the ocean

Trippin'

I'm going to take a vacation in August, but I can't figure out where to go. Since I'm sure that most of my readers would like to "tell me where to go" on a pretty regular basis, I thought I'd ask all of you what you think. The person with the best suggestion gets, oh, I don't know, a magic unicorn. Aren't promises just so much easier to make once you abandon all intention of keeping them?

My criteria for the trip are rather simple. First, I probably will only get to leave for about a week. After that, my parole officer is bound to notice the absence. Second, I want to go somewhere with ruins. (Historical ruins -- I'm not talking a trailer park in Arkansas, here.) Third, there must be beaches and good weather, so I can lie in the sun and pretend that January in Chicago will never happen again. Oh, and ideally I'd like to be able to get a monkey to eat out of my hand. One of those little Outbreak-style monkeys (minus the disease), not one of the big Planet-of-the-Apes-style ones. I'm not an idiot, okay?

Other things to keep in mind? I don't want to be abducted by a terrorist cell unless absolutely necessary. Also, it would be better to not be stuck in a hurricane, earthquake, or plague. Oh, and I'd really like to go somewhere where the exchange rate allows me to live like a king as peasants scramble for the very scraps from my table. Sound doable?

Vacations are so much fun!

Brave New World

I now have a digital camera. I am really excited about this. Previously, when I wanted to post photos, I had to scan something from my collection, usually involving me in a retarded costume. I had to use my parents' scanner, which I could never do without sitting through the same thorough tutorial I've heard a million times and didn't need the first time, the on switch being fairly easy to locate. Plus, I never had shots of the really interesting stuff in my life, like the booklet depicting Jesus as a dinosaur handed to me by a crazy person on the street or the bizarre, possibly living substance in my bottom desk drawer. It was all very regrettable.

But now everything's going to change! I can take random pictures whenever I feel like it and transfer them straight to my computer. I'm sure this will make my life worth living. For example, tonight I took a picture of our scary back stairs:

I have fallen down these stairs approximately thirty-seven thousand times, and without the aid of alcohol. They look like they might collapse at any time, don't they? They actually make a sort of screaming sound when you walk on them. At the very least, I think this picture depicts how much our back staircase looks like the place where the murder would happen. And this is WITH the flash. Shudder.

Wow, what should I take a picture of next? Our scary laundry room? The scary contents of our refrigerator? Myself dressed as The Korean War in honor of Memorial Day? The possibilities are endless.

Of course, it took me over an hour to figure out how to post this shot, so let's just hope it's a pretty steep learning curve. Scary stairs, though, man. How totally worth it.

Life in the Fast Lane

Before I begin describing my day in Quincy, you all have to promise to not be jealous. It will be difficult, but it will help you to grow as people. Sort of like the time your mom wouldn't buy you the Hypercolor shirt you wanted. But without the crying in Chess King.

I rose at ten to the sound of my parents watching Matlock reruns at top volume in the living room. A tiny dog immediately jumped on my bed and began licking my face, causing me to briefly wonder if my face wash is poisonous. (It is not.) I had some two-month-old Fruit Loops for breakfast (tasted the same) and went for a quick run. Then it was time to shower and dress in my most 1940s-style clothes for a lunch engagement with my grandmother. Tragically, I lacked both a bowler and spats.

For a woman who recently murdered a reptile in cold blood (no pun intended), grandmother was in pretty good shape. We covered a number of her favorite topics, from what it was like to be a secretary at the courthouse in the 1940s to the things that are wrong with everyone she knows. The menu was ham sandwiches and bacon crackers.

After that, a jaunt to the park to play tennis with my sister. I managed to lose fairly badly, despite the fact that she is tiny and has a knee problem. Then we lay out on the lawn and read the back issues of Entertainment Weekly that have been accumulating at my parents' house. Tragically, the Spring Movie Preview is no more exhilerating in late May.

Still to come? Dinner from Quincy's newest sandwich restaurant! And I'm kind of hoping to rent some painfully unfunny theatrical vehicle for a middle-aged comedian. Again, remember your jealousy pledge.

Busy Times

My parents have been in town the past few days; besides the usual trips to second-tier fast food restaurants and historical sites of questionable interest, this has meant a severe lack of free time. I haven't checked e-mail in 36 hours and I was reduced to watching the Lost season finale between the hours of 1 and 3 AM on Thursday. Suffice it to say that, for old folks, Dr. John and Dr. Barb really know how to rave.

So I'm actually somewhat relieved to be checking in at work today, even if I did have a stack of curtly-worded edits and inane interoffice memos about upcoming window washings waiting for me. Normalcy does have an allure all its own, especially when you've spent two days listening to accounts of your parents' teaching triumphs and stories about relatives you don't remember. Bring on the unnecessary staff meetings, people.

But, alas, the next few days hold little save Seventh-Heaven-style family bonding time. Tonight I'm headed back to Quincy, IL, for a three-day weekend in the land of corn and Super Wal-Mart. When I'm not playing Pinochle with my grandmother, I'll probably be shopping for perennials with my mother or debating the latest theories of first language acquisition with my father. If I can take a break from this tragically full schedule, I'll try to post.

My Secret Shame

I do not have a Dominick’s Fresh Value Card.

It’s foolish, really, I know. I shop there every single week. I am sure I could save enough to feed an entire African village, or buy myself the new Mariah Carey CD, depending on my level of insanity. But I simply do not have the energy to make everyone wait while I fill out the paperwork. I have been the one in line behind the paperwork-filler-outer before, and my heart filled with cold black hatred. I honestly believe that people would be justified in pelting me with produce should I decide to undertake the Fresh Value ritual hazing while they’re waiting to scan out their Lean Cuisines. And though I feel I am man enough to weather a shower of string beans, chances are the mangoes would really hurt.

But now there’s a little psychodrama that plays out at the checkout every week. The employees of Dominick’s are, it seems, utterly incapable of understanding how someone can live without the prospect of Fresh Values coming his way. They shake their heads, sigh, and cluck their tongues at my failure to save seven cents on my Kraft slices. They point meaningfully at the spot on the receipt where, in bold print, it notifies me how much I could have saved on this trip. And occasionally, they go so far as to actually disbelieve my claim of non-membership, repeatedly exhorting me to enter my home phone number to earn my shot at two for one twinkies. I half expect them to call security on my valueless ass.

Maybe they’ll sign me up for the club at the service desk. Otherwise, I think my only option at this point is to move.

Difficulties

I have to make a goodbye card for one of my supervisors at work. Required sentiment is always so difficult for me; on the last baby shower card to cross my desk I wrote "Hooray for babies!" What makes this worse is that we were told to "be creative" and "write a note, pen a poem, or draw a picture." I’m just not that sure that anyone wants to read a haiku about that awkward conversation I had with my supervisor about family karaoke or see my visual depiction of the time I was high on Dayquil at her Thanksgiving party. I’m contemplating maybe just writing a poem where each letter of her name is used to reference a different complimentary adjective. If it was good enough for my mom when I was in second grade, it should be good enough for the woman who could determine the course of my professional life, right?

In other news, I have recently discovered that some gentlemen at my gym believe it is appropriate to change directly back into their work clothes, sans shower, after a workout. Is this not perhaps the most disgusting thing you have ever heard not involving a dead baby or Michael Jackson? Seriously, guys, either your workout or your hygiene needs to be bumped up a notch.

And I have nothing cool to read right now. I finished off the Faulkner and all I have left in my apartment is a volume of T.S. Eliot that I feel like I wouldn’t be able to comprehend while being jostled and groped on the train. Oh, and that book of "comedy" pieces apparently culled from amateur night at the Laugh Factory and the reject bin at Reader’s Digest that my mom got me for Christmas. I think it’s time for a library trip, no matter how smelly it may be.

The More You Know

Weekend of learning here, folks.

Lesson One: Don’t listen to weather forecasts. Those so-called "meteorologists" make them up between hosting gigs at middle school talent shows and meetings of their Pat Sajak fan clubs. For some reason I paid attention to all that mumbo jumbo about "cold fronts" and "Doppler radio" on Saturday and ended up heading to the beach under cloud cover thicker that Tom Cruise’s beard. If you can’t see the sun, it’s probably not "mostly clear."

Lesson Two: If you have to wait two hours for your table at the tapas place, maybe don’t spend that whole time drinking. You will end up ordering about six plates of mashed potatoes and, for some reason, scallops. The sangria will be delicious, though.

Lesson Three: Not everyone loves The OC. If you start screaming things about Kirsten to random passersby, they may not know what you’re talking about.

Lesson Four: Don’t underestimate White Sox fans. They do amazing little victory dances, even if their movement is somewhat impaired by their girth. And the minute you make some comment about their potential illiteracy, they surprise you by buying a round for the entire row. Just remember that they’re much more scared of you than they are than them.

Lesson Five: Don’t cross my 93-year-old grandmother. Apparently she bludgeoned a snake to death this Sunday. Need I say more?

Lesson Six: Charisma is not a job requirement for bishops. Seriously one of the least fascinating masses I’ve ever seen. I mean, you’d think he could at least announce that illness is a punishment for sin or hold up some pictures of fetuses. I’m all about the visual aids.

Let the learning continue...

The Week in Stupid Things I've Done

Sunday -- Locked self out of apartment while going for mail, which of course is not delivered on Sundays.

Monday -- Accidentally made uncomfortable comparison between supervisor and certain species of large mammal within hearing distance of supervisor.

Tuesday -- Ran five miles immediately after eating burrito.

Wednesday -- Watched America's Next Top Model.

Thursday -- Stepped in remnants of glass I broke a week ago; in haste to apply first aid to foot, neglected to clean up glass once again. Repeated process until loss of blood caused lightheadedness.

Friday -- Jammed knee into el turnstile at top speed while running for the train; spent twenty minutes before next train came devising crude methods of physical therapy.

Saturday -- Documented own stupidity at length in publicly accessible forum.

TV and Not TV

How amazing was The OC season finale last night? The whole "Kirsten is suddenly an alcoholic" thing was a real tearjerker and they may finally have found a way to make Marissa not totally useless. Plus the softer side of well-known porn star Julie Cooper-Nichol! I am sort of wondering if Zach has suddenly been deported in the grand tradition of Alex, Lindsay, and that random yard guy, but I guess I'll just deem that a cliffhanger and move on.

And though I forgot to set my TiVo for the Apprentice finale, I was happy to hear that Kendra won. She lacked Tana's bedazzler skills and Lifetime-suitable demeanor, but I really did like her car brochure. Such fonts!

Oh, and I finally met my new roommate last night. She seems much cooler than any person randomly selected off the internet has any right to be. In fact, I would place the chances of her going nuts and killing me with the salad shooter fairly close to zero. We chatted about keys and remote controls and had a little Thai food. The Cohens would be proud.

Duress to Impress

For some reason, I feel a strong need for my doctor’s approval. I’m not sure why this is; anybody who types with one finger and decorates his office with old Beetle Bailey strips can’t be that cool, M.D. or no M.D. But I continually find myself going way overboard in an attempt to impress him. For instance, this morning:

Doctor: So, your cholesterol is higher than last time you were in. Have you been exercising?
Jay: Oh yeah. Definitely. I run fifteen miles a day.
Doctor: Really?
Jay: Well, sure, unless I happen to run by a burning building along the way and have to dive in to save some handicapped orphans. Then I might only do ten miles.
Doctor: Well, what about your diet?
Jay: Nothing but oat bran and green vegetables, doc. I think people who eat fried foods should be publicly stoned.
Doctor: Hmmm. I’m going to recommend a psychiatric referral.

And it’s not just the doctor. A few months back I lured my dentist into the web of lies:

Dentist: Have you been flossing regularly?
Jay: Flossing? Oh God yes. You can't stop me. I floss two or three times a day. Two or three times an hour, even. People are beginning to worry about me.
Dentist: Well, good, because flossing is not only good for your gums, but it also prevents heart disease and hurricanes.
Jay: I truly believe that God, if He exists, can be found in a pack of mint-flavored dental tape.
Dentist: It’s highly unorthodox, but I think I’m going to recommend a psychiatric referral here.

And just for good measure, let’s take the trolley to the mechanic’s shop, my own little neighborhood of make believe:

Mechanic: Do you know when you last had this thing serviced?
Jay: Hmmmm. Yeah, that’s tricky. Yesterday, maybe? I’ll have to look at my scrapbook of service records and receipts.
Mechanic: Well, it doesn’t look like the oil’s been changed for some time.
Jay: I can only attribute that to gypsy thieves.
Mechanic: I can’t send you to a psychiatrist, but I can asphyxiate you with exhaust fumes if you don't stop talking.

We’ve all got problems, people. Don’t you judge. Don’t you dare judge.

Fired Up

In a hotly contested election this fall, I was named the fire marshal of my floor at the office. I say "hotly contested" in the sense that everyone was doing everything possible to avoid receiving the title, to the extent that my opponents attacked me with unfounded accusations of "reliability" and "levelheadedness" and even went so far as to be out of the office on election day. So I accepted the post with a speech extolling the virtues of "someone having to do it" and proudly took on my shiny yellow flashlight and vaguely-WWII-reminiscent armband. Anyone who says power is an aphrodisiac clearly has not seen this getup.

The duties of a fire marshal, in case you are wondering, include attending meetings about terrible things that could possibly happen to your coworkers (but not the fun kind of terrible things) at which you squint at poorly drawn maps of your floor, putting on a concerned face to tell people which stairs they're supposed to take or which food court they're supposed to congregate at in the event of Armageddon (but not the movie), and dealing with people's sarcastic remarks during the thousands of annual fire drills (but not by setting them on fire). As the great philosopher said, with great power comes great responsibility.

Unfortunately, I have yet to be in my office for a single fire-related activity. Apparently, danger only strikes when I am at lunch, peeing, or making a run to Starbucks. Although it is always delightful to hear everyone else describe the various crises on my return, I can't help but feel that eventually there will be fatalities. It is possible to spearhead a campaign for one's own impeachment? Come on, people, think of the children.

Department of Tourism

There’s a weird enjoyment to be had, I think, in playing the tour guide for out of town visitors. First of all, you can totally lie to them, since they’re not really going to know that the Sears tower isn’t actually built entirely out of recycled materials or that the Batman movies weren’t technically filmed at your home. Secondly, it serves as a clearinghouse for all kinds of true but totally useless information that can cause waxy buildup in your head if not periodically disseminated. Face it, nobody in your everyday life wants to hear all those facts about the great Chicago fire you picked up at the Historical Society, so you might as well inflict them on visitors. Go ahead and use a tour guide voice and walk backwards while gesturing at things, if you like.

But I think the best thing about entertaining guests is that you get to go to all the places that actual city residents generally avoid like Kim Cattrall at a Sex & The City reunion. You can indulge your secret fantasy of riding the Ferris wheel and eating a $6 hot dog at Navy Pier, stand in line for seven hours to buy a cheap tube top at H & M, and even enjoy the bewitching combination of surly waitstaff and fatty foods in enormous portions that only The Cheesecake Factory can provide. Such extravagance is not justifiable unless you’re celebrating an occasion.

This weekend, though, I took a more casual route. I did end up taking my friends to the zoo, where the animals were on extra perky and cute mode, as though flying in the face of that institution’s recent mortality rate, but mainly we just enjoyed the nice weather and the ample array of food and drink available in this city. Oh, and walked about nine thousand miles, resulting in some women’s-footwear-induced injuries for my friend Jodi and a minor Sunday afternoon coma for myself, but no permanent damage.

Really, don’t you think that ought to be our new tourism slogan? Chicago: No Permanent Damage.

Madness, Windows Into

I have had Play-Doh in my office for the past week and it’s been an absolute delight. Freud would probably have a field day with my creations, but to hear people tell it, he has a field day pretty frequently. What the hell is a field day, anyway? I grew up among the fields, and I have to say I find it impossible to believe you could fill a whole day out there.

A couple of my friends are coming into town this weekend, and I’m trying to figure out what I should take them to do. Is it sad that I’ve got like a hundred ideas for restaurants to go to, but no real plan otherwise? I was thinking about taking them to the zoo, but now the animals keep dying there and it looks like it’s going to rain, anyway. Maybe I should just force them to drink until they black out and then tell them we went to the Sears Tower. It’s about the same effect.

I’m about halfway through Light in August and so far it’s completely lovable. After ploughing through so much drab realism, I’m really enjoying the dose of three-pages-without-punctuation, burn-down-the-plantation-style crazy. And I admit it, I’m a total sucker for things happening in the books I read. Maybe because I spend eight hours a day motionless at a desk. Well, motionless except for the Play-Doh.

New roommate is also coming in this weekend. I’m a little nervous. What if she turns out to be a skinhead or a bass fishing enthusiast? Guess I’d better brush up on my rods and reels, just in case.

Who Wants Cake?

Different offices handle people’s birthdays in different ways. The first law firm I worked for, for instance, ignored my birthday entirely. This was not necessarily a bad thing. The specter of Gladys from bookkeeping clapping her hands and singing "Happy Birthday" would have been enough to make me age ten years instead of just the one. Another firm I worked for used birthdays to enforce the rigid caste system, forcing people’s secretaries to plan elaborate fetes for them, distributing Peanuts greeting cards and spending hours at a time baking absurdly complicated dishes endorsed by a pre-prison Martha Stewart. Nothing says, "Hey, buddy, you’re over the hill!" like a little good old fashioned slavery.

My current office, though, finding individual birthdays a little bit too frequent and, well, individual for its taste, has devised a plan whereby we celebrate everyone’s birthdays at once every three months or so. We all gather around the conference table, which has been decked out in paper plates and plastic spoons for the occasion, and eat one of approximately three varieties of cake, each with the same sickeningly sweet frosting. Once, when we were feeling really crazy (it might have been last summer’s birthdays), we had an ice cream cake. Then we sit around for thirty to forty-five minutes and either A) try to remember things about each other’s personal lives (as in "Hey, Janice, how’s that pottery class going?" or "So, Phil, did Martha’s scabies ever clear up?") or B) just give up and talk about work. There’s no singing, the word "birthday" is pretty much not even mentioned, and the party is held without regard to the ability of the purported honorees to attend. Who says that bureaucracy doesn’t work?

So hey, if your birthday is in March, April, or May, it’s your special day, and you didn’t even know it. Sorry we ate all your cake.

Near-Death Cab Experience No. 304

Everything started pretty typically. I got in the cab, shrunk back momentarily from the odor, fumbled helplessly with the broken seat belt, and gave the address at least six times with different explanatory footnotes. We tore off into the night without any regard for anyone's personal safety. It was fun for everyone.

But only a few minutes into our journey, I noticed that we were veering into oncoming traffic with a frequency somewhat greater than the standard. Then I observed that my driver was having to inquire as to our destination somewhat more often than would seem appropriate for a non-coma-patient. Then I heard the snoring.

Yes, my cab driver was falling asleep at the wheel.

Of course, he attempted to camouflage his frequent cat naps with occasional remarks about the weather or how much he liked public radio, but he had a pretty rough time concealing all of the eye closing and plowing through stop signs.

Needless to say, I finished my journey home on foot.

Of all the jobs in the world, wouldn't you think that "cab driver" is towards the top of the list in terms of the need to remain conscious?

Bulletin Board

-- Athleticism. Yesterday I went for an extra long run and I think I may now be permanently disabled. Seriously, when I sit down I have to ease into the chair like a pregnant woman. A pregnant woman with rickets.

-- People Magazine's Most Beautiful People. Julia Roberts is pretty? Stop the presses! I think they ought to inject some controversy into the whole thing by selecting celebrities who have suffered deformities or really let themselves go. Tobey Maguire, call your agent!

-- Desperate Housewives. Remember when interesting things used to happen on this show? I mean, besides Marcia Cross's insane facial expressions? I think it's time for another murder. I'm looking at you, Teri.

-- Spirituality. I actually fell asleep during the sermon at my church yesterday. I dreamed that I was eating a burrito. It was the most delicious mass ever.

-- High Art. There's an installation at the MCA that contrasts images from Iraq with hardcore porn. I guess that's one way to get young people interested in the arts. Now if only they can somehow incorporate masturbation into the symphony.

For Mother

Listen, I know you're busy. But can't you take a little time out this Mother's Day to remember all the wonderful things your mother has done for you this year?

-- Campaigned against local ballot initiative banning you from all Payless Shoe Stores.
-- Supported your bid to become first African-American male to serve as Miss Teen USA.
-- Attended premiere of your independent film "Shouts and Weeping."
-- Finally bought you that Barbie Dream House.
-- Wrote letter to Ann Landers seeking help with your bed wetting problem.
-- Liberated the Iraqi people.
-- Submitted personal ad on your behalf to Leather Daddy Magazine.
-- Placed conciliatory phone call to mothers of mean girls who called you "Fatty McPizzaface."
-- Laughed at your Terri Schiavo jokes even if it was too soon.
-- Agreed with you that Million Dollar Baby "sucked."
-- Helped you memorize the state capitals for that geography quiz.
-- Got drunk and disinherited your sister.

Thanks to all those mothers out there!

Be A Child At Work Day

Sometimes my coworker brings her children to work. These are the best days, because instead of sitting at my desk attempting to formulate a good legal definition of metal retardation or reading about the latest developments in the Eritrean cabinet, I get to run cubicle races (I usually let the five year old win, but it’s still a great workout) or design paper airplanes (turns out the librarians really don’t like being struck in the face with little eraser pilots). Sometimes, if we’re really good, mom even lets us have a little bit of candy.

I’ve realized that people either have the ability to talk to kids or they don’t. I have some friends who speak to a toddler exactly the way they’d address their pastor or the General Assembly of the United Nations, and it’s bizarre. Kids don’t really stand on formality, they probably haven’t seen the latest edition of The New Yorker, and they have no idea what to do about your marital problems. At the same time, it’s embarrassing when people treat children like tiny idiots. Even a four-year-old with a head wound can understand basic stories and instructions without exaggerated pointing and gesturing. You’re not visiting a foreign country or shooting an episode of Win, Lose, or Draw; try to allow everyone to retain their basic dignity.

Of course, I have the mentality of a child, so it’s easy for me. It was about the time that we were taking an informal office poll to see whose Play-Doh flowers were the most popular that I realized that, damn it, I really wanted to win. And I have to admit that the shrieking and giggling going on in the room weren’t entirely attributable to the children. I’d put together some compelling explanation of why it’s good for me to be "young at heart," but frankly, Sesame Street’s coming on and my attention span is just too damn short.

Continuing Education

Spurred by a desire to A) do something more with my life than drink PBR and read legal arguments scrawled in crayon or blood by clinically insane people and B) emulate the life of my personal comedy hero, Joe Piscopo, I have been taking improv and acting classes for the past year. I highly recommend this to anyone; it’s a much better creative outlet than, for instance, writing manifestos on the evils of technology or making macaroni mosaics, and it’s even allowed me to meet people who don’t make puns based on the titles of recent Supreme Court cases. Recently, however, class has taken on an aspect of group therapy that I find decidedly troubling.

No, there are no group hugs going down and any psychotropic drug use is recreational rather than clinical, but people are weeping out their personal traumas like Halle Berry receiving an Oscar from Dr. Phil on a Barbara Walters Special. For instance, the Nineteenth Century Norwegian dramatist Henrik Ibsen elicited the following response from one of my colleagues:

"This really reminds me of my first divorce, because my wife, who was really just insane from the beginning -- I mean I should have known when she would not stop crying at the rehearsal dinner, for God’s sake -- anyway, she and I always had arguments over these stupid little things like how she could not cook a pork chop to save her life or how I quit my job without telling her. It was always some stupid thing. And then one time she threw the blender at me. Just chucked it right at my head. And I kind of feel like it’s the same deal with Torvald and Nora here."

And on the subject of Sam Shepard, a different classmate:

"Yeah, I totally don’t get this play. It’s all like weird and out of order and shit. But that one part, where the girl gets raped? Yeah, it totally reminds me of this time in high school when this guy told me we were going to a party at his church but then he took me to his basement instead and tried to take off my bra. Oh, and he totally tried to get me to touch it, too. But I was totally freaked out and violated and shit. It was so weird."

Sadly, I have very little to contribute. The emotional cruelties of my office’s recycling guy just don’t compare. And everybody occasionally gets groped on the train, right?

I’m beginning to think a life on the stage is not for me.

Swept Away

May Sweeps are upon us. Here’s a preview of some hott new developments on all of your favorite shows!

According to Jim. Jim’s wife leaves him after realizing that she is, in fact, far too attractive to be married to someone so grossly overweight. In the ensuing nervous breakdown, Jim goes medieval on a Dairy Queen, with hilarious results.

Desperate Housewives. Teri Hatcher literally jumps a shark. Co-stars quarrel over how much Hatcher was paid for the jump and whether they could have provided a faster or higher jump.

Everybody Loves Raymond. In a shocking development, we learn that one Ned McKinley, a tax preparer from Topeka, Kansas, does not in fact love Raymond.

Fear Factor. People eat things they normally would not and vomit. Plus, twins in bikinis.

Joey. Joey takes his own life after realizing that none of his "friends" are ever going to come and visit him.

Law & Order. D.A. Jack McCoy is finally crushed under the weight of his own eyebrows. On the other side of the country, noted attorney Sandy Cohen is said to be "saddened and a little afraid."

Lost. Creator J.J. Abrams admits he "just made all this spooky crap up" and "has no idea what it all means," since he "never figured there would be more than three episodes." Then he runs.

The OC. Desperate for a way to shock people now that her February sweeps flirtation with lesbianism has passed, Marissa takes on half the water polo team, her cousin Carissa (guest star Tori Spelling), and a Shetland pony named Walter.

Oprah. It turns out the real Oprah was killed in a tragic eyeliner accident some three years ago; present-day Oprah is merely a lifelike robot.

Two and a Half Men. Police discover the half man buried in a shallow grave behind the Sheen residence; Denise Richards immediately sues for custody.

Ah, The Wonders of Technology!

Is there anything more awkward than sitting around in your office killing time while the computer guy does something to your hard drive you can’t possibly comprehend? I somehow feel like it’s rude to leave, especially since they always claim they’ll be done in no time, but lord knows I have nothing to contribute to the process. Before I know it, someone’s saying something about bandwith or megabytes and I’m nodding my head solemnly all the while terrified I’ll be exposed as a computer illiterate fraud. I pick up whatever papers happen to be on my desk and pretend they’re some crucial matter I’m deeply concerned about, but invariably realize I’m holding a Ziggy cartoon or the lunch menu from Chinese Express and have to drop the charade. Then I make a stab at small talk and end up accidentally insulting someone’s children or deceased grandparent. And all the while I wonder if the tech guy’s going to narc on me for checking personal e-mail at work.

I now have to log in to a computer I once just turned on, though, so clearly all the suffering is worthwhile.

Timeline of the World's Most Productive Day

9:30 AM -- Wake up. Do situps while watching the end of "What About Bob?" on TBS. Wonder if Richard Dreyfuss is that self-obsessed and compulsive in real life. Wonder if Richard Dreyfuss is still alive. Decide that you don't really care and go eat some Fruit Loops.

10 AM -- Make bed; briefly fall back asleep. Dream that Jay Leno is attacking you with a pair of hedge clippers.

10:35 AM -- Throw on jeans and polo for church. On the way there, notice that A) the jeans still reek of smoke from the night before and B) the polo is the same polo you wore the week before, with the addition of what appears to be a wine stain. Tell yourself that Jesus was a crappy dresser, too.

11 AM -- Imagine yourself throttling the old man who insists on sitting right next to you at church, despite the four empty pews on either side of you. Suppress murderous rage throughout loud, off-key rendition of "On Eagle's Wings."

11:35 AM -- Baptism! Decide that God would really want you to leave right after communion.

11:45 AM -- Remind yourself that you're being childish for not wanting to shake hands with dozens of strangers as part of the "peace of Christ" sharing program.

12:15 PM -- Eat a sandwich and some barbecue potato chips. Realize that this may be the most exciting thing you do all day.

1 PM -- Figure out where you left your car the night before and pick it up. Make necessary apologizes; seek political asylum if necessary.

1:30 PM -- Phone call with sister. Topics of conversation: episodes of insanity observed in parents, unfairness of eliminations on Real World/Road Rules Challenge, possible subtext involved in various conversations with other people, futility of Cubs fandom.

2 PM -- Watch Cubs game. Flickers of hope, followed by crushing and painful defeat.

4 PM -- Attempt to read important work of 20th century fiction, interspersed with scenes from What I Like About You on the WB Easyview.

5 PM -- Consider shaving, but decide it's not worth the effort.

5:15 PM -- Check e-mail. Decline various kind offers to augment penis size, thank parents for awesomely funny forward, and fitfully skim glowing account of married life from undergrad friend.

5:30 PM -- Unsuccessfully search for new crush on Friendster.

5:45 PM -- Eat six oreos while watching Starsky & Hutch on HBO for the sixth time.

6:30 PM -- Blog. Watch concept once amusing to you quickly become horrifying. Abandon all hope.