So, when actors make like they're snorting up lines of cocaine, do they actually inhale whatever powder is standing in for the coke? That really can't be good for their brains and internal chemistry, even if it's something like Sweet 'n' Low or flour or whatever. And it really looks like they're snorting up whatever that powder is, so either they're doing a hell of a job with the special effects, or they're actually inhaling it.

The conversation ran the gamut between making me laugh hysterically and getting me really mad/frustrated/upset.

I was chatting with my best friend about the usual things, and, as usual, the topic of women came up. She's again pestering me about how I need to find me a woman. (Her words, not mine, mind you.) And we got to discussing the whole age issue, since many of the people she hangs out with are slightly older than I am, so they probably wouldn't want to date me.

Apparently, women have this thing about not dating men younger than they are. I've run into this before, and it's not exactly made me a happy camper. I was once turned down due to age difference by a woman who was less than 9 months older than me, yet adamantly refused to date anyone younger than she was.

Personally, I don't understand it, and I'm hoping someone can actually explain it better than my best friend did. I got some line about "greater maturity and life experiences," though she did confess that if she had just met me, she would think that I'm anywhere from 3-5 years older than I actually am because of my maturity -- as most people do. So why does the actual chronological number matter so much? Perception can be as much reality as reality actually is sometimes. It doesn't matter that they think I'm funny or smart or cute or whatever, there's that big glowing neon sign over my head with my birthdate on it that disqualifies me from dating anyone older than I am, apparently.

My arm still hurts from getting my flu shot.

Since our fair Aimee didn't see it the first time around...

New! From Microsquash, it's JewBoy™ 1.0

System Requirements:
- Resemblance to JewBoy™'s installation of Mother™ 1.0
- Whine Tolerance® plug-in (not included with this program)
- Full collection of Woody Allen films
- Ability to withstand intense budgeting
- Resistance to nasal-sounding auditory input
- Basic knowledge of Yiddish slang
- Guilt Resistance® plug-in (not included with this program)

Limited Warranty/Disclaimer:
- JewBoy™ will attempt to frequently interface your system with his installation of Mother™ 1.0. If resource conflicts occur, system may crash. Microsquash does not claim responsibility for system instability.
- Some versions of JewBoy™ may not be able to entertain you without resorting to discussing accounting or legal practices. Attention Span Enhancer® plug-in may be required with some versions.
- After installation of JewBoy™, initial program usage may result in extreme division of dinner bills. Microsquash does not claim responsibility if JewBoy™ divides the check to the nearest cent and does not tip more than 15%.
- JewBoy™ may attempt to usurp all system resources and try to be the sole program running on your system at all times. Microsquash does not claim responsibility for this occurrence. Engaging the Girls Night Out® plug-in is sometimes effective, though 100% success is not assured. The Whine Tolerance® and Guilt Resistance® plug-ins may also be necessary to circumvent total system resource usage.
- If you are not running the JudaismOS™ operating system, JewBoy™ may force-quit and crash your system. This system conflict may be caused by the presence of JewBoy™'s installation of Mother™ 1.0. Microsquash has no workaround for this problem as of this release.

Things took a decided turn toward the surreal somewhere after lunch. A co-worker managed to convince me to go for a drive with him downtown to run an errand. The errand ended up being us going BASE jumping from the top of the Library Tower. You know, that building that gets blown up in Independence Day.

So Lord knows how, but he's got access to the top of that building. We manage to get these enormous parachute/glider things -- you know, the rectangular ones with the pull-strings so you can guide yourself -- into some side freight elevator that one of his friends who actually works in the building hooked us up with. We sneak up onto the roof and I get over near the edge and look down. Christ on a monorail, I'm scared out of my mind. I mean, I've never done this before, I've gone skydiving but that was a tandem jump and all I had to do was let them strap me into this harness and the guy behind me would push me out of the plane and pull the ripcord and everything. And this is downtown L.A., it's unsanctioned, we could get thrown in prison or worse -- I could misguide myself and fly headfirst into some office building and accidentally kill myself.

But I have to go through with it. There's no way down other than off the top of the building because the freight elevator is gone and there's no way to call it back without the special keycard that we don't have. It's a no-win situation for me. So I suck it up, my co-worker straps me into this whole get-up, then demonstrates how I'm supposed to take off by running and jumping off the side of the roof.

So I'm all alone up there, damn it. What the hell am I supposed to? I take a few deep breaths to ward off hysteria, back up to the other side of the roof, tell myself, "There's no other way down," and take off. I run across the roof and jump.

I'm sailing through the air, plummeting towards the ground and I yank the ripcord. The parachute bursts open, but I waited too long. I'm already too close to the ground to really catch an updraft to go sailing off to avoid traffic, so I'm pretty much going to land in the middle of a busy street, stopping traffic as I attempt to roll up this big-ass parachute. I'm freaking out. I'm going to jail, I just know there's a call going out over the police frequencies right now to catch me and put me in the slammer for creating a disturbance like this. Hell, I'm more worried about that than pulling off a landing that I can walk away from, especially considering I've never done this before and I have no clue what the hell I'm doing!

And then it occurs to me. Didn't I get my flu shot right after lunch? Haven't I only seen the Library Tower once on a tour of downtown L.A. and never seen it again? Aren't I actually sitting at my desk, supposedly editing a column for next week's issue?

Yeah, apparently I am. Damn, that flu shot is some powerful stuff.

Recipe for one JewBoy 1.0:
- Neuroses carefully bred and crafted by a doting mother over the course of many years who never bothered to bestow her son with a sibling who might also be the recipient of some mindgames
- Fanaticism about music
- Penchant for appreciating dry, off-the-wall, absurdist or English humor
- Smartass attitude carefully bred and crafted through years of watching Denis Leary, Lewis Black and Jon Stewart
- Mild geek factor (must be Mac-flavored)
- Road warrior appreciation and a craving for an open road on a good day with some kick-ass tunes
- Mild amounts of cynicism blended with sarcasm, balanced by realism and an occasional dash of optimism
- Horrible dating experiences
- Night person inclination and an inherent reaction to run down morning people with an antique push-mower

Mix and let simmer under pressure for several years. Serve at social functions with a garnish. If you're a Nice Jewish Girl, take home to Mom so that she will tell you to marry him before consuming.

Yes, folks, it's that magical day... today is Red Shirt Day!

[cue cheering children in the background]

Yes, Red Shirt Day -- the adult equivalent of wearing your lucky Superman Underoos to school. Nothing can go wrong on Red Shirt Day!

[Disclaimer: Red Shirt Day is brought you by the Magical Power of Believing. If you don't Believe, we claim no responsibility if your car doesn't start or you get a speeding ticket or your boss yells at you or you don't win that big radio contest or the dog pees on your carpet or your local bakery runs out of your favorite kind of muffin before you get there or you spill coffee on your freshly washed jeans or the cable goes out right as your favorite show is beginning or any other kind of minor catastrophe. You may be able to rectify the situation by clapping your hands loudly and announcing, "I believe in Red Shirt Day!" You must be wearing a Red Shirt in order to reap the benefits of Red Shirt Day.]

Okay, so Amazon.com sent me an e-mail virus tonight. In addition to that, I had to be a smartass to a friend who suggested that voter fraud contributed to Saddam Hussein's 100% victory in the polls in Iraq. When you can choose from Saddam, Saddam and, oh, Saddam... it's a little hard not to get 100% of the vote. Not surprisingly, the U.S. declared the results invalid. Personally, I think, given the circumstances, they're adequately valid. Not having anyone else to choose from doesn't make voting results invalid. It may make the entire election process invalid, but not the vote. I can't understand the rationale behind even having a vote. "Ooh, maybe they'll feel like they have a choice, even though they have to pick me!" However, I'm pleased to say that I'm now accepting nominations for the next President of Iraq once our Not-So-Fearless Leader runs in there and topples his regime. First up on the ballot: Yoko Ono. Staying at work past midnight means when you get home at 12:45AM, out of everything on TV at that particular point in time, the best option you have is House Party 3. Such a sad state of affairs...

So, according to Esquire, I fail at being a man because I know approximately three things on their list Things A Man Should Not Know. They even went so far as to make "Not" yellow so as to emphasis their point.

The items are:
1. How to say anything in Klingon.
21. The Chicken Dance.
36. The name of Rue McLanahan's character on The Golden Girls.

Now here comes the lengthy explanation in which I blubberingly attempt to justify knowing these things so that I can be welcomed back into the Brotherhood of Manly Men feeling cleansed. I seek absolution, if you will, for having sinned against St. Man. Here goes:

1. How to say anything in Klingon.
The fact that this was at the top of the list really does not make me feel better. Turning the page and starting off with this was a rather significant blow to the ego. However, it all stems from two incidents. The first was when we all started learning foreign languages in junior high school and it just wasn't cool anymore to swear in French or Spanish. The second was specifically when I was sitting in a restaurant and dropped a tomato slice in my lap -- thankfully, I had a napkin in my lap so it didn't get all over my jeans, but when I exploded out with "fuck!" my friends I was with gave me a look and one nudged me and said, "That five-year-old sitting behind you heard that -- and so did his mom." I realized at that point that if I was swearing that readily in public, I might accidentally let one fly during a conversation with a work client or something like that. So I picked up a few choice words in Klingon -- translated from our own curses -- and used them for a while. But that soon died out too.

Actually, that was a pretty pitiful excuse. I don't expect forgiveness on that one, but I'll still blubberingly ask for it.

21. The Chicken Dance.
Okay, so I'm Jewish. I've been to countless numbers of bar & bat mitzvahes, and I've been to a number of weddings. The DJ always plays this dumbass song. Eventually, you learn it just through osmosis. It's forced conditioning in my case. It's probably some kind of government conspiracy where we're all receiving subliminal messages, but we'll never know exactly what the trigger is or what we're being programmed to do. It's a good thing I still haven't heard "The Ketchup Song," because that's probably my unconditional trigger that will make me do something abjectly stupid like believe I'm saving the world by consuming all the mayonnaise in my ZIP code.

I have never made it a secret that I plan on getting a DJ for my wedding if/when I ever get married. And that DJ will receive a strict list of songs he/she can and can not play, with a threat that he/she will not get paid if any songs on the "do not play" list hit the speakers at any point during the reception. Hell, at this point, I'm considering just burning a few CDs and setting up some speakers and an amplifier hooked up to a CD changer. But rest assured, that The Chicken Dance is on the "do not play under threat of death and/or horrible dismemberment" list. If the DJ plays The Chicken Dance, I'll lock him in a room for four hours with only Andy Gibb's "Shadow Dancing" to listen to.

36. The name of Rue McLanahan's character on "The Golden Girls."
Okay, so I spent seven months on unemployment. And when you're unemployed, you tend to get stressed out a bit. This leads to insomnia. So when it's 4AM and 95% of the channels on TV are airing paid programming advertising The Jaguar Machine That Makes You Run In Mid-Air or the Incredible Baldness Cure That Involves Household Products Including Cat Urine and you've already watched all your VHS tapes and DVDs, you turn to the only channel airing something that's entertaining enough to pass the time until sunrise when you finally -- blissfully -- are tired enough to fall asleep. And that would be the Lifetime Network, which shows The Golden Girls at 4AM.

All in all, 3 out of 50 ain't bad, I suppose. So please... can you give me back my Brotherhood of Manly Men membership card and special permission slip allowing me to spit and scratch my crotch area in public and ogle women? I promise to run out immediately and do a keg stand before heading into a strip club.

I am my own barometer. If I don't sleep well, I know it's going to be cloudy or rainy or some other form of not sunny and perfect when I wake up. So it didn't come as a surprise to me this morning when my alarm finally went off and I looked outside to find a lack of sunshine and total cloud cover in its place. A little odd, considering I've come to expect 100% sun all the time from L.A., but I should've expected it seeing as how I woke up 3 times in the middle of the night last night.

Two items that prove that, eventually, the Advertising Powers-That-Be do kick in and justice is served:

1. Dude, you're gettin' the boot! Dell Dork Steve is being discontinued. Apparently, his ads were giving Dell sales the Blue Screen of Death.

2. If you can't beat 'em, don't try to rip 'em off. Microsoft pulls its "we found someone who did the opposite switch from Mac to Windows" ad after it's discovered that the woman who apparently switched back was a PR hack who works for a firm that Microsoft hired. Apple's got people coming out of the woodwork who are willing to give their full names and proclaim to the world that they gave up Windows for a Mac and they're happy about it, and Microsoft can't come up with a single person to say they went the other way without paying them and disguising their identity? Pardon me while I guffaw in the corner.

Keith is getting promoted at the end of the month. My plan for world domination moves forward. Bwahahahaaaaaaa...

So I was watching TV, and that Honey Nut Cheerios commercial comes on. You know, the one where the guy's walking around telling everyone he lowered his cholesterol. And I mean everyone. The kid next to him at the stop light. His co-workers. He even answers his phone, "Hi, I lowered my cholesterol."

My question is this: If someone came up to you and said a complete non-sequitur like that, how would you respond?

By the way... bonus points to whomever can place the title of this entry.

"You should never underestimate the predictability of stupidity."
-- Vinnie Jones, Snatch

So I go to the gym like 5 times a week now. And each time I go, it's pretty much a two-hour excursion. Since I go straight to work from home in the morning because I'm not a morning person and I want to sleep as late as I can, my evenings are locked up at the gym. I've unwittingly become what Mikey calls a "gym rat." At least I'm reaping some benefits -- lost 20 pounds since I started the hardcore workout routine.

But I'm not the kind of person who feels good after a workout is done. Yeah, I'm happy it's done and I feel better that I did it because then I don't feel guilty for not going to the gym, but during the workout, I can't think of anything more than "I want this to be over..." I seem to be the aberration in that so many people I talk to always ask me, "But don't you feel good after it's done?" No, I don't. I feel sweaty and tired and disgusting. That's not good for me. I feel better after I go home and shower and sit down for a little while. For all the gorgeous women there are at my gym, I'm not going to talk to any of them or ask them out because I probably look as disgusting as I feel while I'm working out.

Since I had so much time at night to kill while I was in Tucson because I was up late and my parents didn't have TVs or a computer in their new house, I read. For some reason, before I left, I picked up a handful of books at Borders on Silicon Valley, and I polished them all off before the weekend was done.

I don't know what it was that drew me to that subject, especially not at this particular point in time now that the entire scene spectacularly imploded a while ago. But it was interesting to see how things were "back then," when the Valley took on a life of its own and everyone had their grandmaster plan to get rich.

I used to be a bit player in that scene. I worked in high-tech public relations for several years while the whole boom was going on, and I fell victim to the implosion and was laid off when the industry collapsed. Not only did I have to drink the Kool-Aid, I had to pour it for others. And when I was finally laid off, I swore I'd never go back to that scene unless I absolutely positively had no choice. Which is why it aggravates me so much when my parents called tonight to say that among their mail was a notice from the City of Los Angeles for a job interview opening for some DWP (Dept. of Water & Power) PR position way the hell out in some place I'd never even heard of, and they kept pushing me to call and see about getting an interview even though the window for interviews had passed a week ago. I have a job that I haven't been laid off from (yet), I like my job and even though I'm not being paid much, I'm not going to leave it simply because it doesn't pay that well. I hated PR that much. I may have been good at it, but I still hated it.

We had some people come by our building to demonstrate a product to us last week, and I went down to see the demo. I got to talking with one of the guys who, after I asked a question, deferred to his partner because he said he was really just a PR guy and didn't have the answer. We chatted for a while about PR, and when I told him that I had worked in the field for several years and had jumped the fence to where I was now, I could hear the envy in his voice when he told me how things were going for him. He used all the lingo that I used to use with my PR friends to describe a not-so-great situation: "it's a sweatshop," "drinking the Kool-Aid" and so forth.

I may have moved to the state where Silicon Valley is, but I'm not a corporate shill. And I hope never to be again.