Meetings all day long

Whenever you have more than four people gathered with the sole purpose of making a single decision, the only thing they will not do is reach a decision. It's a magical formula. If I'd known that during my early professional business career, I'd totally be a CEO by now, for sure. Or maybe CFO. But definitely a V.P. of Marketing.

You thought I was going to talk about doughnuts, I know. Nope. Doughnuts are important and really good, but understanding today's meeting is a thing of interest.

I tell you what: the work-a-day business world by itself offers lots of satisfaction and joy, but the meeting, my friend, is where all the mystery and power happens. Like I always like to say . . . no meeting, no glory. Meetings are chock full of talking, doodling, acronyms, and time. Trust me.

From my own surround

Too bad the Play of the Day is limited to Sports Center, because I had the most amazing catch in the shower this morning. The bar of soap I was showering with slipped and started to plummet downward onto the combination shower-tub floor, and from nowhere I reached out and made an astonishing grab despite the bar's slippery-wet surface. This wasn't an ordinary bar of soap either. This wasn't no lightweight Lever 2000 or Ivory or what have you. This bar was heavy duty and mossy green, with delightfully scented complex notes and lathery goodness to leave my skin feeling fresh and alive. Once again, I was awesome.

While the world recovers from Oscar Night . . .

Here is President Bush trying to quell the insurgent uprising of some third graders.

Walter Scott's Personality Parade Practice

Do you think Walter Scott, 62, will ever retire from writing his weekly Walter Scott's Personality Parade? I hope he does. Because when he does, I'm getting ready to throw my hat into the ring as the new Walter Scott.

It would seem like a pretty awesome job, answering mail, getting to know about all the unimportant news people are thinking about. I've been practicing big-time for when he's ready to step aside. It's kind of embarrassing, I know, but because it's Oscar Night, I've decided to post my practice examples. Don't make fun, okay? It's not easy trying to be Walter Scott or a hard-hitting investigative journalist. He's like a machine if you ask me, delivering the goods, cutting to the heart of important celebrity and entertainment news. He knows everything, I swear. He makes it look easy, but it's clearly not. You'll see.

Q. Is this Oscar night going to include plunging necklines?
—Jim McGee, McKinney, Tex.

Yes, Jim, you can count on it. I don't suspect you'll see very many turtlenecks.

Q. When Johnny Depp put his hands in cement at Grauman's Chinese Theatre, he wore a wrist band. Any significance?
—Paula L., Palm City, Fla.

No. No significance, Paula. You can stop wondering about Johnny Depp's wrist band. At the end of the day, I think it's really unimportant; however, Johnny Depp's agent tells me the wrist band in question is inscribed with "I luv Paula L. of Palm City, Fla." Word is that he has other wrist bands he wears for other celebrity gatherings, which say "Paula L. 4Ever," "Paula L. is Hott," and "Paula L. is #1."

Q. Star Jones is a shadow of her former big-and-beautiful self. How much weight has she lost?
—Harriet S., Miami, Fla.

Jones, 43, lost a lot of weight. I'd say she lost anywhere from 100 to 200 pounds. Does that help? I hope it does because it's kind of a lame question. All you need to do is look at before-and-after pictures and go, "Yeah, Star Jones lost a lot of weight."

Q. Bette Midler did tribute albums to Peggy Lee and Rosemary Clooney. Does she plan any more?
—Martha Jennings, Ridgefield, Conn.

God, I hope not.

Q. I think Elizabeth Vargas is fine, fine, fine.
Dan O'Brien, Portland, Ore.

Oh man. Now we're talking. You got that right. I realize you're not really asking a question, but I totally agree with you. She's downright hott, Dan. I just love it when she gives me the news, don't you? For a half-hour every evening, I'm able to shed all my troubles and feel pretty special while pretending to listen to everything she says about the world we live in today. We should start a fan club, Dan, you and me. That would be pretty awesome.

Q. Why is the burial site of L. Ron Hubbard founder of the Church of Scientology so secret?
—Howard Needham, Needles, Calif.

I'm pretty sure it's because the Church of Scientology likes to keep things secret.

Q. Should we end the embargo with Cuba?
—Darrell Page, White Fish, Mont.

Yes. Definitely. There are no coherent arguments for why a country as powerful as the U.S. should bully a nation as small and poor as Cuba. And in case no one noticed, the General Assembly of the United Nations has overwhelmingly voted for an end to the U.S. trade sanctions with Cuba for like 15 years. What the fuck? Although this is a good question, I think you're supposed to ask me more celebrity life-style concerns. If you're into Cuba, for instance, you could ask me if Gloria Estafan has a chance of replacing Paula Abdul on American Idol or something.

Q. My husband has been suffering from bad feet fungus and occasional warts. I tried a vinegar solution, but it didn't help. Should I leave him?
—Kimberly Cooke, Middleton, Conn.

Again, you should stick to celebrity life-style obsessions. Besides, I'm only getting your side of the story, Mary, and that concerns me. I think I'd need to see your husband's feet to make a judgment on this.

Q. What does Academy Award winner Cate Blanchett eat for breakfast?
—Torsten Daly, Corncobby, Iowa

Chocolate doughnuts and Honey Nut Cheerios.

I'm now home, everyone

Not a huge entourage greeted me at the airport. Just as well. I probably wasn't looking my best, truth be told. My hair felt flat and my combination skin was beginning to show signs of patchiness. Dang patchiness. Anywho, I was pretty tuckered and beat down by all the people doing the InFlight magazine Sudoku puzzle. Not me. I was heavily contemplating buying the world's smallest indoor helicopter for $79.95. It looks totally handy.

Anywho, I made it. Can't thank you enough for all your prayers.

Well, time to get going. I plan to work out a little. Does UPS deliver on Saturday? I can never remember. Maybe my Ab Energizer arrived. It comes with free tightening gel, so that's good. It's raining outside. This would be an awesome day to sit back and watch my stomach muscles define themselves.

Terminal A from ATL

Well, here I am reporting to you live from Laptop Lane in the mini-nation of Atlanta International Airport. With six hours until my flight, you'd think I'd leave this jungle, head to Peach Tree Street and Buckhead and hang with the local peeps, take in the hottness of Hotlanta as they say. But I don't know. I looked at a map of this airport and it reminds of a certain 17-mile stretch of a Pennsylvania highway system. I think I'll chill. I think I best remain inside the Homeland Security Checkpoints. Terminal A isn't so bad, I guess. No razor wire or anything. And they've got a rockin' foodcourt that smells like french fries. Hmm. I see a Chili's down the way.

My mid-morning decree: make your local airport imitate the place it's serving. Make Dallas a li'l gaudy, make Pittsburgh a li'l rough, make Salt Lake City a place to remember your dead ancestors. Make Harrisburg a place without any signs.

Unfortunately, most airports are like Phoenix. They're deceptively arid, confusing, and not very interesting. On the other hand, it's not easy being an airport.

If airports aren't always under construction, they probably should be.

I actually feel sorry for them. They're big and slow, you know? And being big and slow and not very attractive or interesting is a brutal combo for anyone. No, really. Trust me.

Airports are filled with people who don't want to be there: people waiting for their flight to depart so they can get out of there (me), people waiting for a loved one to arrive so they can get out of there, people waiting in line so they can get out of there, and people waiting for their shift to end so they can get out of there and get drunk.

Going by plane used to mean Mom making sure my three brothers and I were dressed in sport combinations: a navy blazer and gray pants. We were happy. But now -- like everything else -- a trip to the airport is like a trip to Costco. The parking and traffic are the same and people are pushy and don't trust anyone.

Lots of people appear dazed and tired and aloof. Some seem marginally irritated. Many are bored. And the cuter the sleeping child sleeps in the concourse, the louder he will wail when he's seated in the row behind you.

And why are all the good-looking travelers always flying some place I wasn't invited to?

Gone in 60 seconds

Reporting to you live from the Harrisburg International Airport without any liquids, gels or lotions.

Dang dang dang. I missed my fricken fracken fricken airplane departure. You don't want to hear about it. I was sad. I was mad. And I was bad.

How did I find myself in such a very uncharacteristic predicament involving a lapse in my uncanny navigational abilities? That, my friend, is a complex question.

Officially, I lay the blame on my trip. I can't blame the burial plans of Anna Nicole Smith or the judge who broke down in tears. Nope. I can't blame my vastly improved bag-check acumen. I can't blame my vials of liquids, gels and lotions because they were left at the Hampton Inn in York, Pa. I actually said goodbye to my depleted vials of liquids, gels and lotions as they languished strewn about in the bathroom.

So, what's to blame for my current botheration at the great Harrisburg International Airport with icebergs piled up on the tarmac? I blame the trip. Pure and simple. Case closed, I think, maybe. Well, sort of.

As I see it, if I never traveled to the Quaker state of Pennsylvania, there's no way in hell I would've missed that airplane which is probably in the middle of Pennsylvania by now. No freaking way I'd have missed it. Damn you, trip trippy trip.

I'm pissed at my trip, okay? Let me be pissed. My trip sucks. My trip made me get up at four. When it gets right down to it, my trip is a good-for-nothing son of a bitch. Truth be known, my trip owes me a large, large latte.

But you know what? It's time to own up to my trip, too. It's time I look inward, take a li'l responsibility for my trip. It was I who was on my trip -- that's something we all need to remember. My trip didn't force me to do anything. Or maybe it did. I don't know anymore.

Look, my nerves are fried after hanging out with the York locals at the Harp & Fiddle Irish Pub last night only a block away from the first Continental Congress. Things are a li'l out of sorts right now.

And you know what I do when I'm feeling a li'l out of sorts? I look at the facts, that's what.

Fact: piloted aircraft and their crews will take off without me if I'm not on board.

Fact: if I make a split second decision that involves a missed freeway exit, I will add time to the time required to drop off my red economy-class car with bald tires.

Fact: If missing the exit means I can't turn around for 17 miles because of a fascinating Turnpike configuration, it will take me an additional 40 minutes to get to the airport.

I'm not one to argue facts. But before you begin to question my character ... hear me out: to miss my airplane by a matter of sixty seconds is actually pretty amazing. I'm pretty amazing. Awesome, really. I better go. I'm on standby for some air travel to Atlanta, which involves a departure in like five minutes.

Watch for the word "equidistant"

I'm tapped. I've been on the road. It's hard work being me, I know, but things worked out okay . . . especially the Irish pub part, which happened to be equidistant from where the Continental Congress signed the Articles of the Confederation in 1777 and where gunfire rang out in 2007. That's pretty awesome. William Bingham wouldn't have foresaw it. No way.

In summary, my travels were a success. I prevailed and currently feel triumphant. I had long conversations with a group from the great countries of Canada, Mexico, and U.S.A. I think we have a lot in common. We all like cookies and live in peace in North America.

Today's suggestion

I have an idea. If you're ever deciding where to put up street signs and communicate what's up ahead, or in the process of designing a highway, don't call Pennsylvania.

I'm not a savvy traveler

When on the road, I tend to get lost and not look at maps. It's a problem I have. When it's time to check my bags with inspectors with white shirts and badges, I'm old school.

And just because I'm a morning person doesn't mean I remember to empty out my pockets just before I get to walk through the gray radioactive detector device. My palms begin to sweat and next thing I know, I've forgotten to take out my laptop and separate out my gels, liquids and lotions that accompany my travels.

Anywho, I wasn't doing a good job in the eyes of Homeland Security or all the men and women wearing important business suits -- visitors, obviously. And I think I really began to stand out after I sent my boarding pass through the x-ray conveyor belt machine.

That's when the man behind the security apparatus and gray tubs looked at me and said: "Sir, you're going to get the full treatment this morning."

That's what he said. Full treatment. I was psyched. But then he asked me to follow him around a taped-off corner as he snapped on a pair of Latex gloves.

It didn't take long to realize that I was going to be made an example of. The Homeland Security Inspector General asked if I had any sharp instruments or weapons. He opened my Smuggler™ suitcase and told me not to make any sudden movements or reach into the suitcase. That's what he said. You think I'm making this up, but I'm not.

"No, sir," I said. "No weapons." I said it loud enough for the hundreds of passing travelers heading for Concourse D, E and F not to worry.

The Homeland Security Inspector General didn't really care what I said because he went right for my tube of toothpaste. "See this?" He held it up. "This exceeds the amount of liquid substance per container."

I looked at the pink and blue Crest tube in his hand and was actually impressed by how well My Lady rolled it up for me. It had one of those tight-tight curls on the end so all the good stuff was motion forward, pushed to the cap. I won't bore you, but my Crest tube never looked so good.

I wish I had an ending, but I don't. The man swabbed everything but my person with what looked like a long wand/scraper with a disposable spongey pad attached.

Now I'm sitting here in a hotel room without any toothpaste. And so far, there isn't much to say about York, Pa., other than what the rental car agent said after he asked where I was headed. I told him I was driving to York and he said: "Oh, good. For a second I thought you said 'York.'"

I'm headed to York, Pa.

I'm headed across this great land tomorrow. I'm flying to Pennsylvania. I wonder if I'll run into Andy Reid or Donovan McNabb. Or Chocolate Thunder. Maybe he'll do one of his Wham-Bam-I-Am-Jam slam dunks for me. Hmm.

So far, the Keystone State has eluded me. I've driven across Ohio, New York, New Jersey, Delaware and Maryland, but so far I've yet to enter the Commonwealth of William Penn. No particular reason. Nothing against Pennsylvania or Quakers. Growing up in Portland and S.F., Pennsylvia and Quakers haven't presented themselves to me. Neither is on the way to anything. So . . . tomorrow's my chance.

I really need to brush up on my Pennsylvania Dutch greetings and rent that new Dick Vermeil movie. And I should watch Witness too, that suspenseful drama with Harrison Ford and that actress I can't remember. Another reason to see it: in case I run into some Amish people at a weed and feed store or something. I'd tell them I live walking distance to the Linnton Feed & Seed back home. I'd ease any racial tension they might feel while they're stocking up on straw and candles. I'd make them feel right at home in their own home. It'll be awesome.

I'll extend a welcoming hand for sure. Maybe I'd say something like, "Don't worry: I've witnessed Witness." Hah! Then: "I come to you as a friend. I come from the Northwest borough in the municipality of Portland of the great Oregon Territory." I'd extend an open hand. After that I could explain a little about the rustic nature of my own neighborhood. Aside from the AM/PM station down the hill and the loud barges pulling up to the oil-tank farms, Linnton is basically the Amish country of Portland neighborhoods, unless the natural gas smell is especially bad that day. Nonetheless, me and the Amish will laugh and joke and share stories about our peoples and what makes a good horse whip these days.

I'll let you know what I see in York.

Keep NASCAR pure!

The Daytona 500 race was today. Did you watch it? I'll bet it was awesome. I meant to watch it, but I decided to scour around our kitchen sink instead. The grout was getting a little dull and dingey. I used a baking powder solution, with just a touch of dishwasher detergent. I tried to keep things pure, but I don't know.

Anywho, I assume the Daytona 500 winner went faster than everyone else. The driver must've been awesome with his clutch, gas pedal and stick shift. I can only hope his fuel was pure and the quadropoles checked out okay. I'm so glad we have a winner. Congrats.

In case you don't know a lot about auto racing: those stock cars haul ass.

I understand they caught all the cars that were on the juice. Cheating bastards. Doping is bad enough, but when your car does it . . . holy cow. Anywho, I'm glad they're testing the cars for performance-enhancing foreign substances. It's reassuring that the authorities keep NASCAR cars clean from corruption and rocket fuel additives. With global warming and all, the crack down makes perfect sense. I think race car fuel should be pure, pure, pure. If you ask me, Techron is fine, but I draw the line on V-Power. That stuff can be nasty nasty. That's my .02.

He's my people

I'm not going to be ashamed of his fake eye. He's family. My peeps. This great-great man before you is my actual Great-Great Grandfather, born 1832.

I've never been too sure if I should call him Great-Great Granddad or Great-Great Grandpops or what, so I'm going stick with Great-Great Grandfather. He looks all stately and dignified. Granted, he's not too attractive -- I'll give you that -- and that beard of his is on the scraggly side as far as beards go -- but he's one tough motherfucker. He's from my mom's side -- a Smith -- so I now have insight into where I got my awesome good looks: definitely from my dad's side.

For the record (in case you're a genealogist or a Mormon), my Great-Great Grandfather's name is George. Yep. George Rogers Smith. Pretty cool, huh? In fact, I'm pretty sure the 1980 Heisman Trophy winner was actually named after my Great-Great Grandfather. Who wouldn't want to name their son after a less-than-moderately good looking fighting man who heeded the call of Honest Abe?

My Great-Great Grandfather made sacrifices as a forage master for the 77th New York Infantry. Yes, he was a brave man. Just look at that face. That's a courageously brave man's face if you ever saw one. It's obvious. He took a musket ball in the right eye. How much braver do you need?

Nothing in the family archives mentions his eye injury, but I imagine his vision was forever changed after charging up a hill or pushing onward through a thicket to free some slaves and putting a world of hurt on some secessionist bastards.

My people's records say he was only 5'7" and owned a jewelry business. He must've liked the bling. I guess my people were more proud of his jewelry-business accomplishments than explaining his disfigured eye. That sounds like us. We're a humble bunch.

My Great-Great Grandfather died the day after Christmas, 1897. Word is that the ol' cusser crushed a finger in a corncob cutter, which got infected, festered, and gave him tetanus. The official cause of death: lockjaw. You'd think I was making this up, but I'm not. What's a guy with a jewelry business doing with a bad corncob cutter, anyway? I've never even seen a corncob cutter before now. After seeing one, I would've said he died from a high-power diamond cutter.

And now he's on the Internet with his fake eye, looking all brave and shit. I kind of hope he's surfing the Worldwide Web from heaven right now, appreciating the tribute being made by his amazing and brilliant Great-Great Grandson (me).

"That's my Great-Great Grandson doing all this blobbing?" he might be saying, feeling his glass eye. "Wow. He's awesome. He sure knows how to use all this newfangled technology. And I can sure tell he's handsome." I might be exaggerating. He could just as well be pissed off: "Good God, Great-Great Grandson. That's the best likeness you could find?"

Let's have a posty!!

TODAY'S MY MOM'S BIRTHDAY, EVERYONE!!! SHE'S 79. NO KIDDING. 79 AND HAPPY AND HEALTHY AS ALL GET-OUT!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM!!! LET'S HEAR IT FOR MY MOM!!! YAY MOM!!! LOVE YOU!!! YOU'RE GREAT!! THANKS FOR HAVING ME!!! No, really. I totally appreciate it.

This is the day of the martyr of love

Happy St. Valentine's Day, Internet!!! Notice I attributed this annual day of love and romance to a Latin-Rite feast day? Did you notice, because that’s what I did. I attributed Feb. 14 to an old saint who got lost in a billion dollar orgy of candies, flowers, stupid cards and red hats. Did I say red hats? I meant red hearts. I love St. Valentine’s Day because it reminds me of St. Patrick’s Day. I dress up for St. Valentine’s Day. I wear a diaper so I won’t have to go to the bathroom all day to prove my devotion.

I sure hope everyone on the Internet is telling someone on the Internet how much they love a special someone. That's what Saint Valentine would've wanted. And he definitely wouldn't have minded if two gay people said that to each other, “Will U Marry Me?” In fact, Saint Valentine came to me in a dream this morning and said: "What's all this noise about gay marriages and shit? That ain't no real issue. Sheez, man. Deal with all that serious shit going down in Mesopotamia first, then decide who to discriminate against. Holy moley. I'm going back to the ether and clouds and cupid's love shack. Later, dude."

That's what Saint Valentine said to me, except I made up his accent. I made him talk all street for dramatic effect. Not bad, I know. I’m good at accents. I’ll see everyone tomorrow. I luv you.

Probably not qualified anyway

I think I'm going to look into employment at Blackwater, but I don't know. Kind of scary, and I'm not sure I've got the right stuff. I'm not on the juice. I'd definitely need to bulk up. They'd probably expect me to have some sort of weapons or special forces training, and I don't have that. The least I can do is spend some time getting tagged by some fourteen-year-olds with paintballs. The bottom line: I need to build on my skills. I've got to start pumping some iron, but that takes a lot of time.

I've wielded a b.b. gun once, and I tried to take out a wounded robin red-breast with a shovel, but that was a mercy-kill attempt, and I couldn't really finish the job, so that technically wouldn't count. They'd probably see right through me, even without mentioning the robin red-breast part. Maybe if I wore one of those flak jackets Blackwater sells from its online store. Hmm. Not bad. It might look like I'm all business. I should also rent a Hummer, maybe park it on the curb. My dad always said to make a statement. What I really need is that Hummer I saw the other day, which had XTREME2 license plates. I could show up to the interview all pissed off about how I was actually really more extreme than I appear, but you wouldn't know it because the DMV said XTREME1 was already taken.

Dennis Kucinich meets the judges

Simon: Haven’t we seen you before? Do you honestly think you can win this competition? If I’m going to be completely honest with you, your ears are too big, you’re too short, you don’t look or sound presidential, and no one can pronounce your name. Absolutely dreadful, Dennis.

Paula: You know what, Dennis? I like you. I’m glad you decided to come back. You shine. There's something honest and sweet about you, and I can already tell you have a unique special-ness inside. People all over Berkeley and Madison, Austin and Portland will love you, I can already tell. And you remind me a little bit of Paul Tsongas, who I used to adore. I could listen to you forever, Dennis. Keep it up. Don’t stop believing. You’re a special candidate. Great job!

Simon: I completely disagree. He has bad hair -- look, we’re trying to find the best of the best here, and quite frankly I don’t know why you even bothered showing up tonight. You’ve wasted our time and yours. Bad. Structurally, systemically, you name it: bad. Odds are you’ll be out of a job in a few months, so you should start looking for another line of work. Perhaps go try your luck on Star Search or Crossfire, but if that’s the best you got, don’t bother.

Randy: Dawg, wut up? Talk to me, dawg, how’d you think you did? Cuz I don’t know, dawg. I really like what you’re saying and all that, but I just wasn’t feelin' you all the way, DK. You got that George McGovern thing going, but you seemed a little nervous, you know? Dude, we needed your A-game tonight. I'm torn because you really needed to bring it.

Simon: Okay, whatever. Yes or no? Paula? Randy?

Paula: All the way, Dennis. You glow, you really do.

Simon: Randy?

Randy: I say give him a chance. I say, yes. You’re going to Iowa, baby!!

Time for Top Five Favorites

This is what bloggers do. Yes! They list their favorites. So I compiled a list of my favorites. These are some of my favorites for this day:

My Top Five Favorite Survey Questions:
1. What is the most over-rated type of wood?
2. If you had $100 right this second why might it not be worth it?
3. Complete the following sentence: "Fred Durst is a ____ child."
4. What is muskrat love and who is your favorite band?
5. How do you typically climb into bed?

My Top Five Action Words to make Anna Nicole's resumé stand out, if she were still alive:
1. Posed
2. Waved
3. Augmented
4. Slept in
5. Slurred

I forgot two large details

After doing an Anna Nicole Smith Google image search, I realized I forgot something in my inaugural post. Someone mentions Anna Nicole Smith and what do you think of? Her opinions on the affordability of health care? Her hopes for stronger labor unions? Okay, okay, you think about her views on habeas corpus, but that's you. Just don't let me ever forget: Anna Nicole Smith had very large breasts. They were absotively jigh-normous.

Remembering Anna Nicole Smith

I didn't really know her. I know Anna Nicole Smith was a spokesmodel. Actually, I'm not sure about the speaking part. But I know Anna Nicole Smith had blond hair and she was typically referred to by her first, middle, and last names (a la Ruth Bader Ginsburg), which probably said a lot about her character. I'm not sure what it said about her character, but it said a lot.

What do I most remember about Anna Nicole Smith? I remember Anna Nicole Smith wasn't a journalist or a physicist, but she was tall! I remember that. I'd guess she was like 6'5". She probably towered over Tom Cruise and Sylvester Stallone whenever their paths crossed at Hollywood galas and such.

Someone said this morning that Anna Nicole Smith's first son died of an overdose while her daughter was being born. Like right in the delivery room. Yikes. Now that's tragic. "Hey, li'l sis. Meet your big brother. Oh wait. Where did he go? He was just here a second ago."

Well, that's about it. Except I didn't mention the men in her life. The men in Anna Nicole Smith's life were young, old, and really, really old.

I'll be sure to let everyone know what I find out during these next few days of mourning, resurrected nude photos, and legal battles.