Grouse.

Do the Conga.

Do the Locomotion.

Do the Crazy Frog.

Vamonos.

Rack up exes.

Enjoy lifetime usage of my current TIVO player.

Hypothesize.

Moralize.

Teetotal (never used).

Doodle.

Snooze.

My cousin Anne is visiting this weekend. At one point, she asked about the longevity of this blog, and I admitted to her that my posting schedule has continued to dwindle as I’ve both lost interest and been sucked further into work and my personal life.  However, I also told her that I intended to keep the site open indefinitely, even if there’s not a single person reading, just to have an electronic “post-it” note upon which to scrawl whatever thoughts I feel like putting somewhere.

For example, Anne is currently sleeping on my couch while I sit across from her and catch up on work and email.  It is no surprise that she’s taking a snooze at 1:10 pm; yesterday we did a walking tour of San Francisco that started on Market Street and ended at the very end of the Wharf, and punctuated with a ride in a cable car that was so overcrowded that we dangled off the sides while we went speeding down hills.  “PLEASE PULL INTO THE CAR” the conductor shouted whenever another cable car came at us from the opposite direction, and we pressed up against a sitting British couple and tried to avoid being grazed, nicked, or squashed by the oncoming traffic.  All of this was topped off by watching The Faint at the Warfield (as well as their very perky opening act, Natalie Portman’s Shaved Head).

Anyway, the point is, Anne is now taking a nap over a copy of Junot Diaz’s The Brief, Wonderful Life of Oscar Wao that I let her borrow, and I notice a few things:

When you were a little younger, it was sometimes possible to make a girl turn her head.  You simply walked past her, caught her glance for the smallest fraction of a second, and then kept on your way.  A moment later, you could look back and there was roughly a 30% chance that she would be looking back as well.  This percentage increased depending on your height, the position of your cheekbones, and whether you had broccoli stuck in your teeth.

These days it may be necessary to raise the volume on your interaction in order to have the desired effect. You can, for example, wear a rainbow wig:

Although if she does look around, it may be difficult to find the right segue into an interesting dialogue.

In regards to that conversation, it’s helpful to have some props on hand that can assist with just the right conversational gambit.  For example, you can shove a religious pamphlet into her hand and suggest that you discuss the pros and cons of Her Lady of the Worthless Miracle.

The reality is, simply catching her eye may not work.  It may be necessary to run around in front of her, jump up and down, and wave your hands: “HI.” Again, however, the segue into a discussion of current events and favorite movies may be difficult from there.

An easier first step is to roll around on the ground and thrash your arms and legs, while clearly enunciating: “I HAVE SWALLOWED A CHICKEN BONE.” Her subsequent actions will also suggest something about her moral character and willingness to act as a good samaritan, which is a helpful FYI.

Most of these suggestions, of course, are not particularly feasible.  The best tack is to walk past swiftly while talking on your phone about your multi-million dollar offshore account in Zurich. And the fact that five of your cars are in the shop so you’re forced to drive the Jaguar.  And about your pending business meeting with Brad Pitt.  This technique is nearly guaranteed to be successful--although it’s best to use it at a location that will not undermine the approach itself, such as when you’re shopping for cheap bath towels at Target.

On my commute to work there’s a huge, Victorian stagecoach smack in the middle of someone’s lawn.  A dead person appears to sleep inside of it, his skeletal hands dangling out the window. At night it glows with blue lights.  A few blocks down there’s a shambling haunted house made out of cardboard and splattered with fake blood.  Many other houses have sickly orange lights strung across them, as though they were Christmas lights that came down with malaria.

This has to stop.  Christmas decorations have become increasingly more elaborate over the years--large chemistry sets recreating the eucharist ("blood goes here, wine exits here") and whatnot--but is it really necessary that Halloween follow suit?

These displays aren’t scary; they’re garish. And Halloween needs to be about the scary. It needs to be a quiet, creepy pulse tapping in your veins--not elaborate sets and lightshows.

What I find particularly disturbing is that their creators are the same people who get crazy in December as well.  So they spend tons of time on the Halloween decorations, pull them down, and then spend tons of time on the Christmas decorations.  I would like to visit these people door to door and suggest a variety of hobbies for them, including scrapbooking.  Perhaps they could volunteer at a soup kitchen.  Perhaps they could travel to interesting and exotic parts of the globe, and perhaps not come back.

I live in a condo, but if I owned a house, I would not go to these extremes. I would hang up a few choice decorations designed to elicit sharp feelings of terror--such as paper mache skeletons, the last few Supreme Court opinions authored by Antonin Scalia, and some of my recent attempts at cooking. That’s it. No need to drop three hundred at Home Depot.

Aside from Christmas, I can only think of two holidays that truly deserve this kind of in-depth decoration and design. The first is Arbor Day, because really, who doesn’t want more trees?  The second is Valentine’s Day.  I would greatly enjoy a world where suburban families tried to outdo each other in terms of increasingly romantic, and then erotic, lawn displays: “Honey, you’ll simply have to do better next year. The ‘Honeymoon Night’ scene was impressive last year, but the Parkers have just built recreations of the first seven chapters of the Kama Sutra. I won’t be able to face Phyllis at the PTA meeting if we can’t up our game.”

Much like a salmon swimming upstream, every five years or so I find myself returning to a particular point on the map--Disneyland.  It calls out to me and I must answer.

There is always learning in store at Disneyland. For example--how much will the little clam-chowder-in-a-bread-bowl thingie cost this year? Shouldn’t the “Princess Fantasy Faire” be relocated to a more adult park, based on the name alone? If you speak to the actress playing Jasmine in Arabic, will she be able to answer?

This time, my friend and I found ourselves talking a lot about kids and how one should treat them while at Disneyland. My first rant was about taking very, very young kids in the first place. My niece is four, and she hasn’t gone yet--because, according to my brother, she’ll be too young to remember anything. I agree with this wholeheartedly. What’s up with all the strollers?  Why not stay in your living room, put your babies in a stroller, and spin them around until they’re dizzy? That’s about the equivalent of going to Disneyland as far as they’re concerned.

Also, if you do bring young children, don’t put them in Woody’s Halloween Roundup, which is an arts and crafts tutorial:

You want your kids to compete in the real world. Make them toughen up and ride Space Mountain, not make little crummy arts and crafts.  Disneyland is not a goddamn kindergarten class.

On the flip side, though, don’t scare the hell out of your kids. We were riding Pirates, and my friend overheard the parents telling their four year old: “See over there? It’s a dead person!  See that? They’re shooting at each other?  Oooh, scary!” And then afterward they said “Did you like the ride?” “NO,” screamed the boy and burst into tears. It’s okay to help your children separate fantasy from reality, people. That’s actually part of the parental job description.

Otherwise, kids won’t know whether this sort of image is fantasy or reality:

(Hint: it’s reality.)

My friend and I split on the subject of leashes. Is it okay to keep your kid on one?

She says “no.” Even if the kid doesn’t seem to mind at the time, she feels he will grow up tainted by the experience and feel diminished as a person.  “And become a furry,” I suggested, although she did not think that was inevitable.

However, I am sympathetic to the idea of leashes.  If I ever became a parent, I would be worried that I would lose or misplace my child. I mean, my luggage gets lost half the time; what might happen if I carted a kid around? That said, I do think the leashes are distasteful.  I regard them the same way I regard reality TV show contestants--I wouldn’t want to legislate them out of existence, but I can’t imagine becoming one myself.

And in regards to how old a kid can be before hanging out at Disneyland just becomes weird?

Your mileage may vary, but my vote is 108.

My good friends Adam and Meredith got married yesterday.  They both live in San Francisco, but Adam is from England and Meredith is from Michigan. They placed some helpful signage directly outside of the ceremony area:

It was a very solemn wedding.

Thanks to Baltimore’s Mix 106.5 for apparently reading the below post over the air during their morning show.  And thanks to Mary S. for emailing me and telling me that it happened.

This fulfills one of my long-time fantasies, of having something of mine read to a bunch of commuters and they have no way to escape.  That is, aside from putting in a CD or just turning off the radio, but shut up, this is my fantasy and I make the rules.

One thing I really hate about the current election is the sudden widespread use, by both parties, of the term “Main Street” to refer to average Americans.  I grew up in a town that did have a Main Street, but the primary street was actually called “State Street.” Do any of these politicians know anything about State Street?

My recollections of State Street include cruising up and down it with my friends during high school.  There was never a lamer activity for teenagers than cruising.  We went up, turned around, and went back down, always feeling as though some major piece of our lives was missing.  We couldn’t put it a name to it.  Now, of course, I can--it’s called “The Internet.” But back then we didn’t know that so we just kept cruising.

State Street also had a scary bar called The Forest Club.  Creepy regulars hung out on the street corners and looked at us, their rheumy eyes swimming with alcohol and regret.  Is the new administration going to assist these people?  They are not just Joe Six Pack; they are Joe Carton, Joe Case, and Joe Five Bottles of Jack.  Although actually, later in life I was old enough to go inside the Forest Club and found out they had a shuffleboard, so the place turned out to be not scary at all, but still.

I am not impressed by references to Main Street.  These days I live on Moss Avenue. I would like it if my potential candidate stared directly at the camera and rumbled, in a Harvard baritone, “I intend to help out everyone on Moss Avenue by ensuring that they’re employable for the rest of their lives, except maybe for that one guy who picks up aluminum cans while mumbling to himself--he seems to be all set.”

Or if the candidate turned to the camera, winked, unbuttoned the top three buttons of her blouse, hiked up her skirt, and said “I’m going to make sure that the residents of Moss Avenue have a brand-new Wii, and they’re also invited to my house for a Truck Drivers and Schoolgirls party.  Although, maybe not the guy who picks up aluminum cans while mumbling to himself.”

I have nothing in common with these candidates, which I expected from the outset, but I am tired of them throwing around the term “Main Street” as though they have something in common with me.  In the final analysis, they are all only marginally better than having a Czar or a Pharaoh.

From “Living on a Prayer”:

“She said we’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got/It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not.”

Whoa, hold on here a second.  A few lines up, it was clearly stated that “Tommy used to work on the docks/Union’s been on strike/He’s down on his luck/It’s tough.” And now this chick is saying that none of that matters?  All Tommy needs is her? If I were Tommy, I’d be all “Listen you @*&*@ freak, if none of this matters, I’m not even going to try to go look for work.  You think working on the docks is a picnic?  Screw it. I’m gonna sit here and watch football.  We may be half way there, but you can @*(&*@ carry me the rest of the way. And bring some beer with you.”

From “You Give Love a Bad Name”:

“Blood red nails on your fingertips.”

This is the sign of someone who gives love a bad name? Red fingernails are actually pretty common.  What would you prefer, cyan?  Get a grip, Jon.

From “Bad Medicine”:

“Shake it up, just like bad medicine.”

Is this a typical practice with bad medicine? You grab on to it and shake it?  If it’s really bad medicine, wouldn’t it be likely to explode in your face? I do not believe that we should all shake it up just like bad medicine. I believe that if we actually identify bad medicine, we should pass it on to a qualified medical practitioner.

From “Blaze of Glory”:

“I never drew first but I drew first blood/I’m the devil’s son, call me young gun.”

So, you’re saying that you never drew first but you drew first blood?  Which means you only shot in self defense. This means that you never actually went up against anyone with an ounce of skill but against extremely incompetent adversaries, and then made your reputation by gunning them down. Who did you get into a duel with, Mr. Magoo?  I am going to call into question that you actually went down in an alleged “blaze of glory” if this was the way you chose your combatants.

This week I gave a talk in Arizona.  After I was done speaking, I froze for a few moments just to enjoy the experience of people applauding.  It didn’t mean anything, of course--people tend to applaud after a talk, whether or not they actually liked it--but it didn’t matter. Sincere or not, it’s not every day that people clap for something you’ve done, and it’s an experience worth savoring.

Ironically, there’s only one time when you can be sure that people are applauding sincerely, and it’s the time when it matters the least.  When people clap after a movie, you know they mean it because there’s no one there to offend.  At the same time, of course, it’s completely ludicrous. It may well be true that the audience members liked the movie, but I can tell you that the object of their enthusiasm, Tom Hanks, neither knows nor cares.

I did get an idea for a clock radio, however.  Usually I wake up to my NPR station and it’s okay except when people are yapping on about pledge drives or collapsing financial markets. Wouldn’t it be great if a clock could wake you up to the sound of rapturous applause?  Because let’s face it--it’s not your fault that you need to check out for eight hours at a time, getting your strength back and drooling on your pillow. It would be a nice feeling if, each and every day, you woke up feeling as though the world was welcoming you back to its stage.

Although I’m upset that I developed athlete’s foot well before any sign of athlete’s abs, I have still taken some pride in the development.  I have attempted to share this pride with others:

ME: I have athlete’s foot!

SHE: You mean the thing with the...the…

ME: ...fungus!

SHE: That is so gross.

ME: No. It means I’ve been paying studious attention to my physical health!

SHE: There’s other ways to get athlete’s foot other than being an athlete.

ME: Shut up.

SHE: Have you been wearing different shoes?

ME: Okay look, I never had it until I bought those form-fitting cotton socks from Costco. But I do not think they are the cause!

SHE: I don’t want to talk about this. It’s gross.

(The next day):

ME: Hello again!  Are you ready to discuss my fungus?

SHE: NO.

For a while I let the condition fester.  But the skin began to look red, scaly, and misshapen, as though I had accidentally stepped into a lobster that subsequently attached itself to my foot.  So I reluctantly started applying medicine.  This itself was educational—I had many potential medicines to choose from at the drugstore, and almost picked up one that said “FOR WOMEN ONLY.” Seriously, who says there aren’t fundamental differences between the genders? They don’t even get foot fungus the same.

And now the medicine is starting to work and my foot is going back to normal, and I sense a little piece of my specialness disappearing with it.  My only consolation is that I can probably get it back simply by going on some extended runs wearing Costco cotton socks.  I can tell you, that is a very nice feeling to have.

I don’t mean to get all Chandler Bing on you, but I have found that I can’t sustain a relationship with any girl who doesn’t have a pretty good name.  If she has a bad name, it will bother me. It will irritate me. Eventually it will haunt me.  And eventually we will break up.

I once dated a girl named Mariah. This couldn’t last because I had a golden retriever as a kid named Mariah. It was impossible for me to separate the girl from my memories of my childhood dog.  It didn’t help that both Mariahs were redheads.

I dated another girl named Melody.  I knew this wouldn’t end up well.  What if she wanted to name our kids Octave, Chorus, and G-flat?

I dated another girl named Rhetta.  All I could think of was Rhett Butler, Clark Gable’s character in Gone With the Wind.  It interfered with, well, just about everything, but particularly the things that were important.  There are certain times when I just don’t need to be picturing Clark Gable.

One of the first loves of my life was named Jessica, which proves the entire point I’m making.  Jessica is a completely neutral name.  It could be good or bad; there’s no way to tell. It was the absolute perfect name to start with, because it was a blank slate. (She turned out to be very nice, and so I am predisposed to like Jessicas.)

Once I crushed hard on a Stephanie, and I don’t think it was because it felt good whenever I could make her laugh.  It’s just a very good name. It starts out with three syllables, but can easily be shortened to “Steph.” It is a flexible, adaptable name well suited for the rigors of love.

Some guys tell me that they like brunettes, or that they are “ass men.” I say that I’m an “assonance man,” with particular emphasis on hard consonants at the beginning and smooth sibilants at the end.  People look at me funny when I say things like this, but that’s fine: they are the ones who will end up married to someone with a bad name, not me.

I don’t want to overstate my point.  I am not saying that a bad name will rule someone out entirely.  Naturally, my preference is not live out my golden years with a Margot or a Leticia.  But even if the name “Leticia” sounds like a cat parting ways with a hairball, it can easily be shortened to the breathy, friendly, inviting “Tish.” If there’s one thing I understand about relationships, it’s the need for sacrifice and compromise.

I am starting to rethink my interest in voting for Obama.  Every single president has aged drastically while in office.  Take the once handsome Bill Clinton, for example:

The ravages of constant stress take their toll, and no president escapes unscathed.

Therefore, think what might happen if McCain becomes president.  He already looks like this:

By the end of his term, I think he’d have an extremely good chance of resembling the Marvel Comics character Ghost Rider:

Wouldn’t that be worth a measly four-year term to see?  Completely cool.

On second thought, the dangers probably outweigh the benefits. For example, here’s a screenshot of McCain’s VP pick, Sarah Palin, doing an Anchorage sportscast back in 1988:

It may have been the times, but I think that hairstyle would raise doubts and mistrust in anyone. Once a Saved by the Bell extra, always a Saved by the Bell extra.  She can spin this right round baby, right round.

My nice blog friend Sarah B.--who has been one of my favorite writers, in any medium, for years--wrote a book that went on sale today. It’s called Cringe, and it features diaries and journal entries from a variety of teens and pre-teens, along with candid commentary from the adult selves of those young wordsmiths.

Unfortunately, I have a few paragraphs in the book as well.  But it’s my solemn promise that I don’t louse up the joint too badly; my contribution is quickly skimmed through so you can move on to the real purveyors of angst and comedy.

It makes a great gift for anybody--preferably for someone who likes to read and laugh, but also for people who need something solid to prop up a table leg.  Check it out.

Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation: conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you - ask what you can do for your country.

And I say this even though it is a period of civil war in the galaxy, in the sense that a brave Alliance of underground freedom fighters has challenged the tyranny and oppression of the awesome galactic empire.

So anyway, so long. And thanks for all the fish.