I’ve never been a fan of nudists. They take the fun out of everything.  What I like about most naked people is the motion and the sounds that precede their nudity: the whisper of cloth as it’s pulled over the head, the rustle of denim as it plunges to the floor, the tearing of fabric as you get fed up with gentility and simply rip it apart. Nudity is the prize at the end of all of that effort, but nudists don’t play like that at all. They’re like, hey, I’m naked and I’ve been naked for the last fourteen hours--so who wants to play volleyball?

Nudists are the kind of people who will tell you what happens on the last page of a mystery novel.  They will tell you what happens in a movie you haven’t seen. If they could tell the future, they’d tell you the license plate of the bus that’s going to hit you.  Their life is one, big, boring issue of National Geographic.

These are all reasons why I would not invite nudists over for dinner. Other reasons include my lack of interest in serving cold food that doesn’t spatter, as well as having to put plastic down on all my furniture.

Questions unanswered by this post:
Which is better, nudity or nakedness?

Do nudists get aroused by slowly putting on clothes?

Is there anyone more miserable than an eskimo who secretly wants to become a nudist?

When Obama is trying to get Michelle to be naked, does he talk about his passionate desire for change?

When nudists find out that one of their number is also an exhibitionist, do they vote the person out of the club?  Or maybe they simply shrug and say “Eh, whatever, there’s nothing wrong with being an overachiever.”

Have you ever been to the house of a young couple and note that they have a mostly empty room? There may be a few bookcases tilting unsteadily inside of it, but otherwise it’s vacant.

It’s like the opposite of that room in Poltergeist where all the stuff is spinning around, like flapping books and screeching record players. Instead it’s a void wrapped tightly inside of a cone of silence.  All of the rest of the furniture in the house almost seems to lean away from it, exhibiting a combination of respect and fear.

It’s a sign that the couple will soon be procreating.  You can verify your observation by checking out the rest of the furniture in the house: lots of hand-me-downs and hardly anything new. Clearly they’re conserving money.  And your final clue is in the little looks they cast each other across the dinner table, looks which are not simply “I love you” and “You are my pumpkin pie,” but rather “I really hope you’re not sterile” and “Don’t sit that way; you might hurt your eggs.”

I’ve always thought that a lot more people are gay or bisexual than the statistics suggest; it’s just fear and an intolerant society that keeps them on the straight and narrow. So to speak. That said, I also believe that there’s people who are just plain straight.

But for a long time, I theorized that every straight woman had salacious thoughts about Angelina Jolie.  I can’t count the number of my female friends who have told me that this is true for them.  They are always vaguely embarrassed, saying that they’re not that way but whoa, she has a look that makes them say “husband, schmusband--she’s on my laminated list of exceptions.”

Typical scenario: “I like to think about me and Angelia going to the supermarket, getting produce together. And then making out.”

Or: “I just want to do my nails with Angelina.  And then our toes. And then get a full body massage. And then buff our breasts together.”

What is it about her? Is it the quiet strength that she radiates, which gives her a kind of masculine authority that appeals even to women? Is it the fact that she complements that strength with compassion in terms of her charity efforts?

Let me tell you something: a long time ago, I found myself with a baby that I didn’t want.  I don’t want to go into details. But I did something I’m not proud of--I put the baby in a dumpster. And then I ran away. And when I turned around?  Angelina was plucking the baby out of a pile of tin cans and putting it into a basket. She waved at me and said “Hey, when you’re ready, come look up me and Brad and we’ll give it back to you.”

The Brad thing almost blew it, of course.  Brangelina breaking up Braniston was a national crisis and it sullied Angelina’s image.  But people got over it and Jennifer stopped making movies anyone cared about and now it’s okay for straight women to fantasize about Angelia once more.

However, I think I’ve found the one exception to the rule--the one woman who just isn’t interested:

Congrats, Condi. You’re officially the only human being on the planet who would, in that particular situation, be facing that direction.

From that standpoint, it’s a pretty good metaphor for your entire political career.

Life coach.  I like the idea of telling people what they should do in order to live fulfilling lives.  “Focus on this.  Prioritize that. What do you feel? What do you want?  Do this, do that.  Time’s up, now pay me.” And I like the idea of not having to dress up for work, but simply wear a white robe all day. I do not know if life coaches actually wear them, but it seems to me that if your job title is “life coach” then you can get away with just wearing a white robe.

The problem is, in order to be a life coach you have to believe that you have perfected your own life. And that means that a life coach thinks that the absolute perfect life is to be a life coach. Why else would they be a life coach? They clearly have coached themselves into being life coaches. And I don’t like that idea.  You basically have to tell all of your clients, “You should be a life coach.” And then what if they are better than me and I lose all my customers?  I can see how being a life coach would be a bad deal.

Traffic helicopter radio guy. I have let my local KQED station wake me up for years, and in all that time, Joe McConnell has been the soft-spoken traffic guy who tells me what the commute is like. It seems like a fun job: every morning you rise above it all, say a few words on air, and then go home and take an early afternoon nap.

Sometimes Joe is busy analyzing freeway patterns or picking his nose or something, and he doesn’t always come on when he’s supposed to, and the KQED guy says “Joe? Joe?  Well, we’ll check in with Joe in just a few moments.” And Joe always comes back eventually, but I worry about him. What if another helicopter from a rival station has rammed him, causing him to crash and explode in a fiery ball of flame?  That’s really kind of the problem with being a traffic helicopter radio guy: there’s no one to report on crowded conditions in the air. “Well, we have a mid-air collision right above the Golden Gate; looks like the chick from the lite rock station decided to take out Joe once and for all. We advise an alternate flight path if you’re reporting on traffic today.”

Roadie for Nickelback.  I’d like to be a roadie for the band and become one of their inner circle. And then, when they’re rehearsing “Rock Star” and feeling relaxed and happy, I’ll climb up to the catwalk and cut loose the restraints and let an enormous amplifier tip over and squash them like bugs. Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to let Nickelback become a real band? Those guys suck.

Reverend Jeremiah Wright

Mitt Romney

Obama’s old childhood stuffed bunny, Flopsy

The entire cast of Disney’s High School Musical

The supermarket cashier person who keeps overcharging Obama and Michelle, even when there’s no line and no reason to make those kinds of mistakes

Obamagirl

Batman

Chelsea Clinton

I don’t mind it when the nice Generation Y girl in my department brings over a stack of invoices for me to sign.  It makes me feel like Captain Kirk from original Star Trek series, because during the quiet times in that show, you could frequently see a girl walk up to him in his captain’s chair and give him an electronic tablet to sign.  And he would sign it and give it back to her and then order the ship to go to warp speed or something. So I like to think, hey, that’s totally me when I’m signing these invoices.

But two things tend to ruin the image for me.  First of all, I start to think about it and realize, what the hell was Kirk doing signing a tablet anyway? Couldn’t he just punch in a thumbprint or have his retina scanned or something?  Why would they be relying on signatures in the future?  And what is he approving, anyway--paper clips? Photon torpedoes?  More mini-skirts for the crew? Don’t they have staff people on board to handle that for him? Why does the captain of the goddamn Enterprise need to sign for all that stuff?

And second: I realize that the girl handing me the invoices probably has no idea who Captain Kirk is.

On my run Saturday, I painfully dragged myself up the long hill that’s always the hardest part of my route.  I was trying to take it easy--I still had two weeks of vacation lethargy and Parisian wine making my muscles flabby and my will weak--but I wanted to beat that hill.  I always know that I haven’t completely let myself go if I can beat the hill.

Once I did, I breathed a sigh of relief and turned right to begin the descent back down to where I lived.

But a voice shouted at me.  It was loud enough that I could hear it over Trent Reznor caterwauling in my iPod headphones.

“Don’t give up now!  Take the stairs!”

I turned around, and a brunette girl was effortlessly bounding over the hill that I had just painfully climbed.  I said, “Heh?”

It was confusing. Runners don’t talk to each other. They run past each other and exchange a look that says “Hey, how are you. I’m a runner, and I am acknowledging that you’re a runner, and collectively we are totally better than bikers, yoga enthusiasts, and mud wrestlers combined.  I now bid you adieu.” The look says all this.  It’s true.

I was about to continue on my way, but I got curious. “What stairs?” I shouted at her.

“These stairs!”

She started running up a long concrete staircase. I had seen those stairs in the many years I had taken this run, but I always assumed that they belonged to a private residence.  Plus, this was always as far as I had climbed; I always turned around and jogged home from this point.

“Aren’t those private stairs?”

“No!  Come on!”

She seemed to be floating up the steps.  I, on the other hand, slowly pounded my way through them as though I was trying to run up a down escalator. But I could see she was right: the concrete steps ran between two houses, a public staircase that allowed people to quickly shoot up the hill.  It was like being in a real-life game of Chutes and Ladders.

And at the top, a gorgeous, gleaming view of Oakland almost made me forget that people were probably shooting guns at each other down below.

My tour guide quickly made a left hand turn and continued up yet another flight of concrete steps. At that point, my will flagged and I continued on down.  But today I ran up both flights of steps. And the view was even better at the top of the second one.  And I’m very glad to know that they exist, and I’m very glad that someone took the time to show me that no matter how well I think I know an area, and how exhausted I might be, there’s always a way to reach the next level.