks of other mythical creatures, such as a chimera and perhaps a phoenix.”

Don’t befriend someone who will use Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” for the first dance.  Because, well, then you have to sit and listen to it.  Although it’s almost worth it to see an advance copy of the wedding agenda where someone scribbled “Remember: Give Armageddon soundtrack to DJ.”

Don’t miss the chance to take advantage of the Chinese tradition of giving a gift in the form of money.  I love bridal registries, since they take all the stress out of gift buying, but this tradition is even better because it cuts out the middleman.  As Danny Devito said in David Mamet’s movie Heist, “Everyone needs money.  That’s why they call it money!”

Do.
Presume that the bridesmaids speech is going to be very sentimental, as well as basically inaudible because it’s given by a bunch of nervous girls fumbling with a microphone, meaning that it may be possible to get away with this for the groomsmen speech.

An Excel spreadsheet three pages long.  Every minute choreographed.  Laughing.  Flared tempers.  A bridesmaid who looks good in glasses.  Boxes of wine.  Boxes of...cognac?  (Asian weddings have hard liquor at every table.) Greek columns that you can carry on your back.  (Maybe Rome was built in a day.) Shot glasses for the guests (candy for the kids).  A rented tuxedo that’s all over me like a...rented tuxedo. Preparations for a tea ceremony.  No, two ceremonies, one for the bride’s family and one for the groom’s. Only certain people open the door for other people; otherwise it’s an insult.  Two vacation days from work.  No time to myself.  No time for Christmas shopping.  Only one, laser-guided mission on everyone’s mind: get the couple together, legally unite them, let innocents suffer if they unknowingly block the way.  And everyone is a jack of all trades:

“Okay, if people start arriving all at once, the groomsmen may have to help out with the ushering.”

“Okay.”

“Make sure the guests sit on the appropriate side of the room, and don’t let them walk down the center where we’ve spread the rose petals--”

“Right.”

“And if it’s a girl, offer your arm so she can hook her arm into yours.”

“Huh?  Any girl?  Even if you don’t know her?”

“Yes, that’s what ushers do.”

“Wow, I didn’t know ushers were such sluts.”

Getting older means looking around at other people and thinking “I should have done what they’re doing.” This is how I feel about judges.  Look at what happens--they walk into a room and the bailiff says “Everybody rise for the Honorable So-and-So” and everyone in the room has to stand up.

Mind you, you have no idea at this point if this is a good judge or a bad judge.  He probably just finished reading a stack of porn in his quarters.  Why do you think they wear those big flappy robes?  But it doesn’t matter.  Everyone pays their respects.

I’d like everyone to stand when I enter the room.  Or at least have someone play a killer guitar riff with a wah-wah pedal.  Whatever helps to set the appropriate tone for my presence.  I’m not picky about this.**

But what happens now when I walk into a room is completely unacceptable:

“Oh for Christ’s sake. Someone invited Marketing to this meeting?”

“Yeah, they’re here to work on the user interface.”

“Screw the user interface.  We’ve slaved on this application for six months and it’s a thing of beauty.  Get this: the user has to follow thirty steps in order to reach the main screen, including guessing a password which is a random combination of Swahili and Arabic characters.”

*However, I totally got out of jury duty.  And no, I didn’t perjure myself.  I am a Golden God.

**I’d also like to be a maverick cop.  One who deals out his own brand of justice.  But perhaps that’s a different post.

If the Little Drummer Boy was such hot stuff, how come the only riff he could muster was “parump pum pum pum” over and over?

If he had the cojones to offer up drum action in lieu of gold and incense to honor the Baby Jesus, he should at least have had some facility with the instrument.

And I’m sure everyone was very happy when he started playing for the baby.  But then they realized he was playing the same damn bit over and over again.  “Paraump pum pum pum” times infinity.  The song ends with Baby Jesus smiling, but the story probably continues a few minutes after that--up until someone snaps “Okay, thanks, that’s just fine, thank you.  Bye.  See you when the next Messiah drops in.” And the drummer boy shuffles out of the manger and people whisper to themselves: “It’s a good thing it’s the thought that counts, because he was no Ringo Starr.”