“SALE!  Previewed Adult Videos: $6.95.”

Like there’s a single video in the store that hasn’t been previewed.  What do you think the clerks do with their time?

You’ll never hear one of them say “Gee, I’m not sure about that one, I’ve never seen it.  But look, you really can’t go wrong with one of the early Savannah Goodacre efforts--before she went all artsy and her stuff became a bunch of weird camera angles and midgets.”

This weekend I rented a van so I could pick up some furniture and save on shipping charges.

The line at the Berkeley U-Haul stretched out the door.  There was a certain amount of tension in the air--people waiting to get their vehicles, hoping to get their moving done on time--and one guy in particular looked nervous.  He was wearing a yellow T-shirt that showed the front of a Cheerios box.

When he got to the front of the line, he asked to change his 10 footer truck for a 14 footer.  The woman behind the counter told him no.  He argued.  She finally screamed “THE RESERVATION IS THE RESERVATION.  THERE’S NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT.  WE ARE VERY BUSY THIS MORNING.  THAT’S THE END OF IT.”

You might think she had gotten away with being so rude because U-Haul is basically the only game in town in Berkeley--I mean what are you going to do, rent one of those godawful yellow trucks from Ryder?  U-Haul is the brand everyone knows and trusts.

But no, I think she simply looked at the shirt and recognized weakness.  I think it’s a bad idea to venture out doors wearing a Cheerios shirt at any point in time, but you definitely shouldn’t do it if there’s even the remotest chance you might end up in an argument with someone. 

I never took a debate class, but I bet the instructors always give a warning: “Never wear cereal to a debate.  Granted, it may be a balanced part of a nutritious breakfast.  But it has no place in a formal rhetorical exchange.”

Republican candidate Jack Ryan is re-evaluating his bid for a U.S. Senate seat from Illinois amid allegations that he visited sex clubs with his then-wife, actress Jeri Ryan.

The four-year-old allegations were contained in court papers unsealed this week. In them, then Star Trek: Voyager star Jeri Ryan stated her ex-husband took her to sex clubs and asked her to engage in sexual activity in front of other patrons. The clubs were full of cages and people wearing leather and bizarre costumes. 

“After such an ordeal, my career became a refuge for me,” Ryan explained.  “It was such a relief to go to work and pull on a tight spandex outfit with cybernetic implants.”

For his part, Jack Ryan believes he had his wife’s best interests at heart.  “Sure, I took her to places full of people who have sex.  But look, I was trying to help her maintain a healthy balance. She was spending a lot of time speaking at Star Trek conventions, which are full of people who aren’t having sex.”

Some motion pictures are ignored or misunderstood at first, but gradually build respect and popularity over a period of time.  This is true for Dr. Zhivago, Touch of Evil, Casablanca--and now The Chronicles of Riddick.

Critically lambasted and a box office disappointment when it opened, Riddick has attracted a whole new generation of moviegoers since its initial release.  First-time viewers fondly remember the film, and are now bringing their children and introducing them to the experience.

“I’m taking my son to see it tomorrow,” said Sam Parks, a moviegoer in Vermont.  “I want to show it to him and say Son, this is what your father did...what, thirteen days ago?  Yeah, I think it opened about two weeks ago.  Anyway, I think it’ll mean a lot to him, to know what I did back then.”

Parks adds, “I don’t just take my son to the movies.  I also throw rocks at him and make him eat worms.”

Writer/Director David Twohy believes that the story’s universality is what brings people to the second-run movie houses and bargain matinees.  “People really connect to the story of Riddick fighting the Undermongers, who are seeking the Necroverse.”

But isn’t Riddick actually fighting the Necromongers, who are seeking the Underverse?

“Oh right.  Necromongers and Underverse.  But really, I think that’s the beauty of my script.  You can combine different word variations and it will still make sense.  Basically, each audience member brings their own interpretation to the story, and that’s what art is, really.”

Twohy adds, “Our leading man, Vin Diesl, is absolutely essential to the success of the character of Riddick.  He plays a hero who is defined by not being evil...that is, the hero is the antithesis of what’s bad and evil elsewhere in the story.  And I think audiences connect with that.”

As is common with movie classics, interpreting the story becomes not simply a job for the common viewer, but also for trained academics.  Dr. Carl Matthews, a noted film professor at Duke University, has written extensively on Riddick.  He explains, ”Riddick operates within a post-Lacanian framework, in which the Necromongers search for the Mirror Image that has been sutured at the moment of their Primal Scene.  It plays against binary oppositions to formulate a psychoanalytic matrix upon which the narrative structure resides.”

Matthews, who was having sex with a student at the time of making these comments, admitted he hadn’t seen the entire movie.  “That’s just my impressions from the trailer, which I downloaded from Apple.com.  But I’ll definitely see the movie before I present my Riddick paper at my conference next week.”

Tom Williams, CEO of Universal Studios, believes that the movie will continue to attract new fans.  “I mean, Riddick will probably be heading to cable in about a week.  But I think it can gain a whole new audience there.  For example, let’s say some guy is flipping through the channels and heading for the porn networks.  He might stumble across Riddick for a few seconds and say, ‘Hey, cool.’ And then he’ll keep looking for the porn. But in those few seconds we’ll have touched that person with our movie.  And that’s all any of us want.”

I suffered my first running related injury this weekend--that is, if you don’t count the time in high school when our cross country team went on a road trip and we ate at a Burger King and the pecan pie made me sick.

I didn’t break anything but I wrenched my foot pretty badly.  A long, narrow bruise begins near my toes and swoops all the way back to the corner of my heel, like a blueberry-colored racing stripe.

I’ve been dreading this.  It’s the start of the diminishing returns for exercise, when you’re old enough that trying to stay fit does more harm than good.  For example:

You take a bite of a “Healthy Choice” microwave casserole and accidentally stab yourself in the eye with the fork.

You do ab crunches while watching TV and the TV falls over and crushes your head.

You sign up for an Aerobics class, but all the people in the class are assassin ninjas in disguise and they swarm around you and kill you while Britney’s “Toxic” pounds in your ears.

Exercise is for chumps, as that wise philosopher Denis Leary tell us: “Have you seen these people who are using the stairmaster? What’s next, the chairmaster? I sit down, I get up, I sit down, I get up, I sit down, I get up! The doormaster: I open the door, I close the door, I open the door, I close the door! Folks, you wanna go up and down steps, move into a 5th floor walkup on the lower east side.”

The worst part is arriving at work on Monday and seeing all the vacant, beautiful handicapped parking spaces right near the entrance to the building.  Wouldn’t it be nice to not have to walk those few extra steps? But no.  You have no right.  You have no blue card.  You may be tempted to tape digital pictures of your bruised foot to your windshield with a note attached that says “JUST RETURNED FROM ABU GHRAIB, I HAVE THREE STARVING CHILDREN,” but the fact remains: there are others who are just a little more “differently abled” than you.  So you park in the lot and get out of the car and hunch along with a noticeable limp, until someone says: “Oh, my cousin has the exact same condition.  He eventually went to work in a church clocktower.”

He ran for congress on the libertarian ticket.  He received several thousand votes.  I still have his campaign pin.

When I was in my phase of trying to convince the world that comic books were a legitimate art form (a phase that lasted around 12 years), he would always read the comics that I gave him and often offered feedback on their merits.

When I was done with graduate school and wanted to take a part-time instructor job in the Bay Area but didn’t have any money, he drove across the country to Boston, picked me and all my stuff up, and drove me back.

During our trip we visited the Crazy Horse Monument in South Dakota, which stands out as one of the most inspiring days of my life.

His initial remark about my blog was “I’m just not of a generation that understands why anyone would want to write for strangers, and then have strangers read and comment.” A year later, he enthusiastically guest-blogged for me.

I always think my friends are going to find him intimidating because he looks very serious, but they always tell me how cool he is, meaning that I’m a poor judge of how others see him.

When he would take me flying in his rented Cessna plane, he would let me grab the wheel which means I’ve totally flown a plane.

He taught me: “Never read a book which the cover describes as ‘richly comic’ or ‘gently whimsical.’ It won’t be a good book.”

This advice should be taken seriously; he’s read more books than practically anybody.

I think he has found life difficult, especially in his early years.  However, he now has a personalized license plate that reads “Gruntled,” which is ostensibly the opposite of “Disgruntled.”

He taught me to shoot a rifle, make a Pinewood derby car, drive a stick shift, make a model rocket, distrust dumb people, recognize and respect integrity, and think independently.

Happy Father’s Day.

Work has been busy.  We have tons to do with few resources and very little time.

So when a colleague of mine had a baby shower at 3 p.m. yesterday, I was already a little punchy.  That, on top of the fact that I’m on friendly terms with the mother-to-be, meant that I felt no real need to be on my best behavior.

At the party, people played a game that I had never played before.  (Probably because I don’t get invited to baby showers often.) You take a spool of yarn and you unravel as much as you think will fairly represent the circumference of the mother-to-be’s belly.

The bright red yarn was handed to me and I started pulling out long streams of the stuff.  I kept going and going.  It spooled around my feet in a little colorful puddle.  I said, “Nah, I don’t think I’m done yet.”

The people who knew me saw what was doing, snickered, and helped themselves to more cake.  But at some point I looked up and noticed that other people were gazing at me in open, undisguised horror. Their expressions signaled: “You are making a joke that is going horribly, horribly awry.  You are a terrible person who will burn in Heck.”

I said, “Oh, I didn’t realize we were just trying to measure the mother’s belly.  I thought we were measuring the size of her heart as well.”

After that, everything was fine.

U.S. Envoy Paul Bremer:  Ghazi! What’s up, man?

Interim Iraqi President Ghazi Yawar:  Paul.  It’s good of you to see me.  I was concerned by an article in the New York Times that stated much of the transfer of power from the U.S. to Iraq has already happened.

Bremer: Oh.  Uh. The Times said that?

Yawar:  Yes.  But I have not seen evidence of any such power transfer.

Bremer:  Oh, uh, that’s because I mailed it to your house.

Yawar: What?

Bremer: Oh yeah, I sent you your new sovereign power.  It says ‘To Iraq, Love the U.S.’ And it’s in the cutest box.  My wife can wrap a present like no one’s business.

Yawar:  How are you supposed to mail an abstract concept such as national sovereignty in a box?

Bremer:  Uh...uh...hey, did you hear that we captured Saddam Hussein?

Yawar: Paul, Iraq’s infrastructure is in a shambles.  Security is nearly non-existent.  We don’t have electricity in most parts of the country.  Where is this transfer of power?

Bremer: Okay, let me level with you.  I actually mailed it to you in a series of boxes.

Yawar: Oh for--

Bremer: No really, you just haven’t gotten them yet.  The postal system in this country sucks.

Scene: Frank and Joe, two overweight middle-aged men, sit around a shabby living room drinking whiskey.

Frank: I can’t believe I had to move back in with you.

Joe: Well, your divorce pretty much wiped you out so you didn’t have much choice.

Frank: Marriage was rough.  Remember our school days when I dated Callie and you dated Lola? They were great girls.

Joe: Yeah, but they turned gay in college and now they’re shacked up with Nancy Drew.

Frank: Nancy is not gay, she’s bisexual. She kissed me once.

Joe: That was after you signed your divorce papers, Tom Swift. It was just a friendly, compassionate gesture intended to shut you up because you wouldn’t stop whining.

Frank: Look, I know from a kiss. Nancy’s bi, with a heavy leaning towards all things Frank.

Joe: Whatever man.

Frank: I think we just need a mystery. We haven’t had one in years.

Joe: Sure we have. The mystery of your exploding waistline.

(The phone rings. Joe takes a swig of whiskey and answers it.)

Joe: Yeah?....oh really?...Wow! Okay! (He hangs up.) It’s Dad! He needs our help!

Frank: Finally! After all this time, a new mystery! Even if he is Fenton Hardy, world-famous detective, he often calls upon the services of his sons when his considerable skills have been taxed to the limit! What’s the challenge?

Joe: Frank, you know Dad’s in a nursing home. It’s not a mystery--he just can’t find his socks.

Frank: Uh...well, that’s how it starts. But mark my words, there’s danger in the offing. This will be “The Secret of the Stolen Socks”! Er...or maybe “The Treasure-Filled Socks!” Hmmm...maybe “The Skull-Colored Socks”....you know, this is hard. I’ve never had to do this with ‘socks’ in the title. It sort of saps the momentum.

Joe: Think about it in the car. Let’s get going.

Frank: Okay, but here! (He tosses a coil of rope at Joe.) Tie me up first!

Joe: What? Why?

Frank: You know that the next few days will be divided into very short segments, each one punctuated with some sort of cliffhanger or exciting revelation. Eventually we’ll be tied up by masked thugs, and we’ll need to perform some sort of trickery in order to slip our bonds. Like, once we tensed our muscles so that the rope fell slack as soon as we relaxed. Another time we rubbed our tied wrists on a doorknob. We never use the same trick twice. But it’s been a while and I want to make sure I’m prepared!

Joe: Dude, I’m not tying you up. That’s just weird.

Frank: Come on! I need to practice!

Joe: Okay, fine. (He ties up Frank, then heads for the door.) Consider this on-the-job training, Houdini.

Frank: Wait! Come back! (The door slams.) Damn.

(Frank thrashes around a bit. Then he rolls over to the table and kicks it over. When the phone crashes to the floor, Frank leans over it and dials the numbers using his nose.)

Frank: Nancy? Hey, it’s Frank...oh, hey, I didn’t mean to interrupt you and Callie and Lola watching Thelma and Louise again, but listen, I’m in a jam. I’m nearing the end of an adventure, and--right, exactly, I’m all tied up. Can you come over and help me out?...oh thanks, you’re the best...oh, it’s no big deal. Just some chums went missing. And there’s an ancient Aztec artifact. And some smugglers...okay, see you soon.

(Frank rolls away from the phone, but then rolls back:)

Oh, and Nancy--just for old times sake, do you think you could dress up in one of your old high school outfits? Like, a poodle skirt and bobby socks and a big magnifying glass? It’ll be just for laughs, ha ha ha ha...hello?

I had a dream the other night that I was on the Jay Leno show.  Leno had recently introduced a popular segment in which he showed his guests a photograph of their family members and relatives, and then the guest would point to each person and say funny things about them.

But when he handed me my family photograph and the camera did a close up of it, I froze.  Jay immediately figured out why: it wasn’t my family.  Someone on his staff had made a mistake.

I immediately launched into an improv routine where I pretended it was my real family and made up elaborate stories about each person.  The studio audience was in hysterics.  Jay looked at me with relief and gratitude; I had saved the segment from disaster.

But when I woke up, the only part of the routine I could remember was when I pointed to a big, beefy guy and said “Oh that Uncle Horst, he’s always out there with the clunkheads.” And that doesn’t seem funny at all.

Things that happened at the optometrist yesterday:

1. I faced a major decision.  Old kind of contacts or new-fangled kind of contacts?  I hate those kinds of adult choices.  It was easier as a kid: just choose whatever product featured Batman.  Why can’t they make contacts that feature Batman?

2. For those who think I’m a jerk, this will seal the deal.  It turned out I had a small infection in my left eye, and the doctor prescribed some drops.  “These are like a MEGATON BOMB,” he exclaimed eagerly.  “You DROP THESE IN YOUR EYES and it will WIPE OUT THE INFECTION.” He looked at me excitedly.  His face was like a delicate flower.  I could have simply walked away from the flower, let it bloom.  But no, I had to reach down and crumple it: “You know, that’s really not the most comforting metaphor to use with someone with an eye infection.” However, it all worked out because he was completely unfazed: “No SERIOUSLY.  It’s like dropping a bomb in the middle of the Bay Area and KNOCKING OVER BUILDINGS.”

3. I hadn’t realized that I had an eye infection, but I was concerned about my right eye becoming red and swollen a while back. I told the doctor my symptoms.  He said, “Why didn’t you come SEE ME IMMEDIATELY?” I said, “Because I looked it up on the Internet and I’m pretty sure I just blew a blood vessel due to stress. It happens.” He exploded, “That’s your GENERATION.  Always SELF-DIAGNOSING using the INTERNET, as if the INTERNET could SOLVE ALL OF LIFE’S PROBLEMS.  It could be SERIOUS and you’d be in TROUBLE.”

After the exam and he found and treated my infection, I reminded him about the swollen red eye situation.  “Oh that,” he said.  “That’s nothing.  It was probably due to stress.  I wouldn’t worry about it.”

All of which is to say that I’m putting drops in my eyes a lot now and I can’t see very well, so if there’s more typos in my posts than usual, it’s due to that and not inherent basal-ness, or qualities that otherwise indicate an abundance of basalitude.

The night started out so well.

We each drank a glass of Johnny Walker Red in the hotel room, and gazed out at a gorgeous view of the city.

Then we piled into a taxi.  Our director of sales knew the town, and he knew how the town worked.  He said to the driver, “What kind of deals can you give us on tickets?”

And the driver gave us cheap tickets to a nightclub called Rain.

And when we arrived at Rain, a line full of beautiful young people snaked out the door and around several swaths of velvet rope.  But again, our sales guy knew what to do.  He went up to the bouncer and spoke to him in low, urgent tones.  The bouncer said “Go see that guy over there.  His name is Dean, and tell him I sent you.”

And before we knew it, we had bypassed the line and were inside Rain.

The club was packed and it pulsated with music.  Red and blue lights blazed across the crowd.  Two wall-mounted cannons would sometimes spit out tongues of flame, and it wasn’t just visual; you could feel the heat ripple across the entire club.  It made everyone scream.

And then I realized: they were playing ‘80s music.

First Eurythmics.  Then Human League.  Then New Order.  Then Thriller-era Michael Jackson.

I started to shake it.  I started to shimmy it.  I started to groove it. I felt as though I had somehow, somewhere, someplace, come home.

And the DJ said: “We’re taking a little trip back to the ‘80s!”

And everyone cheered!

And the DJ said: “Let’s hear it for the ‘80s!”

And everyone cheered louder!

And the DJ said: “The ‘80s, when all of you were about four years old!”

And just like that...I came down.

And I collapsed.

And I curled up into a fetal position.

And I chanted Bananarama lyrics to myself, as though they were a sacred prayer to a sacred time--one that continues to recede into the swirling mists of the past.

I wouldn’t feel too sorry for Ronald Reagan.  In the end, he managed to do what most of us have tried and failed to do for years--forget that he was ever President.

My talk in Vegas, “How to do PR for a Small Company,” went pretty well given my relative lack of sleep and that I had never given the presentation before.  I told this story and it got a lot of laughs.  I would have forgotten the incident, or at least not have remembered it in detail, if I hadn’t written it down.  Who knew blogs are actually good for something?

Go away.  I’m in Vegas for a few days.

I have a theory that the yellow cups that shoot down from the ceilings of planes aren’t intended to help you breathe.  They’re just there to muffle the screaming.