This is widely being reported on the national news, but it happened a half mile from my house.  A gasoline tanker crashed and exploded, melting a large section of a freeway overpass and demolishing two of the most heavily congested commuter routes in the San Francisco Bay Area.

To summarize: A tanker carrying gasoline exploded, causing months of headache and worry for people driving cars that depend on gas.

I think there’s only one question on anyone’s mind at this point:

Now can we get some goddamn flying cars??

I was talking about heroes with a friend the other day.  She admonished me for mentioning someone that I admire (Steve Martin), saying that “he’s an asshole in real life.” I said I’d have to kick loose most of my personal heroes if I went by that criteria; you have to always put your trust and respect in the art itself, not the artist.

Brave words. But a little hypocritical.  What happens when you meet someone you look up to and it turns out they’re a total toolbox?  It’s terrible.

But conversely, it feels fantastic when you find out that the person is actually a bit of a hero.  Such is the case with Roger Ebert.  Oh, I don’t necessary like the guy for his critical taste.  For God’s sake, he gave Garfield: The Movie a thumbs up, while dissing two my favorite movies of all time: Brazil and Blue Velvet.  They should issue fatwas for having those kinds of opinions.

But even when I wanted to drop kick him into the nearest reservoir, he always gave his reviews with intelligence and humor. I’ve watched him on and off for nearly my entire life.  He made movies seem exciting and fun, and made the process of thinking critically about them inviting and positive. When I was fourteen years old, my friend Donovan and I filmed a really terrible parody of his show (which at that time included co-host Gene Siskel).  Our jokes sucked.  For example, we’d get in a fistfight with a 12-year old kid who was sneaking into our theater to watch the trailer for a PG-13 movie.  (That was topical humor, by the way; that was in the year the PG-13 rating first appeared.)

Recently, Ebert got in a war of words with Vincent Gallo, who directed The Brown Bunny.  Ebert called the film the worst one he’d ever seen at Cannes.  Gallo fired back in the press, calling Ebert a “fat pig with the physique of a slave trader.” Ebert responded in Churchillian style: “It is true that I am fat.  Yet one day I will be thin, and Vincent Gallo will always be the director of The Brown Bunny.”

At that moment I totally forgave the Brazil and Blue Velvet thing.

Ebert’s been absent from his show because of complications from cancer-related surgery.  He can’t talk right now, and his appearance is haggard and rather startling.  But he decided to venture out into the public and attend his annual film festival. He recently posted a picture and an article to his web site, explaining his reasons for doing so:

“I was told photos of me in this condition would attract the gossip papers. So what? I have been very sick, am getting better and this is how it looks . . . We spend too much time hiding illness. There is an assumption that I must always look the same. I hope to look better than I look now. But I’m not going to miss my Festival.”

Is there anyone who is more of a badass?  When life knocks the cards out of my hand and threatens to make me cash in my chips, I am going to remember his words. 

Rog, sorry about the parody we filmed.  Not because you’d give a rat’s ass about being mocked.  But given that you were the target, it should have been a lot funnier. Get better.

My beloved communications person will be out for several months on maternity leave, causing me to face a black abyss of unwritten copy and projects unmanaged. Our recruiter placed a posting on Craigslist for a temporary business writer, which seemed like a good idea.  Who doesn’t like Craigslist? But then I received the responses, which made me realize that this popular web site does, indeed, have a dark side: anyone can respond to a posting.

Here are my comments on some of the responses I received:

“I believe that my academic, work, and life experience, thus far, have equipped me with the knowledge, skills, and uniquely appropriate qualifications for this position.”

That’s a pretty cosmically aware statement for a short CL posting.  I wonder if he read tea leaves.

“Writing is a core-skill I use everyday in every work environment I am in.”

Given the number of grammatical errors in that sentence, I presume that one of those work environments involves being a barista.

“My interest in writing led me to obtain a Certificate in Technical Communications.  However, the Technology demise of 2001-2002 made it difficult for me to pursue a career as a Technical Writer.”

Ah yes, the great Technology demise of 2001-2002. After which, the apes took over and subjugated mankind.

“I would welcome the opportunity to discuss with you my aptitude and the skills and experience I possess that make me an excellent candidate for this position.”

And I demand to be paid by the prepositional phrase.

The capper came at the end of the stream of applicants.  The candidate wrote:

“Also, attached is a copy of writing samples. The content is significantly different than the business writing and PR you’re advertising for on Craigslist.  However, this should give you some example of my level of writing skill, adaptable to the needs of my employer.”

Enclosed was several dozen pages of a political rant-based Livejournal, stuffed into a word document.

If I came across a job posting for a matador, I would not respond. I have no background as a matador. I would not succeed as a matador.  I would derive no pleasure in presenting myself as a matador. Why, then, do these people want to be business writers?  Come back when you don’t think “Subject and Predicate” was a hip hop duo from the ‘90s.

Action Item. A key superhero upon which depends the fate of the known universe.  But usually people forget about him or take no notice of him.  Strangely, the universe tends to continue on its merry way.

The Leverager (A.K.A. Synergy.) Collects resources and puts them together in order to achieve important tasks.  Has no innate superpowers, so is better off as part of a super team--will fail if tries to go solo.

Pro-Active.  Goes out and fights crime before anyone else thinks of it.  Gained powers after being bitten by radioactive productivity.  Widely disliked by other heroes.  Weakness: loses powers without constant contact with caffeine.

Mindshare.  Takes over the thoughts of others in order to promote own ideas and values.  Despite highly cerebral power, often fails to exhibit any unique or original thoughts of his own.

Facetime.  Makes gains in the fight against crime by eschewing email and promoting personal contact.  Weakness: doesn’t always supplement superpower with sufficient quantities of breath mints.

Bandwidth.  Able to alter the substance of the temporal continuum by somehow managing to have no time at any point in the day to take on additional projects.  Catch phrase: “I have no...Bandwidth!!”

Catalyst.  Implements activities that initiate a specific chain of events.  Since events are often negative rather than positive, Catalyst is frequently thought of as a supervillain.

Scalable.  Entry pending--at time of writing, no one has any idea what this person does.

I was surprised to look in my bank account over the weekend and realize that I had more money than I thought.  I tried to understand how this could have happened.  And then I remembered--I haven’t been to a wedding in a while.

I’ve reached the stage in my life where going to a wedding once a month isn’t required.  In my early 30s, I had to start going to the racetrack in order to keep up on all the gifts I had to buy.  When Arabian Pistol fell behind in the last few seconds, I had to decline my next five weddings and claim I was laid up in intensive care.

I think weddings and baby showers are well intentioned but misguided.  If you think about it, it makes absolutely no sense to throw a party for these life events.  The people involved are already happy; the last thing they need are friends and gifts.  It’s like sending a paramedic to CPR classes. Shouldn’t we make more of an effort to throw parties for people who fight or get divorced?  That’s when they could really use it.  Everyone gets word of the break up, and suddenly people start calling around:

“Yes, don’t worry about the gift, we’re all going to chip in and get her one...well, we were thinking that if we had enough people, we could all go in on a lawyer.  I mean a really nice one, not the kind that advertise on TV...oh don’t be cheap Felicia. How often does one get divorced?”

Personally, I’m looking forward to the phase in my life where I have to start going to funerals all the time.  Think about it: you don’t have to bring anything, you can wear black turtlenecks (which make me look thin), and if you happen to blow it off, what is the person going to do?  Boycott yours?

I may break with tradition for my own funeral.  I’d like to be the first person to register for gifts.  You know, just to screw with everyone one last time.  They’ll think “Jeez, it’s kind of weird but I guess I’d better buy one of these gifts.  I mean, he’s dead, it’s the least I can do.” Everyone will walk into the place and look for the table where they’re supposed to unload the gifts, and the usher will say “No no, just step on up and dump everything into the coffin.”

Which, to my mind, is also practical.  Because no one knows what comes after all this, but I figure it can’t hurt to face it with a decent rice cooker.

I remember watching the movie Gattaca and taking particular note of the scene where Ethan Hawke assumes the identity of someone else, in part, by undergoing a painful surgery in order to enhance his genetically inferior height.  That seemed worth it to me: suffer short-term torture in exchange for an extra three or four inches?  To rise out of the ranks (as it were) of the 5’8”, where men in a power and status conscious society are doomed to linger in a twilight limbo?  Sign me up.

5’8” isn’t 5’0”, of course, and I’m not saying that it is.  But it’s enough that many people see through you instead of at you: their internal sensors are tuned to register, say, 5’10” and above. It’s enough that I was never cast as the leading man in high school musicals, only as sidekick comic relief.  It’s enough that I sometimes find myself pinned against the back of elevators while a wall of suit-covered shoulders barricades the space in front of me.

I ruled out surgery in almost the same millisecond that I entertained the idea.  What kind of surgery lengthens your legs but keeps the rest of your body proportions the same?  That would look ridiculous. Imagine trying to flex your newfound height and social dominance to land a dream job.  You’d stand up to say goodbye to your interviewer:

“Thanks for your time and I look forward to hearing from you soon.”

“Uh...say.  Are you standing on stilts?”

“No, those are my legs.”

“But they’re about three fourths of your entire body.  Come on, you’re standing on stilts.”

”I’m not standing on stilts.”

And that would be that.  If there’s anything worse than short people losing their cool, it’s tall people.  Tall people are supposed to exude an air of quiet authority.  This is why I don’t trust would-be presidential candidate Fred Thompson:

The guy is 6’6” and he always looks like he’s on the verge of donning purple shorts and running berserk through downtown Manhattan.  If I were 6’6” I’d be a prophet of peace, not a harbinger of hate. My acolytes would flock to me and say “Why, yes, we Palestinians and Israelis should work out our differences. We know that what you say is true, because you are tall.”

I have other options, of course. I could act like other men I know who are less than average height.  They never joke. They rarely smile. Their skin is stretched tight across their face in a perennial scowl, and they move from point to point with an cold, eerie intensity as they seek to accumulate power and respect that will...well, elevate them.  This is how they live, and they won’t stop until they make the mistake of trying to invade Russia.

I have no interest in that, and I probably wouldn’t want surgery anymore even if it didn’t make me look hideous.  The fact is, I’m using to slipping around and through people in crowds. I’m used to sitting in airplane seats and having a cushion of space no matter who sits next to me.  I’m used to being able to go unnoticed when I need to, almost invisible, like a pint-sized ninja.  I’m a compact car, fast and agile; I’d be a staggering, ungainly mess if I suddenly became an SUV.

Still, on special occasions, it might be nice if it suddenly became the fashion for guys to wear heels.

Ever since I joined GoodReads.com, my IM conversations have been dominated with discussions of my friends’ book ratings and reviews:

Me: Holy crap.

Me: Your boyfriend gave two stars to The Phantom Tollbooth.

meredith: oh yes

meredith: he hates that book

Me: That is no way to treat a beloved children’s classic.

Me: I presume he’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.

meredith: we have actually fought about it before

I’ve been enjoying GoodReads because it provides an inexhaustible supply of book recommendations, but I had no idea it would also provide insight into my friends’ relationship issues.  Bonus!

I am also interested in the books you love--as well as the ones that have driven a wedge between you and your significant other--so why not come be my friend on GoodReads.com.

There’s plenty of reasons to like Canadian-based Shout Out Out Out Out, not the least of which is they have a song called “Your Shitty Record Won’t Remix Itself.”

Also high on the list, however, is their ability to crank out dance pop smothered in synthesizers and shot through with electrified vocals--all without sounding even slightly chilly. Instead, their sound is relentlessly red hot.

My favorite song is called “Dude You Feel Electrical,” and it can conveniently be found on the band’s MySpace page.

Oh reader!  You friends and family, you strangers, you commenters, you lurkers, you ex-girlfriends, you embittered co-workers just waiting for me to slip up and accidentally post that I’m having an affair with the VP of Product Management!  Put aside your affection, your apathy, your enmity!  Play this song. And dance!  Dance!  Dance!

I’m driving around with a pink princess bicycle in the trunk of my car.  It’s for my niece’s birthday this weekend. I picked it up on Saturday after my own birthday lunch with my family (which itself the morning after a birthday pub meet with my friends), and I was very tired and I staggered into Toys R Us and had to have the store person use a ladder to get the very last pink princess bicycle down off a tall shelf.  I looked at it. There was a sticker on it that proclaimed “READ THE OWNER’S MANUAL.”

Owner’s manual? It’s a goddamn bike for a three-year old.  What, you have to change the oil every fifty yards?  Is there a GPS unit that intones “THE BATHROOM IS LOCATED THREE FEET TO YOUR LEFT. NO, YOUR OTHER LEFT.” Some things had better be intuitive enough to use without a manual, and this bike had better be one of them.

Then I went to buy it and the clerk said that I could buy a protection plan for only $10 more.

A protection plan for a kid’s bike?  I understand the concept of a protection plan for a plasma TV or a computer.  But if this bike breaks down, that means either 1) my niece is on the bike at the time and is therefore hurt or 2) could have been on the bike and therefore hurt.  I’m supposed to pay Toys R Us in case the bike breaks down?  They had better be prepared to pay me.  And I’m thinking six figures rather than ten bucks.

So anyway, I’m driving around with this bike in my trunk and I’m not sure if I’ll make it all the way to this weekend without going back to the store in question and ramming the bike down Geoffrey the Giraffe’s very long throat.  Time will tell.

On my Jet Blue flight I watched a commercial that showed people losing a bazillion pounds in a couple weeks by using some dumb product.  Near the bottom of the screen was the disclaimer: “RESULTS NOT TYPICAL.”

I think this is a bold new move in advertising, and I look forward to it being implemented across the board. Hot Pockets commercials could remark “NOT ACTUALLY EDIBLE” and trailers for Ben Stiller movies can point out “NOT ESPECIALLY FUNNY.”

Aside from that, my trip to New York was a mostly uneventful blur of work and play.  I did, however, get to have dinner and drinks with long-time blog acquaintances Sarah B. and Evie at the Comfort Diner, which was excellent as well as being comforting.

Those who read Sarah on a regular basis will not be surprised that she frequently says things such as “I like the idea of testing people you meet to see if you like them.  On a first date, for example, you can wear a lot of fake blood.  The person’s reaction lets you know immediately if they’re in or out.”

Talking with them made me reconsider what I’m doing for a living.  Sarah recently quit her job after getting a book deal, and Evie is an editor for a nationally known magazine.  Evie’s boyfriend Aaron produces a talk show on Sirius and plays in two bands.  I, too, desire this Nora Ephron-style existence.  I’ll start by being John Stewart’s houseboy and work up to being whatever Mark Ruffalo does when he’s playing the boyfriend in Jennifer Garner movies.  Plus, maybe I’ll record a hit song.

My friend Praveena was with me.  She doesn’t know a blogosphere from a hemisphere, so afterwards I asked if she was bored listening to the conversation of a bunch of people who post about their lives on the Internet.  She said, “Are you kidding? I had a great time!  They were hilarious!”

I nodded proudly, paternistically, and said “Why yes.  Yes, they are.”