My friend was lending me some books she thought I’d like to read, and she handed me one saying “This is good.” I studied it for a few moments, flipped it over, and handed it back to her: “I can’t read this.  It’s about incest.”

She stared at me.  “How did you know?”

I said, “Look at the telltale details.  The cover design is a mix of pretentious yellow and brown tones, kind of like a mutant hybrid of the ‘Oprah’s Book Club’ logo and the Vintage Contemporary series.  Then there’s the picture--a still, silent beach sunset.  But the copy on the back clinches it.  ‘The Walker family is steeped in secrets.’ I don’t need to read another word; it’s about incest.

“And I’m sick of books about incest.  I am not in favor of incest, to the point that I’m even willing to make a political stand and say ‘I don’t like incest.’ But does every novel about contemporary families, written in overwrought, Iowa Masters of Fine Arts program prose, have to discuss the subject to death?  Didn’t we finish atoning for the silence of the ‘50s sometime back during the Reagan administration?”

She put away the book, and then she put away another one:  “Well then, you’re not going to like this one either.”

Addendum:
If I weren’t so annoyed with this literary trend I could so jump on the bandwagon with my own confessional.  When I was seven years old, my friend Kevin and I snuck into the bathroom while his sister was taking a shower.  She was, oh, maybe thirteen, or so, and he lifted up the shower curtain and we hightailed it into the living room and giggled maniacally.

This incident may not sound traumatic or insightful enough to carry the weight of a novel, but it would work if I tweaked a few details.  For example, the sister would have to collapse into a pool of anguished sobs, rather than what actually happened.  Which was her wrapping a towel around herself, marching into the living room, and slapping Kevin on the back of the head: “You are such a little fartknocker.”

“Perils insured” against include “aircraft, self-propelled missiles, and spacecraft.”

With this unexpected security in my back pocket, I hereby issue a challenge to the Battlestar Galactica.  Bring it, you bunch of rag-tag fleeting, cylon baiting, Earth-seeking namby pambies.

“Bush to Unveil Plan for Revival.”

I sure the heck hope he’s talking about the economy, and not, say, the career of Daryl Hall and John Oates.

Number of hours I had nothing important to do: 5
Number of cocktail makers previously received as housewarming gift: 1
Number of months said maker had been left relatively unused: 6
Number of martini glasses won over New Year’s: 6
Number of drinks I decided to make on Sunday: 4 (regular martini, apple martini, manhattan, black russian)
Number of drinks I intended to consume: 2
Number of drinks I intended to give to roommate: 2
Roommate’s appreciation of cool cocktail maker and martini glasses, on scale of 1 to 10: 10
Roommate’s appreciation of the taste of alcohol in any given form, on scale of 1 to 10: 1
Drinks actually consumed by roommate: 0
Deviation from plan, in terms of unconsumed drinks: 2
Drinks consumed by me as a consequence: 4
Number of hours spent somewhat inebriated: 3
Number of hours spent watching bad LeeLee Sobieski movies on HBO: 3

In response to a previous post, someone expressed disappointment that I’m not like Han Solo.  Well, it’s true--he married a princess from Alderaan, is a crack shot with a laser pistol, and represents the epitome of coolness for an entire generation.  Still, we do have some similarities.  In the interests of painting a more complete picture, I wanted to list them here.

1. We are both followed around by a large, fuzzy thing who acts human but isn’t.  He has Chewbacca, and I have my roommate’s cat.

2. People call his trusty ship, the Millenium Falcon, a “hunk of junk.” I hear the same thing about my Honda Civic.

3. Han played a key role in erradicating the forces of evil from the universe.  I recycle bottles, cans, and paper products as appropriate.

4. Han is played by actor Harrison Ford, who turns on Callista Flockhart.  (She recently agreed to marry him.) In the past, I have “turned on” Callista Flockhart by activating my television in preparation for watching “Ally McBeal.”

5. Prior to joining the rebel alliance, Han made his living as a smuggler.  I have smuggled several cans of Foster’s beer into various movie theaters.

6. Han was once frozen in a block of carbonite.  I was born in Alaska, where it can be very cold.

7. Han has trouble kickstarting his ship into hyperspace.  I have trouble breaking a nine-minute mile.

8. At times Han’s ship completely sputters and shuts down.  At times my computer performs an “illegal operation” and shuts down.  (Said illegal operation might indeed be another kind of smuggling, which would add to the smuggling similarity already mentioned in #5.)

9. Han is pursued relentlessly by bounty hunters.  I am pursued relentlessly by jury duty summons.

10. We both have noses.

You know how English teachers always end their lectures with some inane homily like “There’s a little Jane Eyre/David Copperfield/Hamlet in all of us”?  Well, I really do think there’s a little Han Solo in all of us.  It’s just that there’s more in me than in most of you.

Separated at birth?

There couldn’t be anything more domestic about the International House of Pancakes. Their “German” pancakes, for example, are just American pancakes that the chef has stepped on, thrown against the wall, and slathered with lemon butter.

One shudders to imagine the American tourist in Germany. He or she orders breakfast, stares down at the plate in disbelief, and signals for the waiter: “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to take these back. And could you please give me directions to your nearest IHOP? I’m looking forward to sampling the cuisine of your fine country, but I really need to have it cooked right.”

I know this isn’t the point, but there’s something funny about the headline “Expelled U.N. Inspectors Leave North Korea.”

“What did they get you for?”

“Oh, I didn’t know the capital of Uzbekistan.”

“Man, they’re tough. I was all, ‘Look, all I need to know is how to detect fuel rods in your nuclear reactors.’ And they’re all, ‘We like our U.N. inspectors to be a just a little more well rounded than that.”

It’s the year 2003, and I have successfully grilled turkey burgers. Thanks for everyone’s advice, comments, and sarcasm.

Next up is marinated steak. And then martinis, so I can make use of the martini glasses I won at my friend’s New Year’s Eve party.

(No, I’m not going to the grill the martinis. I just mean, I’m going to learn to make them.)

Oh. And happy frickin’ New Year. They’ve been delayed a few years, but I predict that this is the year the monoliths are coming to do some schoolin’. You scoff now, but we’ll see who becomes a highly evolved, glowing baby and who doesn’t.

I like Mandy Moore’s cover of “Stupid Cupid” better than the Connie Francis original.

Mandy has a nice voice and the arrangement is just darn perky. Francis, on the other hand, sounds a bit like a female impersonator.

Oh, and also? All these trendy garage bands like the Strokes and the White Stripes? I liked you all better when you were called The Replacements.

No one gave me a vest for Christmas this year, but my brother Geoff did give me this bad boy:

I excitedly assembled it, rearranged the plants on my balcony, and prepared to sear the hell out of some turkey burgers. I poured the charcoal and stacked the briquettes, then squirted on some lighter fluid. I lit them using this cool “no match” lighter gun that was part of the gift.

As the flames roared to life, I shouted happily: “I am Prometheus! I bring this fire to all of mankind at the cost of my very soul! I bless thee with the gift of flames, and--”

Uh…

Er…

The flames died down. They had apparently been burning on the gas, but had completely been unable to ignite the charcoal. So I added some more briquettes and lighter fluid, and re-lit the grill.

As the flames sprang into blazing existence again, I screamed ecstatically: “I am Prospero, burning my books! I have given fire and rifted Jove’s stout oak my own bolt--”

Uh…

Er…

The flames had vanished again. My first barbecue experience was an abject failure.

I suspect it’s because the rain hit me as I was carrying the charcoal from the market to the car, and some of the water seeped into the bag. Or maybe I shouldn’t have used generic-brand charcoal. In any case, I’m not finished yet. I’m prepared to escalate this conflict as far as it needs to go. If you see a mushroom cloud emanating from a balcony on Moss Avenue, it’s simply because I’m doing everything and anything in my power to light the damn grill. There’s no need to worry.

Much.

“Holy mother of God. How are we supposed to unwrap all of those presents?”
“We can work shifts.”
--------------
“What are you doing?”
“I’m putting a gift in Geoff’s stocking.”
“No, Geoff’s stocking is down there. That stocking is for the cats.”
--------------
“Those are wine charms, Greg. You put them on your wine glasses so your dinner guests know which glass is theirs.
“But Greg’s wine glasses already look completely different from one another.”
--------------
“I made your blog my home page.”
“Really?”
“But I haven’t had a chance to read it for a while.”
--------------
“Scientific studies indicate that all the races and ethnicities in the world are descended from five individuals.”
“That must have been a heck of an orgy.”
--------------
Bonus! Overhead expressions of endearment/affection:
“Love.”
“Dear.”
“Sweetheart.”
“My little muffin tin.”
“My little Krispy Kreme.”
“I’m your bitch.”

Twas the day before Christmas
And Greg gave blogging a rest
To spend time with the family
And hope he didn’t get a vest
(Nothing wrong with a shirt, or something that is polo
But a vest? Who am I, Han Solo?)
The blog will return, with plenty of geese
So Gap model lovers everywhere can tell me to cease
In the meantime, I wish you all joyous celebrations
And very happy holidays--regardless of your religious denominations.

Not to rip off my friend Anna’s marathon training journal, but I had the sweetest run today. The air had the brittle snap of an October in New England. The late afternoon sun backlit the trees. Drivers slowed their cars so they could admire the milky glare of my legs pumping up and down, keeping time to the beat of the world. (They did too. No, you shut up.) And what got me through the last mile? Not my normal gasoline of pain, frustration, and determination. It was wings of glory, my friends. Wings of glory.

There’s some stuff I really want for Christmas, so I thought we could take this moment to set the record straight on some of my alleged misdeeds over the past year.

1. First of all, there’s the See’s candy incident mentioned below. Just scratch that one off your list, because I’ve been punished enough. Who in their right mind came up with the idea that coconut should be something people want to eat?

2. All those times I blew off going to the gym. Like you’re one to talk. Take a good look in the mirror, fat boy.

3. Yes, I did kind of sleepwalk through the last press release I wrote. I used the word “solutions” about six times. But, y’know, we really do provide solutions. It’s all the other companies’ press releases that are full of meaningless, self-serving hyperbole--not mine.

4. When I wrote the check for my property taxes, I scribbled “For the Robber Barons” in the “memo” section. You have to admit, that’s pretty funny. Oh lighten up.

5. Instead of letting KQED keep the $65 honorarium that they give to their commentators, I’m using it to buy the Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 3 DVD. I’m sure you’re about to get all self-righteous now, Mr. Run-the-Business-with-Illegal-Elf-Labor.

I hope we have an understanding. I expect to see quality loot this year, and none of those lump of coal shenanigans. Remember, I know where you live.

Love,
Greg

My co-worker had a box of See’s candy on her desk, and no one was around, so I snatched one. I ended up with the chocolate equivalent of a landmine: ugly, evil, coconut.

Let me get this straight. The Rwanda massacres happens and that’s just fine; the Middle East is in turmoil and the world keeps spinning. But I have one little moral lapse and suddenly the universe is all, “You see that? You see that? Unleash the karmic hounds!”