Discuss our current projects, introduce the key players, shake everyone’s hand--and then immediately after the meeting, send each person a Friendster request.

Spend the hour talking about how Amway isn’t really a pyramid scheme.

Glare at everyone in the room and snarl, “You’re even worse looking than the last lot.”

Roll up my shirt and start pointing at imaginary scars from fights with various sharks.

Walk in back of each person while talking, occasionally saying “duck duck”...and then tap someone on the shoulder, shout “Goose,” and run around the room expectantly.

Collect five dollars from each person to keep the presentation under 30 minutes.

Grab at people’s faces and show them my thumb between my fingers, exclaiming “Aha!  Got your nose.”

Have each person say their name and something interesting about themselves--while sitting on my lap.

I’ve been thinking about having my vision corrected with laser surgery.  But I’ve worried about the potential side effects.

So I started reading up on the possible complications.  One frequent result is the inability to “detect subtle shades of gray.”

So now I feel great about the procedure.  If every senior member of our current administration had it done, how dangerous could it be?

I am highly adverse to getting involved in physical violence.  I won’t even high five someone without putting on a biking helmet first.

The other day I went running around Lake Merritt with a co-worker.  She’s 5’9” and likes to box recreationally.  She said, “I feel safer running in the evening when I have a running partner.” I said, “I sure hope you’re not talking about me.  You’re the boxer.  If a gang of muggers attacks us, the best I can hope for is to sweat and maybe bleed on them a little.  I’m looking to you to do some damage.”

However, now that I’ve seen Cinderella Man, I’m thinking that I’d probably be a pretty good boxer.  Because for someone who doesn’t like sports and boxing in particular, I’ve seen an awful lot of boxing movies.  Most of the Rocky flicks and that one that came out recently that made really not want to bite my tongue.

They all have the same training montages.  For example, there’s always a scene where the protagonist just stands around and hits that tiny little punching bag.  He or she looks all intense and just bashes at it. But it’s small.  I could totally hit that little punching bag over and over.

In Million Dollar Baby, that little punching bag was a big deal.  Hilary Swank wanted to hit it but it belonged to Dirty Harry so she couldn’t.  I was all, screw it. Go to a Party America! outlet and get yourself a good sized animal balloon. It’ll serve the same purpose.

Then there’s the scene where they jump rope.  What a bunch of sissies.  The only guys who ever jumped rope were the ones who were trying to impress the girls in elementary school.  I was one of those guys, come to think of it, but eventually I got tired of it and went to go play dodgeball, which was more fun even though I always got beaned in the head.

And then there’s the scene where the boxer goes up lots of stairs.  Big deal.  Have you ever noticed that people who use the Stairmaster in the gym are always the ones least interested in actually getting anything accomplished?  They trod slowly along, flipping through a magazine and wondering if they’ll get home in time to watch America’s Top Model. Their idea of breaking a threshold is burning through five calories.  Stairs are for losers.

So anyway, I’ve seen so many boxing training montages in the movies that now I think I’m probably too qualified to be a boxer.  I mean, I don’t want to hurt anyone.  So even though I could box, I think I won’t bother.  I’ll just stick to slap-n-tickle fights.

When we’re out in public, you may not appear prettier than I am.

You will always smile and say vapid things--cf. your excellent work in Dawson’s Creek.

There will be no sexual contact, but you will give interviews in which you refer to me with provocative nicknames like “Tomcat” and “My Number One Top Gun.”

I will ensure that you get to play the decorative, useless woman character in some big budget franchise movie. Note: Batman Begins will not count toward this obligation.

Don’t look at me with beady, judgmental eyes.

I’m serious.  Don’t you goddamn look at me.

Don’t threaten to overshadow my talent.  You seem harmless (First Daughter, etc) but so did Nicole.

Slouch a bit when you walk with me.  You’re 5’9” and I’m...well, none of your business.

Your brain now belongs to our benevolent alien overlords.

At the end of 15 months, we will have an amiable, publicly staged breakup--at which point I will take up with my War of the Worlds co-star, Dakota Fanning.

Here are some things that have annoyed me lately.

1. The other day, a gorgeous black Chrysler LeBaron was parked outside my place of work. I noticed that it had a license plate frame, which is pretty unusual for such a nice car.  I looked closely at it.  It read:

“EXECUTIVES DRIVE CARS LIKE THIS”

There’s a boss who must make Ricky Gervais from The Office look like Cesar Chavez.  Here’s a tip, sparky: If you have to call attention to the fact that you’re a big shot executive, you’re probably not really one.  It’s kind of like Austin Powers calling himself an “International Man of Mystery.” You’re not supposed to say it; you’re just supposed to be one. Oh, and that license plate frame is meant to be used ironically.  You’re supposed to stick it on a Pinto or a VW.  Also, eat me.

2. Driving to an out-of-the-way restaurant in the east bay, I passed an upscale dog kennel.  The slogan was “While you’re away, your dog will play.” Everything inside was painted bright, happy colors.  I think it’s great that people make a point of putting their dogs into a bright, colorful kennels--given that dogs are colorblind.

3. I just found out that Teri Hatcher’s daughter is named “Emerson.” I know it’s a rule that you can’t have a hit TV show or movie unless you have horrible names for your kids, but this is going too far.  Can this young prodigy explain the philosophical underpinnings of transcendentalism?  Did she supply Harvard with a graduating address called “The American Scholar”?  No? Then she’s not allowed to have the name.  Instead of complaining every time the paparazzi sticks a camera in her face, I’d expect her to explain the zoom lens as a modern-day version of the transparent eyeball. I’ll look for your analysis in Us magazine, Emmy.

4. I hate anyone who describes themselves as “a walking enigma” or a “bundle of contradictions.” If you have to actually articulate these things, then they probably don’t apply.  It’s like Austin Powers calling himself an International Ma--now look what’s happened.  I’m repeating myself.  That only happens when I get worked up about dumb things, which is the fault of dumb people. This underscores my political position that the “No Child Left Behind” act should be modified to say that it’s actually okay to leave behind the really annoying ones. 

Today I called a new doctor’s office to set up an appointment.  A very young-sounding woman kindly helped me and took down my information, including my name and address.

“And what’s your birthday?” she asked.

I told her the month, the day, and the year.

“That’s my birthday too!” she exclaimed.

“Really!” I said.

An awkward pause ensued.  It was long enough to allow several generations of fruitflies to live and die.

I said helpfully, “But probably not the year.”

“Right!” she exhaled with relief.  “Not the year, but the day and month!”

Don’t worry, Britney.  A long time ago I said cute things like that to my elders too, usually after a long day of fighting dinosaurs.  Tell you what--when I drop in, I’ll reverse the the usual doctor’s office protocol and bring you a lollipop.

This post is dedicated to mothers of small children everywhere.  And I mean all of you--whether you’re a money-grubbing opportunist, a beautiful human being with genuine love for all mankind, or just unbelievably naive. I want you to stop what you’re doing.  Put down the mouse.  Back away from the computer.  Now go find that list of things that indicates what you’re willing to let your kids do this weekend:

Things I Will Let My Kids Do This Weekend
Hang out at Chuck E. Cheese
Go roller skating
Visit Neverland
Sell crack
Get involved in street gangs

Now cross out the third item, so it looks like this:

Visit Neverland

Now hopefully none of us will ever have to go through this again.

I went to the KRON-TV hosted blogger event on Saturday.  They wanted us there because they’re interested in putting together a network of content producers that can help them react more quickly to relevant news stories.  They want to leverage local blogging to assist with their own efforts at communicating with their viewers.

It’s a good thing I was invited to this historic gathering, because I think readers of this site know that I can offer many “synergies” with the traditional media due to my “important insights” and unique “local voice.” So, with that in mind, I proudly present my first post that covers significant events in my area--specifically, Moss Avenue in Oakland:

Mrs. Zabritski got a new flowerpot.  And possibly a lawn gnome--I can’t remember if that green one was there before.

There’s a new wad of gum by the stop sign.

No naked neighbor sightings for several months, but my eyes remain glued.

KRON, I was happy to “embrace the revolution” in order to “efficiently communicate” this “media rich” information.  I’ll wait for your camera crew.

Oh, and for those who thought that my obsession with becoming a weatherman, per the post below, is “lame” or “pathetic” or “loserish,” I’d like you to take a good look at this picture.  I believe that it will settle the matter of my qualifications and natural ability.

I think we all know who the loser is now.  In your face.

At one point I was obsessed with the weather.  I had moved from California to study literature in Massachusetts, and I ignored everyone who told me it would be a rough transition.  I shouldn’t have.  Massachusetts stunned me with autumns that made trees sizzle with color, as though they were on fire; it caught me off guard with a summer sun that beat down on me with deadpan, relentless intensity.  It bewildered me with long, macabre winters that made me miss class because I hadn’t budgeted enough time to dig my car out of icy snowdrifts.

I started watching the weather every night.  I was addicted to it the way some people become addicted to soap operas.  It was grand entertainment.  How many ways can you say “Partly cloudy with chance of showers”?

You can say “Partly cloudy with a chance of showers.”

Or: “Partly cloudy with chance of showers.”

I began to wonder how difficult it would be to change careers.  I wanted to be a weatherman. Did you actually need to have some sort of background in science so you could track weather patterns and draw conclusions? Or could you just wear a tie and read text off a teleprompter that’s beamed to you from some all-purpose weather center?  I hoped for the second option.  I would simply ask to not wear a tie.  I hate ties.

Sometimes I practiced.  I said to someone I knew, “Tomorrow might very well be warmer.  There’s a thermal updrift in the equinox that may collide with a storm front.”

He replied, “I think it would be good if you didn’t talk to me for a while.”

Still, for the most part everyone humored me. After all, there was a more obvious reason to follow the weather obsessively: local weatherwoman Mish Michaels usually wore red and was always upbeat. Practically everyone I knew (including women) admitted, “Yeah, it’s good to watch the weather because you can watch Mish.”

I wasn’t fooling everyone, though.  At some point, during a lengthy rant about the weather, my friend interrupted: “Don’t you have a stack of papers to grade?  Stop procrastinating.”

It got worse.  I found myself in an IRC chat room devoted to local weather.  And you know who joined us?  Someone who claimed to be a local TV weatherperson.  In fact, he was chatting with us inbetween going on TV to do the weather segments.  Or so he claimed.  Someone typed, “Prove it.  Next time you go on, say that the Boston #weather channel rules!”

He replied “No, I can’t do that. But I can say that the storm will be crashing down, and I’ll put an emphasis on crashing so you know I’m on the level.”

I watched the local news intently.  A sandy haired, nerdy looking man stepped in front of the camera.  Why, it was none other than local weatherman Todd Gross.

Todd said, “Over the weekend, you’ll see that the storm will come crashing down.” He made a swooping gesture with his hands.

He finished the segment and came back online. I typed excitedly at him, “That was great!  How do you become a weatherman, anyway?”

He said, “Usually you need to be a meteorologist.  That gives you a background in science. so you can track weather patterns and draw conclusions.”

I said, “So Mish Michaels has all that?”

He said, “Well…some of them have the ‘look’ and don’t need to become a meteorologist.”

Okay.  So maybe I had some challenges there.  I could offer a kind of boyish charm, if you were drunk enough, but I sure as hell wasn’t Mish Michaels.  Still, my obsession with the weather continued undeterred.

None of this was about procrastinating my studies, my friend’s opinion notwithstanding.  I think it was more about trying to assert some kind of control over my existence.  I wanted to make myself feel better about the amorphous, logic-deprived environment of graduate school, where I was working long hours but had no idea if I’d ever get a job.  If I could control the mysterious East Coast weather, I could control my mysterious East Coast life.  I think this is how I felt, because I gradually got used to Boston and forgot about the weather—although I was glad to eventually return to California and begin a process of thawing out that ended sometime last month.

Still, yesterday I felt the faintest hint of my obsession return. I stepped outside and saw that it was pouring down rain.  In California.  In June.  I drove to work with torrents lashing my windshield.  Typically, all the other California drivers thought they were Aquaman and went speeding down the highway at 80 miles an hour.  I think I saw pedestrian body parts flying around. I thought, “Maybe it’s not too late to get that scientific background after all.  I can analyze patterns.  I can draw conclusions.  I can figure out how to look good in red.”

David Letterman started off as a weatherman.  I remember reading an interview with him in which he commiserated with his former colleagues, saying that being a weatherperson was a “dead end job.” I don’t believe him.  I bet when it’s late at night and everyone’s asleep, he pulls out the old weatherboard and stands in front of it and basks in that kind of control and power that even ratings and fame and millions of dollars can’t give him.

Partly cloudy with chance of rain.

Partly cloudy with chance of rain.

I’m still positive that I’d be a natural.

My friend who works at Lucasfilm slipped me an advance copy of the Revenge of the Sith DVD.  It contains a series of deleted scenes.  I thought I’d transcribe them here for my fellow film geeks.

SCENE: Anakin and Padme at home.

ANAKIN: You look so beautiful.

PADME: That’s because I’m in love with you.

ANAKIN: No, it’s because I’m in love with you.

PADME: No, it’s because I’m in love with you.

ANAKIN: No, no, I’m in love with you.

PADME: No no no--

ANAKIN: Okay look, shut up.

PADME: No no no, you shut--

ANAKIN: I’m serious.  Stop or I’ll brain you with a lightsaber.

PADME (bursting into tears): You’re breaking my heart!  You’re going on a path that I can’t follow!

ANAKIN: Hold that thought.  You’re going to need it a few scenes from now.

----

SCENE: The Emperor is about to kill Mace Windu.  Anakin watches impassively.

MACE: Help me, Anakin!  You can’t let him kill me!

ANAKIN: Why the hell not?

MACE: Because I’m almost the last black person in this entire galaxy!  After I’m gone, the only one left will be my nephew, Lando Calrissian!

ANAKIN: Oh really?  I’ll have to settle up with him later.

MACE: Whoops.  Guess I should have kept my mouth shut.

ANAKIN: You really should have.  We’re the dark side of the Force, but not the dark side of the force--you get me, Jules?

---
SCENE: Bail Organa barks out orders.

ORGANA: Wipe the memories of the droids, so they forget the secret of Luke and Leia.

(pause)

And wipe the memory of Kenobi, so he’ll forget that Leia is the “other” in Episode V.

(pause)

And wipe the memory of Anakin, so he’ll forget he has a daughter and won’t sense Leia’s identity when she’s standing right in front of him in Episode IV.

(pause)

And wipe the memory of Leia, so she’ll have some bizarre memory of her mother in Episode VI that she couldn’t have.

(pause)

And--

YODA (interrupting): Shut up, you will.

---

SCENE: Darth Vader takes his first unsteady steps in full armor.

VADER: What of Padme?

EMPEROR: Eh, she’s dead and so is the baby.

VADER: NOOOOOOOOO!

EMPEROR: Also, you can only eat through a straw in that get up.

VADER: NOOOOOOOO!

EMPEROR: Also, the air conditioning unit is broken, and the parts are on backorder.

VADER: NOOOOOOO!

EMPEROR: Look, do you think you can stop doing that?  The whole emotional outburst thing doesn’t really fit the grim and malevolent image that you need to project.

VADER: Yeah, it doesn’t really feel right.  I think I’ll never do it again.

EMPEROR: Excellent.

VADER: “This...is CNN.”

EMPEROR: Don’t do that either.

I have to hand it to Mark Felt, who has recently admitted to being Deep Throat--the famous source for Woodward and Bernstein and their exposure of the Watergate scandal.  Felt was often named as a possible candidate for being the mysterious informant, but he was was able to throw people off the trail.

“I would have done better,” Felt told The Hartford Courant in 1999. “I would have been more effective. Deep Throat didn’t exactly bring the White House crashing down, did he?”

That’s just brilliant.  Whenever you’re trying to deny being a part of something, just indicate that you could have done better if you had, in fact, been involved.  Who would suspect you of contributing to something after you publicly mocked it?

“Greg, did you write this press release? It sucks.”

“No way. If I had written that press release, it would have been much more effective. I would never use an expression like ‘Onomatopoeia of the soul’ when the topic is miniature semiconductors.”

I also wonder if Deep Throat set a precedent.  I suspect that all informants now use dirty sounding code names.

“Look, Dirty Sanchez, I can’t believe this intel is accurate.  Are you sure about your sources?”

“Absolutely.  I heard it directly from Pearl Necklace.”