[TV] Tube Notes - Knocking on The Pantheon Door

Tube Notes - Knocking on The Pantheon Door: In contrast to movies, TV continues to kick out bits and pieces of real art. The current triumvirate of Mad Men (season 4 almost over), Dexter (season 5 just starting), and Breaking Bad (between seasons) are generating some remarkable drama. Interestingly, and instructively, all of them are variations on a single theme: the destructive affect of secrets.

Dexter Morgan is a serial killer secretly pretending to be a normal schmoe. Walter White is a meth cooker secretly pretending to be a normal schmoe. Don Draper is just secretly pretending to be Don Draper. In each case, a big secret wends it way through the character arcs and plotlines wreaking death and destruction to all who encounter it, whether they are innocent or guilty, loved or hated. Dexter's wife was murdered and children traumatized. Walter's wife is now complicit and his brother-in-law crippled. Don's marriage and family and business are in shambles while he has panic attacks. Lump in plenty of anguish for ancillary characters and the point gets hammered home.

Mad Men does the best of these three because 1) It's much more realistic and 2) it's the only one where the supporting characters can carry a scene, never mind an episode. This season of Mad Men has been riveting; probably the best yet. Matt Weiner has done astounding work developing these characters. Very few missteps (I'm not sold on the Joan/Roger plotline) and the temptation to go whole hog into sneering at the poor pre-sexual revolution Neanderthals has been ably resisted. There is a renewed sense of purpose that was absent last season, so I assume Weiner has a good grip on how he's going to eventually resolve this, but I have absolutely no idea where all this is leading.

Dexter and Breaking Bad found wonderful new twists and turns in their storylines, but didn't break any new conceptual ground. Still wonderful entertainment. A cut above most everything else.

That said, I can't let any of these, even Mad Men into the pantheon yet. (The pantheon is Deadwood, The Sopranos, and The Wire -- in that order.) Mad Men is oh so close, though. The problem is that "secrets = destruction," no matter how artfully done, is not enough of a human insight to bust through the pantheon's steel reinforced doors. We know the deal with tangled webs and innocent victims. We live it and see it every day. It is entertaining to watch and identify with, but it really doesn't take an angle we haven't already internalized.

Let me explain further with an example. The Sopranos. There were certainly secrets in the Sopranos but the show wasn't really about secrets, it was about self-delusion. (You could argue that amounts to secrets kept from yourself, but you'd be overly semantic.) It was portrayed in a very full robust way. Everyone deluded themselves, and these delusions brought them pain and suffering and destruction, but they also allowed them to survive. Without her delusion, Carmella would have been living in a low-rent hovel with no hope for her children. The trade off is being a housewife-whore but her daughter is going to Columbia and her half-wit son has a shot at supporting himself. In which life would she have been better off? If Christopher didn't delude himself that he was really just a soldier and Tony earned his loyalty, he would have been the hopeless white trash, which is what he saw at the gas station when Adrianna told him of her betrayal. The point of the show wasn't just that everyone deludes themselves and suffers for it, it was also pointing out that self-delusion is inherently human and necessary and helpful at times in leading a net positive life. That's the insight into humanity raises it above the crowd. And while the personal conflicts are resolved, the conceptual ones are left open.

Translated to the current crop of shows, we would look for some indication that secrets have their purpose, they are a necessary fact of human civilization, and that they may do as much good as bad, that there is no clear resolution to the conflict between the inner and outer lives of these people. As I said, Mad Men is close -- you could argue it's there and I am just missing it and I wouldn't be quick to dispute you. Both Dexter and Breaking Bad seem to make the case, but only in the purpose of refuting it, not just letting it rest unsettled.

Regardless, my overwhelming evaluation of all this is that Television is the most vibrant contemporary art form. Not even movies match its vitality. Certainly nothing else comes close (including novels and pop music and anything else).

That's not to say there aren't stinkers and disappointments. The late Martin Scorcese's Boardwalk Empire, for example. In contrast to Goodfellas (referenced above), I don't think anyone will be reminiscing about Boardwalk Empire in 20 years. It may not last 20 weeks. It's formulaic organized crime stuff, poorly cast (Scorcese's casting in his last few crime films has been dumbfounding), dispassionately acted, and stuffily written. I'll watch the full season for a turnaround, but I don't have high hopes. Sad. I guess David Milch is our last best hope for a return to HBO's former glory.

[Detroit] Selling Detroit - Style Over Substance

Selling Detroit - Style Over Substance: It's been a awhile since I busted on the city of my birth, but a recent article in the WSJ irritated my pet peeve. At first glance it seems like one of those optimistic takes on a supposed turnaround in Detroit, a city which has been poised for a turnaround for the entire half-century of my life. But credit the WSJ for not completely falling for the happy camper story.

Centering on the massive influx of filmmaking projects in Detroit (and all of Michigan) since the implementation of a 42% tax rebate on any instate expenses incurred by production companies, the usual sunny but shallow comments abound:

So far, the entertainment industry has produced 7,000 production jobs, though many of those are part-time and without benefits.

...

[S]ays Mikey Eckstein, whom producers hired to help relocate actors-a job that includes everything from finding a math tutor and trumpet instructor for Mr. Imperioli's children to finding an apartment that can accommodate large dogs. "I paid off my mortgage before they even started shooting."

Well, that's one mortgage paid.

Let's think about this, though. If that 42% tax credit is actually a net financial positive for the state wouldn't it make more sense to broaden it? Why not extend it to, oh I don't know, say, the auto parts industry? How about tech? Offer the same credit to any electronics company that will relocate from Taiwan. Or any sneaker-maker who will relocate from Vietnam. See where I'm going with this? If a lower effective tax rate really spurs growth, why not do it for all businesses?

In all honesty, the business tax climate in Michigan is not the worst in the country. It is simply below average and probably a mild disincentive to bringing in new business. In Detroit, one of the few cities in Michigan with the hutzpah to carry an income tax, the climate is very bad. But whether State or City, as demonstrated by the film industry, reducing the tax burden brings development. So again, why not take it to the next level?

There are two reasons why broad and drastic business tax incentives won't be implemented. First, the cynical reason: it shrinks the control politicians have over which industries get started and which don't. This is not to suggest they are sitting around, twirling their mustaches and plotting to keep central control over the peasant economy. It's just human nature in general and the nature of those who get into politics particularly. No matter what your agenda, you cannot implement it without power so protect your power above all else. (Read your Machiavelli.)

The second reason it won't happen is the specific form of the justification they have manufactured to explain their power protection in polite society. To wit: They seem to believe Detroit's problem is primarily one of public relations:

"Without being too romantic and starry-eyed, this is a dream weaver industry and if storytellers can't bring hope to a region, no one can," says Scott Putman, executive producer/unit production manager on "Hostel: Part III."

...

Unlike jaded denizens of Los Angeles and New York, Detroiters are enjoying celebrity sightings. Last month, Ashton Kutcher and wife Demi Moore, in town to shoot her new movie "LOL," attended a Tigers game. Around the same time, Ms. Moore and actor Gerard Butler, who was in town shooting "Machine Gun Preacher," were spotted at a local bowling alley. Hugh Jackman stopped by the polar bear exhibit at the Detroit Zoo. "That all helps reshape our image and show people we're turning the corner," says Carrie Jones, director of the Michigan Film Office.

...

"We're done being sad," he says. "We're trying to build a new industry."

This is the sort of thing that presses my button. Whether it's the Ren Cen or new sports stadiums or movie lots, every generation has its own magic pill to save the city by changing its image. We learn nothing. We just ride the loop-de-loop of futility into oblivion.

So what am I, some sort of tea-party type who thinks a tax cut will solve everything? No, a tax cut for businesses will not solve everything. But it's part of creating an environment which allows all sorts for businesses to thrive, not just the glamorous high profile ones that can get politicians re-elected. Included in that environment are public safety, education, and infrastructure -- in all those areas, Detroit is an epic failure. What doesn't help? Celebrity sightings, movie locales, PR campaigns, and other agents of a "change in perception." Put more simply: You're not fooling anyone putting lipstick on a pig.

As to what long term affect these movie shoots will have:

"Hollywood follows the money," says Mr. Belding, the location manager. "If Ohio had a 50% rebate, we'd all head 100 miles south and find Paris there."

In other words, this change in perception amounts to paying people to be our friends.

The bit of good news is that for the first time in recent memory there is a Mayor who seems to have a realistic outlook. I don't know if it's enough -- in fact, I doubt it is -- but I hope Dave Bing can pull something off in the realm of intelligent downsizing that is always discussed.

For a less polemic look at Detroit I highly recommend David Byrne's recent journal post. He spent a fair amount of time biking around the city on a recent visit and seems to have been fascinated by it from an aesthetic point of view - which I heartily endorse. Despite occasional points of naivete, his observations are acute, passionate, and quite well expressed.

The Month That Was - August 2010

The Month That Was - August 2010: I am monstrously late, but it was an especially chaotic month, mainly centering around the death of my father. There was no shock or surprise involved; it was a long time coming and everyone was well prepared, which was an inestimable blessing. Still there were arrangements to be made and feelings to confront, most reducing to anxiety over the horrible fate we all share: mortality.

So that, and the associated trip to FL, dominated the month and pushed most everything in my life back a week or two. Work on Misspent Youth continues at the accustomed glacial pace. And the house shopping has resumed. I haven't yet found that one property that just makes jump up and declare myself born again, but there is no need for me to hurry in this market.

I hope next month to do multiple TV and movie reviews, which means I will be reviewing works that are already in the past for you, such as the latest season of Mad Men which will be over by then, and Inglorious Basterds which may be on network TV by then. I just couldn't get to them in a timely fashion. Nothing unusual there, eh?

And now summer slowly passes away, but unlike us mortals, it will return.

[Travel] Swamped in Florida
[Books] Why Did I Ever, by Mary Robison
[Books] The Poisoner's Handbook, by Deborah Blum
[Cars] A Small Victory for Reason
[Good Links] Link Dump

[Travel] Swamped in Florida

Swamped in Florida: [[Photos on Smugmug.]] Here we go again. On only a few days notice I scheduled my flights down to Florida for my father's funeral. It was to be held in Sarasota, but it looks like Delta rarely if ever has scheduled flights directly into Sarasota anymore, so it was either change planes or fly direct to one of the nearby majors, Tampa or Ft. Myers. I chose Ft. Myers just because it's a smaller, more pleasant airport.

Then I got word that on the following weekend my beloved Miss Anna was schedule to move into her college dorm. That's huge, as far as I'm concerned. Her Mom, Miss Kate, has had some recent back problems, so I was only too happy to extend my trip a few days and meet up with them across the state in North Miami and make myself useful by lifting heavy things.

Of course that meant changing my flight reservation. This gave Delta a prime opportunity to pimp slap one their most loyal customers, namely me, with a draconian fee and they made the most of it. We all expect to pay a fees for such things, which shows just how beaten down we are. There is approximately zero cost to Delta if I change my return flight to Detroit from Ft. Myers to Ft. Lauderdale, but I happily accept that I will be reaching for my wallet. I suppose Delta could argue that they may have lost a seat sale because I had a reserved one and now it would go empty but the fact that they overbook every flight just in case such situations arise kind of belays that argument. Ah well.

But this time they out-absurded themselves. I identified a flight back from Ft. Lauderdale, but it turned out that it was cheaper for me to buy a one way ticket than it was for me to transfer my existing reservation to the same flight. I was being offered the exact same flight for my choice of $200 or $225. So I reserved the one-way and just never even checked in to return flight from Ft. Myers. I suppose some poor guy who was risking getting bumped in Ft. Myers benefitted from this. Victory for me, if you can call eating the fare for a flight I didn't take a victory. Actually if I prevented someone from getting bumped everybody benefitted - the bumped guy and Delta who did not have to pay the bumped guy for his trouble. I'll pass on future such victories. Ah well.

Scott McCartney at WSJ makes a salient point about airline pricing practices and how the inconsistent and completely irrational pricing. It makes customers feel as though they have been evaluated and slapped arbitrarily with the highest price they airlines think they can get. Before the service has even started, they have set up an adversarial relationship with their customers. Ah well.

By "Ah well" I mean there is nothing to be done about it except hand over your cash and bitch about it on-line.

This being Florida in the middle of August, it was rather warm. Pretty much 90/90 every day. That would be temperature and humidity percent both in the 90s. You get weather reports where they say the "real feel" is 112.

I can't count the number of times I've visited Sarasota in my life, but it remains a lovely place. It has grown of course, and gone upscale over the years, but the driving US-41 along the coast with the bay on one side and the glistening buildings on the other can give just about anyone dreams of relocating. Back inland it's mostly just another middle class suburb, as is expected, but the beauty of the waterfront and out in the keys can't be denied. This trip, for the first time ever, we followed the coast road out to the end of the keys to Anna Maria island, a quaint and picturesque little community of rental homes and fishing boats and beach bars. Were I looking for peace and quiet it would be a perfect getaway. I would commute everywhere by bike (or maybe golf cart), hang out on the beach, eat the local fresh catches, rent a Hobie if the breeze was stiff, just completely chill out. There is a tiny shopping area called Bridge Street, about a block long, which terminates in a restaurant called Rotten Ralph's where you can look out over the bay, get that fresh catch, and the beer is always free tomorrow. And if you can take the heat, population is pretty sparse in the summer. Nice.

Next up was the funeral. I suppose the best possible path for anyone is to live long and die quickly. My father did the next best thing. He suffered a series of strokes, but instead of hampering his physical abilities, they just gradually destroyed his cognition and sentience. Over the course of a few years he simply became less and less aware of the world around him, similar to Alzheimer's in that sense, and drifted into a sort of permanent waking dream. No pain. No anguish. None of the indignity or degradation of having your body fail as you watch helplessly. The end came when he developed a rupture in his colon and was unable to recover from the operation close it -- not surprising considering he had only one functioning heart vessel, and that was held open with a stent. I have heard terrible stories about probate and funeral arrangements -- complications, disputes, snafus -- there was none of this. Given the prep time everything from inheritance to grave plot was decided, planned, provided for, and ready to go. The ceremony was simple, graceful, and unexpectedly comforting -- provided by the U.S. Navy (he had served in WW2 on a minesweeper in the South Pacific). May we all be so lucky at the end of our lives.

A couple more days with family, but again, there was no turmoil or terrible anxiety, so with the couple of in between days before meeting Miss Anna, I was off on another brief tour of South Florida.

First stop Sanibel Island. Sanibel (and its smaller sister to the immediate north, Captiva) are essentially island swamps of the coast of Ft. Myers. If you thought it was hot and sticky in Sarasota, Sanibel kicks it up a notch. Honestly, I am a long time veteran of Florida in the heart of summer, not to mention the Sonoran, Chihuahuan, and Mojave deserts in July and August, but the couple of days I spent on Sanibel were the most uncomfortably hot I have ever survived. The temp was in the mid-90s, but the humidity was so thick it felt like walking through a steam room. And, being a big swamp, humans are beneath mosquitoes in the food chain. And no-see-ums. And spiders -- big ones.

The fee for access to this splendor is a bridge toll of $6. There is no day fee or weekly pass. It's a bridge toll. Want to leave the island for anything? Six more simoleans to get back on. Sounds like a virtual paradise, doesn't it?

In fact, it is. Sanibel is filled with vacation homes, bed and breakfasts, and medium sized resorts, but you wouldn't know it as you drive through. Oh it's clear where the shops and the resorts and so forth are, but they all seem to be terribly well integrated into the surroundings. There are no huge tracks of new development, at least no immediately obvious ones. Everything seems to be surrounded by old growth, as if individual spaces were carved out of the swamp.

I stayed at the Sanibel Inn -- the top rated property for Sanibel on TripAdvisor. Like most highly rated TripAdvisor properties, it has solid quality and good value, especially good for families. It's right on a south-southwesterly facing beach. There's a fine little pool, including a 9-ft deep end that I dove in several times in brazen defiance of the No Diving signs. There's a beach bar which, unlike many properties during the off-season, is actually manned and operated at the advertised hours. An activities hut is on-site for beach gear and, remarkably, free loaner bicycles. They're beat up bicycles, but they function and biking is a great way to get around on the island.

The beach is a shellers dream, as are most beaches on the island. Sanibel is renowned for sea shells. You know that tide line you get on beaches -- sometimes it's gravel, sometimes it's seaweed? On Sanibel it's sea shells. I plunged my hands into it and came up with two thick handfuls of shells. But more importantly you can easily walk fifty yards out and the warm green water will not be over your shoulder. The gulf is not crystal clear, but it is buoyant and clean (no sign of oil, in case you were wondering). I say this every Florida trip, but I could just go out and float around in the water and be as content as a swaddled baby. I spent the remainder of my first day biking around the island to get my bearings, plus an hour or so of swimming and reading and generally being a no-account wastrel.

The next morning I was up an off on a swamp walk. About two-thirds of Sanibel is given over to a protected wildlife preserve, specifically the Ding Darling National Wildlife Refuge. It is, as you have surmised, a big old tract (6400 acres) of mangrove swamp. I had my camera with me, but for all their weird demonic beauty, primeval swamps are simply not readily susceptible to casual photography. I have often tried to get a shot of a certain compelling tangle of trees or some angle to show the Swamp-Thing feel of the landscape and have failed every time. There are skills involved in it that I just don't have.

Swamps are teeming with life. There are gators, but I saw none. There are otters, but I saw none. There are manatees in the deeper areas, but I saw none. There are turtles, I saw none. There are birds -- those I saw, but I think they may have been outnumbered by the birders. I saw skittish fiddler crabs and feeding cranes. The most striking thing I saw were the golden silk orb-weaver spiders. That Wikipedia link suggests that these spiders grow to a leg span of 2.5 inches. Bollocks. One had strung its elaborate web across a narrow path and I was literally inches from it before I stopped myself from walking right into it. The spider sitting at the middle could not have been less than 4 inches across. But the creature that truly owns the swamp is Culiseta longiareolata, the miserable blood-sucking mosquito.

I admit to my own idiocy. I have read stories of African adventurers who kept to long pants and sleeves just to deter bugs, but it didn't register. But it was unimaginably hot, OK? And never has such humidity existed. Still I should have known better than to hike four miles through a South Florida swamp in the middle of August in nothing but sandals and shorts. Besides, did they have to be such greedy little pigs. And stealthy too; I had no idea I was getting so thoroughly chowed upon. I did know that night. I had forty or fifty bites, easily.

After my swamp walk I spent the afternoon trolling around Sanibel and Captiva, taking photos of anything interesting -- the lighthouse beach area, the cute signage, the sunset, etc. -- and generally fantasizing about owning a vacation home there. Plus, more no-account wastrel time. Sleep, when it came, was sparse and fitful, thanks to the barbaric vampire bugs from earlier.

Still, I was up and out the next day, headed for Miami. But first, a stop for lunch at Marco Island. Marco is about as far south as you can go on the gulf before you have to turn east and drive across the Everglades. Like Sanibel, it is a sizable barrier island of the gulf coast. Unlike Sanibel it appears to be completely developed, stem to stern. Many of the houses are quite lovely and some are built around canals with boats docked just outside their doors. There's money here, that's for sure. There is little "character" to any of this, but it all looks clean and fresh and frankly, after my encounter with the wilds of Sanibel, I wasn't disappointed to be surrounded by cement in which mosquitoes could not breed and doorways across which no giant spider webs would be strung.

One find on Marco: Davide Italian Cafe‚ and Deli. Genuine rustic Italian style food (with minor nods to American eaters) in a little storefront shop wedged into a strip mall. Great pepper and onion sandwich. If my vacation home was on Marco this place would be my go to for takeout. And I wouldn't mind a vacation home on Marco, although it would work best if a boat capable of covering the roughly hundred miles to Key West in relative comfort was available.

That's it for the gulf side, now we barrel across Alligator Alley to Hollywood, roughly equidistant from Ft. Lauderdale and Miami, and home of the Westin Diplomat, which would serve as headquarters for Anna's dorm move in.

The Westin Diplomat is a strikingly beautiful hotel. The interior design sparkles with fountainy glitter. There are plenty of seating in the dramatic lobby, with a little lounge area tucked off to the side. An enormous pool complex lives in back, right on the beach. It is pricey, though. It's one of those places where you stop in said lobby bar for a nightcap and walk off to bed $30 lighter. And, of course, wi-fi is only free in the lobby. I could go on a rant about how the cheaper hotels supply wi-fi for free while the "luxury" properties feel the need to gouge you, but I'll spare you.

Anna is starting her freshmen year at Barry University, a college I become more impressed with each visit. Last time I accompanied them down to orientation and while I was generally positive I did express some (mildly snarky) reservations right here on this site (a couple of months back if you're checking). To my surprise I received, completely unsolicited, a nicely worded email from a university official trying to put my concerns to rest. The fact that they monitor the web for new references to Barry University spoke volumes in and of itself. Having seen a bit more of the operation and people I feel pretty good about Anna's education there, and I remain cheered by the explicit Catholic identity of the place, which is an educational plus.

My only concern now is the neighborhood. They are quite blunt when it comes to warnings not to leave the fenced-in campus at night without security. And judging by the bars on the windows of the local houses, that sounds like good advice. But what can you do? 1950 is gone and it's never coming back. At least she should be safe on campus.

These last couple of days were filled with numerous trips to Bed, Bath and Beyond and Target for dorm room outfitting, along with the associated decorating and shelf construction. Essential activities designed to kick start Anna into adulthood. I found myself hoping it would not be the last in long line of little travels I've had with Miss Anna but who knows, she's moved on. Her concerns are her school, her boyfriend, her own tastes and desires. Her life is her's. She is tentatively making her own way, with her own achievements and failures, her own sorrows and joys, covering herself with experiences that she'll wear like armor against mortality to the last.

For now, it gives me another excuse to visit Florida. Maybe even when it's not so hot.

[Books] Book Look: Why Did I Ever, by Mary Robison

Book Look: Why Did I Ever, by Mary Robison: Judging from the blurbs attached to the book jacket, everybody with a recognizable name in the literary world thought Why Did I Ever was a great big handful of chocolate covered awesome. As for me, I just liked it. It's clever and creative and hits the right notes at the right time. Not that I don't have my gripes.

The plot is firmly planted in the post-Oprah universe: Single mom, multiple-divorcee, in therapy, a handful of dysfunctional friends and coworkers, an inability to commit, a daughter addicted to methadone, a homosexual son who has recently suffered a horrific sexual assault. Just like everyone on your block, eh? The lead character, the single mom, is a thoroughly annoying creature nicknamed "Money" -- a self-satisfied smart-ass, who is given to voicing the sort of cryptic quips that make shallow people think she is colorful and that signal that she has hidden depth which you and others just don't have the insight to understand. Meanwhile, her inner monologue indicates she mostly dwells on how much trouble and aggravation everyone else is causing her. God, how I hate such women. If Robison had a real-life model for this character, I'd lay decent odds that I've dated her.

Now, apart from making me sneer disdainfully through half of it, the book is quite good. It is laced throughout with sharp humor. And Money does manage to make a journey from subtle contempt and detached negativity to something approximating gratitude.

Most interesting is the style. Most of the reviews I read of it referred to as minimalist, which is off the mark, or as a diary which is closer but misses the key point. It is in fact web writing in long form. It is presented as what is essentially a series of hundreds of blog posts. In tone, it's the sort of thing you would read on the old school personal blogs folks used to keep (and some still do) (but not me). It has intriguing possibilities and Robison works it well -- indirect thoughts with a spontaneous unfiltered feel to them. Each entry is from one to several paragraphs of events and thoughts that may or may not have relevance outside the ongoing stream. The difference here of course is that they are woven into a coherent narrative. As I said, it's very clever and I suspect it's a good way to avoid any sort of indulgence in delicacy or wordiness (which is all too common in novels), yet it still allows for a striking poetic turn of phrase now and then.

Should you read Why Did I Ever? Yeah. Despite touching on my personal annoyances, it is lively, interesting and entertaining. I'm not going to go as far as calling it chocolate covered awesome, though. Just a good read. Worth your time.

[Books] Book Look: The Poisoner's Handbook, by Deborah Blum

Book Look: The Poisoner's Handbook, by Deborah Blum:. Was there ever a time and place when folks understood less about human nature than the 1920s and 30s in the U.S.? It seems like the concept that people respond to incentives was completely foreign to them. The depression was made Great by people with no clue about public reaction to basic economic incentives. And before that there was prohibition -- an idiotic idea made worse by the fact that, in an effort to discourage folks from distilling their own hooch from pilfered industrial alcohol, it was order by the government that all industrial alcohol be poisoned. Yeah, that'll teach them. (Of course, when you consider drug laws, zero tolerance in schools, and government bailouts, we may give them a run for their money in misunderstanding human nature.)

That's just one of the interesting facts I picked up from reading The Poisoner's Handbook, which is a somewhat uncomfortable combination of history, biography, true crime, and science. Using prohibition as a jumping off point, Blum tracks the birth and legal validation of the science of forensic medicine. This involves profiles of its founding father Charles Norris (yes, Chuck Norris, I know...) who expended a herculean effort to fight the corrupt New York City establishment which, for the sake of political favoritism and control, had installed a health official who would famously show up drunk in court. Also, profiled extensively is Alexander Gettler, Norris' chief toxicologist and legendary for his dogged devotion to thoroughness and the scientific method.

We are also treated to some true crime in the form of famous poisoning cases, some for fun, some for money, some for "love". Another interesting truth: Poisonous substances were readily available back then and the only way a number of these murders were solved was through flaky or betrayed associates or because the murderers were just plain stupid. (This may still be true today; most cases are solved via snitches or obvious evidence, aren't they?)

Even with documented proof, legalities got in the way of obvious convictions. (We can relate.)

Scandalous cases, especially if committed for lurid purposes, were tabloid sensations. (Oh yeah, we can relate.)

Some poisons were considered elixirs of health. Radium, for example, was thought to provide energy and was used as a depilatory before people's bones started disintegrating. (You gotta admit this is better today. A lot of the homes I've been looking at have radon detectors. And you won't get intentionally dosed with the stuff except as a last resort against cancer. Most new product scares we have turn out to be the sky falling, and arguably, products are held back from market longer than they should be.)

And it was lucky Chuck Charles Norris was independently wealthy because he often financed a big chunk of the forensic laboratories expenses out of his own pocket, since New York City went through periodic spells of near bankruptcy. (Has happened since and will no doubt come again.)

So here's the main lesson learned: Some things never change.

What about the book, as such? Verdict: So-so. It misses by darting around too much (history/chemistry/biography/true crime) and compromises badly on the discussion of scientific techniques: too shallow to be intellectually interesting, yet really has no place as part of a casual narrative. Blum may have been better served to have just flat left them out. In all cases it would have been better to pick a single angle (history, chemistry, etc....) and pursue it more deeply. A side result of this veneer view is a tendency to paint conflicts in a nice conventional-wisdom black and white, then move along to something else.

That said, should you read The Poisoner's Handbook? Probably yes. It does achieve validity in numerous genres and so will work for whichever one you happen to have a jones for. That suggests shrewd marketing as far as selecting the content -- I mean that in a positive way. If it sounds like something you'd like, it almost certainly is. I also suspect Blum (who is clearly passionate about forensic medicine) could construct a more deep and fascinating look at some specific aspect of this book. I hope a publisher let's her write it.

[Cars] A Small Victory for Reason

A Small Victory for Reason: Here in Ann Arbor, speed limits were raised at three notorious speed traps. You read that right: Raised. These spots have been well known to locals for decades and probably great revenue generators. But recently, after years of efforts, the National Motorists Association successfully argued that raising the speed limit would not make these roads less safe, but would be a sane and rational response to the situation. Bear in mind, this probably means less revenue for the city in speeding tickets. And no doubt someone at some point hysterically argued that raising the limit would result in the deaths of innocent children in flaming car crashes. Yet it was done. It is now two years since and nothing bad has happened.

One thing did change. As was expected, the vast majority of safe, sane, competent drivers who go along with the normal flow of traffic are no longer arbitrarily defined as criminals, and no longer subject to big ticket fines and even bigger insurance surcharges.

The National Motorists Association should win a Nobel prize for this achievement. I thought I would never in my life see a point where a plea to rationality overcame both emotional and financial pressure in politics. And in Ann Arbor no less. Astounding.

[Good Links] Link Dump

Link Dump: I haven't done a link dump in ages, so here's some good reading to distract you from work....

I hate politics, but P.J. O'Rourke is just too good and funny not to read. On a recent trip to Afghanistan, he brilliantly gets to a core issue in all of journalism (and one of the reasons I hate the news media), which is that nobody knows what the real truth is and whatever "angle" is taken on the story reflects the reporter's biases more than any external reality. But I guess you can't write endless stories about how you don't know anything.

Under the heading of things I never thought I'd see, in Brooklyn cops and citizens team up to catch a bike thief. A stolen bike came up for sale on Craigslist and the owner noticed. Cops actually set up a sting with the victim to catch the perp. Awesome. I'm frankly amazed that she didn't just get a "come on in and fill out a form" response. Good on the Brooklyn PD.

Like many people when given a public forum, Roger Ebert tends to spew some embarrassing socio-political commentary. Diarrhea of the mouth, as Rocky Balboa would say. But never ever doubt his ability to write a beautifully crafted and insightful movie review like his recent revisitation of Lost in Translation.

A Shatnerian epic. Gave me the giggles.

And if you still don't want to get back to work, I offer a collection of The Best Magazine Articles Ever. I highly recommend Gay Talese on Sinatra. The one of phone phreaking, Secrets of the Little Blue Box, is great for the retro geek in you. Great stuff.

The Month That Was - July 2010

The Month That Was - July 2010: Outside. I've been outside a lot. That is, after all, the purpose of summer. I haven't been travelling, and probably won't until I get the house thing sorted out. Not that I can be said to be hoarding cash -- I just dropped $1100 on car repairs with only marginal success (more below), but I'm getting my cash balance in shape for pre-approval and scheduling tours and such. And I'm smiling a big contrarian smile as the bottom continues to fall out of the real estate market.

I've also been wielding the trusty old fine-toothed once again. I'm tweaking Misspent Youth hopefully for the last time. There are still a couple of formatting issues to clear up, too -- that never seems to end -- but I finally have a graphic design guy working on the cover so that should yield some tangible progress, which is nice for a change.

Just one time, I'd like something to be simple. Just one time.

[Books] Book Look: Losing Mum and Pup, by Christopher Buckley
[Rant] Surreal Tour
[Health and Fitness] Stroke, Stroke, Stroke, Breathe, *cough*
[Cars] Auto Recovery
[Rant] Get Outta My Head

[Books] Book Look: Losing Mum and Pup by Christopher Buckley

Book Look: Losing Mum and Pup by Christopher Buckley: I'm a big Christopher Buckley fan. He writes sharp little satiric comedies, based primarily on political or social "issues" with a gimlet eye, but a sympathetic one (he's a "laugh with" versus a "laugh at" guy). His style is smooth and accessible but still very highly crafted and thoughtful. Honestly, it's hard for me to imagine that only one of his books Thank You For Smoking has ever been done up by Hollywood. One of my first book reviews (on Slashdot of all places) was of his underappreciated alien abduction tale Little Green Men.

So when his parents, the redoubtable William F. and Pat Buckley, scions of the New York, Washington, and even global, high society, died within a year of each other, he found himself bringing his satirists eye to bear on something very personal and painful. But as they say, all comedy stems from pain, so who better than a comic novelist to bring such events to life.

I suspect the first thing that most people of a certain age will feel in reading this is something akin to familiarity, but Buckley's experiences are likely to be a bit more extreme. Probate and funeral arrangements are, for anyone, a time-sucking undertaking. Imagine doing it when some of the most powerful people alive need to have their say in the process and when hundreds of big players from around the world are peppering you daily emails of condolence and all of them have to be answered. Now do it twice. Oh, and somewhere in the middle of that, come to terms with your relationship with your parents and your personal grieving. Buckley, a satirist to the core, manages to laugh to keep from crying (at least as far as this narrative is concerned) more often than not. He recounts famous and infamous conflicts and farcical adventures with both parents, for example the sending out regular urine reports on his ailing father to the likes of Henry Kissinger.

Another point of identification is his mixed feelings towards his parents -- both of whom were ferociously loyal to him but unforgiving and demanding in the extreme. For his part he works to reconcile his resentment towards the slights he had experienced over the years -- the seething anger we all feel towards experiences that, if they had not come via or parents, would have been quickly forgotten -- with his foundation of unquestioning love for them.

There is so much to recommend in this book, including hilarious Buckley family stories almost as if this were a Christopher Buckley novel, mixed with harrowing and heartfelt moments, but the best thing that can be said for it is that it could be used as a guide for maintaining perspective and appreciating the absurdities of the process of losing your parents, all in an effort to keep your sanity.

Just a couple of more observations:

First, many years ago I read the elder Buckley's sailing books in which he and Christopher and pack of friends would take voyages across oceans, having a variety of salty adventures and maintaining diaries along the way. One of the voyagers was Danny Merritt, Christopher's best friend (also devoted friend of WFB), who always seemed to me to be a bit of glue in the interpersonal dynamics of the boating parties. It was nice to read after all those years the Christopher and Danny maintained their BFF-ish relationship. It's good to read about such a thing in a world where friendships tend to dissolve over time and distance.

Second, the some of the critical response to this book was flabbergasting. Specifically, I'm referring to the L.A. Times and the SF Gate reviews. In the course of the narrative, Buckley dropped only superficial mention of the domestic problems in the Buckley household over the years, but often went into a bit of gruesome detail about the physical breakdown both his parents faced at the end. These reviews seemed to feel that was wrong way around; that it was somehow disrespectful to discuss their illnesses, but simultaneously unconscionable to leave their personal weakness unexamined.

This is astounding to me: that the unavoidable ravages of time and nature are shaming, but there is a duty to expose our lurid personal weaknesses and neuroses for all to see. What a bizarre notion. I mean to say, WTF? I think Buckley did it just right. The book is a memoir about losing his parents not fodder for Jerry Springer. Anyway, as I am reminded every day, and as I remind you every month: It's not my world.

Should you read Losing Mum and Pup? Yes. It's hard for me to imagine anyone (short of shallow-minded journalists) not liking this book. Despite the dire topic, it is thoroughly amusing and uplifting. If you're like me, you eagerly blast through it in a couple of sittings.

[Rant] Surreal Tour

Surreal Tour: I was probably one of three North Americans who kept up with the Tour de France replays once Lance Armstrong was out of it after the fourth or fifth stage. The race was an extended exercise in Fellini-esque action.

First, Lance crashed. Then crashed again. Then again. Then again. I lost track, but it happened often enough that he found himself many minutes behind the guy he was supposed to battle (and eventual winner), Alberto Contador, who I hate, for reasons I'll get to.

There was a leg with extended segments over cobblestones, and if you have ever ridden a bike over cobblestones at any speed, never TdF speeds, you know the true meaning of the term "pain in the ass." In fact, there were so many crashes and other difficulties early on that at one point a huge mass of riders just decided to stop racing and finish all together in a big bunch as a form of protest. Like virtually all protests, it really didn't have any clear point. It was never stated what they wanted changed or who they were upset with. Nobody was hurt by this protest except the riders who were hoping to make up time on that particular stage. Essentially, it was a bunch of bratty athletes acting out. But it's important to remember, this was in France. Things are different there; they are not meant to make sense.

Why didn't some riders defy the protest out of self interest? Well, the answer to that question is part of what I like about cycling. There are unwritten rules of sportsmanship and communal duties. This is especially true for the riders bunched up in the peloton. It's this air of sportsmanship that I find appealing. Sadly, it was petty boorishness that dominated the tour this year.

Take the aforementioned Contador. First, I don't like him because he hosed Lance last year. Every team has a main guy -- the guy who is supposed to be the focus of their efforts, the one everyone sacrifices for in the interest of him winning the Tour. Last year, when Contador and Lance were teammates, that guy was supposed to be Lance, but Contador defied instructions and usurped Lance's position on the team, thus forcing the team to support Contador over Lance if someone from the team was going to win (it's a complicated situation but that's essentially the jist of it). It may sound like he was just being competitive, but it's the equivalent of, say, a batter swinging for the fences to make a home run record when he's been given the bunt sign in an effort to win the game. Even if it works, it's a dick move.

Another unwritten rule is that once the race leaders are established, they should not lose position because of mechanical issues. The idea is that the better cyclist should win, not the one who got lucky because nothing broke on his bike. This was famously displayed five or so years ago when Lance was leading and got his handlebars entangled in the handbag straps of some idiot spectator. Word was passed and all the other racers slowed to a crawl until Lance caught up. (Imagine something like this happening in NASCAR when Tony Stewart gets a flat tire.)

Well, cruising along about half way through the race, a exceptionally talented young cyclist named Andy Schleck was in the lead with Contador second. Suddenly, Schleck missed a shift and his chain came off. It took a few seconds for him to repair it. Guess who didn't stop? Contador ended up taking the lead for good. After coming under intense criticism and getting booed, Contador prepared an apology and posted it on YouTube. Note: he did not give Schleck a head start the next day or anything. The amount of time Schleck lost due to the malfunction: 39 seconds. The amount of time Contador won by: 39 seconds. The master of the dick move struck again.

Apart from that, there was a fistfight. Or what passes for a fistfight between two 120-lb., spandex and helmet wearing cyclists. The more jaded among us would have called it a slap-fight. An Australian rider got disqualified for trying to head-butt another cyclist while passing him. And at one point, riders had to maneuver their way through a herd of sheep that were trying to cross the road. All that was topped off by streakers along the roadside. Fellini would have been proud.

The worst appears to be yet to come, though. All that vaunted sportsmanship doesn't really extend off the course with respect to doping, and although there weren't any immediate doping disasters this year, the ghost of the previous years were hovering above. Specifically Floyd Landis, a previous miracle tour winner who was stripped of his title because of doping is now the main source for a broad-based investigation into doping in cycling by the FDA. He has accused Lance of doping over the years and claims to have directly witnessed it. He also has a book coming out.

(Aside: I fail to understand why the FDA needs to be involved here. I like the sport of cycling, but the in the litany of things that I would spend my tax dollars on, it doesn't approach notice.)

I fear sportsmanship may go by the wayside in cycling as it has just about everywhere else. We may come to see this year's Tour and the tipping point into crudity. Despite that, I'll probably watch next year. I still marvel at the ability of these guys to go for five or six hours at a rate I could probably only hope to keep up for a few seconds on my Schwinn. And I want to see Contador lose. Maybe he'll fall over a sheep and everyone will just pedal on by.

[Health and Fitness] Stroke, Stroke, Stroke, Breathe *cough*

Stroke, Stroke, Stroke, Breathe *cough*: Speaking of bikes, I have been out on mine a good deal this summer. In fact, it's been my saving grace when I bring my car in for repairs. I can just commute from the Toyota dealer to work or wherever. I need to do a long ride though. At the moment, I don't think I've gone more than 25 miles. I need to take a day to do about 50.

In fact, there were 3 modest fitness goals I had for this summer. A long bike ride was one (not necessarily an organized one). A 10K race was another -- got that covered: I've already run 7.5 on my own and I have an organized one scheduled. The final one was to get comfortable with open water swimming. I have worked my way up to a mile in the pool but, as I have discovered, open water swimming is an entirely different animal.

First, it seems I am incapable of swimming in a straight line without a stripe on the bottom of the pool to guide me. Honestly, I think you could probably add another 25% to the distance I swim just to account for my rather haphazard navigation. There is a technique to gracefully taking a quick look ahead every few strokes to verify that you are on line. Graceful is not in my realm of capability just yet. Awkward gawking and choking on boat-wash is more my style. Plus, there is also the fact that, unlike in the pool, you cannot count on not turning your head to breathe and inhaling air instead of a wave. And where I swim there is a high probability of a collision with a large-bellied man floating on his back while towing a couple of screaming kids wedged into an inflatable dinosaur float (don't ask).

Anyway, I'm getting there. I expect next summer my goal will be to do a triathlon, or perhaps I should just say I want to complete a triathlon at age 50. That is either noble or depressing. Maybe both.

[Cars] Auto Recovery

Auto Recovery: If you have been following along the past few months, you know I was briefly in the market for a new car. My '02 Camry is starting to get a little bothersome. Naturally, like everything else money intensive, that went on hold when I plunged into the house market. I turns out it's just as well. The once-in-a-lifetime buyer's market for cars has passed.

Hamstrung by union requirements to keep workers on, the automakers cranked out cars beyond anything demand could handle because the alternative was to pay them to do nothing. They loaded up inventory pipelines and fobbed off piles of cars on rental agencies. Used domestic sedans were so plentiful and cheap that enormous wholesalers sprang up in places like El Paso to buy cheap used cars for resale south of the border. Manufacturers were axe-ing entire brands - Pontiac, Saturn, Plymouth, Mercury, Hummer - and divesting others -- Saab, Volvo, Jaguar - and trying to clear them from their lots. Combine all that with the recession and a gas crisis that made SUVs into boat anchors; if you were one of the sparse few in the market, "name your price" was not such a huge exaggeration.

Well, if you try to name your price today you're likely to hear, "Too late. Ya snooze, ya lose!" Once the bankruptcy emergencies hit and the cushy fictions of the labor agreements were abandoned, the first thing these guys did was cut back production. Oversupply does not appear much of an issue anymore. The best car website I know of, The Truth About Cars, has an ongoing feature called "Hammertime" about the world of auctions and wholesaling and independent used car dealers wherein they argue this market shift has hit the used car market hardest, especially when you couple the fact that big money loans for new cars are not so readily available anymore and folks are getting more comfortable with good condition used cars (since all cars are of enormously higher quality and durability than they were just ten years ago). Demand up, supply down: do the math.

So having just dropped $400 on general maintenance and another $700 for bearings on the left rear wheel, and facing dropping another $700 on the right rear, not to mention probably another $500 to deal with whatever reason the check engine light is on, what do I do? Kelly Blue Book estimates about $5500 for a private sale. If you figure $2500 of recent and upcoming work, that leaves a $3500 residual which would be a nice down payment on something new or, even more so, a year-old model.

But honestly, as I have discussed before, a new car has pretty much nothing to offer me over and above my Camry when it's working properly. Even if I average $1500 a year on repairs and maintenance going forward, I'm still better off cash-wise with my current ride, and that's before taking into account all the unexpected hits to my wallet that a house is going to bring. I probably could have been swayed into buying if the monster buyer's market was still going on and I could have arranged a killer deal, but that time has passed. No. I'll pay to keep the Camry going another 4 or 5 years. By then, maybe I can sell it as a classic.

[Rant] Get Outta My Head

Get Outta My Head: For my day job, I recently took a personality test. Called Predictive Index, its primary goal is to identify your favored modes of communication and learning. The idea is that it's a way for managers to better facilitate useful communication among employees and perhaps defuse some conflicts. It involves only about five minutes of a survey, associating specific words with what personality features you believe you are expected to display.

Blah, blah, blah - more Human Resource silliness, right? Except I have to admit that this one nailed me cold. Astoundingly so considering it took only five minutes of time with no prep required. Here is my complete evaluation. There is one statement that is questionable, but everything else is pretty close to right on.

Dave is a thoughtful, disciplined person who is particularly attentive to, careful of, and accurate with the details involved in his job., He identifies problems, and enjoys solving them, particularly in his area of expertise. He works at a steady, even pace, leveraging his background for the betterment of the team, company, or customer.

With experience and/or training, Dave will develop a high level of specialized expertise. He is serious and dedicated to his job and the company. His work pace is steady and even-keeled, and he is motivated by a real concern for getting work done thoroughly and correctly. His discipline and circumspect thinking will lend caution to his decision-making; he plans ahead, double-checks, and follows up carefully on his decisions and actions.

A modest and unassuming person, Dave works autonomously in his area of expertise. When working outside of his expertise, his drive is to seek specialized knowledge by finding definitive answers from written resources, authoritative management, or established subject matter experts. He is most effective and productive when he works within or close to his own specialty and experience and he prefers to stick to the proven way. If it becomes necessary for him to initiate or adopt change, he will need to see cold hard evidence to prove that the new way is proven, complete and yields high-quality results. In addition, Dave will carefully plan the implementation to minimize problems and maximize results.

Dave is reserved and accommodating, expressing himself sincerely and factually. In general he is rather cautious and conservative in his style, skeptical about anything new and unfamiliar or any change in the traditional way of doing things. Possessing the ability to strongly concentrate on the job at hand, he's most effective when given uninterrupted blocks of time. He has a better-than-average aptitude for work that is analytical or technical in nature.

The italics are mine and they are the passages that I think are key and I find it rather like witchcraft that they could nail those qualities in such a brief little test. The final paragraph overstates the case a bit. It makes me sound like a stick in the mud and a wet blanket. I am not that cautious and conservative. I'm also not sure I am so good and making use of uninterrupted time.

I would also point out that, while this is accurate with respect to my corporate job, I'm not sure it's the same when it comes to writing, and perhaps less so with respect to my personal relationships.

But still, in context, it's dead on accurate. Fortune tellers have come a long way.

The Month That Was - June 2010

The Month That Was - June 2010: A sunny and warm 4th of July. I'm delighted to say that I've had a healthy share of outside time so far this summer, which is what one should be able to say.

I have yet another hard-copy formatted galley of Misspent Youth. At first glance it looks pretty much correct and I am trying to work up the enthusiasm to unsheathe my fine-toothed comb. I've also managed to get together my ideas and some examples of cover graphics for the designer. Sometimes it seems like I'll be baby-stepping to my grave.

Two trips this month, both described below. No photos, though - they weren't really new locales. My eternal travel planning has slowed, mostly because I have decided it's time to buy a house. I have lived (quite happily) in a small-ish condo for well over a decade. It has been a completely hassle free situation, but the combination of exceedingly low interest rates and a deeply depressed housing market suggest that it might be a wise investment for me to embrace some longer-term hassle. That means having as much ready cash around as possible, which in turn means limiting my travel excesses. So what you will miss in terms of future travel narratives will hopefully be made up for in tales of house shopping follies.

[Travel] Memorial Day in NYC
[Books] Book Look: Norwegian Wood, by Haruki Murakami
[TV] Breaking Bad And You
[Travel] Ft. Lauderdamndale

[Travel] Memorial Day in NYC

Memorial Day in NYC: There are few things in the world cooler than being in Manhattan. (There are also few things more expensive.) If you are feeling dead and defeated, Manhattan will almost certainly change your outlook. This is especially true on Memorial Day weekend, on the cusp of summer. The weather was perfect. The city not too packed -- despite the fact that it is Fleet Week, a healthy portion of locals take the opportunity for a long weekend to get away, leaving the city not especially overcrowded. I hope to make this a Memorial Day tradition.

A strangely uneventful flight on Delta and an equally uneventful cab ride from LaGuardia brought me to the Doubletree Metropolitan in Midtown East: a decent enough hotel -- friendly and courteous staff, the rooms generic, but functional, although the concierge was not particularly accurate. After checking in I engaged in my standard re-acclimation of hoofing it over to Times Square.

I mentioned how expensive Manhattan is, yet one of the things I enjoy most about it are the options for cheap food. In the past I have salivated over the Bahn Mi at Saigon Bakery. Bahn Mi is a Vietnamese-style, pork-based, submarine-sized sandwich. Saigon Bakery is one man a carry-out operation on Mott St. in Chinatown in the back of a crap jewelry store. A Bahn Mi is about $4 and it's one of the tastiest things you will ever eat. A good choice in Midtown is the gyro cart on the corner of Sixth Ave. just across and down from the Museum of Modern Art -- awesome fresh lamb and rice, big enough for two at a whopping $6. The Hidden Burger Joint in Le Parker Meridien hotel used to fall into this class, but it has been packed from open to close every time I have tried to go there in the last three years, so I'm taking it off the list for now.

The first of two discoveries this trip was Xie-Xie, a sandwich shop on 9th and 45th just a block off Times Square. Just a small place next to a painfully hipster-looking nightclub, they serve up a handful of different sandwiches -- fish, lobster, pork, beef, chicken -- all with a delicious Asian twist. I had the BBQ Beef with carrot kimchi. Seriously good. Sandwich, bag of chips, and soda for under $10 in most cases. I would be very surprised not to see these places nationwide in a couple of years.

Anyway, as always, the journey across Midtown to the neon carnival spectacular of Times Square at night makes everything seem just right. The world is OK when I am in Manhattan.

Next day, Miss Kate rolls into Penn Station on the Acela from DC and in short order we are walking Park Ave towards the Upper East Side, eventually settling into a brasserie called Bistro 60, for a tasty light late lunch. From there, a lovely spring stroll through Central Park.

Central Park is always a joy. A lovely place in and of itself, the fact that it is an island of wooded quiet (relatively speaking) surrounded by the majestic contrast of the skyline and activity of the city just outside makes it unforgettable. It's easy to spend a day just wandering in the Park. We didn't spend and entire day but cut a somewhat meandering path over to the West Side, pausing briefly at the boathouse to watch the peddle-boaters the ambled past the hippies at Strawberry Fields and exiting near The Dakota. From there a long hoof back to the hotel, but not without a stop at Whiskey Blue in the W where Miss Kate vowed eternal devotion to the espresso martinis.

With the evening came a Broadway show: Promises, Promises. It's a fun, musical, romantic comedy starring Sean Hayes, who you'll remember as "Just Jack!" from Will and Grace, and Kristin Chenoweth, who you'd probably recognize from somewhere if you saw her, most recently she had a role in a couple of episodes of Glee. The story is based on the classic Billy Wilder film, The Apartment, and was scored by Burt Bacharach, the most prominent song being "I'll Never Fall in Love Again." It's all very nicely done. A solid B+ performance that's kicked up for a couple of scenes at the start of the second act when Kate Finneran steals the show with her hilarious portrayal of a lascivious barfly.

Broadway shows are prohibitively expensive -- to the point where you don't want to risk seeing a dud or being disappointed. The cost is too high. Promises, Promises is a safe bet. I can't imagine anyone being disappointed other than by their inability to get "I'll Never Fall in Love Again" out of their head for the next few days.

Post-theatre dinner was at Bar Americain, a Bobby Flay joint with some delectable variations on American-style bar food. Bobby Flay is sometimes disdained by serious foodies, but I've never had less than a great meal from his restaurants -- either Bar Americain or Mesa Grill in Vegas. (Are you getting the impression that this trip was all about food? Strange.)

The next day it was up bright and early to journey to Brooklyn for a walk across the bridge. The bridge walk is a great way to start the day. It only takes about 20 to 30 minutes and gives you a beautiful view of the Lower Manhattan skyline, but it's important to do it in the morning so as to have the sun to your back and the oblique light on Manhattan. (The reverse walk is less desirable as the Brooklyn skyline is nothing to write home about.) You can get a subway there; it lets you off a couple of blocks away but there are signs indicating the way. A quicker but more expensive alternative is to cab it over which actually results in a longer walk since the cab will likely let you off a bit deeper into Brooklyn that the subway. (Aside: this was one of the things our concierge screwed up.)

As you exit the bridge in Manhattan you are essentially within shooting distance of anything in Lower Manhattan. A good choice is the Seaport, which will be off to your left. Been there, done that for us, so we chose to dash west and troll around Soho and the Village past NYU and Washington Square Park.

Which leads me to my second cheap food find: Joe's Pizza, generally considered to be the best place in the world for a walk-in slice of NY pizza. I don't have a full spectrum of experience with NY-style pizza to judge that claim, but Joe's was awfully good. Top notch ingredients and noticeably exceptional crispy crust. In fact, while we were sitting there, some tour group stopped in for a slice -- perhaps it was a "taste of NYC" sort of tour. It's a place of that sort of renown. It goes on the cheap eats list for the rare occasions I make it down to the Village.

Time for one more espresso martini before bundling Miss Kate back on the Acela south. As for me, I didn't have to leave until the next day, so I was off to Birdland to catch a jazz set. (How's that for hip cat lingo?) Hilary Kole is a terrific vocalist with a healthy dose of Ella Fitzgerald in her style. She got hot band, a weekly gig at Birdland, and fine CD called "Haunted Heart". Recommended if you like vital takes on standards mixed with newer and original material. I prefer her swing numbers to the ballads, but you may differ. Good show, and the $20 cover is a deal in NYC.

The next, and last, morning I was feeling unambitious so I grabbed a Jamba Juice and walked to the park where I found a nice sunny spot on the grass and spent an hour watching life pass in the center of the world. I followed this with a brief visit to the Apple store just to see what the techno-hip were up to -- it was packed, not an iPad was going untested.

Another surprisingly uneventful plane ride from Delta got me home. If it wasn't for the pain and suffering in the wallet, I would be spending a lot more time in Gotham. I've really got to figure out a cheap way to do this. For restoration of the soul, it can't be beat.

[Books]Book Look: Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

Book Look: Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami: I've read the bulk of Murakami's work by now, and I've enjoyed and admired it, but I really don't know why. He commits many transgressions against my list of "what I like in novels" yet I still find myself engrossed by his writing. Norwegian Wood is no exception.

The story is quite simple. A young college student, Watanabe, already given to detachment and remoteness, is further isolated when his best friend commits suicide. (The contemporary world would probably refer to him as clinically depressed and hand him some Prozac.) Months later he has a chance meeting with his late friend's girlfriend, who is quite troubled, and they get cautiously involved. After consummating their relationship, the girl disappears into a sort of sanatorium. They maintain fleeting but heartfelt contact. Meanwhile, he finds himself thrust into a relationship with another girl; a free spirit --slightly wacky, this one. One relationship ends tragically, the other continues happily. That's the core story.

The personal depth comes through Watanbe's evolution from post-adolescent indifference and disaffection to engaging with love, loneliness, and life. But it goes even deeper than that. Death, especially in the form of suicide (very Japanese), looms throughout. Death makes all things impermanent, especially for those that live only in eternally fading memory. Death impels urgency and bestows a cost on allowing months and years to pass in detachment. Mortality is the ultimate driver of all actions.

And that's why I like Murakami. He occasionally lapses into exposition, gets a bit too concerned with minutiae here and there, loses momentum at the very end, and is needlessly frank about the details of sex (that too may be Japanese -- or it's just me being a fuddy-duddy?), but he's always got his eyes on the bigger emotional and even spiritual picture. He's never over-sentimental, even in the most gut-wrenching scenes. A story about a non-descript college kid is actually a story about ultimate questions of impermanence.

Norwegian Wood was a monster best seller in Japan. It is one of the cultural markers that certain generation of Japanese all have in common. (An early translation of it was used in schools to teach English.) It is renowned for its portrayal of college life around 1970 and especially its countless references to Western literature and music. Apparently Western arts were cool in Japan back then, but this no doubt feeds its popularity too. But again, Murakami does something admirable: the social background is incidental -- what counts is the personal.

Should you read Norwegian Wood? Yes, probably. I can't imagine anyone not finding something to like and despite the dire undertone, there's plenty of good humor (especially in the character of Midori). I do want to reiterate my warning about frank sexual activity. It's not gratuitous -- in fact, it's fairly meaningful in the scope of the story -- but it can be a bit of a shock.

If you are thinking of reading Norwegian Wood or any other Murakami, I should point out that most of his novels tend towards imaginative fantasy and magic realism. Not here. This one is firmly rooted in plain old life. Choose your Murakami accordingly.

[TV] Breaking Bad And You

Breaking Bad And You: Season three of AMC's near-pantheon series just recently finished up and it was very well done. Short version: this is the year Walter White's slow flight into the dark side went hyperbolic. The show has turned into a fascinating exercise in reflecting on one's personal morality. At what point is Walter White no longer a hero?

When we started he was a hapless Beta Male. He barely provided for his family. His brother in-law was a hot shot hero to his mildly handicapped son. His wife was (and still is) a sanctimonious shrew. He was given a death sentence (cancer) against which his only hope was to beg for money from more successful friend and rival. He drives a Pontiac Aztek for god sakes. He was worse than a failure. A failure has at least tried for achievement. He was completely ineffectual. He was a dust speck -- an intangible being. His destiny was to die pointlessly and drift out of memory having just as well not existed.

So he starts cooking meth with the plan to make enough money for his family (including a baby on the way) to survive after he was gone. Is this the point he turned evil? This naturally put him into contact with violent criminals and at one point he had to kill one such criminal for the sake of his own survival. How about now? Evil yet? Or excusable? Or at least understandable?

Further on, to preserve his operation, and partially for the good of his "partner" in whom he has developed a father/guilt complex, Walter allows someone to die through inaction, which indirectly leads to the death of hundreds of innocents in a plane crash. How about now?

Or how about when his brother in-law is brutally assaulted and partially paralyzed when offered up as a sacrifice by Walter's drug patron to save Walter's own life? How about when he runs over a couple of street dealers to save his partner and almost casually finishes off a survivor with a bullet to the head? How about in the last scene of the season, when he effectively orders the death of an innocent to save his own skin? The black hat he was sporting in the final episode seems to indicate that the line has been crossed.

Here's the thing. Once you accept that the first step -- that desperate cry for some sort of value for his existence -- the devastation that follows just cascades inevitably along with it. Unlike, say, Tony Soprano, who was a vindictive psychopath from the start and who you rooted for only in the sense of a fantasy, Walter White could easily be you or me. Walter White, in an act of desperation, in an attempt to die with some sort of identity, when faced with the ultimate injustice of mortality, did something very few of us wouldn't do (however manufactured the situation). It led to destruction beyond his imagination, but how can we declare him a villain when we can only in our deepest hearts we understand him and suspect we may would have done the same thing.

That's the high concept of Breaking Bad and it is a beaut. Oh there are sub-plots -- Jesse's various wars with addiction, Skyler's hypocrisy and potential complicity -- and the characters are wonderful, especially Better-Call Saul. But it's the high concept that has Breaking Bad knocking on the pantheon's door. There's still a bit too much dependency on contrivance and coincidence to let it in. (This tendency was on display at the end of this season as Jesse happened to find himself in a situation where he was facing down a couple of street dealers in the name of revenge and chivalry.)

The key thing now is not to drift in uncertainty. More than anything, creator Vince Gilligan needs to have the end in sight. He needs to know how he wants to finish it up and start getting there over the next couple of seasons. Right now, judging from recent interviews, he doesn't know where to go next and that's a problem. Complete the arc in your head, Vince, and work from there for two more seasons. Then close up shop. Call it a classic and move on to your next project. The key to the pantheon is in your grasp.

[Travel] Fort Lauderdamndale

Fort Lauderdamndale: The end of the month brought a trip to Ft. Lauderdale, to go through college orientation with Miss Anna. Orientation itself was what orientation is at just about any college: a diversity-oriented intro for the students, a safety-oriented intro for the parents, and a universal introduction to a confused administrative bureaucracy. By the third day or so they get around to registering students for classes.

Anna will be attending Barry University a small(ish) Catholic school just north of Miami. I have mixed feelings about it. Barry is overtly, unabashedly Catholic and I am an admirer of the Catholic educational tradition in principle but, more than most Universities, puts an awful lot of emphasis on "social justice" which, while not necessarily bad, is certainly a concern. (When principles of "social justice" are applied to individual interactions they are, invariably, unjust.) All this is, of course, yet another example of a lesson I re-learn everyday: It's not my world anymore.

No photos, because much of the days were spent shuttling back and forth between the Sheraton on the beach in Ft. L (not a bad place, but there are nicer choices) and Barry U., but we did manage some interesting excursions.

A run up A1A to Delray Beach was a winner. It remains my favorite beach town in Florida -- laid back, uncrowded, beautiful beach, perfect main street (Atlantic Ave.) to stroll. I'll take a lounge chair and full cooler here any day. Try Pizza Rustica for a slice of pure awesome.

We also made a dash into South Beach for a tasty dinner at Emerils, but not before making an attempt to walk down Ocean Drive until the restaurant barkers and gay boys dancing in their underwear drove us away. Good timing because as soon as we made it over to Collins Ave. what must have been the entire the Miami Beach police force descended on Ocean Drive to deal with some form of insanity. I'm too old to find such hooliganism entertaining anymore.

More enjoyable was walking through two Art Deco gems, The National and The Delano. Anna declared The Delano to be the most beautiful hotel she had ever seen, including the ones in Vegas. I had to agree. We decided to make that the official hotel of future college visits to Anna, but have yet to decide who's going to take out the second mortgage.

(Unrelated observation: Two places that used to be on my list for regular visits but that I have since gotten over: South Beach and New Orleans. That leaves Manhattan and Vegas and the recently added Chicago. There is clearly meaning in that, but have no interest in finding it.)

We hit Bal Harbour (north end of Miami Beach) a couple of times for dinner as it's the most convenient place to Barry. A decent little block or two for wandering with some decent restaurants but Bal Harbour is mostly just super-expensive high-rise condos and a shopping mall that charges admission.

After dropping Misses Kate and Anna off at the airport I had a couple of hours before my flight (which turned into six hours, thanks Delta) so I explored a bit more of Ft. L proper. I remain unimpressed. There is a long strip of beach bars and hotels with loud music and drunken revelers, but if you really want that, you're better off in South Beach. There is Las Olas Blvd., which trys to be a chilled out main street, but the traffic can be heavy and it's not really close to the beach -- if you really want that, you're better off driving up to Delray. That's the issue I have with Ft. L. It's just doesn't seem to be comfortable in its own skin. It's an odd mix of vibrant party center and laid back beach town, as a result it succeeds as neither. This is especially clear when there are better alternatives for either atmosphere less than an hour away.

Still, whether it's Miami Beach or Ft. Lauderdale or Delray there is always the joy of crossing the broad, soft sand of the beach and floating about in the summer-warmed Atlantic, which hasn't changed since I was twelve. I think I'm going to have to visit Miss Anna fairly often.

Month That Was - May 2010

The Month That Was - May 2010: Another month and another revision to Misspent Youth. Now it's back to sorting out the formatting. Then on to the cover.

I managed to get in a whirlwind weekend in NYC for Memorial Day. Technically in May, but I'll write it up for next month. For now, let's just say the Apple remains the Apple. I don't spend enough time there (for which my wallet is thankful).

It's time to (yet again) replace my Sirius receiver in my car. Doubt I'll get away with a simple replacement unit this time. Adventure and annoyance are likely to ensue.

And I have slowly -- oh so slowly -- kicked off investigations into a real estate upgrade. It's the usual story depressed market and cheap rates make things appealing. More on that later too.

[Books] Peter De Vries
[Detroit] Kwame Up the River
[Rant] Fresh Mex
[Health and Fitness] Not Quite Going the Distance
[TV] The Pacific

[Books] Peter De Vries

Peter De Vries: If you were to try to pay me the compliment of a lifetime (and there is no reason you should) you could simply tell me that my writing reminds you of Peter De Vries. Yes, I realize you have never heard of him.

For thirty years -- from the mid 50s through the mid 80s -- De Vries was perhaps the most celebrated satirist alive. He was prolific -- cranking out roughly a book a year; short, funny novels filled with insights from profound to catty, centered on suburban mores and religious confusion. The films Tunnel of Love, Pete 'n' Tillie, and Reuben, Reuben were based on his writings. He wrote for the New Yorker in its heyday, alongside James Thurber and J.D. Salinger among others. Kingsley Amis called him the "funniest serious writer to be found on either side of the Atlantic." Harper Lee compared him to Evelyn Waugh. Dude had all-star chops and everyone knew it, is what I'm driving at.

Then he disappeared. Not unusual for a writer to vanish. What was strange (and borderline criminal, to my mind) was that his books disappeared too. He stopped writing in the mid-80s and was dead by '93. In that time every one of the dozens of books he had written went out of print. I only ever discovered him via a handful of odd comments here and there amongst the more thoughtful magazines I used to read (this would have been right around the time of his death). Luckily, it happened that my favorite local used bookstore, Dawn Treader, regularly found themselves in possession of discards which I gobbled up. About four years ago, two of his books were brought back into print and there was hope that more would come, but it has yet to happen.

De Vries had a master's understanding that the source of all comedy is pain. Especially satire. Raised in a strongly Protestant tradition and a lifelong believer, De Vries nevertheless had serious misgivings about God and his characters reflected that uncertainty. Often they were involved in floundering searches for secular meaning, which seemed to inevitably lead to another common theme: loose sexuality. This theme kicked in heavily in the '70s, when one of his Desperate Housewife-ish characters claimed, "It's all musical beds now."

It's easy to see the stuff of satire: morally confused, quietly desperate, even unknowingly happy characters, bouncing around the suburbs, grasping and whatever transient fulfillment they can find. Some things never change, eh? If there is shortcoming to De Vries works it is that they are often very lightly plotted. Most of the action consists of following characters through their lives and building a picture of them through gimlet-eyed observation and good humor (De Vries is a "laughing with" guy, not "laughing at").

The point of all this is that De Vries deserves better than to be out of print with the exception of a couple of books hanging by a thread. His novels are not long. They remain quite relevant to contemporary life, apart from the odd cultural reference. Is there no publisher that would put together a collection of, say, five of them in one volume? Can nobody take the time to scan them and clean them up for Kindle release? (Even the movies listed above are only available in VHS, for pity's sake.)

Here's what De Vries deserves: In a couple of years, when Matt Weiner is casting around for a follow-up to Mad Men, he uses De Vries works from the seventies to create a whole new period mini-series (this one more comedy oriented). Mix and match characters and events from multiple books. For political context, start with the fall of Nixon and end with the rise of Reagan. For social context, start with a nuclear family in church and end with a sloppy mess of divorcees and step- and single parents at a No Nukes rally. Then just use De Vries to fill in the gaps. (Yo, Matt! If you're interested in development, let's talk.)

For now, I suppose, you'll want to hit Amazon or Alibris. Slouching towards Kalamazoo seems to be everybody's favorite. I can recommend Sauce for the Goose, The Prick of Noon, and Madder Music also.

One final ignominy is that many of his book listings aren't even accompanied by a single paragraph description, as though they were just anonymous paperbacks in an enormous pile of undifferentiated used books in some warehouse. A satirist fate? De Vries tombstone bears the inscription, "Life was hard, but comedy was harder." Amen, brother.

[Detroit] Kwame Up the River

Kwame Up the River: Well, I have to laugh. Detroit's former leader, the self-styled "hip-hop mayor," Kwame Kilpatrick, got sentenced to 1.5 to 5 years in prison for trying to hide assets from the court and just generally being Mr. Scammy McDirtbag. Hee. Hee. Hee. There will of course be an appeal.

The most telling point of the story, and the one that perfectly illustrates how Detroit works, is the angle on Kwame's lost job. It seems once Kwame was ousted as mayor he managed to land a cushy no-show sales job with Compuware, one of the few employers left in Detroit. He was salaried at 120k per year, yet never closed a deal. No doubt he was spending all his time trying to stay out of jail rather than cold calling prospects. Now under prison sentence, Compuware has decided to let him go.

The telling thing is that Compuware put him on the payroll to begin with. Do you know why? They did it because there was a realistic chance that he would come back; that he would not only beat the charges, but get re-elected mayor. And if that happened, then they would have the mayor in their pocket. It was worth 120k per year to Compuware to take that risk. If you understand that you understand Detroit. And you understand why it is a failed city.

Poor Mayor Bing is working like mad. He's doing the right things and is putting his heart into it, but I'm afraid it's just too late. Whatever progress he makes will be immediately undone by the next Coleman Young or Kwame Kilpatrick. Guys like Dennis Archer and Dave Bing are just little Dutch boys. Frankly, I don't think Detroit deserves them.

[Rant] Fresh Mex

Fresh Mex: I'm sure many of you have been very anxious to learn how I feel about Fresh Mex-style fast food. Well, you can relax now. I'm about to tell you.

In the greater Ann Arbor area we have three fresh mex chains available: Chipotle, Qdoba, and Moe's. Each has its distinct advantage so here's a quick guide.

The best standard burritos come from Chipotle. Their meats just seem fresher and juicier, they offer the traditional beans or fajita style, and their salsa verde is a cut above. They also have the simplest menu, so the folks behind the counter rarely get confused and ham-fist your order. The meal of choice for me is a carnitas (pork) burrito, fajita style.

Qdoba extends the choices a little. Specifically, they have grilled veggie burritos which is cool because even people who eat burritos for every meal need their vegetables. A downside is the salsa verde is not as good as Chipotle and they charge extra for forgoing beans and getting it fajita style. On the other hand, they provide something called Mexican Gumbo, which is a burrito minus the tortilla, in a bowl, covered with some awesome tangy tomato broth. It is a steaming pile of awesome.

Moe's has, I think, the lowest quality of food (although it's not bad). But they have the broadest selection of ingredients, including tofu and fish. And you can get fish tacos. They aren't terribly good. The food carts vendors in and around San Diego would wretch at the sight of them. But they are actual fish tacos, which are required eating occasionally and tough to find cheap-and-easy around these parts. Moe's also has a salsa bar for those who like to load up, but again, the salsa doesn't seem that special to me. One bonus is that you get free corn chips so if you're in the mood for bulk over quality, this is the place.

I know there are folks peppered all over the southwest, sneering at this while scarfing down their favorite taqueria fare. Fair enough. Here in mid-Michigan, you get what you get.

[Health and Fitness] Not Quite Going the Distance

Not Quite Going the Distance: I spend an inordinate amount of time at my health club and otherwise working out. Really, to the point where it's nearly unhealthy. I rarely speak of it because I agree with Haruki Murakami when he says, "A gentleman shouldn't go on about what he does to stay fit." Of course Haruki-san said that in a book about running marathons, so go figure. Most people, when confronted with a description of my workout habits, are confused. Why spend all that time sweating and grunting to stay fit? Why not enjoy life? It's not like you're going to live forever.

Here's the thing. I feel about fitness the way other men feel about golf, or fishing, or old cars, etc. It's my avocation, my escape, my hobby, my outlet. It is not a means to an end, but the end itself. It is one way in which I enjoy life. This post is just a set up because going forward, in outright defiance of Haruki-san, I may post a bit more about my fitness efforts. After all, this is my diary; it's about what I do and how I spend my time, so I really don't have much choice.

I have a number of fitness shortcomings and nemeses. Probably the worst of them is my flexibility, especially hamstrings. It's problem common to most men. And like much in the realm of physical limitations, it is genetic in nature. You can get better at anything through practice, but your DNA imposes certain limits on how much better.

The flexibility thing I can accept, but the most troubling nemesis for me is running. It's been a multi-decade struggle trying to get myself to be a strong distance runner and I haven't yet succeeded. I have friends who habitually knock off half- and full marathons; they speak of it casually, in the same tone as if they just rented a movie or went out for lunch. For me, five miles is a good solid run and I've never gone further than, oh, about 7 miles.

I started running many years ago -- call it the mid-80s. I was living on the western edge of Ypsilanti and I used to run through the various neighborhoods and by Washtenaw Community College. I managed to get a few races in. Did the Briarwood 5k a couple of times. And I did a 5-miler called the Miracle in the Apple Orchard run which basically circled WCC, wherein I finished in just under a 9 minute mile pace. But I plateaued there. No matter what I did I did not seem to get any faster nor did I feel particularly capable of running further.

Then I pretty much gave up running in any serious way. I suffered periodically from painful plantar fasciitis. It would come and go until I realized that had to religiously stretch my calves to keep it at bay. I also, from time to time, gained a fair amount of weight, which is death for a runner. Anyway, running fell by the wayside for years. It was just too uncomfortable and I felt I had better alternatives.

Fast forward to about a year ago and suddenly I started running again. I'm not exactly sure why. Perhaps the biggest reason is hearing friends talk about their running exploits and marathon training and so forth, then coming to the realization that time is quite probably running out on my ability to do such things. Essentially, if I was ever going to get to be a decent distance runner it was now or never (strangely, I'm not getting any younger). So I bought a pair of wonderfully comfortable Nikes and set out running again in earnest.

After about a year of semi-regular training I am, essentially, back where I was decades ago. A solid run is 5 miles at a 9-minute pace. I can push beyond that distance wise to about 7 miles. On level ground, or a treadmill, I can do three miles at about an 8-minute pace. That's it. And trying to push beyond my limits in any significant way has tended to result in little injuries -- stress fractures, strains of all sorts. While there's something to be said for being able to keep up with my quarter-century younger self, it's pretty clear I am never going to run a marathon. I suspect I am just not structurally designed to run vast distances. That DNA thing again.

But I've done a few 5ks. This summer I will do at least one 10k. I'd like to get up to a half-marathon. Folks tell me at that distance it's still a matter of athletic endurance vs. a full marathon which crosses into pain endurance. I've been doing some speed training with a local running group and some trail running which is a new experience and I did a fair amount of cold weather running this winter. Who knows, maybe a light bulb will go on over my head and I'll find the missing clue that leads me to find my inner Masai. Until then, I'll be one of those guys whose name pops up about half-way down the list of finishers in one of the middle-aged groups and is just happy to get a t-shirt and a distressingly ugly photo at the finish line.

[TV] The Pacific

The Pacific: This was the counterpart to the Dreamworks/Playtone WW2 European theatre triumph from a few years back, Band of Brothers. I had high hopes for it, having read one of the two books on which it was based. Sadly, it didn't come close to measuring up.

One of the great things about Band of Brothers was the broad brush strokes. You saw good leaders and bad leaders. Some of the fighting men made it through, some didn't. All the while, it never descended into cliche and cynicism. It showed a military that, despite errors and setbacks, wasn't dysfunctional. Bad leaders were ousted. Good leaders were revered. Some soldiers cracked up. Some soldiers overcame. Horrors were balanced with camaraderie and joy.

Whether intentional or not, The Pacific turned out just the opposite. It was a one note samba of degradation. The three main characters were grunts serving in some of the most harrowing fighting ever seen. The images and action in these scenes was monstrous beyond imagination, leaving you feeling gut punched and astounded anyone could survive. But that doesn't make it good drama. Man is thrust into a harrowing world -- it gets worse -- then even worse -- then indescribably bad is not a good plot outline no matter how skilled the presentation. Effectively, they pushed the theme to the point where it was impossible to relate to. It may have been an honest and accurate historical representation of the situation, but if it is pushed beyond the audience's ability to personalize, it fails as drama.

Any respite from the carnage involved the characters trying to interact with the normal world after their awful experiences. Pursuing women on leave; struggling with being understood by family; unable to put their experiences in words. That's fine, but it's been done to death over the years and The Pacific adds nothing new. The result of all this is a story so overwhelmed with showing the effects of war in general, that it fails to personalize it for the characters, and by extension, personalize it for us through our connection to them.

At the end of Band of Brothers we were introduced to the actual survivors they had portrayed. Despite their typical-of-the-breed humility, they expressed a great range of feelings -- sorrow, loss, pride, and numerous variations of gratitude. We only get to meet but a couple of the subjects of the Pacific, neither of whom is a principal character, and they aren't very talkative. All we are left with is the portrayal and their attitude towards their experiences seems to contain a single sentiment: disgust.

Again, it's possible to argue that the relentless carnage in these battles made for a different experience than in Europe and therefore it's an accurate portrayal. Apart from that not being a good excuse for mediocre drama, it's untrue. I have read With the Old Breed, the memoir of Pvt. Eugene Sledge, one of the main characters. His emotions as portrayed in print are anything but simple or single-minded. More importantly, his humanity leaps off every page. The Pacific does his memoir no justice. You're better off spending a few hours with With the Old Breed than ten hours in The Pacific.