I wasn’t home much this weekend, but when I was I had music blasting.  Between that and my Ipod and my car stereo, I was immersed in music for nearly three days straight.  Sometimes that kind of exposure to music does nothing to me. Other times, it’s like being struck with a tuning fork.  My perceptions shift and I walk around completely disoriented.

When I was younger, this happened to me constantly.  In high school, a friend of mine started talking to me after I had been listening to a favorite album, and I could barely keep up with the conversation; I felt like I was moving underwater. That’s because music is completely astonishing at that age. It rips you open and pumps you full of colors and textures. You’re too young and stupid to know that these sensations are heightened by your age, because you’re young and stupid.  You think it’ll always affect you that way.  But it’s like building up a tolerance to alcohol.  As you get older, music loses some of its power.  It becomes less visceral and immediate.  You’ve heard it all before.

I interned at a PR agency in college.  I remember a guy in his 30s talking to another guy, saying how addicted he was to music as a kid.  He said, “Now I hardly listen to it.” I always wondered if I’d grow up to become that guy.

Now that I’m his age, I realize that I have and I haven’t.  Because I don’t always react to music; sometimes I even work at home in silence.  When I listen to it, it doesn’t always seem new and fresh.  Sometimes it’s just white noise.  But given the right confluence of time, songs, and mood, I’m thunderstruck all over again.  Yesterday someone asked me if I was sleepy. But I was just reeling from the impact of all the songs I had heard over the past 72 hours.  I was mulling over their internal logic.  I was fixating on their unique calculus.  I was blinking away their afterimage.  I tried to explain all this, but ended up just smiling and saying “Sure,” which was about the best I could manage while moving underwater.

From the CNN article Kerry Targets Ohio Geese, Voters: “Wearing a camouflage jacket and carrying a 12-gauge shotgun, [Kerry] left on a hunt of ducks and geese on a supporter’s farm outside of Youngstown.  Kerry adviser Mike McCurry said it’s important in the final days of the campaign that voters ‘get a better sense of John Kerry, the guy.’”

Hey, loserboy, I know the polls are showing that you’re about to have as much luck in the election as Dick Cheney at a heart surgeon’s convention, but lay off my namesakes.

Do I go around smashing up Heinz ketchup bottles just to prove I’m a big shot?  Because believe me, I could, and I’ve resisted out of respect for your candidacy and your inherited fortune. But I’m starting to rethink the wisdom of going easy on condiments in light of your bloodthirsty new campaign tactics.

How about I just change the name of this site to Kerry Aplenty?  Then you can prove your manliness by going on a hunt for yourself.

Assknocker.

- I found this cool new indie band called Splinters on my Tongue.

- Dude, that is so August 2004.  Splinters on my Tongue sold out and now they play huge stadiums. I found this cool new indie band, Sarcastic Orgasm.

- Dude, SO is completely corporate now.  They moved out of their parents’ basement and now they play in a high school gymnasium.  Everyone’s heard of them.  I found this cool new indie band called Placenta.  They haven’t even been born yet.  Eventually they’ll be discovered--like, after they’re alive and learn to play instruments and stuff.

- Cool.  Hey--is that a Smashmouth CD you’ve got there?

- Oh yeah.  But I listen to it in this very half-hearted ironic way. I can totally keep that balance without actually liking it.

- Cool.  Hey, let’s get some stethoscopes and listen to our stomachs growl.

- Cool.  I love that low-fi sound.

This site isn’t just a depository of inane comments that irritate and bore people; it’s ostensibly also a way to keep in touch with some friends.  So, for that reason, I’m posting a link to some vacation pictures.  If you don’t want to see them, don’t click the link.  Also, eat it.

I only have a free account on Buzznet so the pictures are out of order.  You’ll get the idea anyway.  Also, mouse over the thumbnails (or simply click on them) to see captions.

Stop looking at me like that.  At least they’re not pictures of cats.

You know what expression I hate?  Complimenting someone’s attire by saying that they’re “dressed to the nines.”

Why is 9 such an attractive number?  I think 9 has a big fat head on top of a spindly body.  I much prefer the gentle, curvaceous 8.  I think 5 is slightly more symmetrical.  And the 3 has a very nice pair of buttocks, if you look at it a certain way.

I admit I’m not a big fan of 1.  I’m not into that straight-up, stick figure, Kate Moss thing.  But 1 is better than 9.

Then there’s the number 10--which by definition is the best number of them all.  I mean, what are you going to say? “On a scale of 1 to 10, I give 10 a 7.” You can’t say that.  It makes absolutely no sense.

Bonus rant! When someone mentioned to me that every issue of Oprah Winfrey’s magazine O would have a picture of Oprah on the cover, I just snickered.  I figured she’d get tired of it.  It’s tough to keep a monthly schedule of anything, much less magazine cover photo shoots.  Each month I put out a company newsletter, pay my mortgage, and change my socks.  It seems like I blink my eyes and a month flies by. But here it is, October 2004, and I’m still seeing her self-aggrandizing visage every time I’m in the supermarket.  She’s still willing to drop everything she’s doing and run into the studio to be photographed.  And it’s not like it’s not possible to put anything else on the cover of a magazine called O.  You could have artistic interpretations of Pauline Reage characters, or Julia Stiles in Shakespeare costumes, or anything that typically follows a poetic apostrophe. Oprah, your ego is a sentient, living monstrosity, and I’d like to slam a phone book shut on your nose.

What happens when someone you’ve worked closely with for five years decides to move on?  Why, you go out for sushi.

And you have some sushi and one of those gigantic bottles of Japanese beer.  You know the ones.  They’re the size of Tokyo.  You wonder why the Japanese drink beer in such massive quantities--is it because of their culture of competition?  Because of fears over their flagging economy?  Because if Godzilla returns to attack, they can just get him drunk?

And then everyone decides to have a sake box.  Apparently, your friends have their own sake box.  But you don’t--at least, not yet.

“What’s a sake box?” you ask.

Charlie, your man behind the counter, turns around and goes to a stack of small wooden boxes.  The ones he gives to your friends have felt marker lettering (in their own handwriting) as well as numbers.  The box he gives to you is blank.

It’s also overflowing with cold, delicious, somewhat fruit-flavored sake.  Liquid splashes out the side of the box and into a small green plate.  You drink the contents of the box.  Then you slurp down the plate like Snoopy with his supper dish.

And then Charlie hands you a felt marker.  “You are number 15,” he says.  “You have to mark your box.”

You’re a bit too buzzed to be witty. The best you can write is “Greg Ho: For a good time call 911”

I know, pathetic. But again, you’re not thinking clearly.

Then Charlie says something that astounds you. “You have a web site?” he says.  “You can write address on other side of sake box.”

How the bloody blue blazes did he know that?

Is it tattooed on your forehead?  Does “geek” radiate off you like fumes from a barbecue?  Is Charlie psychic?  Oh what the hell.  You try to scrawl greghoward.net/weblog on the side of the box, but the wood is soaked from sake runoff. As a result, the writing isn’t very dark.

But Charlie picks up the box and reads the URL correctly.  “Good job!” he says.

And then you say goodbye to your friend and then you go back to the office.  And this is the hard part, because after a Godzilla beer and a sake box, you’re in no shape for not one but two teleconferences.

So you sit in your chair and listen to the people on the other line and you concentrate with all your might and you say things like

“This will result in great synergies.”
“Yes, I concur.”
“Concur, I yes.”

And you rule, because you totally make it through both calls.  And you’re still sad about not being able to work with your friend any longer.  But you’re really glad you made it through those teleconferences.  And you look forward to going back to the sushi place in the very near future, getting sake box #15 from the shelf, and having a refill.

We’re both wearing the same tie.  I can’t believe we’re both wearing the same tie.  A red tie with polka dots.  But wait--Kerry’s tie is dumb.  If you connect the dots in a certain way on my tie, you can create a nice dandelion.  His tie can’t do that at all.

The moderator from CBS News, Bob Schieffer, better be damn glad he’s on that side of the table.  He has a stripey tie, like a barber shop pole.  I’d totally kick his ass.

This weekend I sat in the comfort of my own home with my absent voter’s ballot. I’m a permanent absent voter because I hate standing in voting booth lines, and I like mailing in my choices.  I can read over the propositions at my leisure, sip coffee, and make decisions.  Then I got to the presidential candidates.

My fingers sped towards the checkbox.  I already knew my choice.  It was easy.  I didn’t have to even think about it.

Then I stopped.  I thought about the fact that the election is currently in a dead heat.  According to the media, the “swing voters” will decide this election.

But how could that be?  We’ve already had three debates and a deluge of press.  The candidates are well defined. Their differences are clear.  How could there be so many undecided voters?  What do they know that I don’t?

I decided I shouldn’t be so hasty with my vote.  After all, this is the President of the United States we’re talking about.  It’s possible I’m not as well informed as I thought.  I stepped outside to find a swing voter.

It was a gentle October morning in Oakland.  The sun shone faintly and coldly, as it does in those weeks leading up to winter.  I looked up and down the street--and saw a young girl at the end of the block.  She had bright red hair, and looked about 18.  I realized that it was Lindsay Lohan, teen star of the hit movie Mean Girls.

I approached her.  “Hi,” I said.  “You’re eighteen, right?”

She eyed me warily.  “Don’t tell me you’re from one of those ‘countdown to my 18th birthday’ web sites.”

“No no, nothing like that.”

“Good.  I don’t know what’s with those people.  It’s like, yeah, I’m legal, and no, that fact isn’t gonna improve their ability to score by even a tiny little bit.”

I nodded sympathetically. “I’m looking to talk to a swing voter.”

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“Well, what do you think about Kerry?”

“Oh,” Lindsay said. “I think it was a scary movie.  Although if someone dumped pig’s blood on me, I’d use my psychic powers to blow them away too.”

“Not that I want to remake Carrie,” she added hastily.  “I’m sick of doing remakes, what with Parent Trap and Freaky Friday and my upcoming Herbie movie for Disney and all.”

“What about Bush?” I asked.

“If two people are in love, it’s nobody’s business but theirs,” Lindsay told me.  “But personally, I like men.”

I scratched my head.  “Look...okay, listen.  What issues are important to you?”

“Oh, well, I’m sort of in this feud with Hilary Duff.  See, I used to go out with Aaron Carter, but then she did, and she’s been telling all the reporters that I’m a bitch, but she’s actually the bitch, and basically it’s a thing between us.  Actually, that’s where I’m going right now.  I’m going to have it out with her once and for all.  I expect there to be face slapping and stuff like that.”

“That’s pretty intense,” I said.

She shrugged.  “That’s just how I feel.”

“Thanks for your time, Lindsay,” I said.

“Hey. No problem.”

I went back home and pondered the encounter.  I was impressed with Lindsay’s enthusiasm and passion, even though it was clear that she was still undecided about the election.  Which way would she vote?  It was impossible to say.

But I felt much better about the notion that the fate of the country was up to the swing voters.  Yes, if Lindsay was any indication, those undecideds will do right by us.  America will be just fine.

For those who have enjoyed my father’s frequent comments as well as occasional guest posts, please note that he’s blogging for Daniella over at Daniella’s Misadventures while she runs off to get married and have a honeymoon.

Although this is the first time that Dad and I have blogged simultaneously, I just wanted to make clear that there’s no competition between us.  We have entirely different agendas.  He’ll be spending the next few weeks trying to encourage everyone to vote for the libertarian presidential candidate, whereas I’ll be encouraging readers to send me pictures of themselves in their underwear.  It’s this mutual understanding of our respective differences that is the key to our strong relationship, although my agenda, unlike his, actually has a snowball’s chance in Hell of happening.

I’ve been reading online movie critic Jeffrey Wells for ages.  So it’s a real kick to have a guest column at his brand-new “Visitors” section over at Hollywood-Elsewhere.com.  Take a look and see why I’m in support of ugly actors.

Pushing your niece and her baby carriage through a crowded crosswalk in San Francisco sometimes means stopping and waiting for other people to walk in front of you.  But I was stunned when I had to halt because a cop on a horse bounded off the curb.  I actually had to stop and wait for the horse.

Immediate thoughts:

I hope the law that’s being broken is pretty serious, dicksnort.  Because you’ll have to significantly lower the crime rate in order to justify, oh, let me see, a baby on your horse’s hoof.  Are you known for this at the precinct?  Does the Captain bellow “Kinsey, you’re a loose cannon.  Sure, you caught the drug smugglers, but you stepped on five babies.  Give me your badge and gun.” You’re a maverick cop who deals out your own brand of justice--to BABIES.

Why a horse?  What is this, Tombstone?  Did you not get a chance to change out of your cop uniform on the way to the Renaissance Fair?  I read the papers, but I must have missed the article about the rise in cattle rustling across the city.  Oh, and be careful about that riding around on a horse thing--what if you get hit by a tumbleweed?  But it’s cool--you know what you can throw at tumbleweeds to knock them out of your path?  BABIES.

When my niece is 16, I’m going to recommend that she stop shooting up heroin, stealing cars, and sleeping with bikers.  She’ll say “You’ve got to do everything you can before the Man does it to you.  The Man will crush you under his hoof, as though you’re nothing but a cow patty.  Don’t ask me how I know this.  I just do.” Thanks, Johnny Law.  I hope Jesse James kicks your ass.

IN A WORLD WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP…

Me: Damn it.  I think I forgot to water the plants again.

...AND DANGER LURKS IN EVERY CORNER....

Me: Thank God.  Coffee.

Co-Worker: Don’t drink that!  It was made last week.

ONE MAN DARES TO STAND UP AND MAKE A DIFFERENCE

Me: Can we reschedule the department meeting?  I can’t think before noon.

(Rising, escalating chorus soundtrack like “Carmina Burana")

FROM THE STAR OF “WHAT I DID LAST WEEKEND"…

Me: I’m glad I bought those socks.  They fit me great.

..AND “WHAT I PLAN TO DO NEXT WEEKEND"…

Co-Worker: Beer?

Me: Why are you even asking?

COMES A NEW MILESTONE IN ACTION THRILLS

Me: I leaned back so far in my chair that I almost fell over.

Co-Worker: I do that at least once a day.

THIS FALL, IT’S NOT TWICE THE EXCITEMENT

(Shot: Me examining fingernails)

IT’S NOT TWICE THE ADVENTURE

(Shot: Me updating Friendster profile)

IT’S ALL OF THAT...CUBED.

Co-Worker: Is that fungus growing in your cube?

Me: Oh yeah, I always forget to throw out the sandwiches I don’t eat.

EXPLODING INTO THEATERS SOON.

Me: Zzzzzzzzzz.

The thing I couldn’t stop focusing on in the presidential debate was the fact that Kerry wore a red tie and Bush wore a blue tie.  You just know that their various handlers worked out in advance who would wear what so they didn’t appear on TV with the same tie.  And you just know it took forever to work out.

KERRY PEOPLE: We want the conservative blue tie to appear more presidential.

BUSH PEOPLE: Well, you’re not president, so you get the red tie.

KERRY PEOPLE: We don’t want the red tie.  That’ll make us look like brash, fiery upstarts.  Challengers.

BUSH PEOPLE: You are the damn challengers.  We’re the incumbent.  You get the red goddamn tie.

KERRY PEOPLE: Look, maybe Bush would look good in a green tie.

BUSH PEOPLE: NO.  You get the red tie and that’s the end of it.

(pause)

Listen, if you want, you can change into a blue tie halfway through the debate.

KERRY PEOPLE: Really?  COOL!  Okay---heeeeyyyyyy.  You’re trying to paint us as indecisive flip floppers.

BUSH PEOPLE: Heh.  Yeah.  But that would have been sweet if you went for it.