One of the many ways you can tell that humanity has evolved incorrectly is that there’s no real custom for how to react when someone coughs.  Mostly people just ignore it. If someone’s really hacking up a lung, you might hear “Are you okay?” or “Do you want a glass of water?” But generally, there is no accepted phrase or expression.

This is in direct opposition to the sneeze, which immediately generates any one of several predetermined social responses--despite not being all that different from a cough in terms of noise or its overall disturbance factor.

That’s why you may hear very different responses to each:

SNEEZE: “Bless you!”

COUGH: “Get the hell away from me, germfarm. If you get me sick before I can attend my kid’s violin recital tonight, I’m sending a virus along with your next budget spreadsheet.”

David Morrissey is the male lead in the upcoming sequel Basic Instinct 2.  I think I speak for cinephiles everywhere when I say: David Morrissey?  Would you give a major movie part to the guy who recorded Vauxhall and I?  And does he really think that teaming up with Sharon Stone is a better idea than getting back together with Johnny Marr?

You may wonder how desperate to cast this role the producers of this movie must have been if they settled for an unknown like Morrissey--who, according to his entry in the Internet Movie Database, has appeared in such summer blockbusters as Butterfly World (2003), Fanny and Elvis (1999), and Michael Jackson and the Boy He Paid Off (2004).  I’ll answer that: very desperate.  Around this time last year, I received a phone call:

“Hi, I’m the casting director for Basic Instinct 2.  Is this Greg Howard?”

“Yeah?”

“We’d like to offer you a starring role in the movie opposite Sharon Stone.  Interested?”

“What the hell are you talking about?  I’m not a professional actor.  The last acting I did was in my high school’s production of The Music Man.  I sang ‘Shipoopi.’”

“Which is exactly why we’re calling you!  The script calls for someone who can sing ‘Shipoopi’!”

“Did you just make that up?”

“....yes.  Please do the role.  No one else will do it.  We’re desperate.”

“Why don’t you ask the guy who was in the first one?  You know, who married the cell phone chick?”

“Michael Douglas turned us down two weeks after the first movie opened.  And everyone else we’ve asked has turned us down too. They’re saying that no one wants to see this sequel and it’ll kill their career.”

“Well, I’m not doing it either.  There’s always a chance that someday I’m going to quit my job and move to Hollywood and put together a film in which I’m bitten by a radioactive shark and turned into a superpowered ninja and then I team up with Allyson Hannigan to lay the smack down on Bill Napoli and Dick Cheney.  I won’t be able to do any of that if I already have a film on my resume that’s the film noir equivalent of From Justin to Kelly.”

“Well, thanks for your time, Greg.  Although you didn’t have to be such a @*&!* about it.”

“Whatever.  By the way, since I’m not even in the Screen Actors Guild, I assume I’m the very last person on your list?”

“Almost. Next we’re going to call Matthew Modine.”

My friend Cloudy, whom I’ve known since high school, asked if I’d do a guest entry on her site.  The options were:

1. Write about a defining moment in my life.
2. Share an anecdote from my childhood.
3. Post one photograph that best sums up my entire life.
4. Write a fictional story that involves both me and Cloudy.
5. Draw a picture of the future.
6. Write about whatever the hell I want.

I do #6 all the time here and the rest didn’t really jazz me, so I chose #4--although as I mention in the intro, it’s a true story in all the ways that really matter.  Check it.

I was very excited to learn that the new Sam Jackson movie Snakes on a Plane is undergoing reshoots in order to boost its gore and nudity quotient.  Not that I care so much about the film--but it did make me realize that I could do the same thing with my own life.  I’ve actually drafted a press release on the subject:

Greg Howard to Redo Portions of Life in Order to Increase Nudity and Violence

OAKLAND Calif. (March 23, 2006) - Greg Howard, a full-service provider of blog content and fashion tips to homeless people, has decided to redo substantial portions of his life in order to jack up the amount of fisticuffs and nakedness.  Test audiences have given his life low marks to date because of slow pacing and lack of dramatic tension; there’s too much lag time in which Greg works at the office, reads books, or sits around examining his nostrils for “Snuffalufagus"-level nose hair.

As an example, one of the key scenes that merits reshoots involves getting to second base with Kelly Slotnick in high school.  At the time, she said “I think we’ve gone too far” and Greg backed off like a complete tool.

Greg described his vision for the reshoot: “In retrospect, I simply wasn’t creative enough about escalating the scene, which in turn resulted in a slackening of dramatic tension.  Among other things.  So I’ll simply say ‘Okay, you’re right, we’ve gone far enough’ and she’ll say ‘Cool’ and then I’ll say ‘Hey, what’s that over there?’ and she’ll say ‘What?  Where?’ and then I’ll surreptitiously pull her clothes off, and then I’ll say ‘Huh, guess it wasn’t anything.’ I mean, that’s just a rough draft, but I think I can rescript many scenes in that vein to heighten audience interest at key points in the story.’”

Similarly, the violence level will be escalated as well.

“There’s the obvious scenes, such as when Ted Holloway punched me in the stomach in junior high and I didn’t fight back on account of not being able to breathe.  In the reshoot, his fist will bounce off a strategically placed sheet of titanium metal and then I’ll pound him into hamburger and sell him Amway products.  But there’s other times when people cut me off in traffic or just look at me funny, and in those cases I’ll punch them in the face.”

The reshoots are necessary because Greg’s life is currently tracking poorly in the much sought-after 15-25 demographic.  Actually, it’s also tracking poorly in the 25-35 demographic, the 35-50 demographic, and just about every demographic except for the obscure and relatively undervalued “People Directly Related to Greg” and “Yak Herders in Iceland” demographics.

The reshoots will commence as soon as Greg finishes watching Boston Legal and everything else that’s queued up on his TIVO.

###

(I walk into the conference room for my new employee orientation presentation.  A representative from Information Technology is just finishing up.)

IT: ...and you’ll also see emails offering you to help a Nigerian Prince or a pipeline or something.  Again, IT urges you to not open or click on emails of this sort.  They are scams, and we can only protect you to a limited extent.  As employees of the company, you need to exercise your best judgment in terms of false or misleading email scams.  Thanks, and welcome to the company.

(Applause.  He leaves.  I settle in.)

ME: Hi, I’m Greg and I’m going to give you an overview of the marketing department.  First, though, I want you to know that I only work here for the fun of it, not out of necessity.  I’ve become very, very rich by supporting a Nigerian Prince and his desire to open a new oil pipeline to Uzbekistan.

Yesterday I went to a farmer’s market.  You know what’s hard to find in a farmer’s market?  Farmers and anything actually grown on a farm.

They had booth after booth of healing lotions, strawberry tarts, and crafty little trinkets.  They had a trampoline for the kids.  I walked around a full twenty minutes before I found anything that resembled organic produce.

They had a massage booth.  I remember taking a tour of a farm when I was a kid in school.  We saw goats and chickens and crops.  I seem to have forgotten the part where they harvest massage booths. But I guess it’s nice to know that massages are in season.

I kept thinking I would stumble across a terrified farmer, huddled near the back:

“I’m Farmer Ted.  Please buy my fruits and vegetables.”

“Why are you stuck back here?”

“I’m a farmer, and they want farmers to keep a low profile at a farmer’s market.”

“Sometimes Northern California sucks, doesn’t it.”

“Let me tell you, farmers used to be somebody.  Hate daylight savings? Tough, it helps us with our crops.  Hated getting up early for school and going home at 3 pm?  Too bad, it’s so kids can help their folks with the harvest.  John Mellencamp used to do concerts for us, for Christ’s sake.  Now nobody wants us here unless we’re selling beads or giving psychic readings.”

On a completely unrelated note, my father has apparently been keeping a blog.  Three posts in nine months do not constitute a high rate of output, but at least he’s got something else to do besides mouth off in my comments.  (Note: People with pro-life sensibilities may want to shy away of the middle post.  And repeat to yourself: It’s only the Internet. It’s only the Internet.)

I usually swear by Turbo Tax but this year I had a few complexities so I went to a tax professional that my brother recommended.  These guys are great.  You hand them your papers, and they look and them and shuffle them around and then they peer at you intently:

“You have a bit of secondary income.”

“Yes, I took on a few freelance writing jobs.”

“And when you’re writing your little words, do you ever stop and scratch your head because you can’t figure out a sentence?”

“I guess so...”

“And do you ever scratch your head so hard that you need band aids?”

“Well--”

”Right.  Three crates of band aids for a year’s worth of freelance work--business expense deduction.  Now, do you ever drink anything when you’re writing?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“What do you drink?”

“Iced tea, maybe juice--”

“Because it’s very bad to get dehydrated when you’re writing, correct?  Dozens of people die a year due to freelance dehydration?”

“I’m not sure that--”

”Right.  Five pallets of Ocean Spray--business write off.”

“Hooray!”

Note to the person with the IRS address who sometimes visit this site: This conversation was exaggerated for comic effect, and there’s absolutely nothing untoward, unseemly, or suspicious about my tax return.  I would have written this post differently in order to make that more clear, but it’s extremely hard to type when my fingers are covered in band-aids.

First of all, it’s not personal.  You seem very nice and cute, and you may grow up to be a wonderful, accomplished person, such as a teacher or an astronaut.

On the other hand, you may grow up to be an embezzler, or a serial killer, or a hooker--not the good kind who do their jobs honorably, mind you, but the kind who cut the time short while filching my wallet.  The fact that you’re standing there asking me for money tends to suggest the latter.  I simply don’t know whether my monetary support today will encourage you to grow up to be the next Hitler, so I’m making the morally appropriate decision to take no action whatsoever.  And although using Hitler in a rhetorical discussion is usually bad form, it’s very appropriate when discussing girl scout cookies.

Second, remember when I said it’s not personal? That’s true in regards to you.  It is, however, personal, in regards to your mother, who is standing behind you and beaming proudly.  Why is your mother proud?  You’re not doing anything.  You’re not engaging in any kind of true, risky commercial enterprise. When I was your age and I was selling things for school, I went door to door in my neighborhood.  Doors slammed in my face and dogs chased me.  You’re standing here in my place of work, and your mother knows that the professional environment we’re in will prevent me from displaying uncivil behavior.  And she’s right to extent; it’s only our location that keeps me from using a stapler on her forehead.  In protest of your mother, I cannot engage in a business transaction with you.

Third, I’m forced to protest your product’s misleading marketing.  On the box it says “Girl Scouts: Where Girls Grow Strong.” The photos show girls exercising and playing basketball.  Which is all fine and good, but the product is Peanut Butter Patties.  Am I to draw a connection between Peanut Butter Patties and healthy young girls?  Let’s look the side of the box.  It says “You’d be surprised what a Girl Scout Cookie can build: Strong Values.  Strong Minds.  Strong Bodies.  Strong Community.” And yet, on the other side of the box, it lists the ingredients: “riboflavin, folic acid, partially hydrogenated vegetable oil.”

I never got around to reading Hilary Clinton’s It Takes a Village, but I bet that Chapter Three wasn’t titled “Partially Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil.” I know you’re young and these concepts are new to you, but I need to you seek out your den mother, or whatever they call your upper management, and say these words: “My moral code prohibits me from selling additional cookies until the marketing message is aligned with the product itself--even if that means we’re unable to finance our volunteer work for the senior center.”

But let’s say you succeed, and let’s say that the next time you come see me, the box shows a lot of fat, acne-ridden children sitting around and stuffing their face--with no basketball net in sight.  Even then, we will not be able to come to terms: girl scout cookies taste terrible.  If you want to engage me in a commercial exchange, you will need to have a product that compels me to action. You will need to show value.  You will need to present a business case.  This is no free pass for you.  This is no hand out.  I cannot be your “sugar daddy,” by way of buying your “sugar cookies.”

I hope I have made my position clear.  This is no random, cruel brush off.  I have given the matter thought, and I also hope I’ve shown you the path to follow so that, at some point down the line, we can come to terms.  When that day comes, as long as you’ve taken my feedback into full account and incorporated it into your service model, I will be happy to reconsider your business proposition.

Now get the hell out of my cube.

I’ve had “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp” in my head for days.  Other than listening to the song over and over, a method I’ve found to help exorcise songs is to take ownership of them by scribbling out my own lyrics--such as in a meeting when I’m bored:

It’s hard out here for a goose
When you don’t have enough hair to warrant mousse
If your prose style stays slack and loose
People will be a rather readin’ Dooce

It’s good to scribble on oblique topics like this, because when people look over your shoulder, they think they’re still paying attention.

“Dooce? Is that a new business process for the department?”

“Yes, exactly. As in, if we don’t finish these projects, we’ll all be Dooced.”

Felicity Huffman on the red carpet: breaks down crying when the interviewer shows her footage of her Desperate Houswives co-stars wishing her good luck.  Then she appears to get genuinely angry that he sprang this on her and caused her to ruin her makeup.  Unnerved, the interviewer stammers, “Well, good luck to you, Felicity.” Felicity is upset that she displayed actual genuine human emotion!  In Los Angeles they lock you up for that kind of thing.

Damn, I really thought Matt Dillon was going to win best supporting actor.  Sorry, Tex.  And now you have to listen everyone say “Hey man, I saw you ‘Crash’ed and burned.’”

I can’t think of anyone who needs be as brunette as much as Rachel McAdams does.  Her blonde thing just doesn’t work.  If only she would return my emails.  I’ve tried , and several hundred other variations. I know at least a few of them have gone through.  She’s playing hard to get.

Morgan Freeman projects the warmest, most trusting personality on the planet.  You listen to him and you want to help him save Tim Robbins from life in prison, or hire him to narrate a documentary on penguins.  How does he do that?  I think it’s because in his free time, he throws kittens against the wall.  I don’t trust this guy.

IT’S A GHOST!!!  No wait, it’s just Lauren Bacall.  I could have sworn she was dead. 

Goddamn it, I can’t believe March of the Penguins won best documentary.  I just saw Murderball, about quadriplegics who play rugby, and it was a much better movie.  It made me want to get in one of their steel-reinforced chairs and mow those damn penguins right down.

Funny bit with the fake political campaigns for best actress.  They’re not kidding with the gag about Keira Knightley’s cheekbones being sprinkled with God Dust.  I could do an Olympic ski jump off of them.  And then land on Charlize’s.  Hmm…there’s an action movie in that idea.  Time to dust off my old screenplay software.

I’d be laughing more at John Stewart’s jokes, but I’m flaming out in my Oscar pool. I haven’t done this poorly since I wrote “Rob Schneider” for all the entries one year.

Oh, I finally got one right: Brokeback Mountain got Best Score. Heh!  Best score—eh, forget it, even I’m tired of Brokeback jokes.

Thank God for “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp.” I grant you, it’s no feminist manifesto.  But usually the nominees for best songs are sung by some big-nosed Canadian for a Jim Cameron movie, or some bald nightmare from the ‘80s doing a Disney ballad.  At least this song has a little juice.

Wait, it has too much juice for the Oscars.  They’ve swapped out the word “bitches”: “You’ll have a whole lot of witches jumping ship.” Suddenly it’s a song about Harry Potter.  Oh well, at least it won.

A split decision?  Brokeback takes Best Director and Crash takes best picture.  Pathetic--Brokeback should have taken it all.  I haven’t seen schizophrenia like that since that guy at the office wore two different colored socks.  Whatever.  I haven’t had faith in the Oscars ever since The Lost Skeleton of Cadavara failed to win Best Picture.

Minutes from my homeowner association’s last meeting, hanging in the building elevator:

“Old Business:
- Exterior paint colors have been approved.
- Currently accepting bids on plumbing project.
- Decision about purchase of new bike rack tabled for next meeting.

New business:
Whoever threw up in the corner on the first floor stairwell needs to clean it up.”

On a completely unrelated note, although I have yet to write a novel or sell a screenplay, at least I’m liked in Cleveland.

Having lunch with the parental units:

DAD: I just bought a canoe for our trip!

ME: The cross country trip you’re planning to celebrate the glory of being retired?

DAD: That one!  We’ll use the canoe when we travel up to see some of the lakes on our itinerary.

ME: You’ll put the canoe somewhere in the RV?

MOM: What RV?

ME: You’re buying an RV, right?

DAD: No, we’re just taking the truck.  We’ll strap the canoe to the roof.

ME: What?  I figured you’d just pull an About Schmidt and buy some huge honkin’ gas guzzler.

DAD: Er, no.

ME: Where will you sleep?

DAD: Hotels and maybe campgrounds.

ME: So you’re going to pack everything you need for two months in a truck?

MOM: We can stop and do laundry on the way, you know.

ME: What if you forget to pack something really important you need?

MOM: We’ll stop somewhere and buy it.

ME: What if they don’t have it?

MOM: We’ll stop somewhere else.

ME: I don’t get it.

Several days later, having dinner with a friend:

ME: ...so they’re just going to drive around for two months in a truck.

SHE: Seems like you’d want to get an RV and just live in it for a while.

ME: This is exactly what I’m saying.

SHE: A truck is tiny.

ME: What if you need to join convoy to protest some sort of midwestern highway injustice? Or help out a lovable highway maverick as he escapes from the local sheriff, leading up to a huge car/truck chase scene involving dozens of vehicles and law enforcement officials?  If my folks want to play at that level, they’ll need bulk.

SHE:  Uh.

I still don’t get it.  But I guess I have thirty or so years to think about it.