Back Again: I spent the better part of the last week in Tucson, Arizona at the Miraval, Life in Balance, Resort and Spa where I got stabbed with needles, balanced on top of a telephone pole, basted and slow roasted, and just generally was taken care of for a change. A full accounting will be forthcoming.

I also took pictures (shock and awe!), but there is only one that I think is worth sharing: this one (it's about 175k). It's a picture of the one of the pools with the mountain vista in the background. I may share some others after I use them as experimental photoshop fodder.

I also finished Garrison Keillor's Summer 1956. A beautifully written book, but if you are used to the innocent Lake Wobegon stories, the explicit nature of this book may shock you. The main character is a 14 year-old boy and Keillor doesn't spare the sexual obsession and toilet humor that define that age. Keillor may be the only writer in the world who can frankly portray the lurid mind of an adolescent boy and still make it sound like poetry. More to say about this in the future, too.

Give me a couple of days to sort myself out and then I'll be back with more thrills and spills.

Extreme Makeover:  You ever look around and think, I'd really like to throw away my house, my job, my body and my website, and just start over and redesign everything properly? 

No?  Well then forget I asked.  I'll just provide you with these links and we can keep going just like before.  But if you don't hear from me for a while, you'll know what I've been doing.

• For all you golfers, try this course.  Par 11,880.


• HBO News: Minor Deadwood spoiler.  I have it on good authority that Wyatt Earp comes to town next season.


• David Chin wrote to let me know about his site, A Picture's Worth, which is a "personal, non-commercial project that aims to highlight the emotions and memories that can be triggered by a photograph."  Long time readers are giggling now, reminded of my struggle to actually take a picture.  They also know full well that I have enough trouble generating a 1000 words.  But if I did have some good photos, A Picture's Worth would be a decent place to put them to use.


• Bob Probert, former Detroit Red Wings thug…er enforcer, apparently got arrested during his first day on the job as  a bouncer in a Florida night club.  Probert, who is as tough as any brain-dead, psychotic coke-fiend, resisted arrest for buying drugs, apparently oblivious to the fact that when it comes to cops, five for fighting means five years.  I don’t know about you, but I think a Mike Tyson vs. Bob Probert pay-per-view would net millions for Comcast.


• Kids today don’t know nuthin' about rebellion.  Most of them apparently like their parents. Why, back in my day, we were fighting in the streets.  With our children at our feet…


• This is fun.  Waxy.org has gone through Amazon and excerpted some of the deeply negative reviews for critically-acclaimed works.  For example, about the Wizard of Oz: "For one thing, I don't like to watch things with witches in them, especially if one of them is portrayed as a 'good witch' - that's an oxymoron I can't reconcile with." Readers chime in with more.  Here's one on the King James Bible: "Apart from the leather, this book isn't really any good."  Take a moment to enjoy.

What Up:  Apple Pie inches closer to re-release.  Misspent Youth inches closer to being about half done.  This site inches closer to redesign.  Summer inches closer to Fall.  (And I inch closer to the grave.) 
 
I am in the process of reading three funny books that I picked up in the remainder bin.  CEO of the Sofa by P.J. O'Rourke, Lake Wobegon Summer 1956 by Garrison Keillor, and Tricky Business by Dave Barry.  All will get a good review once I finish them.
 
Yes, that's right.  Unlike many reviewers I actually read the books I review.

Eye Candy: Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle came on HBO just recently, and two things occurred to me.  1) What hath The Matrix wrought? and 2) Bill Murray is no assclown.
 
1) CA:FT is loaded start to finish with the 360 degree view, stop action wire stunts that began with The Matrix.    Memo to Hollywood: This is no longer cool enough to dwell on.  But at least it's better than a bunch of chatter and, to its credit, CA:FT is very light on the chatter.  Over-the-top action mixed with lots bare flesh are what this movie is about.  That's not necessarily a bad thing.  If the pace keeps up, if it doesn’t take itself too seriously, you get a middling piece of eye candy.  If the narrow plot and 2-D characters have at least some sort of coherence, you get a good piece of eye candy.  The first Angels was good eye candy, this one is middling.
 
Seriously, we need to get over the hyperactive, CGI-pumped Kung-Fu antics and get back focusing a smart camera angles and clever choreography.  Nothing here is as compelling as the fight scenes Bruce Lee did in Enter the Dragon 'round about 30 years ago.
 
2) Bill Murray doesn’t return to his role as Bosley.  The role was given to Bernie Mac.  The Bosley role also changes from a classically comic bungling sidekick (as portrayed by Murray), to a brainless assclown (as portrayed by Mac).  If Bill Murray knows anything, it's the difference between comedy and assclownery.  Witness the difference between Carl Spackler in Caddyshack, and virtually any role in the abysmal Caddyshack II, which Murray stayed away from.  This is why Bill Murray gets to do top notch pictures like Lost in Translation while every other SNL alum is in the casting director's file under 'A' for assclown.
 
Here's something odd.  20 or 25 years ago I would have given odds that John Cleese was going to be the dominant comedian/actor of our times, what with The Pythons and Fawlty Towers and a couple of decent flicks -- Clockwise, A Fish Called Wanda -- under his belt.  And here is Cleese taking a bit role in CA:FT (playing Lucy Liu's dad -- ??), while Bill Murray and Oscar are mentioned in the same sentence.  Never would have guessed.

Anyway, Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle is not worth renting.  The best part is the hot chicks and chances are you've seen them in various stages of undress over the years anyway.  It is worth catching on HBO or ultimately TNT, TBS, USA, WGN, Comedy, Sci-Fi, on down to Community Access, if you’re looking for a pointless distraction.

Tech Notes:  If you have any sort of need to have a set of files that you can access from any computer -- for instance, you're working on a novel or a piece of criticism and you travel a lot but your laptop is a pain to bring with you so you occasionally need to work on a strange computer in a hotel somewhere, or say you need to access files at home and at work -- the most important thing you can own is a USB flash drive (also called a pen drive or a key drive).  It's a little 2- inch long plastic gizmo that plugs directly into most modern computers, including Macs, and appears to the computer as a regular drive.  These things come in various capacities.  I have 32 meg, which is pretty much all you need for a bunch of doc files (an entire novel only takes about 500 k), and it cost me all of twenty bucks.  You can get them at any electronics or computer store.  Here's one at Best Buy that's twice the capacity of mine for $25.  Indispensable.
 
+++++
 
As you may have heard, Google started a mail service a while back similar to Yahoo or Hotmail, except they offered a full gigabyte of storage space.  Effectively, that means if you don’t have any mail with big attachments, you will never have to delete a message again.  Nice, but there's a better way to use it.  A gigabyte of relatively safe online storage is very effective as an off site back-up mechanism.  So what I do is just send any documents or files that I want to have backed up as attachments to messages to my own Gmail account.  I never use it for any other purpose and do not give out the address, so no spam comes in.  Not the purpose Google had in mind, but it's as convenient as can be.  Now I can get to my work if my condo burns to ground and my laptop melts in the file.  Since Yahoo and Hotmail are likely to come close to Google's capacity eventually, you're not limited to Google accounts, which are not available to the general public yet (although you can buy them on eBay).

OK, Here: My own personal tale of two cities (DC & Chicago) is available for your dining and dancing pleasure. It is long and contains more than a couple of pissy rants. I realize it's bad form to go off on my pet peeves in the middle of a travel story.

But it's the way I am.

It's All in the Re-writing: So I had my DC/Chicago article about 80% done and I stopped to read it over. It was like 15 pages long and filled with off-topic rants about all sorts of things. It made sense in my head as I was writing it. So I'm going to trim some of the rants and possibly turn them into seperate posts. With any luck I'll have all this sorted out by the time you get back from the holiday weekend. For now, I only have some links to offer:

• The perfunctory design site of this post is the listing of 2004 Industrial Design Excellence Awards. Lots of great kit and other intriguing stuff. Notable, however, by it's ommission is the remarkable DVD Rewinder.


• If you are doing any document design (web or otherwiese) it's probably worth taking a look at the free doodads at Tiger Direct Art. Fonts, clip art, textures and border graphics -- I snagged a font here for use in the new edition of Apple Pie.


• The greatest comedian of modern times, Mike Tyson, is back in the news. He claims to be homeless and living like a bum due to all his debt but is trying to turn his life around, adding this quote for his future biographers: "I ain't the same person I was when I bit that guy's ear off." Now how many people can say that?


• Speaking of sports, the very best sports journalist in existence, Bill Simmons, now has his own page at ESPN. He's one of the few who understands that information is secondary to entertainment in sports. Delve into the archives for some fun stuff.


• If you ever wondered what it is like to be a writer, here is your answer.


• I gave up Michael Moore bashing a while back. Other people do it better. Example: this Chistopher Hitchens review of F-9/11 wherein he demonstrates a stunning talent for sustained hostile eloquence. Instapundit has a round up of other Moore reviews and news. This blogger dug up the late, great critic Pauline Kael's review of Roger & Me, which shows his suckiness is nothing new. And it looks like they are not especially keen on accepting him back in his hometown of Flint, MI. Perhaps it's because he is a Big Fat Stupid White Man.

Cruel Summer: Damn. I'm sick again. What is going on? I got over a cold just as my trip to DC/Chicago began a couple of weeks ago and now I have another one. This has to stop. There are a couple of possible culprits; one is my Reston crew, who were in Ann Arbor for the annual Lloyd Carr Women's Football Academy. They may have brought some exotic virus with them from the Virginia suburbs. I also visited a new health club the other day and they are known to harbor all sorts of creepy crawlies, including some that my poor little immune system wasn;t prepared for. Ah well, the only course of action available is to drug myself up and ride it out. How bloody annoying is that?

I suppose I should explain what the Lloyd Carr Women's Football Academy is. For those of you not up on college football, Lloyd Carr is the coach of the University of Michigan Wolverines. Each year, he holds the Women's Football Academy in support of the Coach Carr Cancer Fund. Approximately 500 (participation is limited) women from all over the country get together and break up into teams and are coached by the actual UofM football players and coaches. Then, after a catered lunch, they get to barrel out of the tunnel into Michigan Stadium -- the Big House -- and scrimmage right on the actual football field. What a good time. I could only watch but there were moments when I wanted to jump in there and play.

The women involved in this are not athletes, for the most part; many aren’t even what you might call physically fit. I would guess ages ran the gamut from teenagers through seniors, with the average age probably in the 40s. They are all just Michigan football fans having a great time. Highly recommended if you are looking for a good time in support of a worthy cause.

And speaking of Chicago, my travel essay on my DC/Chicago trip should have been done by now, but it's not. As you probably know, my first novel, Apple Pie has found a new publisher. I moving a manuscript from one publisher to another, errors can occur in the translation. As such I have been spending my free time proofing Apple Pie for what must be the thousandth time. And I'll have to do it again to verify that all my corrections 'took'.

Still, I should have DC/Chicago up soon. And I should be over this cold soon. Then maybe, just maybe, I can start enjoying the summer.

(BTW, my land line voice mail is FUBAR. I can see that I have messages waiting but I can't retrieve them. Thank you Talk America. So if I have been ignoring your call, I haven't. Try my cell, or email me.)

Another Week Gone: The only thing I can say is that this week proved that God has a sense of humor. A really vicious sense of humor. A big fan of dark comedy, The Almighty is.

But that not withstanding, a follow-up article on Deadwood is up over at Blogcritics Now I'm working on a travel piece about my recent trip to DC and Chicago, and I have a thick stack of fiction to edit. For now, here's some linkage.

• The Detroit Pistons won a stunning victory in the NBA Finals. They were written off before the series and now everyone is wallowing in I-told-ya-so. For a clearheaded and very funny take on it check out Bill Simmons. Favorite quote: "...there's no better way to pass the time in traffic than to talk to yourself in the Larry Brown monotone for 10 straight minutes: 'I'm very proud of my car right now. It's not heating up at all. I even have the air conditioning on. It's just a credit to the people who made this car. Other cars would be overheating right now. I can't control what people think about this car. I'm just taking it one traffic jam at a time. Now I'm going to count backwards from 10. When I clap my hands, you will wake up from this traffic jam.' "


• Scam alert. I almost fell for this one; it's very different from the ch34p v14gr4 spams you get. It's from an outfit called "ShareYourExperiences.com" and starts like this: "Someone who knows you is attempting to share experiences opinions and experiences about you via our website. The purpose of this email is to inform you that a posting has been made about you at our website. This is email is not commercial in nature.", then it directs you to a website to see what that someone wrote. When you get there you find that you must pay a subscription fee to read what was written about you. The fact is nothing has been written about you. Don’t fall for it. Here are the details.


• Adnan emailed to let me know about his site, Sensory Impact, for design mavens. Cool stuff. Check it out.


• Running away from things in the movies. Given the comparative velocities, it looks like directors could use a reality check.


• The WB is bringing back two shows from my childhood: Lost in Space and Dark Shadows. Lost in Space was an after school staple and Dark Shadows scared me to death. I'm betting they go for irony above all else this time around.

Long Time No See: Hey, remember me? I have spent the last couple of weeks in DC and Chicago; just recently returned and I am a good twenty-thousand leagues under the sea, both at writing and at work. There will be a Deadwood essay coming. There will be a full recounting of my recent journeys. Apple Pie moves yet closer to re-release. And it's all going to happen without my head exploding -- I'm pretty sure. For now, sleep and catch-up at work; then I'll be back with more. Don’t touch that dial.

Lost, Harried and Medicated: That's how I've spent the past few days. Still nursing back spasms, but at least they aren't seriously hindering me anymore. Gotta love those muscle relaxers. It's time for me to devote some serious time to the world of three dimensions, so it'll probably be a couple of weeks unitl you next hear from me. (I know, you haven't been hearing from me that much lately anyway -- I still blame the muscle relaxers.) But I promise to be back with some fresh material in a fortnight or so.

Anyone for Saki?: H.H. Munro, commonly known as Saki, was a brilliant satirst in Edwardian England. Less well known than his comtemporary, Evelyn Waugh, he wrote about the diffident, detached British gentry, often from the point of view of spoiled young wastrels (think of an amoral, cynical Bertie Wooster). He wrote in that beautiful, florid, comically understated prose that English writers employed in the early twentieth century. The good news is that the copyrights have expiried on his work, including his peerless short story collection, the Chroncles of Clovis. My gift you is a taste from that collection, called Tobermory. Enjoy:

It was a chill, rain-washed afternoon of a late August day, that indefinite season when partridges are still in security or cold storage, and there is nothing to hunt---unless one is bounded on the north by the Bristol Channel, in which case one may lawfully gallop after fat red stags. Lady Blemley's house-party was not bounded on the north by the Bristol Channel, hence there was a full gathering of her guests round the tea-table on this particular afternoon. And, in spite of the blankness of the season and the triteness of the occasion, there was no trace in the company of that fatigued restlessness which means a dread of the pianola and a subdued hankering for auction bridge. The undisguised open-mouthed attention of the entire party was fixed on the homely negative personality of Mr. Cornelius Appin. Of all her guests, he was the one who had come to Lady Blemley with the vaguest reputation. Some one had said he was "clever," and he had got his invitation in the moderate expectation, on the part of his hostess, that some portion at least of his cleverness would be contributed to the general entertainment. Until tea-time that day she had been unable to discover in what direction, if any, his cleverness lay. He was neither a wit nor a croquet champion, a hypnotic force nor a begetter of amateur theatricals. Neither did his exterior suggest the sort of man in whom women are willing to pardon a generous measure of mental deficiency. He had subsided into mere Mr. Appin, and the Cornelius seemed a piece of transparent baptismal bluff. And now he was claiming to have launched on the world a discovery beside which the invention of gunpowder, of the printing-press, and of steam locomotion were inconsiderable trifles. Science had made bewildering strides in many directions during recent decades, but this thing seemed to belong to the domain of miracle rather than to scientific achievement.

"And do you really ask us to believe," Sir Wilfrid was saying, "that you have discovered a means for instructing animals in the art of human speech, and that dear old Tobermory has proved your first successful pupil?"

"It is a problem at which I have worked for the last seventeen years," said Mr. Appin, "but only during the last eight or nine months have I been rewarded with glimmerings of success. Of course I have experimented with thousands of animals, but latterly only with cats, those wonderful creatures which have assimilated themselves so marvellously with our civilization while retaining all their highly developed feral instincts. Here and there among cats one comes across an outstanding superior intellect, just as one does among the ruck of human beings, and when I made the acquaintance of Tobermory a week ago I saw at once that I was in contact with a 'Beyond-cat' of extraordinary intelligence. I had gone far along the road to success in recent experiments; with Tobermory, as you call him, I have reached the goal."

Mr. Appin concluded his remarkable statement in a voice which he strove to divest of a triumphant inflection. No one said "Rats," though Clovis's lips moved in a monosyllabic contortion which probably invoked those rodents of disbelief.

"And do you mean to say," asked Miss Resker, after a slight pause, "that you have taught Tobermory to say and understand easy sentences of one syllable?"

"My dear Miss Resker," said the wonder-worker patiently, "one teaches little children and savages and backward adults in that piecemeal fashion; when one has once solved the problem of making a beginning with an animal of highly developed intelligence one has no need for those halting methods. Tobermory can speak our language with perfect correctness."

This time Clovis very distinctly said, "Beyond-rats!" Sir Wilfrid was more polite, but equally sceptical.

"Hadn't we better have the cat in and judge for ourselves?" suggested Lady Blemley.

Sir Wilfrid went in search of the animal, and the company settled themselves down to the languid expectation of witnessing some more or less adroit drawing-room ventriloquism.

In a minute Sir Wilfrid was back in the room, his face white beneath its tan and his eyes dilated with excitement. "By Gad, it's true!"

His agitation was unmistakably genuine, and his hearers started forward in a thrill of awakened interest.

Collapsing into an armchair he continued breathlessly: "I found him dozing in the smoking-room and called out to him to come for his tea. He blinked at me in his usual way, and I said, 'Come on, Toby; don't keep us waiting'; and, by Gad! he drawled out in a most horribly natural voice that he'd come when he dashed well pleased! I nearly jumped out of my skin!"

Appin had preached to absolutely incredulous hearers; Sir Wilfred's statement carried instant conviction. A Babel-like chorus of startled exclamation arose, amid which the scientist sat mutely enjoying the first fruit of his stupendous discovery.

In the midst of the clamour Tobermory entered the room and made his way with velvet tread and studied unconcern across to the group seated round the tea-table.

A sudden hush of awkwardness and constraint fell on the company. Somehow there seemed an element of embarrassment in addressing on equal terms a domestic cat of acknowledged mental ability.

"Will you have some milk, Tobermory?" asked Lady Blemley in a rather strained voice.

"I don't mind if I do," was the response, couched in a tone of even indifference. A shiver of suppressed excitement went through the listeners, and Lady Blemley might be excused for pouring out the saucerful of milk rather unsteadily.

"I'm afraid I've spilt a good deal of it," she said apologetically.

"After all, it's not my Axminster," was Tobermory's rejoinder.

Another silence fell on the group, and then Miss Resker, in her best district-visitor manner, asked if the human language had been difficult to learn. Tobermory looked squarely at her for a moment and then fixed his gaze serenely on the middle distance. It was obvious that boring questions lay outside his scheme of life.

"What do you think of human intelligence?" asked Mavis Pellington lamely.

"Of whose intelligence in particular?" asked Tobermory coldly.

"Oh, well, mine for instance," said Mavis, with a feeble laugh.

"You put me in an embarrassing position," said Tobermory, whose tone and attitude certainly did not suggest a shred of embarrassment. "When your inclusion in this house-party was suggested Sir Wilfrid protested that you were the most brainless woman of his acquaintance, and that there was a wide distinction between hospitality and the care of the feeble-minded. Lady Blemley replied that your lack of brain-power was the precise quality which had earned you your invitation, as you were the only person she could think of who might be idiotic enough to buy their old car. You know, the one they call 'The Envy of Sisyphus,' because it goes quite nicely up-hill if you push it."

Lady Blemley's protestations would have had greater effect if she had not casually suggested to Mavis only that morning that the car in question would be just the thing for her down at her Devonshire home.

Major Barfield plunged in heavily to effect a diversion.

"How about your carryings-on with the tortoise-shell puss up at the stables, eh?"

The moment he had said it every one realized the blunder.

"One does not usually discuss these matters in public," said Tobermory frigidly. "From a slight observation of your ways since you've been in this house I should imagine you'd find it inconvenient if I were to shift the conversation on to your own little affairs."

The panic which ensued was not confined to the Major.

"Would you like to go and see if cook has got your dinner ready?" suggested Lady Blemley hurriedly, affecting to ignore the fact that it wanted at least two hours to Tobermory's dinner-time.

"Thanks," said Tobermory, "not quite so soon after my tea. I don't want to die of indigestion."

"Cats have nine lives, you know," said Sir Wilfrid heartily.

"Possibly", answered Tobermory; "but only one liver."

"Adelaide!" said Mrs. Cornett, "do you mean to encourage that cat to go out and gossip about us in the servants' hall?"

The panic had indeed become general. A narrow ornamental balustrade ran in front of most of the bedroom windows at the Towers, and it was recalled with dismay that this had formed a favourite promenade for Tobermory at all hours, whence he could watch the pigeons---and heaven knew what else besides. If he intended to become reminiscent in his present outspoken strain the effect would be something more than disconcerting. Mrs. Cornett, who spent much time at her toilet table, and whose complexion was reputed to be of a nomadic though punctual disposition, looked as ill at ease as the Major. Miss Scrawen, who wrote fiercely sensuous poetry and led a blameless life, merely displayed irritation; if you are methodical and virtuous in private you don't necessarily want every one to know it. Bertie van Tahn, who was so depraved at seventeen that he had long ago given up trying to be any worse, turned a dull shade of gardenia white, but he did not commit the error of dashing out of the room like Odo Finsberry, a young gentleman who was understood to be reading for the Church and who was possibly disturbed at the thought of scandals he might hear concerning other people. Clovis had the presence of mind to maintain a composed exterior; privately he was calculating how long it would take to procure a box of fancy mice through the agency of the Exchange and Mart as a species of hush-money.

Even in a delicate situation like the present, Agnes Resker could not endure to remain too long in the background.

"Why did I ever come down here?" she asked dramatically.

Tobermory immediately accepted the opening.

"Judging by what you said to Mrs. Cornett on the croquet-lawn yesterday, you were out for food. You described the Blemleys as the dullest people to stay with that you knew, but said they were clever enough to employ a first-rate cook; otherwise they'd find it difficult to get any one to come down a second time."

"There's not a word of truth in it! I appeal to Mrs. Cornett---" exclaimed the discomfited Agnes.

"Mrs. Cornett repeated your remark afterwards to Bertie van Tahn," continued Tobermory, "and said, 'That woman is a regular Hunger Marcher; she'd go anywhere for four square meals a day,' and Bertie van Tahn said---"

At this point the chronicle mercifully ceased. Tobermory had caught a glimpse of the big yellow Tom from the Rectory working his way through the shrubbery towards the stable wing. In a flash he had vanished through the open French window.

With the disappearance of his too brilliant pupil Cornelius Appin found himself beset by a hurricane of bitter upbraiding, anxious inquiry, and frightened entreaty. The responsibility for the situation lay with him, and he must prevent matters from becoming worse. Could Tobermory impart his dangerous gift to other cats? was the first question he had to answer. It was possible, he replied, that he might have initiated his intimate friend the stable puss into his new accomplishment, but it was unlikely that his teaching could have taken a wider range as yet.

"Then," said Mrs. Cornett, "Tobermory may be a valuable cat and a great pet; but I'm sure you'll agree, Adelaide, that both he and the stable cat must be done away with without delay."

"You don't suppose I've enjoyed the last quarter of an hour, do you?" said Lady Blemley bitterly. "My husband and I are very fond of Tobermory---at least, we were before this horrible accomplishment was infused into him; but now, of course, the only thing is to have him destroyed as soon as possible."

"We can put some strychnine in the scraps he always gets at dinner-time," said Sir Wilfrid, "and I will go and drown the stable cat myself. The coachman will be very sore at losing his pet, but I'll say a very catching form of mange has broken out in both cats and we're afraid of its spreading to the kennels."

"But my great discovery!" expostulated Mr. Appin; "after all my years of research and experiment---"

"You can go and experiment on the short-horns at the farm, who are under proper control," said Mrs. Cornett, "or the elephants at the Zoological Gardens. They're said to be highly intelligent, and they have this recommendation, that they don't come creeping about our bedrooms and under chairs, and so forth."

An archangel ecstatically proclaiming the Millennium, and then finding that it clashed unpardonably with Henley and would have to be indefinitely postponed, could hardly have felt more crestfallen than Cornelius Appin at the reception of his wonderful achievement. Public opinion, however, was against him---in fact, had the general voice been consulted on the subject it is probable that a strong minority vote would have been in favour of including him in the strychnine diet.

Defective train arrangements and a nervous desire to see matters brought to a finish prevented an immediate dispersal of the party, but dinner that evening was not a social success. Sir Wilfrid had had rather a trying time with the stable cat and subsequently with the coachman. Agnes Resker ostentatiously limited her repast to a morsel of dry toast, which she bit as though it were a personal enemy; while Mavis Pellington maintained a vindictive silence throughout the meal. Lady Blemley kept up a flow of what she hoped was conversation, but her attention was fixed on the doorway. A plateful of carefully dosed fish scraps was in readiness on the sideboard, but sweets and savoury and dessert went their way, and no Tobermory appeared either in the dining-room or kitchen.

The sepulchral dinner was cheerful compared with the subsequent vigil in the smoking-room. Eating and drinking had at least supplied a distraction and cloak to the prevailing embarrassment. Bridge was out of the question in the general tension of nerves and tempers, and after Odo Finsberry had given a lugubrious rendering of "Mélisande in the Wood" to a frigid audience, music was tacitly avoided. At eleven the servants went to bed, announcing that the small window in the pantry had been left open as usual for Tobermory's private use. The guests read steadily through the current batch of magazines, and fell back gradually on the "Badminton Library" and bound volumes of Punch. Lady Blemley made periodic visits to the pantry, returning each time with an expression of listless depression which forestalled questioning.

At two o'clock Clovis broke the dominating silence.

"He won't turn up tonight. He's probably in the local newspaper office at the present moment, dictating the first instalment of his reminiscences. Lady What's-her-name's book won't be in it. It will be the event of the day."

Having made this contribution to the general cheerfulness, Clovis went to bed. At long intervals the various members of the house-party followed his example.

The servants taking round the early tea made a uniform announcement in reply to a uniform question. Tobermory had not returned.

Breakfast was, if anything, a more unpleasant function than dinner had been, but before its conclusion the situation was relieved. Tobermory's corpse was brought in from the shrubbery, where a gardener had just discovered it. From the bites on his throat and the yellow fur which coated his claws it was evident that he had fallen in unequal combat with the big Tom from the Rectory.

By midday most of the guests had quitted the Towers, and after lunch Lady Blemley had sufficiently recovered her spirits to write an extremely nasty letter to the Rectory about the loss of her valuable pet.

Tobermory had been Appin's one successful pupil, and he was destined to have no successor. A few weeks later an elephant in the Dresden Zoological Garden, which had shown no previous signs of irritability, broke loose and killed an Englishman who had apparently been teasing it. The victim's name was variously reported in the papers as Oppin and Eppelin, but his front name was faithfully rendered Cornelius.

"If he was trying German irregular verbs on the poor beast," said Clovis, "he deserved all he got."

Who Made You Fat?: Morgan Spurlock ate three meals a day at McDonalds for a month, and answered yes whenever he was asked if he wanted to super-size his meal. His reasons were twofold. 1) To make a point about how bad fast food is for you and how evil McDonalds is for trying to sell it to you, and 2) To create a documentary about his experiences. I have not seen the documentary, but I have read a good deal about it including an article by Spurlock himself, in the latest (June '04) issue of Men’s Health, in which he summarizes his story and conclusions (no link, sorry).

In the course of this exercise Spurlock occasionally consumed as much as 5000 calories a day (twice what he would need to maintain his weight), often eating until he was sick. He comes out the other end of the month fat and unhealthy beyond all reason.

A sample of a daily menu:

Breakfast:
Egg McMuffin
Hash Browns
Coffee
Orange Juice

Lunch:
Big Mac
Large Fries
Large Coke
Chocolate Shake

Dinner:
Two Cheeseburgers
Medium Fries
Medium Sprite

Total (per Men's Health): 3833 calories and an ungodly amount of salt, fat and cholesterol.

Now, I am between 5'9 and 5'10, and between 170 and 175 pounds. I don't think I could force myself to shovel that quantity of food down my throat. That is beyond extreme. If you eat that much food everyday you likely have serious psychological issues beyond just habitual overeating. Blaming this on McDonalds (as a proxy for the fast food industry) is rather disingenuous.

An alternative, more reasonable three meals a day at McDonalds might look something like this:

Breakfast:
Egg McMuffin
Hash Browns
Black Coffee

Lunch:
Fish Filet
Medium Fries
Diet Coke (medium)
Vanilla ice cream cone

Dinner:
Chicken McGrill
Medium Fries
Diet Coke (medium)

Totals (source):
2090 calories
88% of the daily recommendation of saturated fat
122% of the daily recommendation of cholesterol (mostly due to the Egg McMuffin)
141% of the daily recommendation of sodium

Still not particularly healthy, but even a mildly active person my size wouldn’t gain weight or be deathly ill by the end of a month. And yes, because of the sodium, you wouldn't want to eat this if you had high blood pressure; and you’ll want to swap out the Egg McMuffin for something lower in cholesterol now and then; but throw in a multi-vitamin each morning and you’re probably OK for a 30-day period.

But even with this more reasonable menu, the fact is that nobody eats three meals a day at McDonalds. Spurlock would no doubt agree that nobody actually does this; he's just trying to make a point. Unfortunately his eating binge doesn't make it. Taking an activity, any activity, to an unhealthy extreme doesn't make a point about the bad effects the activity; all you do is make a point about the bad effects of taking things to an unhealthy extreme.

I eat a good deal of fast food, probably more than I should, and I probably eat at McDonalds twice a week, just for convenience sake (it's just down the corner from work). My cholesterol is just fine. I actually have low blood pressure and, nobody would accuse me of being overweight. I’m glad for McDonalds. I benefit from the convenience. I just don't shovel the stuff down my throat like that, and when asked if I wanted my meal super sized I’d say, "No thanks."

Which gets to the next point. When Spurlock visited McDonalds one of his rules was that if he was asked whether he wanted to Super Size his meal, he had to say yes:

It's not really the burgers and fries I'm worried about, it's the amounts they push, and the amounts we eat.

The implication is that the suggestive sell is what causes people to eat more. It’s the old corporate mind control argument. The supposition is that through the effective use of advertising and promotion and suggestive selling, you are connived into doing something you really don't want to do.

Fast-food chains say their offerings are "sometime" foods and that they're "part of a balanced diet"...You never hear one of these "restaurants" tell you how often you should eat their food...

Oh dear. Are we all such weak minded gluttons that we need to be told how often it is safe to eat fast food? This argument has always smacked of a certain arrogance and condescension, as if the writer is wise enough to see through something that the average schmoe is too dull to comprehend. I could accept the argument that the average consumer might fall for it once or twice, but super-sizing once or twice before you catch on isn’t going to make you obese. You have to keep doing all the time.

Instead of fretting about suggestive selling and advertising, I suppose you could make the argument that the widespread increase in portion size across the board is the culprit. That assumes a person who orders French fries will eat the entire order no matter the size, rather than just the amount that satiates hunger. But if that were the case, as soon as you saw your gut drooping over your belt you would think you'd know enough to stop. In no McDonalds that I know of is it a requirement that you eat every morsel of food on your tray.

Doubtless there is a correlation between increasing food portions and increasing waistlines. But correlation is not causality. Portion size has been increasing for many, many years. I remember when there was no such thing as a quarter-pounder, never mind super-sizing. McDonalds is just a corporation, which is to say they will follow where the market takes them to get the profits. My memory may be faulty, but I seem to remember McDonalds starting the quarter-pounder in response to the Whopper from Burger King and the gigantic burgers from a new kid on the block called Wendy’s. Similarly their recent abandoning of super-sizing and the addition of salads to the menu is following on the heels of Subway’s very successful health oriented ad campaign featuring Jared (despite the fact that Spurlock claims credit for this). It is by no means clear that increasing portion size came first and appetites followed. This has been a very long term process and it's more likely that McDonalds followed the market -- that is their business after all. This is another key point: Everyone knows overeating is unhealthy yet they have continued to do it, despite the fact that alternative choices are available. To say it continues because McDonalds makes it convenient is, once again, to suggest that people are not in control of their decisions.

Here's a possibility that I have yet to see investigated. The average adult weight has actually been increasing steadily for decades -- I have read studies that seem to indicate things started getting bad in the '70s. That probably coincides with the gradual increase in portion size. But it also coincides with the long decline of cigarette smoking. Is it not possible that by abandoning the appetite suppressant of cigarettes we have left ourselves more susceptible to overeating? I have no data, it's just a thought. Perhaps Spurlock will do a sequel wherein he takes up smoking and then sees if he resist the hypnotic suggestive selling by the greasy teenager behind the counter.

It's a worn out old pose to take. Find some societal ill and label the supplier as evil. It can be fast food, violent video games, Spuds Mackenzie, SUV manufacturers, you name it; you'll be very popular. But supply invariably finds a way to meet demand -- cases in point: prohibition, the war on drugs, pirated MP3s. And while it's unlikely that super-sized meals would appear on the black market, it is entirely probable that people would just order twice as much of the smaller portions, say two cheeseburgers and fries instead of a quarter-pounder and fries, or maybe just hit the candy machine at work more often.

That is where Spurlock's thesis falls down. The only real way to fight overeating -- or any other self-destructive behavior -- is on the demand side. By blaming the fast food industry and providing a convenient excuse for the face-stuffers, Spurlock undermines the only possible solution: Personal responsibility.

It Pours: I've got to hurry this cuz there are monster thunderstorms in the distance, and since the power grid around here is put together with twist ties, I expect to lose power any minute.

Sometimes you can't find a single interesting link out on the web and sometime they pour out like salt from a blue Morton's salt canister with a little girl in a raincoat on it. Is that too obscure?

• A deeply freaky special effect. Or perhaps an artistic statement about futility, infinity and how poorly groomed people cannot be stopped.


• I have seen the future of bad science fiction, and it is nanobacteria.


• Superstition is one thing. But this truly gross. Never shake hands with a baseball player.


• How not to look on prom night.


• All these years I've been eating sushi wrong. Who knew?


• One of my favorite authors, Nick Hornby, on the current state of Rock and Roll.

Dream a Little Dream: Judging from what I've read and heard here and there, a lot of folks were disappointed by the extended dream sequence in last Sunday's episode of The Sopranos. Some thought it was overly pretentious, or gimmicky, or simply inane. They're wrong; it was, in fact, a very daring piece of drama.

Generally, when an extended dream sequence appears in drama, it is wholly self-indulgent and laced with bizarre imagery that has little or no reason for existing other than the writers were running out of ideas and sat around and said, "Hey, wouldn't it be cool if..." You get a bunch of strange images and possibly even psychedelic special effects and in the end, all you come away with is a wasted third act and a few stills that look cool in promotional commercials. Not so in this case. This dream sequence was outstanding for the exact reason that despite having logical incoherency, it was completely coherent dramatically.

The main theme snaking through the whole thing was Tony's knowledge that he will, in all likelihood, have to whack is lifelong friend, Tony B. This is an enormous conflict for Tony, not just because the characters are so close, but because of the guilt he feels over Tony B.'s long incarceration which he simply lucked out of because of his own flawed psyche. In his vain, subconscious attempts to justify his upcoming evil work as necessary or unavoidable, we get an extended tour of Tony's character.

First, Tony finds himself in bed with the deceased Carmine, who states that he is suffering in the afterlife, and tells Tony he's got a job for him; the implication is that he must whack Tony B. Carmine is representative of the time when there was an orderly relationship with the New York family. This indicates to Tony that this is the way to restore things back to the way they were. Message: Whacking Tony B. is required to prevent an inter-family war hanging over everyone's head. You have no choice.

Suddenly Tony is talking to his shrink except his shrink is not Dr. Melfi, but his mother (who Tony blames for his hateful life), represented by Annabella Sciorra, one of Tony's mistresses from an earlier season. After some odd dialogue she poignantly says she died before she could have children. Message: You want to blame the need to kill your best friend on your mother, but how long can you continue to do that now that she's dead.

After a few more scenes, his children come into play. Tony's teeth are falling out and he needs a dentist, and we are presented with Meadows fiance, Finn (an aspiring dentist). Does Tony draw a parallel between rescuing his lost teeth and Finn rescuing his daughter from her mob background? But then Finn's parents accuse Finn of slackerhood and Tony is put in mind of AJ. Message: Your kids are still depending on you for survival and welfare. You can't let things get out of control for their sake as much as yours.

Tony is distracted by Finn's parents. His father is a corrupt cop who Tony used in n earlier season. His mother is Annette Benning (played by Annette Benning). Tony and Finn's father leave to hit the bathroom. Both Carmella and Annette Benning mention that they don't want their husband to "come out of there with just his c*ck in their hand" and when Tony enters a stall he checks for a hidden gun in the toilet, just like Michael Corleone, but there is none - all this is, of course, a reference to The Godfather. Later in the sequence Finn's father asks Tony about the job he has to do (whacking Tony B.). Tony says he's done his homework and pulls out a copy of the Valachi Papers. Message: You are in the mob. You're a made man and will behave like one and get your dirty work finished.

Outside, Tony B. has just committed the fatal whacking, the one that will cause Tony to have to whack him in turn. A 'mob' of people are standing around. In time they question why Tony did not stop it and why he doesn't kill Tony B. Tony makes the excuse that he has no piece (no gun). This does little good and Tony finds himself being chased through the streets by the mob. Message: No excuses. No talking your way out of it. If you don't get your job done, the mob will get you. You are helpless.

In the process of escaping the mob, Tony ends up in bed, having sex with Artie's ex-wife, Charmaine, who he maintains a nostalgic attraction to -- they were involved when they were teenagers -- and generally sees as a possible Carmella substitute. Suddenly, Tony is sitting on a horse (Pie-oh-my?) the living room of his house telling Carmella he wants to get back together. She tells him there are some rules he will have to follow, including don't bring you horse (whores?) in the house. Tony protests weakly. Message: The refuge of your wife and home life is gone too, and it's your own fault for thinking with the little head. There's no escape for you there either.

Lastly we get the most riveting scene, where Tony confronts his former football coach. The coach has no fear of or respect for Tony. He looks at the gun Tony is holding and calls it "a bigger dingus that the one God gave you." He alludes that Tony could have been a great leader but has wasted his life and is a pathetic failure. He sneers at the idea of Tony in therapy. He tells Tony to get on with what he was going to do -- which is kill his coach. The coach, of course, is Tony's conscience and he's going to have to kill his conscience if he is ever going to be able to whack Tony B. As he takes aim at the coach, the bullets slip out of the gun to the floor and crumble in his fingers as he tries to pick them up.

There's a lot more to the dream than I mentioned, I'm sure even having see it twice I missed a lot. And it's certain that there could be varying interpretations, but any reasonable interpretation would have to acknowledge that dream sequence wonderfully intertwines every aspect of Tony's state of mind with the pre-existing situation with Tony B. Tony loves his family and friends, but he cannot separate them from his mob life. They suffer because of it and Tony, although he consistently rationalizes it away, is beginning to see how the horrible things he does affect them so tragically. The whacking of Tony B. (if it comes) will be the most blatant evidence of this; it's possible Tony sees it as an act from which he can never recover -- the final death of his conscience. He searches his past for a reason things turned out like this, makes plenty of excuses, but always carries the fugitive notion that it's finally his own doing.

In drama, or any form of fiction, the most important thing is to dramatize (no surprise there). That is to say, you should never directly explain your character's feelings and motivations. Such things should be revealed indirectly through action whenever possible. The effect of this is to draw the audience in as a participant -- an idea that has been discovered by the consumer is much more powerful than one that has been explained to him. Using a dream sequence takes that to an extreme; it puts a larger burden on the audience to make the important conceptual connections between the dream and the "real world". With a sequence as complex as this one, it may take multiple viewings (reruns and TIVO to the rescue). It's a big risk. The writers have to be good enough to choose the right words and symbols to convey the underlying message without the framework of "reality"; everything has to be within the framework of the dreamer's mind. The audience has to be knowledgeable of the character's pre-existing conflicts and thoughtful and diligent enough to close the communication loop.

That's a lot to ask of an audience. I certainly don't make a habit of parking myself in front of the TV with the intent of being thoughtful and diligent. But if I do put the effort in I expect to be rewarded. I was. And I applaud HBO for taking the big risk when every other network would have just asked for car chase or a gory murder.

Back Off: It seems like I am endlessly complaining about my health. First it was the bio-terror attack that laid me out for a couple of days a while back. Then I was battling a head cold (a battle I won, by the way -- it never got past the early stages). Now I have vicious back spasms to deal with. I have gotten back spasms occasionally over the years but these were pretty bad. So my doc wrote me a script for some muscle relaxers.

Long time readers will remember that I was previous given to preventative, regular visits to the chiropractor. That ended partly because I was too time consuming, and partly because my current insurance no longer covers it unless my primary physician advises it. It is very unusual for a physician to ever recommend a chiropractor, since the two industries tend to be at odds. If anything a physician will recommend a D.O. (Doctor of Osteopathy) if some manipulation needs to be done. So I suppose it is possible that if I had continued with the chiropractor this would never have happened. It’s also possible it had nothing to do with anything -- like I said, I have a history of this.

Anyway, all this is pretty much apropos of nothing. But if my posts start to lean over to the incoherent side, blame it on the muscle relaxers.

Coming soon are a couple HBO articles. One on the extended dream sequence on last Sunday's Sopranos (so it had better be done soon), and another on Deadwood, now that I have discovered what it is about.

For now, a short stack of links:

• Men's Journal selects the 50 Best Places To Live in their June issue. Here's a preview. They aren’t posting the full list. I agree with the selection of San Diego, but once again, they missed the boat by not including Dexter, MI.


• Since all the grown-ups I know seem to be refurbishing their homes, check out artistic linoleum if you're feeling creative. When your done, you can redo my bathroom. Thank me later.


• My Reston crew is in the middle of the emergence of the famed 17 year cicadas, also known as Brood X. I recall being down there in the midst of the previous one 17 years ago. It was insane. Huge, creepy insects everywhere. That horrendous sound they make. Driving down the freeway was like being in a hailstorm of prehistoric bugs. Ick. I think they have it right over at Cicadaville.


• I can’t think of anything more offensive than a reality show about wife swapping. Yet, here it is. I'm begging all of you to not watch this.


• Tarantino wants to do a James Bond film, specifically Casino Royale. That might be interesting. (You recall that I reviewed the original Casino Royale novel a while back.) I'm guessing that wouldn't be your standard Bond film. He'd probably work in a lot of Kung-Fu, which gives me an opportunity to link my article about Bond and Chopsocky. Hey, wait a minute. Where do you suppose Taratino got these ideas? Hey, Q-man, nice to know you're reading. Call me. We'll do lunch.

Baltimore Ravin': I spent the last four days in the DC/Baltimore area as I do from time to time. Usually, there is a work reason for these trips and I am fortunate enough that my company allows me to fiddle with the scheduling for flights and hotels so long as it doesn't cost them any extra. The net result is that I got to hang with Miss Kate and HRH Miss Anna Banana (I am not a fruit!) and the rest of the Reston, VA crew. I also got to see the new Anna Banana World Headquarters which features and enormous back yard, a pool, a gas grill, two dogs, a big screen HDTV (coming soon), and all the other plunderage of upper middle class suburbia.

Here's something I didn't expect. I asked Miss Anna what her favorite bands were, expecting to here about Outkast or Beyonce or whoever is getting airplay these days. The response: Pink Floyd, Metallica, The Doors -- Led Zepplin is awesome; basically, Classic Rock. Miss Anna is 12 (going on 23). She gets major points from me for having a mind open enough to not like what everyone else thinks is cool just for the sake of fitting in. She just likes what she likes. Better than I would have done at her age.

As for me, I actually ate steak for the first time in months, if not years, courtesy of Miss Kate. No, I do not count the steak in the Bistro Steak Salad at Panera Bread. I'm talking real steak -- 20 ounces of medium rare prime rib on the bone. Said 20 ounces immediately found a comfortable resting place around my midsection, but not without sending raiding parties out to coagulate in my arteries. Currently, I'm lulling it into a false sense of security while I muster my forces for a full-on diet and exercise assault.

Baltimore remains a fun town, at least down around the Inner Harbor. It was wicked hot (upper 80s) and I was able to sit outside at the Hard Rock and have lunch overlooking the Baltimore harbor. Weird thing about Baltimore: Once I get downtown I can make my way around fine, but despite having tread the path from the airport to the city several times, I can never do it without making at least one wrong turn. My ego is such that I blame the poor signage in and around the airport.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention a couple of good travel experiences. First, Avis car rental. They offered me a choice of available cars; asked me only once, and very politely, if I wanted to pay for gas up front or buy extra insurance. There was no attempt to get me to upgrade to a more expensive model. Basically, they didn't try to squeeze any extra dollars from me. So thank you, Avis, for treating me like an adult.

Second, Sheraton Hotels and specifically the Reston Sheraton. Sheraton is a midline hotel chain in the Hilton/Marriot class of luxury, but they have taken the lead from lower-end places like Courtyard Marriots and Hilton Garden Inns by providing lots of conveniences at no extra cost -- things that, for unfathomable reasons, luxury hotels don't provide or make inconvenient, or charge ridiculous prices for. Specifically, things like having snacks and sundries available for purchase 24/7 instead of a gift shop that's only open from 9 to 5, or worse, having to call room service; free in-room high-speed connections; free and convenient self-parking; and a complimentary bottle of water instead of hoping I would be thirsty enough to open one and take a four dollar charge.

I'll stop before this turns into a major rant. I promise to write extensively about this later, but I cannot describe how refreshing it was not to be nickel-and-dimed by a nice hotel. It's a good strategy. I am now predisposed to stay at Sheratons when traveling for business.

Now it's back to my irregularly scheduled life.

Ya Snooze, Ya Lose: One of the enduring myths of the working world is that there is a correlation between waking up early and productivity. This particular form of insanity is left over from the days pre-electrification, when to make the most out of a day you needed to make the most of the sunlight. (The face-slapping irony of this being that, if you work in an office, maximizing your time working during sunlit hours often means you see a minimum of the sun.)

An article in today's WSJ sums it up well (can't link -- it's for paying subscribers only):

Of all the gulfs in understanding at the office, among the most difficult to bridge is that between morning and night people. On the one hand, think bushy-tailed company lawyers who eat lunch at 11 a.m. On the other, consider the bleary-eyed techies for whom the only thing as bad as waking up early is the people who enjoy it so loudly.
The conflict between the morning larks and the night owls would be the office equivalent of the Bloods versus the Crips if, at any given time, one gang weren't so pooped.

But we're not talking about a fair fight here. The 9-to-5 shift overwhelmingly favors larks. When has anyone complained that employees show up too early? Owls, on the other hand, are frequently stigmatized as recalcitrant slugabeds who fritter time and resources on the company's dime.

That stigma is just another sign that shallow emblems of productivity impress American managers more than results. After all, the 9-to-5 shift has become an anachronism in the 24-hour global economy. It fails to take into account the impact of e-mail and other technologies in making traditional work hours less relevant.

It also ignores biology. High schools and colleges have finally woken up to that fact, increasingly delaying the beginning of classes to better suit the biological clocks of students whose sleep cycles naturally slip later into the night. "It is absolutely crazy to expect high-school and college students to learn things at 7 a.m.," says Timothy Monk, director of the Human Chronobiology Research Program at the University of Pittsburgh.

Similarly, he says. "it makes more sense for [employees] to work during hours they are productive than some artificial 9-to-5 schedule."

Amen. I can state pretty accurately that my most productive hours at work are between 3-6 pm. In fact, back when I used to have to work enormous amounts of overtime, I would regularly leave work for dinner and come back to put in two or three more hours in the evening because it just felt much easier for me to do that.

The truly annoying thing about morning people is the priggish attitude they carry. The office world is designed for them and they can't fathom why anyone would be any other way except weakness of will. Drag yourself in anytime later than 9am you will no doubt encounter someone who has already been at work for three hours and is pressing you for an answer to some horribly complicated question before you have even made it to the coffee machine. They preen like this in the hopes you will be shamed out of your slovenly habits by their early-bird sanctimony.

In a more civilized world, these people could be maced. They are like nagging spouses who can't understand why you are like you are so they just nag and harp on it in the hopes that you'll see the light and reform yourself to be more like them. Their thinking is inflexibly dogmatic: "You're more productive in the afternoon? How can that be? That's just crazy talk. You're gonna need to get yourself motivated."

Morning people are worse than Hitler. There, I said it.

Well, to all of you early birds reading this let me just say congratulations, you got the worm. Hope it was tasty. Oh, by the way, I've scheduled a staff meeting for 6pm, you don't mind staying late, do you? You do? Well, you're gonna need to get yourself motivated.

Looking Back and Laughing: By one of those odd coincidences of life I happened upon a couple of older movies on late night TV that I had seen and liked before -- Clockwise and Hannah and Her Sisters -- so I reviewed them.

Quick Links: I have a new piece ready to go up at blogcritics, but the site was inexplicably down so I couldn't post. Maybe tomorrow. For now, interesting links:

• Is the Bugatti Veryon the most extreme car ever?


• Although I have occasionally argued that Detroit is best forgotten, Forgotten Detroit contains some fine images.


• Speaking of Detroit, the Detroit Sports Rag is an independent, opinionated and somewhat racy sports journal.


• Mocoloco, a fine site for design mavens like yours truly.


• My favorite critic, Terry Teachout, explains why arts tend toward sadness rather than happiness. "If you’re really, truly happy, it tends to render you inarticulate..."


• Why living in China sucks for boys, but really, really sucks for girls.


• Trivia: The character Jim in Business As Usual is named for the lead in the Kingsley Amis novel Lucky Jim. Here's why.


• Lemony Snicket is coming to theatres in December. The books are excellent -- filled with a deep appreciation of language. The film will probably stink (most do), but HRH Miss Anna will be pleased.


• OK this is truly gross. No kidding; you have been warned. But if you want your belongings to be absolutely, positively secure, I suggest: The Brief Safe. You'll sleep easy.

Whine Tasting: It snowed today. An unconscionably stupid act on the part of Mother Nature. Can you believe that? We've been cruisin' along in with 70s-ish weather, then we wake up to snow today. I take this as a personal insult.

++++

I recently picked up two CDs on the cheap from Half.com, both of which served to remind me why I should not buy CDs. So Much For The City by The Thrills - a sort of under-produced alt-rock sound, with pop hooks and a dash of alt-country slide guitar. Got critical raves as a first class debut. If you say so, but there are only like 3 or 4 memorable songs and the rest I could live without ever having heard. Baby Monkey by Voodoo Child (which is the name Moby uses for his dance oriented mixes) is even less inspiring. A couple of interesting tracks but basically, the guy mailed it in.

Why do I not subscribe to Napster and just buy the tracks I want? It's not like it's a lot of trouble to do. It's like picking up the digital camera on my desk and taking a few pictures. Simple little things I should do and I just inexplicably never do them. I'm sure there's some kind of syndrome for that. Everything's a syndrome.

++++

So I've been working on redesigning this site (more emphasis on the articles, less on the blog) and, like a good web designer I attempted to follow what are called "web standards" in structuring the underlying HTML. "Web standards" are guidelines for the use of the underlying language behind web pages which are suppose to assist in consistency and interoperability across browsers. Laudable. The problem I had was no matter how much I read or how many tutorials I followed I could never make it do what I wanted. Now, I am not an idiot (don't give me that look). My day job is as a manager in product development for a software company. That is to say, I know my way around technical concepts pretty well. Yet no matter what I did I could not find a way to structure the page like I wanted while adhering to "web standards" (strictly speaking in this case, avoiding the use of tables to format a page). I also discovered that a good deal of the "web standards" are not implemented properly in Internet Explorer (meaning for 95% of the universe) or work differently in different browsers, which really defeats the purpose. So I suspect even if I was able to follow "web standards" I would still be turning back flips trying to get everything right. What an enormous waste of my time. I went back to not following "web standards" and, sure enough, actually got a good skeleton working that looked and worked just fine in the matter of a couple of hours. I have resolved that all "web standards" advocates can bite me.

++++

I an involved in the mother of all battles against a cold virus. The dastardly critter has a solid foothold in my throat and is making forays into my sinuses but has been consistently beaten back so far. I really need my immune system to launch a decisive counter-attack but that remains an involuntary biological function. If the eggheads who spend so much of their time working on cures for limp willys would devote their time to the broader problem of re-engineering people so they have willful controls over some of these involuntary processes not only would Viagra be obsolete, but I could bring an anti-viral hammer down on this cold. I truly believe human beings evolved in this manner just to piss me off.

++++

I saw the movie Identity, starring John Cusack and Ray Liotta, on HBO. It was awful. It started out as a mildly interesting thriller, in the vein of Ten Little Indians, and then it goes swiftly and surely down the toilet. I like John Cusack and Ray Liotta and they were very good, but I can only assume they were being blackmailed. HBO promises a new first time on cable movie every Saturday, but they only serve to remind me why I don't go to the movies or rent DVDs. An extraordinarily high percentage of them suck beyond the event horizon (astronomy reference, never mind). The following week featured Solaris which I don't really have an opinion on because I couldn't gut it out beyond the halfway point. A sedated snail could blow the doors off this film. People whose opinion I respect have told me that it is a thoughtful movie, about the nature of memory and grief. Wrong vehicle guys. A movie is not for deliberate extended meditation. That's what those four-inch thick novels that they study in graduate school are for.

++++

Here's something to look forward to: One of the very worst aspects of the '70s is about to make a comeback. Disasters. First we have an earthquake miniseries called 10.5 which should be bloody awful. And then there's The Day After Tomorrow, wherein global warming causes massive floods and ice ages and droughts and dogs and cats living together, which should be bloody awful. Apparently this is what happens to the unfortunate folks who survive the nukular holocaust of The Day After, which was bloody awful. The day after the day after tomorrow, the beleaguered human race will suffer mass suicides rather than see another bloody awful disaster film.

Is there someone somewhere who decides when inane fads are supposed to make a comeback? If so, I will pay real folding money to have him killed rather than suffer the second coming of leg-warmers.

++++

My car rattles. My shoes squeak. And contrary to popular opinion it is not in my head.

You Got To Know When To Hold 'Em…: I have no idea why I get like this. I like to think its just intellectual curiosity, but it may be some slow acting form of ADD. Anyway, I get freakishly interested in certain topics for a brief while, learn about them, read everything I can about them, to the point of neglecting more practical or important pursuits, and then the feelings fade. The latest one is casino gambling. You might think that I am planning on breaking the bank, but no. I have no illusion that I have any influence -- psychic, mystic, or otherwise -- over the laws of probability. In fact, a serious investigation of casino gambling by a rational mind can yield no other conclusion except: you’re hosed any way you look at it.

So what's the point of my interest? We'll part of it is that I would like to be a smart gambler. That is to say, I'd like to know how to make the smartest plays possible, given that the odds will NEVER be in my favor. To me, the point of casino games is not to beat them, because you CANNOT in the long run. But since you presumably have a set a maximum loss, you can minimize the likelihood you'll reach it. And you will also maximize the chances of a good long run that will turn your trip into a winner, provided you can stop when you’re ahead and even though -- and I can’t stress this enough -- the odds are AGAINST this no matter what you do (does it sound like I’m trying to convince myself?). Plus, you won't look like some wet-eared rube.

Another thing that fascinates me about it is the psychological aspect of it. For instance, there are bets that are completely uncomplicated and require no understanding of strategy at all that are pretty darn close to even money, and yet they are also a good deal less popular than truly long-odds stuff like Keno. The way a quick fix, easy money bet can overwhelm rationality is not news to anyone. Casinos revel in these types of people. Are these the same sorts of people who respond to spam in the naive belief that if something too good to be true could be true?

I would guess more complicated motives are behind the players who play the more benevolent games -- Blackjack, Pai Gow, Craps (some bets) -- but play based on superstition; following trends and streaks, rather than probability based strategy. These folks are like mystics, believing in unseen forces affecting the outcome of all sorts of events. Are these the same sort of people who buy into conspiracy theories, unable to accept that strings are not being pulled by someone or something.

What prompted all this is my reading of Casino Gambling Secrets by Marten Jensen, a clearly written and comprehensive guide to casino gambling (not sports betting or poker). It explains rules odds and strategies for someone who wants to gamble as intelligently as possible without making a career out of it. I had a handle on Blackjack, now I'm thinking Pai Gow and Craps are good goals for my next trip, especially Pai Gow (although it's a bit scary). In both cases you can keep the house edge down to around 1% or less if you play it smart. Stay away from Keno. Keno is like a state lottery in miniature, and there’s a reason states like their lotteries.

I really wish I had read this book prior to my last trip, and it will be the first thing to go in my suitcase next time around.

Sheri Is So Very: I briefly lost track of Sheri, one of my longtime favorite bloggers, only to get an email from her putting me back in the loop. Funny thing about Sheri, she always seems to be a step (or six, or seven) ahead of me. She has just recently redesigned her site, and here I just spent a good portion of today on a false start in my redesign. And if you check in on her site regularly, you'll notice she has been posting photographic self-portraits. Really good ones, too; girl has mad skillz. And here, just the other day, I thought about picking up the digital camera I got for Christmas and haven't used yet.

Next thing you know she’ll be in Vegas playing Pai Gow.

Status Report: Yet another bit of TV criticism, this time about HBO's new Old West drama, Deadwood. Do check it out.

Amazingly, I think it was this morning until I completely got over the bio-terror attack from last week. I was able to make it to work every day, but by the time I got home I wanted to do nothing except go completely zombie. I think it was probably the longest period I have had ready access to a computer but not even turned it on.

As a result I have little to share with you. I probably could have scraped something up to write about but tonight but I kept getting sidetracked by this innocuous site, Travel Channel's Worlds Best, that gets me thinking about travel and all the places I 'd like to go and then I look ever at Frommers and maybe go to Trip Advisor to read opinions. Next thing you know, and hour has passed.

The good news is the weather is getting warm -- we must have been over 70 today because it's 67 right now. The cold sport, hockey, is in the playoffs, and the warm sport, baseball is just starting. I had the opportunity to go see the Red Wings first playoff game with a couple of friends and had a great time. Yes, I had a great time in Detroit. Will wonders never cease? (You can read my opinions on Detroit in this article.) We had everything well planned, we got down there early and things were pretty smooth exiting the city.

With due respect I must point out that hockey is undoubtedly the fastest and most exciting of sports to watch in person. We were in row four, you could seemingly reach out an touch the ice. I hope to get to see more of them in the future, but there's no way I could afford another playoff ticket (the cost is one major appendage with an option on a future minor one) and next season is in jeopardy because of labor disputes.

Next up is baseball. As I write this, Boston is hammering New York in their first match of the season and the Tigers have a winning record. More wonders.

And here I sit rambling, when I should be writing fiction. Which reminds me, I think I'm very close to getting Apple Pie placed with a new publisher. Of course "very close" in these things could amount to many weeks.

And I really have to redesign this web site again.

And yet here I sit.

That's Just Sick: I have spent the last 48 hours in dire circumstances. Clearly I was fed something that was laced with some sort of bio-terror weapon. I will not repulse you with the details; let's just say that a tubercular slug in the midst of severe clinical depression would have been more positively disposed towards life than I have been in the past couple of days. A wet and soiled cleaning rag would have had a more substantial existence. Luckily things are getting back to normal, but I am left two days behind in every aspect of my life. Lousy terrorists.

Anyway, more when I get caught up mentally and physically.

Degenerate Gambler Update: In my last Vegas article I mentioned that I didn't understand betting on baseball because it isn't done via a point spread like football and basketball. In the midst of one cold sweat or another last weekend I managed to figure it out, I think, so here's the deal.

Betting lines are quoted something like this:

Yankees -120
Tigers +110

What that means is for a $1.20 bet on the Yankees you will win $1.00 if the Yankees win. It also means that for a $1.00 bet on the Tigers, you will win $1.10 if the Tigers win. Confusing, no?

Here's one way to think about it. Remember everything is relative to a dollar. Also remember the favorite gets a "-" and the underdog gets a "+". Lastly remember that to win a dollar on the favorite you have to bet more than a dollar. However, you only have to bet a dollar on the underdog to win more than a dollar. That may or may not have provided a systematic way of understanding it. Examples might help:

I bet $1.20 on the Yankees. Since they are the favorite (minus), if they win I get my $1.20 back + $1.00. I bet a dollar on the Tigers. Since they are the underdog (plus), if they win I get my $1.00 back + $1.10.

Now I suspect the way casinos make money on this is by adjusting the line so as to keep the same amount of money on both sides of the bet (just like football or basketball). With one bet one each side, the formulations for the casino would be as follows:

$1.20 bet on the Yankees + $1.00 bet on the Tigers brings in $2.20. If the Yankees win they have to pay out $2.20 to the winner (return the 1.20 bet plus 1.00 winnings) so they break even. If the Tigers win they pay out $2.10 (return the $1.00 bet + $1.10 winnings) for a gain of a dime. Put another way, with an equal amount of money on each side the average wager is $1.10 (($1.20 + $1.00)/2) and the average return is .05 (($1.00 +1.10)/2).

In fact, with well balanced wagers, the house's expected gain is always one half of the difference between the two quoted number -- in our example (120-110)/2 = 5. It stands to reason then, that if a casino wanted to increase their take, they would just increase the differential between the two. If they went to a Yankees -125, Tigers +105, their take doubles, provided they can keep the wagers balanced. In fact many casinos do just that, because baseball is not a common bet, they crank their take up as high as they can. They have a product such they can simply crank up the cost without much worry about losing business.

Of course, if they could make it simpler to get a grip on, baseball would probably be as popular a bet as football, but there are not enough points scored in a game to make a spread meaningful. I find the mechanics of all this fascinating.

Toob Notes: I must write some fiction. I must. For now, here are some TV stories I found interesting.

Slate has collected a couple of mob experts and is having them comment on each episode of the current Sopranos season (which has been quite good so far). You can catch up with them at these links: Episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Fun reading. Spoiler warning: Don't read these if you haven't seen the shows and don't want to know what happens.

++++++

The Iron Chef lives! The rumor I posted about this earlier has borne out (although it's not clear what role Alton Brown will play). FoodTV is bringing two of the original Japanese Iron Chefs over to battle some of their big names. Read all about it. This should be fun. I'm big on Wolfgang Puck after visiting a couple of his restaurants during my recent sojourn to Vegas. No idea why I fund this stuff interesting when my entire culinary experience consists of pressing the start button on the microwave.

++++++

"I have a vewy gweat fwiend in Wome." HBO is planning a new series on ancient Rome. Probably be good. However you can take this show about Rome and throw in the Passion and neither will hold a candle to the upcoming re-release of Monty Python's Life of Brian. "People called Romans go to their houses????"

++++++

I wrote a short article on one of the very best TV writers in history. This was prompted by seeing what was a probably a ten-year-old X-files episode of his on a late night re-run and it still absolutely blew me away.

A Long Time Coming: The glorious recap of my recent trip to Vegas. Grab a snack for this one, it ran a little long. Now I need a nap.

Chuckle-worthy: I was very pleased to see a short blurb on Business As Usual over at Midwest Book Review. I will quote it in its entirety:

Business As Usual by David Mazzotta is a wry tongue-in-cheek novel of two up and coming corporate stars - who may at first seem overrated for their slimy true characters and resistance to doing actual work, but who just might be well suited and upstanding individuals compared to the mindless company figurehead, the utterly ruthless albeit beautiful vice-president, the blackmailer who doesn't know what he's doing, and others. A chuckle-worthy tale of schemes and office politics spiraling out of control, Business As Usual is highly entertaining reading from start to finish.

Rockin' good news.

Wheel of Misfortune: My Vegas recounting is only about half done (sorry), but I'm proud to say that I actually finished a couple hundred dollars ahead this time around, mostly thanks to a killer session at blackjack. I never bet games I don't understand and I don't understand roulette, or at least I don't know a good betting strategy, but I made a proxy bet for Miss Kate of $20 on 18. So she finished my trip down $20. But here's an interesting tale of how a group of people beat the roulette wheel using a laser in a cell phone. Paging Dr. Evil.

Slapping to the Oldies: Three reasons you Richard Simmons-haters need to turn a 180. Fast.

• He is a goofy, rah-rah, semi-fruit nebbish, but he has a certain audience that responds to his particular form of encouragement. He has never forsaken them, which is both smart and decent.


• Unlike many diet fad guru scam artists (*cough* Atkins *cough*) who claim it's what you eat, not how much, and uncountable infomercial shills for bizarre contraptions to give you rock-hard abs in five minutes a day, he doesn't sugar coat anything. Cut away the treacly sop and he makes it clear to all his followers that losing weight is a matter of willpower.


• Most importantly, anyone who pisses him off, even an ultimate cage fighter, is subject to a right and proper public bitch slapping.

Something tells me that cage fighter is not going to strike fear into many opponents anymore.

Something You Don't See Every Day: The Exorcist in thirty seconds, re-enacted by bunnies. Magnificent.

Et Cetera: My Vegas essay is coming along, with luck it'll be up this weekend. In the meantime, I'll just set these links down here in case you're interested.

• A new scent for the man who's looking for that three-years-in-a-cave fragrance.


• For your inner Emeril, cook-it-yourself restaurants. The author is down on this trend, but I think it's brilliant. The ultimate solution for the gather-in-the-kitchen syndrome. Plus, no dishes to clean.


• "...table tennis is an intense sport with all the earmarks of big-time athletics -- steroid scandals, colorful characters, Byzantine romances and groupies. Also, there's a lot of glue sniffing."


• Now that crucifixtion is all the rage, in a particularly grisly development, it seems some guy decided to commit suicide by nailing himself to cross. Turns out, this is not physically possible, as the article deadpans: "When he realized that he was unable to nail his other hand to the board, he called 911." I'm hoping this shows up on an episode of Cops.


• But perhaps even stupider are the City Council of Aliso Viejo, Calif., where they almost banned Styrofoam cups after learning they were processed with Dihydrogen Monoxide, which was claimed to be a dangerous chemical. To wit: "Dihydrogen monoxide is colorless, odorless, tasteless, and kills uncounted thousands of people every year. Most of these deaths are caused by accidental inhalation of DHMO, but the dangers of dihydrogen monoxide do not end there. Prolonged exposure to its solid form causes severe tissue damage. " Its other name is water -- H2O. Snopes has the scoop on this long running hoax.


• "Omigod! I have Chris Rock's old cell phone number!!" And, to coin a phrase, high jinks ensue.

Where Am I?: I think the last week was devoured by locusts. I guess I never really recovered from Vegas. I have spent the entire week unable to stay awake. It's bizarre. Up until this weekend I could barely keep my eyes open -- no excuse for a five day jet lag, so it must have been something else. Who knows? Plus, I just can’t figure out what happened to the little time I had awake this week. It was like some kind of time warp or something. It's all just gone. I did get some fiction written but unfortunately that leaves you high and dry for the time being.

In any event, now that the book signings are over and my weekends are free again, I'll be able to get some stuff going. The Vegas article is coming. And sadly, my tan is fading away....

Tan, Rested, and Not Quite Ready: I have returned....from Vegas! I got in late last night and am in decompression mode. I got the glistening tan that I wanted so badly when I was in El Lay over the holidays, plus I finished up a couple hundred dollars. Worship me!!!! You will be treated to good long article filled with the requiste judgemental savagery -- not that I'm opinionated or anything. (I have lots of notes to put together so please be patient.)

In the meantime, make plans to come to my book signing this Saturday (March 20th) from 1-3PM at B. Dalton in the Genesee Valley Mall in Flint (map). You will be under no pressure to buy, just stop by and say Hi, or to talk about blogging, or to talk about Vegas, or for no good reason at all. Be there.

Somebody Stop Me: I had hoped to have some original content, but the best I can up with is yet more curious links. Plus, it'll probably be around ten days or so until my next post but at least you have a lot of reading material to keep you nice and unproductive.

• An English expat football fan hits an Irish bar in New York to catch a football game and gets nasty grub and loads of Guinness all before 10AM, plus some insight into American football fans. By the way, we're not talking about proper football here, this is soccer or, more correctly, metric football.


• If you know how many halves there are in a basketball game, then you are well on your way to a University Diploma. Guys, at least pretend it’s a real education. Of course, you can get your kids an early start by encouraging them to do nothing.


• Comical quotes from Murray Walker, who is the Yogi Berra of Formula 1 auto racing.


• A French study approves of the Big Mac over Quiche Lorraine. Vive le malbouffe!


• Speaking of Mickey D.'s, they are running a no purchase necessary, just be in the restaurant to win, contest after losing a lawsuit over previous contests being misrepresented.


• A short list of books that should never have been written. One author even selects one of her own. This is one list I'm happy to not be on.


• A fascinating series of photos from a Ukrainian woman who rode her motorcycle through the 'dead zone' of Chernobyl.


• The Sopranos starts tomorrow, but here is some advanced info -- nothing so detailed that it will ruin the season for you.

Tube Notes: Recent TV news that has caught my eye.

Monk Season Finale is Friday. If you don't watch Monk you are missing one of the very finest extended comedic performances seen in a long time, courtesy of Tony Shaloub.

You can think of Monk as a modern day Columbo with a better sense of humor. Ostensibly a police procedural, the "mysteries" range from clever to cheesy and there is no violence to speak of. The charm is in the interplay of the characters with Adrian Monk, an extremely obsessive compulsive Sherlock Holmes. That premise may make Monk seem like a one-trick pony, using the gimmick of Monk's fastidiousness and limitless compulsion for order to generate gags and punch lines. It is to a point, but there's enough leftover personality to care about and Shaloub plays it without any sort of bombast and with utter conviction.

It will run thin eventually, but not yet. Episodes should rerun all summer; catch 'em if you haven't yet.

+++++

The Sopranos begins a new season on Sunday and I have mixed feelings about it. They can certainly do good previews -- the one running on HBO is more riveting than most of last season's episodes were. The past three seasons have been uneven with occasional flashes of the brilliance of the first. The movers and shakers behind the series maintain that the topic always was and will be Family, as opposed to Mobhood. That's a good sentiment, but they haven't really meshed the two very well since season one. We know Tony's family is falling apart; he's a scummy husband and a misguided father whose self-delusion shields him from change and guilt. Those facts really do not depend on Tony being the mob boss to be valid. There are plenty of non-mob bosses like that. Since season one, the relationship between the two has been tenuously held through circumstance. Tony's mob connections just accidentally play into the family problems, they are not as deeply interwoven as they were.

The end result is a bit of a disconnect between family soap opera and mob drama. Still, James Gandolfini is one of the most spellbinding actors around and besides, I wanna know what happens and I wanna know who gets whacked. How can you not watch?

+++++

Iron Chef U.S.A. redux? I have only seen one report of this so far, so I suppose it has to remain classified as a rumor, but it has been reported that Alton Brown of Good Eats fame is set to host another attempt at an American version of the cult hit Iron Chef. The previous attempt by UPN featuring William Shatner didn't fare too well. This one is from FoodTV so it may fare better (and perhaps have more realistic expectations).

+++++

The Family Guy lived in the animated area between The Simpsons and South Park on the outrage scale. It was very funny at times -- anyone who says they never harbored secret dreams of being Stewie is lying. Over the years a cultish following has developed. (I know I watch the reruns while chanting Quahogian incantations.)

It looks like The Family Guy is scheduled to make a triumphant return either to the Cartoon Channel (on Adult Swim, no doubt) or to Fox. If they can recapture the original season or two of top notch shows, they'll have a hit this time around.

+++++

The reality of reality. The Wall Street Journal provided a nice list of recent reality TV "concepts" that were under network consideration. It's a subscriber only site so I won't bother with a link but here's a list:

• "Convict Island" -- former convicted felons live together on an island, competing for prize money to donate to a crime victim's relatives. (NBC passed)


• "The Contender" -- 16 men learn how to box and take turns fighting each other, with Sylvester Stallone as their task master. (NBC would like to run next winter)


• "The Jackson Five House" -- Five Michael Jackson impersonators live together, and high jinks ensue. (NBC passed)


• "The Benefactor" -- Internet tycoon and Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban stars and promises to give away $1 million to one winner from about 30 contestants. (ABC will run this summer; Cuban says the only goal is to make him happy by any means necessary)


• "Amish and the City" -- Several Amish 18-year-old men and women leave their community to live in a house in a major city. (UPN plans to run this year, but Amish groups are up in arms. Two questions, why would an Amish person agree to this and what are they doing with TVs anyway?)


• "I've Got A Monkey on My Back" -- A cross-country relay race that sends two teams passing a monkey as a baton at each leg. (Fox passed)


• "The Swap" -- Two mothers trade places, and the show follows how the families react. The show is a hit in Britain. (ABC plans to show in 2004)


• "Iron Lung" -- Smokers in a house compete to see who can quit their habit. The winner would get a lung transplant. (rejected by an unspecified network)


• "The Virgin" -- A sexually inexperienced guy seeking a mate among women he has been told are equally inexperienced. The twist at the end when he selects one woman as his love: Not only is she not a virgin, she's a porn star. (rejected by an unspecified network)

A single word comes to mind. And that word is cesspool.