I was nervous last week about standing up in front of my entire company and giving a presentation. I didn’t have to talk for very long, but I still sweated about it.

I thought I ended up doing okay, and people said I did well. But then I watched a video of the presentation.  I’ve always believed that you can tell a lot about what people are really thinking by the way they use hand gestures.  If you only listened to what I was saying, you’d think that I was completely focused on how increasing marketing activities can drive growth and help the company reach its revenues. If you look at my hands, however:

...apparently it’s more along the lines of “I’ve got a really cool new way to roll a doobie.”

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.

MOM: And how are your other friends?

ME: Oh, my old friend Scott added me on Facebook. I haven’t heard from him in years. 

DAD: Who?

ME: My college roommate. You know him as Scott-Ernie-Scott.

DAD: Oh right.  Why did we call him that, again?

ME: Because his real name is Ernie. We were in an English class and the teacher said ‘I’m going to read your names off the roll sheet, but let me know what you’d like to be called.’ And Ernie turned to me and said ‘I never liked my name.’ And I said ‘Maybe you should ask to be called Scott.’ And the teacher read Ernie’s name, and Ernie said ‘Here, but I’d like to be called Scott.’ And the teacher gave him a funny look, but referred to him as Scott for the rest of the year. And the name stuck, and we always called him Scott.  And apparently he still goes by the name twenty years later because his name is Scott on Facebook.

DAD: Hmm.

ME: What?

DAD: Doesn’t he realize the importance of being Ernest?

When did half of my vacation budget go into buying souvenirs? I had a list so long that I don’t even think I know that many people.  I think I just wanted to be handing out “Je T’aime Paris” shirts to anyone that wanted one, especially people who asked me for spare change on the street.

I was determined not to get a bunch of junky, touristy gifts this time.  Paris is a noble city with a long, grand history.  Surely a souvenir from Paris merits a little more thought, requiring the purchase of something old, cultured, and sophisticated.

Yeah, but instead I wound up with a bunch of miniature glass Eiffel Towers filled with cognac.

Do you realize that the Eiffel Tower was only built in 1889?  Given that much of the city boasts monuments from centuries ago, the Eiffel Tower is basically the architectural equivalent of Miley Cyrus.

Naturally, I went a little more high end for my boss.  I bought a small bottle of champagne from the Epernay region of France.  And, like most of my work-related projects, it fell apart--exploding in my suitcase on the way home.  I considered airing out and washing all my champagne-drenched clothes, but now I’m thinking that I’ll just wear them: I’ve always liked vintage clothes.

Yes, my sense of humor is fairly dormant at the moment. What do you expect? I was with a bunch of French people for two weeks.

My friends emailed me a few snarky comments when I posted my Lonely Planet guide to Paris on GoodReads.com as my current book of choice, and doing so several weeks before my trip. But the fact is, I was reading it.  I didn’t expect to memorize all of it or have streets and restaurants trip off my tongue once I had arrived.  But it comforted me, to know that as the city spilled out in front of me, I could always locate myself on a map, find a cafe, find a metro station.

I’m a definite believer that it doesn’t make sense to travel as a slave to your guidebook.  It should be a collection of friendly suggestions, not a pint-sized tyrant.  But Paris--with its windy streets, complex conversations that so far exceed my college language courses that it’s not even funny, and its almost unfathomable number of places to eat and drink--threatens to slip by you entirely if you don’t try to put your arms around it and hold some of it to you. 

The fact is, I’ve ignored most of the guidebook. The best travel suggestion came from my friend Rosemary, who recommended the Doormouse in the Teapot (I’m not going to bother to remember the real, French name right now)--a cafe decorated with many images from Alice in Wonderland, and which serves a hot chocolate so intense and pure that it’s like Willy Wonka pouring a river down your throat.  That was better than anything in the book so far.  But I am still very attached to the idea that, whenever I want, I can find out the top places to see and do in the various districts, and what bars charge and how to tip and how to greet people.

I keep thinking it would be nice to write a similar guidebook for myself.  Haven’t we let months slip by without doing the top five things in each day, or even week?  What should you not miss in May, 2008?  What is the proper way to say “Hello,” “How are you,” “I like you” at various points and stages and locations?  What’s five star, four star, three star where you live, where you move around from day to day?  What should you make sure not to miss, because if you do, you’re not really experiencing what you’re supposed to experience--taking the trip you’re supposed to take?

What did you do this weekend?
Nothing. That is, until I checked my personal guidebook.  Then I went out and didn’t come back until five a.m.

My hands fairly itch to start such a project, until I remember that it would be pointless to write that guidebook with that degree of specificity: I’m the only traveler who could possibly use it.

There will be even fewer words than usual on these pages while I spend a few days in London and then a week and a half in Paris, where I will be hoping with all my might what every American hopes for in such circumstances: please, please let there be someone who speaks English.

I’m sympathetic to the plight of advertisers: everyone has DVRs or they pirate their shows or stream them over the net.  As a result, no one watches commercials anymore.  Advertisers still need the ad revenue, but how can they get it when viewers are fast forwarding through commercials or skipping them entirely?

That said, I’m not happy with the intrusive tactics of the new era.  For example, I spend some time with 30 Rock and what happens? An ad for Tina Fey’s movie Baby Mama comes tripping across the screen--in mid scene. From the looks of it, five minutes of 30 Rock is ten times funnier than that entire movie.  And even if it was a comedy classic, I don’t need to hear about it when I’m enjoying Kenneth’s comedy antics.

Then there’s my TIVO.  I finish watching Battlestar Galactica and I try to delete the episode.  Immediately, I get yelled at:

TIVO: Would you like to download more Battlestar Galactica?!?!

ME: Uh, no thanks. 

TIVO: But you can catch up on all the episodes from past seasons!  Only $1.99!

ME: Uh, I’m pretty caught up. I just want to watch the current season and find out if Starbuck is a cylon, and stuff.

TIVO: Then you can download classic episodes of Battlestar Galactica from the ‘70s!  Again, only $1.99!

ME: No thanks. That show sucked. At one point they went to like this space heaven and their uniforms turned white and it was really lame.

TIVO: I have that episode! Only $1.99!

ME: What did I just tell you?  No classic Battlestar Galactica.  Which, by the way, is a contradiction in terms.

TIVO: No problem!  Hey, listen, find out about a new Lexus!

ME: Do I look like I can afford a new Lexus?

TIVO: Then find out about a new Kia!

ME: Look, I’m going to work.  I’ll see you later.

TIVO (following me out the door): Comparison shop for wool socks! Get more out of your shampoo!  Buff and polish your abs with the Abflexor Flexis!

ME: Get back in the damn house now.

TIVO: I can get you the phone number of the actress who plays Boomer on the new Battlestar Galactica!

ME: ....wait....really?

TIVO: HA made you look.  Now back to business. Download Michael Bolton’s entire discography!

I’m pretty tied to my daily routine.  In the morning, I worship the Egyptian God Anubis through the use of ritual sacrifice, and follow it up by painting my body with multiple colors and rolling around my living room carpet in a burlap sack. I then go to work for my job as a hand model, and then spend most of the evening betting on cage matches featuring girl scouts in mortal combat with various sects of Amish.

I’m not proud of being such a creature of habit, but that’s just the way it is, so I have to be very careful when I’m planning for a vacation.  Such a disruption in daily routine requires studious attention to detail, and to make sure that all necessary precautions have been taken before I leave.  My checklist generally consists of the following:

Research the latest packing techniques. There are actually sites devoted to the proper packing of suitcases to maximize all available space, such as OneBag.com. I visit them, study the most current strategies, and then give up in disgust when I realize that I still can’t fit in my TIVO.

Be kind to your plants. They’re not getting water for a while, so be generous.  I don’t mean by excessive watering or talking to them or any of that hippy crap; sprinkle gin and tonic over them. Next to photosynthesis, there’s nothing they love more.

Manage your workload at the office. Specifically, start doing everything poorly--that way they won’t miss you when you’re gone, or expect you to do things when you come back.

Set your out of office message.  This is a corollary to the above step.  Most people make the mistake of setting an Outlook message along the lines of “I’m out of the office and won’t be back for two weeks.  Please leave a message.” Bad move.  If you do that, you’ll come back to five thousand emails that you’ll never get through or return. What you need to do is set a message that sounds as though you’re actually replying to whatever was sent: “Hey, stop emailing me. I tried to call you about the project and you weren’t around, so I told your boss that you’re an idiot.” After the first day or so, people will actually stop emailing you and you’ll come back to an empty inbox and several blissful, relaxing days at the office.

Read the travel guide. Study up on the history of the country you’re visiting--although give up when you realize it’s all Crusades this and Cromwell that, and go straight to the part where they tell you about the good pubs.

Practice phrases you’ll need. I don’t mean foreign language phrases; who has time for that?  Buy a Captain America T-Shirt and practice sentences such as “I’m from the U.S. of Goddamn A you communist, so don’t tell me the exchange rate is $100 for a single goddamn Euro.”

The best thing you can do after all that is to relax and let yourself open up to new experiences.  Go on hiking treks; observe strange and bizarre people; eat exotic and frightening food; drink with abandon.  And once you get off the plane, you can do some other things as well.

When something good or triumphant happens to you, do you ever pump your hand into the sunset and freeze in place, just like Judd Nelson in the final frame of The Breakfast Club?

Right, me neither, I was just wondering if you did.

Godwin’s Law as defined by Wikipedia.

Our marketing campaign started out strong but ended up pretty poorly. You know who else ran a campaign that started out strong but ended up poorly? Hitler.

I would agree with you, if you didn’t sound so much like Hitler.

Have you not been shaving lately? You look like Hitler.

I can’t believe I ate so much. I’m as stuffed as Hitler.