If you live in California and work at a larger company, you may need to undergo harassment training in compliance with new law AB1825.  In case you don’t have time to attend this training, I thought I’d offer some of the highlights.

According to the law, harassment takes two primary forms.  The first is called hostile work environment.  This occurs when many of the objects in the office that you depend on refuse to cooperate.  For example, your Internet Explorer shuts down citing the need to “unexpectedly quit.” Or the fax machine may not work.  Or your chair might squeak when you spin around on it.  All of these situations contribute to a hostile work environment.

If you’re faced with a hostile work environment, it’s important to remember that many companies have a “no tolerance” harassment policy and therefore it’s up to you to immediately report the incidents in question.  To do this, you should report the malfunctioning items directly to your Information Technology department.  They will look up, laugh at you, and go back to playing Quake.

The other kind of harassment is called quid pro quo.  This is where someone walks around the office speaking in Latin all the time, which doesn’t take long to become very annoying.  I once knew someone who always said Quod Erat Demonstradum, and not even just when making a point.  You’d say “Hey Biff, how you doing” and he’d say “Quod erat demonstradum” and then you’d have to throw a stapler at him.

There are also many subtler forms of harassment in the workplace.  One that I have been personally subjected to is receiving off-color emails.  It’s important to realize that just because you can change the font in an email doesn’t mean you should.  Isn’t black text on white background good enough anymore?  I’ve received emails from our manufacturing division that had alternating pink and green text--all set against “My Little Pony” wallpaper.

If you’re faced with quid pro quo or off-color email harassment, remember your company’s no tolerance policy.  Report the incidents directly to human resources--who will look up, laugh at you, and go back to playing Quake.

Driving past a lawn display showing a beaming, light-filled Virgin Mary presiding over an equally light-filled manger, I found myself reflecting that many religions have a hard time with the concept of sex.

I can suspend a lot of disbelief when it comes to religion, because that’s pretty much the whole point of religion.  Having faith. Taking things at face value.  It’s just like James Bond staying the same age in the movies until it’s impossible that he ever operated during the Cold War. Are you supposed to think about these things?  Of course not.  The Holy Trinity and Q Branch are pretty much the same thing, in my book.

But I have a hard time believing that God, the Creator of Everything, really fathered a son through immaculate conception.  I don’t mean to get all Leda and the Swan on you, but does the universe look like the product of someone unwilling to get down and go to business? 

As a side note, I believe that if you subscribe to intelligent design then you can’t buy that story anyway.  If God created The Big Bang, there’s no way he would say “You know, Mary, I think tonight I’d just rather cuddle. But don’t worry--we’ll still get to the same result.” He did the Big Bang for crying out loud.  More likely, God would Bring It and Mary would say “Oh, Jesus!” and God would say “Hmm, good name; we’ll have to remember that.”

In reality, though, I think that Jesus was the product of Mary and Joseph, but Joseph didn’t have very good technique and Mary fell asleep during the whole thing.  So when Mary got pregnant, she claimed that Joseph had nothing to do with it--and anxious to protect his reputation as a quality lovemaker, Joe agreed with her and the whole immaculate conception story got started.

It’s not just Christianity, either.  There’s the radical martyr faction that believes if they blow themselves up in the name of God, they immediately ascend to Paradise and a reward of 70 virgins.

Who the heck would want 70 virgins? That’s an awful lot of upset phone calls the next day, followed by rambling text messages.  Eventually you’d have to mail 70 cards with 70 bouquets of flowers with the exact same note: “It meant a lot to me too, but I didn’t mean to lead you on.  I think we should just be friends.  After all, I just got here and I have my whole death in front of me.”

The only men who want to have sex with 70 virgins are those who are uncertain about their own prowess, and so they’d rather have a partner without any experience and therefore no benchmark.  Which gets back to the Joseph thing again.  See the connection?  Men who were insecure about their sexual abilities started all this nonsense and messed up some perfectly good religions in the process.  It makes you wonder: is it possible to find a religion with a healthy view of sex?  One that celebrates female sexuality and doesn’t let itself fall victim to male neuroses and hangups?  One that encourages positive sexual relations without letting them negatively affect its members’ spiritual cosmology?

I mean...except for the Wiccans. Those people are just weird.

Ever wonder what kind of email “Geese Aplenty” gets?  Me neither.  But sometimes I check my inbox anyway, and recently I found this:

“I’m not trying to sell you anything, I promise. I do want something from you, though. I’m an English major at UCLA currently taking a History of Rock and Roll class, which is why my life is really going places.  Our last assignment for my Rock and Roll class is to contact someone older than us and ‘ask about the music that he or she grew up with. Try to find out what kinds of music were more important to this person and why,’ and then write an essay comparing that to our own experience and examples from our book. As I was thinking about my essay, I kept thinking about what you had written in that post about the way music affects you at different ages and suddenly had the brilliant and not-creepy-at-all idea to see if you wanted to help me out. Don’t worry about it if you can’t, because I can absolutely find someone else. But I picked you first, so if this were middle school and we were playing dodgeball, it would mean something pretty serious.”

I helped her out--I mean, she invoked the sacred honor of being picked first in dodgeball, which gives me as rosy a glow in my thirties as it did when I was eight--but I had to stop and think about something.  As a teenager, I applied to UCLA, didn’t get in, and ended up attending UC Davis.  At the time, I figured my scores weren’t high enough or my application essay wasn’t persuasive (my thesis statement: “I never had sex with a cheerleader in high school but I’m hopeful that college will change all that").  But it never occurred to me UCLA just might be too difficult in terms of its academics.  But surely it must!  I can’t even wrap my mind around the enormity of the idea of writing about my experiences with music and interviewing people about music.  Thank God I was an English major at Davis where I could do activities more geared toward my more limited abilities--such as reading novels, writing papers, and studying theory.  Dodged a bullet there!

On a completely unrelated note, I’m aghast because the rules of our “Secret Santa” exchange at work said: “Please do not give the gift of shoes or socks, as they are unlucky.” No wonder things haven’t been going my way lately; I’ve foolishly been indulging in footwear.  From now on?  Bare feet--all day, all the time.  My ship is finally coming in!

This weekend I went to New Wave City at the DNA Lounge.  It’s an ‘80s nostalgia dance thing.  This month featured a special spotlight on Duran Duran, and promised 3-D videos.

I think that’s enough to get excited about.  I mean, life is full of pestilence, violence, and Freddie Prinze sit coms.  So why not take the opportunity to enjoy a 3-D Duran Duran video every now and then?

At midnight they handed out 3-D glasses.  The giant TV screen that played the videos started flashing: “PUT ON 3-D GLASSES NOW.”

I don’t go to clubs much, so maybe that’s why I’m highly inclined to do whatever giant TV screens tell me to.  I’m pretty sure that’s how Bush took Florida.  They gathered all the eligible voters together into a giant room and flashed the message “TAP YOUR CHADS LIGHTLY.  DO NOT DEFACE THE BUTTERFLY BALLOT.”

So I put the glasses on.  But my friend Frank didn’t.  I said, “The TV screen says to put the glasses on.” She said, “I have a really hard time doing what I’m told.” Think of how the world would have been different if everyone had taken a stand like that during the 2000 election.

But whatever, I wore the glasses and looked at the screen as some live footage started up of the boys singing “I Don’t Want Your Love.”

I’ve seen bad 3-D before, but this was different.  It was completely non-existent.  It wasn’t even an effect; it was just some color smudging. If you took the glasses off, you had a poorly aged Simon LeBon whose face looked like a partially melted wax sculpture. Put the glasses on? He looked like an apple covered with green fungus.

Halfway through the song I gave up.  Wax sculpture or fungus apple?  Both are unappealing, but with the former I wouldn’t have to wear the glasses and thus look like a total ‘tard.  “I Don’t Want Your Love”?  Whatever. I don’t want your cheap ass special effects and false advertising.  Remember the days when you could name an album title “Seven and the Ragged Tiger” and get away with it because everyone thought you were all deep?  Long gone.  Try to cheat people out of legitimate videos and we’ll be all, screw you and the wheelchairs you rode in on.  And maybe trying to conquer the third dimension wasn’t a good idea anyway, considering that songs like “Wild Boys” don’t even merit one.  Although maybe you could try the fourth dimension, which is time, because then you could loop back around to the ‘80s and fix your hair.

Eh, never mind me; I was disappointed in the video thing but I had a good time. Even if I did lose another potential ally in my dark struggle against a world full of pestilence, violence, and Freddy Prinze.

Be less critical and more open to trying new things--unless it’s really obvious that they’re going to suck.

Work out technical bugs in special effects filled finale of my traveling one-man show, The Life and Death of Amelia Earhart.

Prevent paparazzi from selling my topless photos; file lawsuits if necessary.

Buy more mouthwash.  Distribute freely to co-workers, friends, and strangers in need.

According to Buddhism, “You are the architect of your destiny.” That is completely true, and therefore I resolve to do everything Buddhism tells me to do.

Whenever anyone around me makes a declarative statement, chime in and say “In bed.”

Cut back on the career opportunism; it only leads to abductions, brainwashing, and artificial insemination.  No wait!  That’s a Katie Holmes resolution.

Focus more on personal relationships.  Not mine, of course.  Way more fun to interfere with others.

Don’t stress about losing weight. Instead, hold tight until everyone else’s obesity catches up.

Stop using sex as a weapon.

I noticed that Gwyneth Paltrow was on Inside the Actors Studio this weekend.  I didn’t watch it, but I don’t really think of Paltrow as an actress. She’s just someone who looks like a duck and occasionally annoys me by wandering onscreen and reciting lines.  Therefore, I figure that the host-guy of Actors Studio probably said something like “We know you haven’t really studied the craft of acting and therefore have never been inside an actor’s studio, but don’t worry.  We’ll ask you questions about being inside green rooms instead so you won’t be intimidated.  For example:

What kinds of green rooms have you been in?

Which green rooms are your favorite?

Do they keep different kind of snacks in green rooms?

Do you ask for specific kinds of bottled water to be kept in your green rooms?

Is your fondness for bottled water the reason that you resemble a duck?”

And so on.

A rumor circulated this weekend that Paltrow was expecting another baby with her husband, Chris Martin of the band Coldplay--

--and excuse me, but what the hell kind of band name is Coldplay?  It’s just two unrelated words stuck together.  I wonder what names the band rejected before coming up with that one:

Redfoot
Moonstomp
Earnose
Nutsack
Biznatch

--anyway, so they might have another baby, but I won’t make a cheap joke about the fact they named their first child “Apple.” I can make fun of Paltrow and Martin all I want, but even I know that they won’t choose another fruit name; they’ll go 180 degrees in the other direction.  So let me just say how much I’m looking forward to the arrival of young Asparagus.

Yesterday I went with the Other Greg and some co-workers on public transportation to a meeting in the city.  It was crowded and we had to stand and hold the rails. We suddenly realized that the many children on board were only communicating using sign language--mostly to themselves, but sometimes to young adults who signed back to them as they shepherded the entire crew.

One of the children passed a note to a co-worker standing next to Greg, who wrote a reply back to her.  From that point on, Greg and our co-worker engaged the girls with paper, notes, and responses.  From where I was standing, I could see some of the notes that the deaf children wrote:

ARE YOU FUN DAY?  YES NO (CIRCLE ONE)

ARE YOU MARRIED?

WHAT IS YOUR NAME?

Sometimes the girls had to consult with one of their adult chaperones for help with vocabulary, such as when Greg told a girl named Brianna that she shared the same name as his youngest daughter--"daughter"?  That’s an intimidating, monolithic word, but the girl’s face burst into smiles when she finally understood both the word and the connection that she suddenly shared with her new friend.

Greg also gave her a special pen to write with, one that glowed on the end.  At one point she gave the pen back to him, but he shook his head and grinned.  Understanding that she was the pen’s new owner, she brought it down to her lap reverently and clasped her hand around it.

Getting nearer to our stop produced a kind of anxiety; the kids wanted to get out as many questions and receive as many answers as possible before we all had to leave.  They picked up the pace of their efforts dramatically.  As I watched them scribble notes furiously to my friends and chatter enthusiastically to each other with their hands, I realized that this silent pocket of the subway contained the most talkative girls I had ever seen.