Yippee kay yay muchacho.

Yippee kay yay big doody head.

Yippee kay yay mother who engages in a loving, consensual act with her life partner.

Whoa nelly.

Golly!

This weekend, I received my second offer from a female friend to go look at open houses with me if I ever get around to buying a home.  I find it interesting that I’ve had so many volunteers for this. Personally, the only time I ever walk through strangers’ homes is when I’m wearing a ski mask and carrying a bottle of chloroform. But apparently there’s a whole element of humanity--perhaps predominantly female?--that enjoys visiting open houses even if they’re not on the market to buy a house.

I am glad to have the help.  I’ve noticed that when you visit open houses as a single male, people treat you differently. Ahead of you, the homeowners are saying to the young couple: “It was great to meet you!  I think you’ll agree that the energy in our home is perfect for rearing little children who will be named after you and carry your genes through private school and ivy league secret societies!  Okay, bye now!”

And then they turn to you, look at you up and down, and exclaim “Hello there!  Have you seen the back yard? It’s perfect for burying victims once you’re finished with one of your serial killer rampages.”

My friend suggested to me that if the homeowners connect with the couple on a personal level, they may even be willing to be more open to negotiating the price--because sentimentalism clouds their judgment and they think “We really want this nice couple to have our house.”

Which seems like another excellent reason to have a female companion along for the ride. Let’s say that my friend and I were talking to the homeowners.  I could furtively scan the room and look for photographs, drawers, and open closets that might be able to arm us with information and give us an edge:

“I see you went to Aruba on your honeymoon. We did too! It was lovely!”

“Ha ha! We also have that wonderful framed saying, ‘God Bless this Mess’ on the living room wall!  It is to laugh!”

“Oh look over there! What a coincidence--we use French ticklers too!”

Since I manage two women directly and work with many others, a co-worker sent me this article, which gives advice on how to mentor one’s female employees.

After reading it, though, I feel as though it wasn’t necessary to send me the article.  I am already following most of its advice. For example:

“Be frank. Many male managers feel uncomfortable talking to a female employee about issues like dress code, but don’t back away from it.” This is so true! But I have no fear of addressing the issue head on.  I often pass by my female employees and say “Hey, babe, this ain’t no truckstop.  Dress for success not to be undressed, capiche?”

“Don’t worry about her crying.” What wonderfully non-sexist advice! But of course, I don’t worry about her crying at all. I do sort of become concerned when she clutches at my leg and refuses to let me walk out the door, though.  Sometimes I’ve found myself stuck in one place for hours.

“Let her make decisions about her career.” For the longest time I wasn’t doing that!  But then I said “Okay, go ahead, let’s see what you can do.” And much to my surprise, they totally did fine! But I’m glad this article made that point, because maybe other readers wouldn’t be doing that!  Listen, other managers, I’m here to tell you: let your female employees make decisions about their careers. And also, walk them once a day so they get enough exercise.

“Help women develop the relationships that they need to get ahead.” Oh boy do I!  I just hope Corporate HR doesn’t find out about it.

Anyway, I think it was a good article but completely wasted on me.  I wish people would send me management articles that I can actually use--such as “How to Bypass the Company’s Blacklist so I Can Access MySpace.”

I was talking with a nice married couple about ways we de-stress after work. I said, “I never thought I’d do something like this, but sometimes I go to a spa sometimes to get a massage.  I feel like a California yuppie doofus, but it’s nice.”

The husband said, “Do you get aroused during it?”

I blinked.  “Uh, no. You do?”

“We went once, and yeah.”

The nice, attractive wife chimed in “I did too!”

“What, both of you?”

“Oh yeah.”

She said, “You really didn’t?”

I said, “Well, look, for starters, I just paid a bunch of money. For a cheapskate like me, that immediately kills the mood.  Second, they’re piping in Yanni over the speakers, and that’s like thinking about five straight games of baseball. Finally, everything smells of lavender. So...no. I mean, it’s sensual and relaxing, but...no.”

The wife went out in the living room where other people were talking, and exclaimed “Impromptu poll!  How many people have went to a spa and been aroused by the massage?”

I heard some excited talking which seemed to indicate that she had supporters.

I said to the husband: “So this embarrassed you?  And you haven’t been back?”

He nodded.

I said, “Don’t you think it’s just another day at the office for them?  I mean, they must see that all the time.”

He shrugged. “It just made me not want to go back.”

I think I’m lucky, to be honest. If I was so easily aroused by that sort of thing, I probably would have ended up with a family of six back in high school where we used to give each other massages all the time as part of drama class.  These days I think it would only work if the masseuse dressed up in a Princess Leia slavegirl outfit--that would probably cut through the libido-dampening effects of Yanni and lavender.

But if it happened, frankly, I just don’t see why it’s something to be embarrassed about.  To me it’s like giving a “thumbs up” to the masseuse’s performance. Or, y’know, some other body part.  Plus it’s potentially a money saver. If you’re showing such tangible gratitude for her work, doesn’t that eliminate the need to leave a tip?

She: I just got out of a frustrating four-year relationship that went nowhere.

Me: I was in one of those once. I called it “high school.”

I’ve been reading a book by Daniel Pink called A Whole New Mind, which posits several theories with which I vehemently disagree.

One of them is that society is wearied by a constant onslaught of information, data, and media, and is now on a quest for meaning and personal fulfillment.

I must contest this statement.  Any society that currently features a hit song called “Lip Gloss” by Lil Mama is not on a quest for substance and meaning.

This hip hop song tackles the hot button issue of lip gloss, and how it makes the wearer look and feel good.

Sample lyrics: “My lip gloss is cool, my lip gloss is poppin’, when I’m at my locker, all the boys keep stoppin.’”

Mind you, this is a hip hop song. In my day, hip hop was about actual societal problems. Drug culture. Gang violence.  H0s in the backseats of limos.  I do not consider this song an advancement in the musical form.

The lyrical refrain goes: “Whachu know about me? Whachu whachu whachu know?”

Well, Lil Mama, I suppose I’d know all about you if I cared to browse Wikipedia.  As it stands, though, I’ll settle for knowing that your very existence belies the notion that our society is interested in profound spiritual matters.

Daniel Pink’s book also posits the fact that this so-called quest for meaning and fulfillment has come, in part, because of what the author terms abundance.  He claims that the prosperity of a material society has made luxury items so plentiful and easy to obtain that it has paradoxically encouraged society to devalue material goods in favor of “beauty and transcendence.”

Except this is patently false. We do not have an abundance of material items.  In fact, when I take a hard look at my life, I don’t see the material items that I long for with every fiber of my being.

Current material items missing in action include:

I ran into Jesus Christ over the weekend and mentioned that it must be pretty cool that you see “WWJD” on bumper stickers all over the world.

“I mean, you’ve been dead for something like two thousand and seven years, and yet all these people have ‘What Would Jesus Do’ on their cars. Isn’t that nice?”

“I hate those things,” Jesus replied.

“What? Why?”

“Let me tell you what Jesus would do. Jesus would not have a bumper sticker on the back of his car. They’re tacky. And particularly on nice cars they really mess with the finish.”

“Huh,” I said. “That’s a good point.”

“Besides, I wouldn’t even be driving a car.  Hello, global warming?”

“Well, what about one of those cute bracelets?”

“Sure, I’d love to wear a bracelet.  If I was a sixteen-year old girl in the year 1955.  No. Tacky.”

“T-shirt?”

“Interferes with the whole flowing gown look.”

“Okay, so what you’re saying is, Jesus would not actually approve of the whole ‘WWJD’ franchise in any way, shape, or form.”

“Bingo. People are supposed to listen to their own hearts and act on their own best instincts, not try to second guess mine.”

“Oh. Cool, well, thanks for clearing that up.”

“No problem, Greg.”

He started to disappear in a puff of divine smoke, but I shouted “Wait!  Since I’ve got you here and all, can you tell me what Jesus really would do?”

He coughed and waved some of the smoke away. “Well, for starters, you in particular might work on cultivating your inner spirit and sense of kindness and compassion towards others instead of surfing inane blogs all the time.  Otherwise your soul may suffer.  Let me tell you: if you go to Mapquest.com and click ‘Driving Directions’ and enter your own name as the starting address and ‘HELL’ as the destination, you may be surprised to find out how short the distance really is, excluding potential traffic issues or unexpected delays.”

“Right.  Okay, thanks Jesus.”

I turned to walk away, but he stopped me.

“Hey, listen, let me ask you something.  What exactly was so hard about the Golden Rule, anyway? No one seems to understand it.  ‘Do unto others as you’d have them do to you’ means not invading countries, not discriminating against people who are different than you, and not killing people in my name.  Unless you people really like all those things done to you, in which case, brother, you’ve got issues. I mean, I called it a ‘golden rule’ to sort of draw attention to the fact that it was pretty important, but it seems to be more of an afterthought?”

It took me a second to realize that he hadn’t asked a question, but rather made a statement. Who suspected that Jesus was an uptalker?

“Maybe you could have called it a Platinum Rule,” I suggested.  “Or maybe used funny colored font.  Or use both capped and non-capped letters, e.g. GoLdEn RuLe.  Kids today love that stuff.”

He considered this. “Those are pretty good ideas,” he admitted.  “I wish I had thought of them a few millennium ago.  Oh well—live and learn.  Or rather, live, die, be resurrected, and learn, although that sounds a little clunky.”

He faded out of view, and I quickly shouted after him: “Also, you could have spruced up some of your big speeches.  For example, when you gave the Sermon on the Mount, instead of launching right into ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven’ you could have started it out with ‘Jesus in HIZZZ-OUSE’!”

But he was already gone, which was for the best. It’s not good form to make people feel bad about their mistakes after the fact.  That’s definitely not WJWD.