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.

I got a new bed
It’s a pretty good lay
It’s got high thread count sheets
And the cutest green duvet

I got a new bed
One that will help me rest
Now there’s one bed for me
And another for a guest

It will help me sleep well
My back will never bruise
But when that alarm goes off
I totally hit the snooze

(I totally hit the snooze)

I got a new bed
It’s a nice size
It feels good on the skin
It’s okay on the eyes

I got a new bed
I’m pleased to announce
And although it’s pretty solid
I’d rather you not bounce

It’s fun to fall asleep now
Definitely not a chore
Too bad it can’t shut me up
When I start to snore

(When I start to snore)

(Guitar and saxophone jam)

I got a new bed
It fits about right
You can doze off to sleep
Or have a pillow fight

I got a new bed
It’s really quite soft
It helps me dream of Angelina
Being all Lara Croft

Now I’m not looking for attention
Don’t want you to shed a tear
But it’s fair to say
I’ll be eating ramen for a year

(I’ll be eating ramen for a year)

(Guitar and saxophone jam, repeat, fade out)

SHE: I’m not worried about going on a date with a guy I don’t know very well. I have a series of questions that tell me whether he’s a serial killer or not, and they’re proven to work.

ME: Like what?

SHE: Question #1: Have you ever tortured small animals or insects for fun?

ME: Good…

SHE: Question #2: Have you ever lived alone in a cabin in a land-locked state?

ME: ....

SHE: Question #3: Are you a serial killer?

ME: ...

SHE: ...

ME: ...and you say that this screening process is proven to work?

SHE: Absolutely. I am not dead.

Hanging out at the neighborhood swimming pool as a kid, I found things to be predictable.  The wooden deck, baked by the sun, was always stove hot.  Bees grew to the size of ping pong balls.  The air smelled of heat, chlorine and suntan lotion.

For some reason I remember the suicides. This quasi-forbidden beverage was a big deal to an eleven-year old boy.  A suicide was made from all the other soft drinks in the concession stand: coke, 7-Up, Dr. Pepper, and root beer.  It was never clear why this concoction struck fear into the hearts of some adults the way crack cocaine does today, but not every older teenager who worked the concession stand would make it for us. You had to ask for a suicide from one of the cooler ones, or even better, wait until the concession stand was unmanned and then sneak in and make your own.

One afternoon did not turn out to be predictable at all. That was the afternoon that an older girl, maybe fourteen or so, came into the pool area.  She wore a one-piece bathing suit, but it had a plunging neckline that showed off large fields of pale white skin.  It was as though the designer had gotten drunk while making it and completely forgot that the thing was supposed to be functional pool wear, not a sultry ballroom gown.

My friends and I had finished a game of racquetball.  We lay in the shade, dripping with sweat and drinking suicides, watching people swim in the pool. Suddenly, my friend jabbed me in the chest and said “Look. LOOK.”

Up on the high diving board, the girl prepared to jump.  She smoothed back her hair and closed her eyes. But she hadn’t realized that the right side of her plunging neckline bathing suit had flipped back, revealing her breast.

Even though she was far away, all the way up on the high dive, we could see that her nipple was startlingly red. I had never dreamed of a red that color.  It was like a strawberry ripening.  It was like a rose blooming. It was like the blinking lights that beckon airplanes to land.

And then we realized something else: the moment was continuing. She still didn’t know.  Although the pool patrons had begun to look up and see the vision shimmering above their heads, she hadn’t realized what happened. She continued her swan-like strut up and down the diving board, readying herself to jump, while her swimsuit continued its cowardly retreat.

Finally one of her friends waved at her, and she looked down, and her face turned a color of red that nearly--but not quite--matched her other exposed part. As she covered herself, the moment finally ended and we all erupted into laughter and excited talking, beginning a conversation and an exchange of impressions and opinions that would continue for several days, even weeks, to come.

I looked over at the girl a few minutes later. She was predictably mortified, but also smiling and talking with her friends. I knew that she would get on her with her life and exhibit a notable lack of permanent trauma.  Which was good, because it wouldn’t have been fair to make her pay for the gift she had given us.

And she had given us a gift.  I don’t just mean that she gave us the gift of her skin, showing us female flesh that was real and true and not trapped behind the wavy lines of a scrambled cable channel, or airbrushed frosting-pink inside the pages of a carefully hidden skin mag.  Rather, when her swimsuit flipped back and her breast burst forth, like the morning sun rising into the sky, she broke us out of our routine.  She showed us that not everything stays the same, or predictable, or staid.  She showed us that anything is possible.

Update! Barbara has another point of view.

I have belatedly started listening to the 2006 Christine Aguilera album “Back to Basics.” Aguilera usually isn’t my kind of music, but I like retro pop, and she does a fun job of doing R&B, blues, and other older styles with a modern flavor.  I particularly noted the third single from the album, “Candyman.” If you haven’t heard it, check it out.  It’s okay, I’ll wait.

I noted the song in particular because it ended up providing a lot of information about what gets Christine hot.  Now, don’t get me wrong--if I had a laminated “Friends"-style list of celebrity lust targets, she wouldn’t even make the top ten. But hey, if she’s going to start singing about things that get her going, sure I’m going to listen.  These lyrics caught my attention:

“He’s a one stop shop/makes my cherry pop
“He’s a one stop shop/makes my panties drop”

I was definitely curious. Aside from gravity, what does make Christine Aguilera’s panties drop?  So I listened carefully for the telltale signs and evaluated how I might stack up.  My score? Not very good. Here’s what she values:

“He had tattoos up and down his arm.” Very bad start.  I do not have tattoos up and down my arm. I used to have a cool scar on my chest from when I ran into an electric fence as a kid--I wasn’t too bright--but it’s long since faded. I also had a cool henna tattoo once. That has also faded.

“There’s nothing more dangerous than a boy with charm.” This one I’m good at!  I have charm!  I am particularly charismatic as I wax eloquent on lore and trivia as it pertains to old episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

“He took me to the Spider Club at Hollywood and Vine/We drank champagne and we danced all night.” I’m okay springing for champagne, but dancing all night?  That is tiring. But if it’ll get me to the dropping/popping thing as previously referenced, I can increase my cardio workouts and maybe hang in there until midnight or so.  Oh, and I’d also need to take dancing lessons.

“He had lips like sugar cane.” Well, sure, why not. I’ll dunk my face in a bowl of granulated sugar.

“He’s a one stop shop with a real big (word dropped in the song).” Err....no comment.

Maybe I’ll forget about the candyman business and settle for being a sprightly little piece of Skittles.