Ever since I saw Webster disappear behind a grandfather clock, I've wanted a secret passageway or secret room. When I was younger, I drew up a plan that involved a ladder and our laundry room. It would've worked too if my mom hadn't stopped me...and I knew the slightest bit about carpentry.

Each time we've purchased a new house, my mind plots ways to hide closets or use unused space to construct my childhood dream. The closest I've come is to paint a door (and its trim) the same color as the wall. It just wasn't the same, though.

That's why I was so excited to go to Bourbon & Branch on my recent visit to San Francisco. It's a reservation-only, speakeasy-style bar in a secret location. Once your reservation is made, you get the cross streets and that day's password. We buzzed in the password, were escorted past the nondescript, wooden door, and handed an amazing menu of cocktails and fine liquor. As I was perusing the scotch section, a couple people sauntered past our table, pushed a hidden button under a shelf in a nearby built-in bookshelf, and swung the books back to reveal a hidden library.

Alright. That's it. I'm building a secret room. Maybe something like these guys do:

Hidden Passageway (click on the videos)

On a related note, I also found my new favorite bar in San Francisco -- Zeitgeist. It has all my favorite things, but instead of raindropped roses and kitten whiskers, it has a great jukebox (lots of punk), Rogue Dead Guy Ale on tap, and a logo that looks like Frank from "Donnie Darko" dressed for a formal event.

Plus, how could it be bad when their taglines include:

"Warm Beer. Cold Women."
"Fast, friendly, service. Choose one."

When I booked my flight to San Francisco for my quarterly work visit, I neglected to consider our past presidents and, more specifically, their birthdays. Because of my unpatriotic oversight, I found myself sitting in a Boeing 737 with a whole row to myself since I was flying in the middle of a three-day weekend. It was nice. If I squinted my eyes, it was almost like it was my personal jet flying me down.

"Get me a copy of the Wall Street Journal and the latest satellite pictures of Cuba. And if the Prime Minister calls, tell him I'm on the can."

After they closed the doors, the lead flight attendant advised everyone to remain in their assigned seats during take-off and landing. Why? Because the plane was very light that evening. Apparently, because of the few number of people on the plane, the distribution balanced out the aircraft.

At that moment I was really glad that I didn't have an extra helping of whatever I had had for lunch. Or maybe I should have had an extra helping because someone else skipped lunch. I just hoped that nothing really exciting happened on one side of the plane at which everyone would have to look. My contingency plan was to yell, "There's a gremlin on the wing of the plane!" to try to counter-balance our 737. Hopefully at least half the people would believe me.

Later that evening, after arriving safely in my quasi-private jet, I was getting ready for bed and realized that I had forgotten the something. It's the one item that I always forget -- my toothbrush. Toothpaste? Oh, sure. I remembered that. The application brush for said paste? No. If my toiletries were the James Bond franchise, my toothbrush would definitely be George Lazenby. Maybe I should name my toothbrush George Lazenby. Personifying it may help me remember it, although it'd be much tougher to deal with if I lost him, er...it. I wonder if George Lazenby names his toothbrushes. I wonder if he names them all George Lazenby. It can't be any more confusing than George Foreman and all his kids with the same name.

Now I get to go to work on Presidents' Day. Hopefully there will be at least one other person there to unlock the office for me.

They say there is no such thing as coincidence. They have also gone on record as saying that the Earth was flat and that rock and roll was a fad, so let's put this into perspective.

I was recently charged with the duty of assembling a fake robot for my son's third birthday party. I immediately ran to Radio Shack to pick up some robot-looking bits and pieces. A little silver spray paint, some Christmas lights, a dryer exhaust hose, and a hot glue gun later, the robot was completed.

We were trying to come up with a good name for him when a neighbor stopped by and asked if we made Awesom-o from that one "South Park" episode. What? There was a "South Park" episode with a robot named Awesom-o?

Apparently there was and, apparently, he looks very similar. Coincidence? Rare cosmic alignment? Saturn was pretty near our planet that day.

Or maybe it's the simple fact that building a cheap robot out of household items will produce the same sort of robot every time. So they might be right about the no coincidence thing. Time will only tell about the fad of rock and roll.

Homer: "We'll search out every place a sick twisted solitary misfit might run to."
Lisa: "I'll start with Radio Shack."

While standing on the outskirts of a nearly empty dance floor with a beer in my hand, I had time to ponder the current opening punk band jumping around on stage. They weren't, for lack of a better word, good. The distortion was turned up to cover their sloppy playing and it was quite obvious that the lead singer/guitarist spent most of his practice time in front of a mirror.

The thing was that it wasn't all that bad. In fact, the whole punk genre of music really has a unique quality to it. Even if the band isn't that good, I'd still listen to it. In contrast, if I saw a bad hip-hop or indie rock performance, I'd probably walk out.

Here, let me use a visual aid. Here's my Punk Rock Appreciation Chart.

On one side is how much I enjoy the music (Units of Enjoyment). That is directly related to how much the band rocks (Units of Rock). Here are some things of note:

1) Most other music genres aren't worth listening to until the band is fairly proficient.

2) If any band rocks too hard, they play huge venues with huge ticket prices for which I won't pay and, accordingly, won't enjoy.

3) After a certain amount of rock (represented here by 60 units), punk gets over-produced, over-promoted, and lose their edge. People who like Britney Spears know all the words to the band's latest, ultra-polished single and sing along every time it comes on during a deodorant commercial. At this point, the punk band has "sold out" and, therefore, sucks. This seems to happen much quicker than it does for other genres.

4) No band can rock hard enough to ever be truly enjoyed. It's just a fact of life.

And, yes, I seem to have been watching way too much Dave Gorman and Demetri Martin.