Justice
Let me just say this. I'm not terribly fond of some of the quasi-authoritarian things that are going on in Vladimir Putin's Russia, but as long as he limits his attacks to the oligarchs, that's fine with me. The oligarchs raped and looted their own country during the turbulent privitization (or piratization) of the Soviet Union's old assest. These guys are not Andrew Carnagie, they are legitimate robber barons, emphasis on "robber."

Swagger
Rasheed Wallace is the man. I have denounced the NBA for years; so, I cannot become a supporter now that my "hometown" team is doing well. But I watch enough ESPN to have heard his guarantee of vitory in Game 2. (The Pistons did indeed win, and also triumphed in Game 3.) And I love it. Look at the footage of the guarantee, look at his face. This was no boastful, arrogant guarantee, this was a guarantee from a proud man who was pissed off. This wasn't a "those chumps got nothin'" guarantee, this was a "I will not lose to these bastards" guarantee. And best of all, he backed it up.

Arrogance is a bad thing; swagger is a priceless good.

And I hope the Pistons do triumph over the Pacers, for the same reason I hope the Tigers finish above .500, because it would be good for Detroit. God bless Detroit.

Crap
The Strokes

H-A-D
Have a targeted day.

I saw a toad in the backyard yesterday! We haven't had toads for years. Neat! I touched it because I love touching toads. It was tiny, clearly still a juvenile. I hope Sammy doesn't kill it. Then again, these days he's more likely to eat grass than catch a toad. What is his fascination with eating grass, anyway? You aren't a cow, you daft bastard!

Crap
Moby

H-A-D
Have an incomplete day.

Zooey Deschanel Appreciation Day
Before I go back and revise, I always, and I mean actually always, as in without fail, type "Zooey deschanel Appreciation Day." Why can I not properly capitalize the D in Deschanel? Beats me. And no, I did not forget to do ZDAD on Wednesday (by my reckoning, it is still Wednesday night), I just didn't get to the HAL (or rather, over the Blogger.com) until after midnight. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is filming right now! Forty-twooooooooooooooooooo!

One day late, I finalized and sent out my birthday list (I like to give my family two solid months to shop; after all, I'm worth taking the time to get it right). Oh boy! I love possessions. I love being given possessions. You acquire more possessions... without parting with your money! I love possessions! Woot!

"No, GIR, these piggies are for science. Science!"

Things People Say
Let's say a girl really likes going out to the bar and getting blitzed. When getting blitzed at the bar, she likes to make out with, well, just about everybody. Nothing beyond making out, but a whole hell of a lot of spit swapping. Some jerk who knows the girl decides to label her a slut. The girl has never called herself a slut. Is she a slut? Certainly not, yet someone has said that about her. Now let's say a girl puts out an album that sells like hot cakes. While promoting this album, the girl wears weird clothes and skateboards. Some jerk who has seen these images decides that she thinks she is a punk. This girl never called herself a punk. Is she a punk? Certainly not, yet because someone said that about her, many people assume it is true. If we assume the girl who sez she is not a punk is a punk, must we not also assume the girl who sez she is not a slut is a slut? (I do not mean to insult anyone, I'm just conducting an exercise in logical reasoning.)

MTV stooge, "You're too punk rock for that."
Avril Lavigne, "I'm not punk rock."

Honey
By nature, I'm a monster. In the first era of The Newsletter, as deadlines loomed and apathy reigned, my manner was often unfortunately heavyhanded. (But I tell you, trying to wring a column out of Alber is maddening, I don't care who you are.) I believe that my conduct may have in some small way contributed to the demise of The Newsletter halfway through Vol. IV; it was my efforts alone that were propping it up, but I also did nothing to encourage others to help shoulder the load. But, I do not possess the ability to travel through time; so, what's done is done. What I can do is what I have been doing, in the second life of The Newsletter I have tried to take as much pressure off the columnists and contributors as possible. Deadlines are still strictly enforced, but meeting them is less compulsary; I used to nag and nag to get a column from almost everyone, now I tell the boys to submit something if they have something they want to write about, but not to force themselves.

Tied in with this is the word limit and page limit. Strict (and by "strict" I mean 807 is fine, 842 needs to be trimmed) enforcement of the word limit helps in mocking up each issue. I know how much space an 800-word column takes up, including picture(s). Knowing that, and knowing that I have only four pages to fill, helps me more accurately assess where each issue is as it comes togather, how short we are (necessitating more pictures or supplemental material like "Breaking Legs") or if I need to bump someone to the next issue. With the four-page limit written in stone, I alwys know how much material will be needed for each issue, and it also affords me the luxury only publishing the best. Like Steeze's "excellent" guest column, "The Avid Fan." Because of proper space budgeting, I was able to thank him for all his hard work by putting it on the front page, rather than burying in on page 5 of a six-page issue 2. Six pages is the sirens' song.

So, with less pressure on me (both because I have decided that I can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar and because there is not the stress of more than four pages), I am - or at least I think I am - steering the ship with a much lighter touch. Sometimes this leads to a drop off in production (I think Neutral Man might be dead), but on the whole I think it has made everyone more eager to contribute, more eager to help this incarnation of The Newsletter not just endure, but thrive. Everything's going gangbusters. Let the hubris begin!

Crap
Radiohead

H-A-D
Don't have a day.

The Empire of Pictus
Her Supreme Imperial Majesty Tieryn, Lord Prinzlo
Empire of Pictus
Commonwealth of Phythria
Shogunate of Enkariworld
Aepyrian Kingdom
Hsi Church
Republic of Jurai
Kingdom of Erix
Rynlander Presidium
Tehl Larian Union (protectorate)

Allied Powers
Otrosi League
Sovereignty of Nabulia
Royal Akari Confederation
Rynoran Republic
Aeloosian Federation

Adversarial Powers
Xero Hegemony
Sur'ka Dominion
Supremacy of the Chosen

I Feel Like Mold
It's not something I particularly like about myself, but weather affects my moods. When it is hot and humid for days on end, I become lathargic and irritable. During the height of winter's fury, when the wind cuts through your parka like it isn't even there, I am borderline giddy. It has been raining for the entire month of May and I am blue. I do not mind overcast skies, but the constant downpours, the perpetual puddles, the constant peety odor, these things are killing me by increments. I love getting caught in the occasional bonechilling November rain, but this merry old England impression is intolerable. This isn't a single crushing blow, no, that could be withstood and survived; this is a pernicious malaise, a rotting from the inside out.

Avril
On the other hand, upon first listen Under My Skin is awesome, much more rock and far less pop than Let Go. If she could get past her rabid hatred, The Watergirl would like "Don't Tell Me," especially in light of last weekend's unpleasantness. My favorite song to this point is "He Wasn't." It's a very Margaret Eastman song.

"And now to unleash screaming temporal doom!"

And I suppose their names aren't just Dib and Gaz, but Dib Membrane and Gaz Membrane, assuming Membrane is actually Profesor Membrane's last name and not just a stage name. "And now, the man without whom our world falls into chaos, and the inventor of Super Toast, Professor Membrane!"

Crap
The Vines

H-A-D
Have an abstract day.

Hello, Kitty
We've been over this before, and I'm sure we'll go over this again, but Sam, I cannot pet you from across the room. I am not Elongated Man. (By the way, I love the character, but that name... yeesh!)

ZIM
GIR
Dib
Gaz
Professor Membrane
Miss Bitters
Almighty Tallest (Red)
Almighty Tallest (Purple)
... Invader ZIM!

"I never agreed to this 'parent-teacher night'. "
"Yes, you did."
"Nooo. You lie! You LIIIEEE!"
*zzzt*"ZIM, will you be at parent-teacher night?"*zzzt*
*zzzt*(balancing pencil on upper lip) "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."*zzzt*
"Why would you tape that?"

Beauty
I had occasion this afternoon to stop by the Kessel (technically Kroger, but it'll always be Kessel to me... "We're with you!") in Grand Blanc to return some bottles and cans. How people in other states live, I don't know. No $0.10 bottle deposit? You savages! While in Kessel, I saw the most beautiful girl in the world. She was a young mother - thin, blonde, and stylish - made all the more beautiful by her two young, two-headed sons.

This suburban Venus got me thinking about something Skeeter said several months ago. She sort of retracted it and said she didn't mean it, but I think there's some truth in her original premise. I am a fat tub of lard; at this point, I am as fat as I have ever been in my whole life. At the same time, I continually have crushes on and infatuations with physically beautiful girls. Skeeter's premise is that this in unfair of me. I expect to form some kind of relationship with these girls (not the mother in kessel, but the girls I've known), yet I am unwilling to put in the same work they do. No one is just perfect. it takes discipline to eat properly and exercise regularly. They have invested time and effort to look good, and more than that they give a damn enough to look good. I do not. I do not put in the time, I do not practice the discipline, I don't care enough to get rid of my substantial potbelly, nor to wear presentable clothing.

Simply put, I hold those I desire to a higher standard than I do myself. At the very least, that makes me a hypocrite and a bastard.

On an only tangentally related note, let me quote Michael Rappaport from the film Beautiful Girls, "A beautiful girl is the promise of a better tomorrow."

Crap
Led Zeppelin

A Note about "Crap." I will never put a band in "Crap" simply because someone mentions them to me. But, if a band is already crappy and you try to tell me this is not so, you're pretty much guaranteeing that band will be featured in a day or so. Ye be fairly warned.

H-A-D
Have a typographical day

Wit and wisdom from my Uncle Jim:
"April showers bring May flowers."
"Yes, Jim, but it's May now and it's raining like Washington State."
"What do May flowers bring? Pilgrims!"

Trekkin'
Not to toot my own horn, but my Star Trek: Odyssey would have been awesome. The last few episodes of Star Trek: Enterprise have been taut and thrilling, leading me to hope the season finale will be a satisfactory conclusion to the year-long Xindi arc. The current third season started off rough, the overwhelming feeling I gathered was of a cheap publicity stunt, but as the year has progressed a good overall story has been told: sacrifice, both of life and of conscience; lies, betrayal, and cowardice. The renaissance has been very different than either The Next Generation or Deep Space Nine experienced during their third seasons, but there has been the predictable Star Trek third season jump in quality/hitting the show's stride. I'm quite pleased. In yet another marker of Voyager's futility, there was no third season rise in quality; Odyssey would have been the cat's meow from the get go, so imagine how great it would have been after the third season.

finals ranks...
Captain Elisabeth Rose McKenna - Commanding Officer
Commander Benincio Torres - Executive Officer (Maquis)
Lieutenant Commander Sovok - Tactical Officer/Chief of Security
Lieutanant Commander K'rena Singh - Chief Engineering Officer (Maquis)
Lieutenant Nick Locarno - Conn Officer
Lieutenant Daniel Kim - Operations Officer
Emergency Medical Hologram "Doc" - Chief Medical Officer
Chief Petty Officer Neelix - Security Officer
Doctor Kes - Medical Officer
Ensign Liz Locarno - Engineer's Mate

I hope you're wearing gray today because it's...

NARWHAL DAY!
There are three elements to celebrating Narwhal Day: wearing at least one article of gray clothing, taking the Oath of Narwhal Day, and listening to DJ Seaghost's "Sympathy For the Narwhal" from Rice Capades: Music Sampler Vol. 1.

Gray "Narwhal" T-shirt? Check. "Sympathy For the Narwhal"? Check, playing as I type. Oath?

The Oath of Narwhal Day
The narwhal is a noble, pitiable creature,
A magnificent, monstrous visage.
An asymetrical tooth for a horn,
Or sometimes two, or sometimes none,
Half again as long as the beast.

I swear my sympathy for the narwhal.
I will not lie and convince it all is well,
But I will be a friend to the narwhal.
The mocking dolphins and snobby manates
Will get their well-earned comeuppance,
And the narwhal will frolic all day.

I dream this dream of the narwhal
And celebrate it in all its impossible, oddball glory,
On this the fourth Narwhal Day.

May 23, 2004

Elf
The movie Elf is fantastic. It is hilarious and stars Zooey Deschanel. Even the annoying kid is balanced out by all the Jimmy Caan goodness. But what few people realize is that the true secret of Elf is the claymation narwhal early in the movie, which sez goodbye to Buddy as he leaves the North Pole. Narwhal!

Alternative spelling of narwhal include narwhale and narwal, but those in the know us the proper narwhal spelling. Happy Narwhal Day, everybody! I hope you enjoy it as much as I do, and beware the scourge of that most dread pirate starship the Scarlet Narwhal!

Crap
Matchbox Twenty

H-A-D
Have a cold day. Very apropos as the narwhal inhabits Arctic waters!

By popular decree, the single best post I've ever made is the famous "Braylon Edwards sez I'm a Prick" post. So, here it is. Enjoy the wit and wisdom of Braylon Edwards, whom I sincerely wish had departed for the NFL. Curse him for coming back for his senior year.

Sleeping Bear
It's been decided, I'm going camping with Zach Nie!'s crew over Memorial Day weekend. Yes, I'm normally not terribly fond of spending extended periods of time with peope I barely know, but if there is one lesson I have had to be taught over and over and over again before it finally sunk it, it is that I rarely regret trying new things. Also, I have regretted staying in more often than I have regretted going out. Obviously, there are nights that ended in debacle (usually coordinated by Captain Obvious), but on a whole, I should be more extroverted than I naturally tend to be. And worse come to worst? I do my best Achilles imitation and sulk in my tent. Best case scenario: the fools cower before the power of the Black Raj.

Whack-A-Mole - A Vote For Kodos Special
Well, it seems that no one wants to try and convince me to vote for Senator Kerry instead of President Bush. Apparently, not a single one of my lefty friends has the courage to argue his or her own political beliefs. Congratulations, you're all my mother. And just so you know, there are plenty of good reasons not to vote for President Bush, but at this point I cannot think of a single good reason to vote for Senator Kerry.

Vote For Kodos
Would anybody else support a constitutional amendment to do away with the Congress? Man, I bet that one would get lots of popular support. A first draft of my proposed 28th Amendment:

Section 1: Article I of the Constitution of the United States is hereby repealed.

Section 2: Members of the United States Senate and United States House of Representatives may use their offices and staff to help find a new job until the first day that Congress would have been seated after this amendment was ratified.

Section 3: The United States Capitol will become the new headquarters of the organization known as Blue Tree Whacking and be renamed the Blue Tree Whacking House.

Section 4: A council of learned citizens (the cast of Scrubs) shall be appointed to oversee the repeal of Article I of the Constitution of the United States. Zach Braff will have the authority to enforce this amendment by appropriate legislation.

Crap
Evanescence

H-A-D
Have a day dream.

The Week That Was
One problem I've been having recently is time. Getting up early for work is killing me, plus I have numerous creative projects vying for my attention: of late I've been putting a ton of work into strengthening the foundation of The Newsletter; catching up with comics (and culling the herd); trying to do solid work on the Space Pirates Project, Margaret Eastman & Co., SPQR, and the Empire of Pictus; and listening to my new music, my first new tunes since Christmas (and tons more on the way!).

Also, between Skeeter being back, Danny Boy leaving, and seeing the Squirrel King and Saturday Night for the first time in ages, there's been a good deal of rumination/introspection about the follies and clusterfucks that brought me to this point, and where I go from here.

On the other hand...

"We're here, so clear,
Turn up your radio,
'Til your speakers both explode,
Turn up your radio."
--The Hippos, "We're Here" from The Hippos

Profound, no; but catchy as all get out.

It's a damn shame The Hippos are gone, but at the same time one has to marvel at the glory of a band that cares enough about their fans to put together an album specifically as a farewell. What's wrong with American music is not that The Hippos broke up, but that there is no one to succeed them.

I like the new star on the Mountain's blog. Stars are pretty.

Some people are criticizing "Crap," but that's mostly because they like crapy music. Take the Squirrel King for example, he virtually creams his pants when he thinks about Dave Matthews Band.

Crap
Dave Matthews Band

H-A-D
14-15-23 25-15-21 13-21-19-20 4-9-5!

Snapshot in Time
In my CD player as I type this:
The Hippos - The Hippos (new!)
Reel Big Fish - Cheer Up!
New Found Glory - Catalyst (new!)
Green Day - Warning
Avril Lavigne - Let Go

Yesterday, I bought a short plastic samurai sword at a dollar store while I was trolling for stickers. (When you run a high brow, crappy Xeroxed periodical like The Newsletter, you have to find new and interesting stickers to place on the envelopes. Trade secret of the self-publishing world; consider yourselves enlightened.) Man, my new short plastic samurai sword is awesome!

And no, I am under no pretenses that I am an adult. I'm an infantile boob with delusions of Peter Panism... but my samurai sword is awesome nonetheless.

Even with The Incredibles being released in November, I think the movie I am most looking forward to is Zach Braff's Garden State. Once again, woot!

The Gripping Hand
I am not pleased. I am in the midst of an exceedingly rainy May. There has been very little walking through the park one day in the merry, merry month of May. Where do I live, godforsaken Florida? It's hot every day, and then it rains every evening. What in Bog's name is going on? Bring on the droughtesque heat of July, I'm ready for it.

On the other hand, I ran into Danny Boy this afternoon, shortly to depart for his new life and job (career?) in Chicago. Godspeed, old friend. (I have known Dan since we were both two years old. He is exactly two weeks older than me.)

On the gripping hand, I am still getting acclimated to the new New Found Glory album, Catalyst. At this point, my favorite song is "This Disaster." Just this afternoon, I received the third and final album by The Hippos - The Hippos - but I have not yet had a chance to listen to my copy. Next week, Avril Lavigne's Under My Skin will be released. Woot!

Crap
David Gray

H-A-D
Have a cheshire day.

It's amazing how operating on three hours sleep affects one's entire day.

Zooey Deschanel Appreciation Day
A feature from the latest issue of Esquire magazine, June 2004, Vol. 141, No. 6: "What's in Your Netflix Queue? Zooey Deschanel, actress 1) The 400 Blows, 2) This is Spinal Tap, 3) Roman Holiday, 4) The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, 5) The Wizard of Oz, 6) Rushmore, 7) Being There, 8) The Third Man, 9) Singin' in the Rain, 10) Gigi."

The Most Extraordinary Peope Are From Grand Blanc
Last night, after we'd closed Galaxy, but before we closed the GBI and went to Angelo's, Skeeter, the Squirrel King, Saturday Night, and I were diligently working on our second round, when suddenly "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" came on over the speakers. The moment could not have been more perfect.

I think that says everything that needs to be said about the glory of last night.

Crap
The White Stripes

H-A-D
Have a caffeinated day.

Do you think it would be possible to obtain an injunction to keep my father from watching television news/opinion programs? I swear, hearing Hardball while I'm doing the dishes every night is appreciably lowering my IQ.

Sarin
Let me say three things about sarin gas:
a) Thank God only two American soldiers had sarin-related symptoms and neither of them was killed.

b) Gee, if there weren't any illicit chemical weapons in Iraq, those the Hussein regime was compelled to give up under any number of UN resolutions, I wonder where the sarin gas came from? And why was it in a Iraqi artillery shell? Way to jump the gun, Hans Blix. Boy, I'm sure glad there weren't any weapons of mass destruction in Iraq after all.

c) The 1995 sarin attack on the Tokyo subway was an act of unspeakable evil. But I give Aum Shinrikyo credit; they were a doomsday cult that actually did something about doomsday instead of just preaching doom and gloom.

Crap
Hoobastank

H-A-D
Have a hanky-panky day.

I don't know about you guys, nor, if we're to be completely honest, do I care, but I really enjoy "Have A Day" (H-A-D). I enjoy it so much that as soon as I've exhausted the Have A Day poster, I'm going to proceed directly to the companion Have A Night poster. The point, though, is that I really like having a daily mini-feature and thus I'm going to add another. "Crap" will chronicle how many terrible bands there are in the world. "Crap" will be very simple. Each day, I'll name a group or "artist" who blows chunks. (I abhor the term artist when applied to a pop musician.) And thus, today's (Monday's) crap-o-matic musical group or individual:

Crap
Alicia Keys

Yikes
I had a unique experience this afternoon, or at least I pray to the Almighty that it remains unique: I entered a freeway at fifteen miles per hour. Traffic was moving at sixty-five/seventy, I was moving at fifteen. A fifty mile sper hour collision is not a good thing! And why did I find myself in this potentially deadly situation? Because the nice lady in front of me was driving fifteen miles per hour. What in Bog's name she could have been thinking is beyond me. Great Caesar's ghost, woman, if you wish to do away with yourself, more power to you, but please leave me out of it; I am quite dedicatedly fond of my life. But survive I did, and at least the Mousemobile's horn got a nice workout. Every day's a new adventure.

H-A-D
Have a quadratic day.

Every worth a damn has a -mobile. Batman has the Batmobile. The Pope has the Popemobile. I have the Mousemobile.

No, you're not mistaken, I did just compare myself to the Pope.

Hello, Kitty
There's nothing more sad than when a cat, that most nimble of God's creatures, stumbles. Oh, Sammy, you're so old.

"What just happened?
She just happened,
She just happened to cross my mind,
Without warning she crossed my mind
What just happened to me?"
--The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, "She Just Happened" from Pay Attention

The Greatest Story Ever Told
I saw Wolfgang Petersen's Troy on Freitag. It was interesting to note that in almost every instance where the movie deviated from Homer's The Iliad, it did so in a manner with modern Judeo-Christian morality: Achilles, though a monster, also has a sensitive side; Agamemnon gets his comeuppance directly; the Trojans are on the side of the angels, leaving very little moral ambiguity. But, those are relatively nitpicky items. It is a fabulous movie and I strongly recommend all who read this go see it. Being an epic poem, the Homeric verses are difficult to access and enjoy, but the story of the Trojan War is an amazing tale of all that is good and bad about Man, and this film presents it in an entertaining and faithful (enough) manner. Brad Pitt is good as Achilles, but Eric Bana as Hector, Sean Bean as Odysseus, and Brian Cox as Agamemnon are absolutely outstanding; Orlando Bloom is perfectly cast as the original little bitch, Paris.

No Guts, and Thus No Glory
Yesterday was a fun day at the ballpark. I met and hung out with Zach Nie!'s East Lansing friends, a perfectly welcoming group. The only part of the day I did not enjoy was our dinner at Fishbone, a New Orleans-styled eatery in league with the Greektown Casino. The food was delicious and the atmosphere friendly, but we as a group were quite rude. Our waitress was overwhelmed with customers, and in coming to Fishbone we had expressed a common desire to sit down and take our time, yet once seated we were short-tempered and impatient. A couple of the girls were obnoxiously and unnecessarily catty, even going so far as to complain to the manager, but I am equally at fault since I did not raise any verbal objections to their inappropriate behavior. Blast my timidity. (Some would call it appropriate decorum within a group of people I have just met, but nuts to that; rude behavior is rude behavior and I should have had the fortitude to object to it at the time.) I have been invited to join this group, in an expanded form, for a camping trip over Memorial Day weekend. I am undecided about going, and must confess this incident is weighing heavily on my decision.

S.P.Q.R.
a.k.a. F.K.A.E.C.*
The world of The Cloak is full of "science heroes," a term I am borrowing from Micah Ian Wright's unbelievably excellent series Stormwatch: Team Achilles, superheroes with no superhuman powers, just super science. Well known examples of this type of champion include DC's Steel (Natasha Irons) and Mr. Terrific (Michael Holt) and Marvel's Iron Man (Tony Stark). In SPQR, the universe *formerly known as Empire City, science heroes (and villains) include:

The Futurist
Archimedes
M.O.S., Man of Science
Dr. Device
Lightning Rod
Mecha Man
The Judge
Cold Fusion
The Gladiator (science provided by Zero Hour)
Dr. Infernal
Omni
R.E.A.C.T.O.R.
Doktor Fantazmo
Powerhouse

Of course, one way or another, almost all the heroes in SPQR have science-derived powers. Let me be frank: I. Hate. Magic. Magic is lame. Magic is weak. Magic is a device used by piss-poor writers. "Wait, what happened? That didn't make any sense." "Magic." The magic ghost army in The Return of the King is the perfect example. They can cut you, but can't be cut by you. Why? Magic. That's lame. That's weak. That's piss-poor writing. Now, there is a little bit of magic in SPQR, but it is all derived from Christian supernaturalism: the divine power of angels and demons.

Sebastian Adair
The Fiend
Pyromancer (Pyromaniac)
The Mandarin
Faust
The Lycian
Der Konig

H-A-D
Have a toxic day.

Good luck to Skeeter as she takes the final examination of her 1L year.

"Summer Reading" is going to be so great. I think you guys are going to be as blown away by the material as I have been; there are some extraordinary people working on The Newsletter, and their short fiction makes that obvious. Six different people (five of whom aren't me) submitted short short stories for "500 Words to Glory." I mean no offense to the centerpiece of the first two "Summer Reading" issues, the excellent sci fi fable/cautionary tale "The Noah Serum," but I've had access to it for months, whereas the shorties are new. Both elements are fantastic, and I really think people are going to be mightily impressed.

H-A-D
Have a tattooed day. Check.

I know this won't mean anything to most of you, it is without context and you are unfamiliar with the parties involved, but I swear upon my honor - a man is only worth as much as his word - that I will never read another comic written by Devin Grayson as long as I draw breath. The only other time I have gone to this extreme a measure is when I swore an oath to never see Titanic.

Vote For Kodos
Here's the truly great tragedy of the presidency of George W. Bush: he is a terribly flawed vessel for a truly just cause. My thoughts on this are many in number and complex in realization. Now is not the time. Definitely a "The Last Angry Man" on this in the Fall.

"What makes you think you're a man? You're an overgrown jackrabbit, an elf with a hyperactive thyroid." Nobody makes with the insults quite as well as Jim Kirk. Now that's captaining!

H-A-D
Have a hit by a bus day.

Today Was the Only Day in the Entire History of the World That It Was Ever Going To Be May 12, A.D. 2004... and I Blew It

Today (Wednesday) was not at all as I'd hoped. On my day off, my plan was to loaf about the house and finalize the playlist for the mixtape - "tape" - I've promised to Skeeter; if things went well, I might have even gotten it burned. Not an ambitious plan for an entire day, I admit, but it seemed a good way to pass the time. Instead, Darth Vater woke me up at 6:30; so, I could drive Woody over to Mr. Front End, a local repair shop. We do this so ungodly early because he needs to be at work around 7ish; we drive over separately, drop Woody, and then he drives me back home before heading to another day of wage slavery. I go back to sleep for forty minutes, warm up the Mousemobile, and drive to the shop to give them the keys and his instructions as soon as they open at 8:00. I get back home around 8:20-8:30 and go back to sleep; it would be tempting to stay awake, but last night I fell asleep around 3 o'clock and would have been for shit all day without more ZZZs.

It is nigh impossible for me to wake up after an hour of sleep; so, I crawl out of bed around 10:30. Feeling like somewhat less than a million bucks, I grab a quick shower (just to wake up) and get breakfast, and then set about mowing the lawn before the beginning of the day's threatened rain. Originally, I had planned to mow on Thursday, but I was assured there would be wall-to-wall rain from Wednesday afternoon through at least Saturday. (It's about 1 o'clock on, technically, Thursday morning and there hasn't yet been a single drop of rain.) We had a dry April, but so far May has been soggy. The real problem is that the rain we're getting is in intense burts; so, the ground it having trouble absorbing the sudden multiple influxes of water. Much of the backyard was squishy; I would never have mowed, but it I didn't I wouldn't be able to for a week and by then the grass would be unconquerably long. Mowing took a solid four hours, easily twice as long as it will in the dry days of high July. It wasn't difficult, just time consuming, and you all know how I do so love being in the sun. Oh, well, at least I got a nice burn on my face, neck, and forearms. It is important to lay down a solid solar foundation. Another two burns and I'll have a solid tan until Labor Day.

I began around noon and was done mowing and weed-whacking about 4:30; the added half-hour was for the interlude where I took the Mousmobile back to the shop to pay for the work on Woody and get back the keys. After Dad got home, we'd go over in the Impala and I'd drive Woody back to the ranch. It's a full life. The yard work done, the clippings out on the curb for pick-up, the certain rain not yet arrived, I took a cold shower (I feel I need to take more cold showers to toughen myself up) and went online. Not long after I signed on, Darth Vater got home and said, "Anytime you're ready we can go pick up the Caprice (Woody)." When my father sez "anytime you're ready," that means right now. I dawdled for a brief few minutes and then we were off. By this point, I'm just weary. Lack of sleep plus the relentless pounding of the sun... I was done. Mostly, though, I'm sick of picking up Woody at Mr. Front End. (In the last two weeks, we have done this routine at least three times. I seriously don't understand what he's having them do over and over and over again.)

After that, I sit down to enjoy Around the Horn, but find it preempted by baseball coverage. I do not like baseball, but I understand that many people do; so, it is a good idea for ESPN to televise the games. What I don't understand is preempting scheduled programming for a May baseball game. The playoffs I could understand, but this is May. There are, let's say, thirty major league teams. Each plays 162 games a year. That means four thousand eight hundred sixty games each summer. 4,860. (That's 9 1/2 NFL seasons, an entire decade of football.) Plus playoffs, there are approximately 5,000 MLB games a year. FIVE. THOUSAND. Why preempt regular programing? If people miss this one game, there at 4,999 others they could eventually watch. Fucking hell, I cannot wait for the end of baseball in 2042.

Mom gets home around 7:00. She's had a bad day; so, I tell her a few jokes and listen to what went wrong and help her prepare dinner. (No big deal, we had tacos and all I did was brown the meat. But with my mon, it's the thought that counts.) Then Star Trek: Enterprise - tonight's episode, "The Council," was excellent - and The West Wing. I do the dishes and watch the bulk of the second season of The Office. Thank Bog, I needed that. And now here we are and I'm still tired.

It was not going to be an extraordinary day. Today was not going to be the day that I woke up out of this pathetic existence and moved out of my parents' house. Today was not going to be the day I left my beloved country to bind myself to exile to serve my captives' need. Today was not to be the day I changed anyone's life for the better. Today was just going to be a good day. I was going to listen to a lot of music that I love. I was going to pick out songs for a mix that I am going to give to someone I deeply care about. I was going to enjoy today. And it came to naught. And "the best laid plans of mice and men..." is a nice cliche, and true through and through, but it hardly makes me feel better. Today, I came one day closer to the end of my days and I have nothing to show for it other than a neatly mown lawn and $25. That's something, but it's not what I wanted for today.

I know my tenses are all over the place throughout, but I'm going to leave it all as it is. I like something about the way it all doesn't fit togother as a cohesive whole.

DOOP - Democratic Order of Planets United Against Welcomes the Omicronian Menace

Zooey Deschanel Appreciation Day
We have a new movie to add to the list of Ms. Deschanel's films that I have seen: Manic. Boy howdy, does she convincingly portray a girl with severe mental and emotional problems. I have now seen seven of Ms. Deschanel's movies (in reverse order of viewing): Manic, The Good Girl, Abandon, Mumford, Elf, The New Guy, and Big Trouble. 5 good and 2 bad. None too shabby. Anyway, Manic was, to employ a cliche, powerful; a "there, but for the grace of God, go I" experience.

I'm Awesome!
The best thing I've said all day, in an IM conversation with Steeze: "Hey, I don't make the rules, I just make people feel bad."

H-A-D
Have an anachronistic day.

Honestly, I don't think I could ever be friends with anyone named "Shawn" (or "Shaun"). I mean, those aren't even names, they're just made-up words. I couldn't be friends with anyone named Habooor, and likewise I couldn't be friends with a Shawn.

Get a real name, you douche.

Have I mentioned that I hate it when one or the other of my parents sleeps downstaris? We have three bedrooms in this house! And another room with an almost comfy futon! You bastards. Is it really that hard to drag your arse off the couch and slouch towards Babylon... er, up the stairs?

Everything's Coming Up Milhouse for The Newsletter
With the first volume of the revival concluded and the second volume chugging along like a well-oiled machine, I think it's time to get drunk on a trumped up sense of accomplishment. Those whom gods destroy they first make proud, which means it's time to enjoy the pride before the inevitable destruction. We all get our comeuppance; so, until then you might as well try to enjoy yourself.

The Line-Up:
"The Hot Plate" by Jim Platte (For the revival, Jimmy was thinking about renaming his column "Plattetudes," but fortunately I was able to talk him out of it.)

"The Last Angry Man" by Mike Wilson a.k.a. Mr. Hubris

"The Neutral Zone" by Brad Dupay (Brad's column for Vols. I-IV was called "The Raised Eyebrow," but neither he nor I was particularly fond of the name. For the revival, he was going to go with the new title "School of Thought," but again, I was fortunately able to browbeat him out of it and install a new Star Trek-inspired title. Woot!)

"Is It Too Much To Ask?" by David Wilson

"Verbal Herpes" by Zach Nie

"Rockopolis" by Kiel Phegley (Kiel submitted a guest column to the old Newsletter, but this is his first volume as a staff writer. I could not be more pleased with how things have worked out. I am exceedingly proud to have Kiel onboard.)

"Best Damn D.P. in Hollywood" by Kevin Stermer (He's a cinematographer... who's blind. Bwa ha! Oh, man, that's funny no matter how many times I see it.)

Vote For Kodos
I just brought in the mail and there is a new issue of Esquire for me. Yay! On the cover, not the central thrust of the cover, but on the cover nonetheless, is a picture of Senator Kerry and the caption "John Kerry, Political Badass." Now, I have not yet read the article, and I'm sure when I do it will be highly entertaining (Charlie Pierce, the article's author, is hands down the magazine's best writer). But just on the surface, I must agree. John Kerry is, indeed, a political badass. After all, it is so incredibly hard to get elected as a Democratic senator in Massachusetts. I mean, that's as hard as a Democrat being elected mayor of Detroit, or a Mormon being elected governor of Utah. And John Kerry has done it. Wow. Yes, I'm sure he's quite the badass.

Whack-A-Mole: If At First You Don't Succeed...
Okay, so the first round of Whack-A-Mole was a disaster. So, I shall try again. Surely, one of you lefties must be willing to rise to the challenge. I admit, I have a pretty dim view of Senator Kerry, but I am not in love with President Bush either: I didn't support either tax cut, I support gay marriage, John Ashcroft gives me the willies. I can be turned here, people! I am willing to vote for Kerry... if one of you can convince me. I know many of my readers have center-left to left political leanings, and I know at least The Watergirl and Saturday Night are flaming pinko Commies. Surely, one of you true believers has the mettle to convert me. If you would like to try, please send a brief statement of why you think you're the right man for the job (yes, women can also be the right man for the job... sheesh, get over yourself, you PC thug) to rebelblackdot@gmail.com.

While Rome Burned...
I spent the morning listening to the Armed Services Committee hearings on NPR and then watching them on CNN. Let me say two things: a) Senator Lindsey Graham is going to go far in the Republican Party. b) I find it highly amusing whenever Congress tries "to get to the bottom" of something. The abuses at Abu Ghraib are, as Rummy said, un-American and those responsible need to be drawn-and-quartered, but does it really instill confidence in anyone to have Congress conducting an investigation? This is Congress we're talking about! And do not think me a partisan; after ten years in power, the GOP majority is little better than the old stagnant Democrat majority. 9/11 was an unavertable tragedy because domestic law enforcement and external intelligence services were legally prohibited from sharing information with each other. Who prohibited that sharing? Congress. The Central Intelligence Agency has been villified for having inadequate human intelligence resources. Who placed restictions on how the CIA could conduct human intelligence gathering and spent three decades slashing the CIA's budget and proverbially tying the Agency's hands? Congress. Congress likes to blame agencies and department for their screw-ups, and Congress is especially fond of saying that those at the top must be held accountable. Hmmm, since Congress has oversight authority over each and every single agency, department,a nd cubicle of the federal government, wouldn't that make Congress ultimately responsible for any and all failures? Now, how many Representatives or Senators have resigned over any government foul up? To paraphrase Chuck Lane talking about Stephen Glass, if a Congression report told me that the sky was blue, I'd not only look up, but independently verify it with three other sources. What is amazing to me is that the Republic continues to be as strong as it is, despite governance by a vain and baboonish legislature.

You remember in Mars Attacks!, after the Martian ambassador disintegrates a joint session of Congress, the President (Jack Nicholson) addresses the nation and sez, "You still have two out of three branches of government... and that ain't bad"? Yeah, I always really liked that part.

H-A-D
Have a dreamy day.

I just sent this comment in to the cuntrags at Google who run Blogger:

I have been using your fine service for over two years now, and I would like to thank you guys for finally making Blogger more difficult to use. All of the other revisions and refinements made over the duration of my usage have generally improved Blogger, but now with Dashboard, you have taken a giant step backwards. What was once quick and easy to use is now slow and frustrating. Things that made Blogger superior are now gone. It takes real imagination and effort to take a good thing and completely foul it up. Kudos!

If Blogger was a product and I were a paying customer, well, you'd have seen the last of my money. As it is, though, Blogger is free; so what do you care if you've inconvenienced your users? I applaud your blatant disrespect for your audience. Good show.

Also, the word is spelled googol, you douchebags.

"Hell hath no fury like the vast robot armies of a woman scorned."

Up until early evening, today was an amazingly beautiful day. 80 degrees, sunny, light breeze. Wow. Then, it started intermittently monsooning and the day went south in a hurry. Pounding rain plus stiffling heat: the worst possible weather. After a dry April, we've had over six inches of rain in the last couple days. The plants are so green they are almost glowing; it looks like freakin' England around here. I hate rain, but it happens. Rain on a hot day? That's fucking bullshit, man.

Good news, everyone, the guys at Pyra Labs have set new standards for fucking up. I mean, I've seen inbred incompetence before, but those baboons have set a new standard for suckery with this new Blogger interface. Good job, you worthless cuntrags.

H-A-D
Have a James Dean day.

Her Majesty
I'm kind of worried about Skeeter. I think her first year of law school was even worse than she'd anticipated. Fear not, though, loyal chum, after the first year, law school is a bed of scented roses. You only need to hang on for a few days more, and then you can kill vast numbers of braincells in an orgy of drinking, boozing, and imbibing, followed by yet more drinking.

"Let's drink, drink, this town is so great,
Drink, drink, 'cause it's never too late,
To drink, drink, it's no big surprise,
What words rhyme with 'buried alive'?
What words rhyme with 'buried alive'?"
--They Might Be Giants, "Drink" from Mink Car

In Other News...
Okay, the new Blogger.com look kinda crappy, kinda real crappy. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

Well, now I've been to Greektown. We saw The Pirates of Penzance at the Detroit Opera House this afternoon; unlike horrible, horrible opera, Gilbert and Sullivan's operettas are actually, you know, entertaining. Woot! (My thanks to Skeeter for repopularizing "woot!") Pirates! Victorian puns! The Mountain of Love as first a pirate and then a constable! What's not to love?

Humidity has come to Michigan. Words cannot accurately describe my joy.

"If I promise to go to church on Sunday,
Will you go with me on Friday night?
If you live with me, I'll die for you,
And let's compromise."
--Green Day, "Church on Sunday" from Warning

H-A-D
Have a Doris Day. I love that one. ^_^

Yesterday, I ran into Alber, had dinner at Red Hot Lovers, and saw Hellboy. None of those things was on the day's itinerary. Wicked. Tomorrow, breakfast-in-bed for Mom, The Pirates of Penzance, and dinner in Detroit. Today, I read away the afternoon and it was everything I thought it could be.

Internet commerce is fantastic; so, of course I've already ordered Invader ZIM. Doooooooooooom!

H-A-D
Have a silent day.

Prepare, foolish humans! for your DOOOOOOOOM!

Thank You, Mike Park!
I've got a brazillion CDs (okay, eight) coming from Asian Man Records, and I couldn't be happier about it. New music! Woo hoo!

What's bigger than a trillion? What's bigger than a googol? What's bigger even than the mythical bajillion? A brazillion! Man, I wish I was a Brazillionaire.

As a young Monty Burns said, "We'll be rich! Rich as Nazis!"

Dead Wings
Everything is relative. As I said to my mom last night, I'd give my right arm for the Lions to lose in the second round of the playoffs two years after winning their third Super Bowl. We Red Wings fans have, as a group, become quite spoiled, your humble narrator most certainly included.

H-A-D
Have a magnetic day.

Suffice it to say, Thursday was, as a day, kind of weird.

"In his favorite bar,
In his favorite seat,
I saw the Devil,
Wingtip shoes on his feet,
Porkpie hat on his head,
He was digging the beat,
And the band ripped like demons when he screamed,
'Turn up the heat!' "
--The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, "Devil's Night Out" from Devil's Night Out

I own a porkpie hat.

Well, I think that's enough Internet for tonight. I'm going to go read comic books. I say the following with absolutely no irony: dear Bog, I love my life. I should be a ride; everybody should get to spend one day as Mike Wilson. It would blow you away.

Cinco de Mayo
The latest issue of The Newsletter is all about Mexico! My column is titled "Cinco de Mayo, or How Mexico Told the French Where to Shove It." I love Cinco de Mayo, but I've got to tell you, after researching and writing my column and putting together the issue, I think I'm all Cinco de Mayoed out. So, congratulations to our Mexican brothers for successfully thwarting naked French aggression. Sorry about taking away half your country in the Mexican War... except not really. We used it for all kinds of useful things, like California (movies) and Texas (we all need someone to hate), the Grand Canyon and Devil's Tower. Anyway, Cinco de Mayo. Woo hoo!

Zooey Deschanel Appreciation Day
You know what I'd like to see? Ms. Deschanel in a sombrero. Hee hee hee.

Danger!
I mowed the lawn this afternoon. Exciting stuff. But once I'd finished, I decided to have a little fun. I decided to run the lawnmower back to the shed; after all, why walk when you can run? Running is fun! I was off! Of course, I was about halfway through the yard when the bag fell off the mower. I saw it plain as day, but there was not sufficient time to react. At a dead run, I plowed into the bag, banging the living fuck out of my left shin on the rigid opening and getting my feet knocked out from under my after gettint tangled in the fabric. One moment, I'm running with idiotic abandon behind a lawnmower; the next, I'm airborne. It's a funny sensation, travelling parallel to the gound. Of course, then I landed on my face. Except for the fact that my shin still hurts like a motherfucker, it was awesome! I ran, I tripped, I flew, I fell down. What's not to love? I think that's a fundamental difference between boys and girls: for boys, falling flat on your face can make your whole day.

Hello, Kitty
I love you, Sammy, and I appreciate that you are old and needy, but I really can't have you standing on the keyboard. Of course, now he's sleeping in one of those positions that freaks me out, because sometimes I need to look very carefully before I can tell whether or not he's breathing. It is a terrible thing to grow old.

Hello, City
I'm going to visit Skeeter in NYC in July. I find that I have much greater incentive to follow through on things once I make my intentions public. The Last Angry Man in Gotham City. Angels and saints preserve us.

Speaking of "Hello City," it seems impossible that it's been eight years since Rock Spectacle. Why in the name of all that is dark and profane was "Another Postcard" the flagship single for Everything to Everyone? That song is AWFUL! "Maybe Katie," "Shopping," or "Celebrity" all would have been perfectly acceptable, and three minutes of silence would have bene better. Ye gods, did you guys want the album to fail commercially?

It's Cinco de Mayo and Zooey Deschanel Appreciation Day, so much to celebrate....

Here's what happens: I read SNL's blog, but after a short period he will stop blogging. So, there not being anything new to read, I eventually stop visiting the blog. Then, of course, he starts blogging again. Gah!

"In your face, space coyote!"
"Space coyote?"

The Newsletter
Vol. VI, No. 1 went out in yesterday's mail, the first issue since early March to go out on time! Woo hoo! Wow, Vol. VI. We're already done with Vol. V, the first volume back. Man, why in the hell did I ever let The Newsletter die? I don't know if anybody even reads the issues, but on some level, it doesn't matter; I enjoy writing my columns and assembling the submissions so much as to be self-rewarding. Heh, you're just jealous that you don't have your own self-serving, crappy Xeroxed newsletter.

That said, to fill the void in your life left by not publishing your own crappy Xeroxed newsletter, I invite you to subscribe to my crappy Xeroxed newsletter, The Newsletter. To subscribe, or make a submission (submit, damn you!), email sonofthenewsletter@yahoo.com.

H-A-D
Have a remote day.

Hi, I'm Mike Wilson, and I'm the most pathetic man in the world.

Dead Wings
The Detroit Red Wings are still my team, but we just got outworked by the No. 6 seed. We got shut out in two consecutive games. We didn't look old, we didn't look injured, we just looked like we didn't care enough to try. We got beaten to loose pucks, we made bad passes, we didn't bring our A game. I want us to remember this embarrassment; I want this to hurt. Pain is a wonderful teacher. I want our most hated enemy, the dreaded Avalanche, to prevail over San Jose, destroy Calgary, and the annihilate Tampa Bay. Then they will have three cups in eight years, just like us. I can think of no more fitting penatly for our lackluster performance.

Oh, well, at least with John Navarre gone, I can once again be optimistic about Michigan football. Drat, it's a long time until the fall.

H-A-D
Have an electrical day.

Dead Wings
My real question is: how in blazes did the Flames only win 42 games in the regular season? Or maybe they aren't that good, and we really are a bunch of overpaid, lazy prima donnas. Hull? Shanny? I thank you guys for all you've done over the years, but where were you? Jiri Fischer will never wear a Red Wings uniform again; worthless hack.

By Lucifer's beard, why can't we just score a goal?! This can't go to overtime. Overtime will kill me.

H-A-D
Have a Cylon day.

The original Battlestar Galactica was terrible. Even for the 1970s, it was bad. However, the Sci Fi Channel's recent Battlestar Galactica miniseries was really quite good. Based on the strength of the miniseries (both ratings and dramatic), half a season of television episodes have been ordered. I am quite optimistic about their potential quality; this optimism is based upon the participation of miniseries writer and executive producer Ronald D. Moore. For over ten years, Ron Moore was one of the best writers on Star Trek: The Next Generation and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine; he was particularly responsible for the development of the Klingons beyond their original series status as stereotypical Soviet-clones to the honor-obsessed warrior race we know today. (The single biggest problem with Star Trek: Enterprise may be that guys like Ron Moore, the veterans of the golden age of the '90s, aren't on the writing staff.) So, I have high hopes for Moore's Battlestar Galactica, based both on his proven track record and the dramatic strength of his miniseries.

Plus, the new Cylons are way better than the original toastermen.

Vote For Kodos
My politics, in a nutshell...

Skeeter: You are a really fucking terrible Republican, btw. ;)
TLAM: I know, but I'd be a worse Democrat.

Holy balls. All for the love of Nicole Bonner.

I can scarcely believe the great Ricardo Montalban was ever this young.

The Villainy of Helmut Stern
At the Mountain's graduation yesterday, one of the recipients of an honoary doctorate was an elderly gentleman named Helmut Stern. The now Dr. Stern received the honorary degree Doctor of Laws. From the program for the commencement exercises, "Helmut Stern is an extraordinary industrialist, entrepeneur, art collector, supporter of the arts and sciences, philanthropist, counselor, and humanitarian. He has long been a remarkable friend and supporter of the University of Michigan, extremely generous with his time, energy, advice, and financial contributions." The program also tells us Mr Stern was the co-founder and president for forty years of a company named Industrial Tectonics, and today is the president of Arcanum Corporation. May God have mercy on us all.

Don't you see? Industrial Tectonics. This can only mean one thing: Helmut Stern founded and then for forty years ran a company dedicated to the secret invention and manufacture of an earthquake machine. An earthquake machine! People, there are no innocent applications for a machine that can cause earthquakes and direct them with pinpoint accuracy. This is a purely nefarious device. And now, Helmut Stern is in charge of the Arcanum Corporation. Come on, people, Arcanum. If that isn't the name of an international cabal of industrialists and deposed European princes bent on world domination, I don't know what is. And it is only a matter of time before Arcanum puts the fruits of Industrial Tectonics's research to use, no doubt as the means to achieve some diabolical end. Unless Helmut Stern is stopped, he will soon hold the entire world hostage. His "Sterntroopers" will spread out through the capitals of the earth. It will be the end of democracy as we know it. Centuries of toil and sacrifice will come to naught, crushed beneath the mad ambitions of Helmut Stern and his terrible earthquake machine.

But there is yet one slim hope, one man who may yet deliver us from the fearsome clutches of Helmut Stern. That man is Brick Malloy. Funded by a mysterious benefactor and aided by a ragtag team of weird assistants, Brick Malloy is the world's greatest adventurer... and our only hope. Can Brick locate Stern's secret island fortress in time to thwart the madman's latest plan? For the sake of all human freedom, let us hope so. Godspeed, Brick Malloy!

I'm sure Mr. Stern is a kind and decent man, but with items like Industrial Tectonics and Arcanum Corporation on his c.v., I couldn't resist. But Brick Malloy is real.

H-A-D
Have a radiating day.

Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense
Hellboy, a.k.a. Anung Un Rama
Abraham Sapien
Elizabeth Sherman
Roger the Homunculus
Johann Kraus
Dr. Tom Manning
Dr. Kate Corrigan
(Dr. Trevor Bruttenholm - deceased)

May Day Mayday
It's May Day; so, if you're a Communist leader (how are you handling that inherent contradiction in terms?), today's the perfect day to strike fear into the hearts of your imperialist capitalist enemies with a display of your military prowess and technical expertise. Invariably, this display will take the form of a parade.

The Mountain's graduation was this morning. I am so proud him, I could burst. Of course, his graduation is a little anitclimatic, since next year as a grad student he'll be singing in the same building, with the same voice coach, with many of the same fellow students. Basically, grad school for him will be what the Star Trek: The Next Generation movies should have been, the same as before only bigger and better. "Same thing, only better." Congratulations, David.

This American Life
Last week's This American Life was the worst I've ever heard; it was the same godawful story for the whole hour and after forty minutes I just couldn't take it anymore and turned it off. It angered me to a ridiculous degree. This week's show, however, which is winding down as I type, was awesome! It was all about the wild, weird, and wacky effects of testosterone. "T." Hilarious, touching, everything you hope from from This American Life. Woo and hoo.

H-A-D
Have a vacant day.

Today feels like a Saturday. Both my parents have taken the day off work, I was awoken at far too early an hour to run automotive errands, and we're all going to get gussied up for the Mountain's music school graduation tonight.

Dead Wings
It was once pointed out to me that many sports fans refer to their favored team as "we" in times of victory and "they" in times of defeat. This practice is despicable; thus, I have resolved to refer to my teams as "they" in times of victory, in honor of the work they do that brings me such joy without them even knowing who I am, and "we" in times of defeat, to show my solidarity with their cause, especially through adversity.

You'll notice last night, after Calgary scored two goals in 18 seconds to tie the game in the second, I said, "we have to pull this out!" We. It is in that spirit then, that I would like to thank the Red Wings for living up to my faith and congratulate them on their brilliant 4-2 victory.

H-A-D
Have a knife-through-your-head-day.

Dead Wings
I just saw my boys give up two goals in 18 seconds. Way to show that old killer instinct, guys. Come on, we have to pull this out! If not, you're all fired.

Remember, kiddies, virtue is its own reward.

Which is better, being true to who you are even as it brings your world down around your head, or selling out and living the high life? Is it moral to ask others to betray themselves for your happiness? When you've alienated everyone you love, is it any comfort to know the truth is on your side? The answers are: be true to yourself, especially if it brings you ruin; no; and yes.

Why Ben Sisko is not only a better captain, but a better man than Jean-Luc Picard: "In the Pale Moonlight" compared with "I, Borg." After all, what is one man's soul balanced against the fate of an entire civilzation?

Kappa Epsilon Gamma
Once upon a time, when I was chalking the Diag during the first F.R.A.T. Party campaign, a frat boy approached me and asked, "Would you call your country a cunt? No, so why do you call my fraternity a frat?" First of all, genius, because if you chop the "-ry" off of country, you get count, not cunt. Stupid frat boy. B of all, it's a free count; so, I'll insult frat boys all I want.

That said, the Mountain of Love is in a frat, a musical fraternity the letters for which I can never remember, but I'd recognize them if I saw them. Over the years, I've given him a hard time about that, probably too hard a time. Yes, he's in a frat, but he's never been a frat boy. So, I am hereby decreeing that I will never again tease the Mountain about being a Greek, though I reserve the right to make fun of all other frat boys and sorostitutes. Baby steps, baby steps.

H-A-D
Have a scary day.

The 109th Rule of Acquisition, "Dignity and an empty sack is worth the sack."

Alas...
I like Star Trek: Enterprise, I really do, but increasingly when I watch I am struck by a certain melancholy, rooted in an awareness of how much better the show could be, with the same stories, in other, more capable hands. It is entirely possible that Ira Steven Behr set the bar so high with Star Trek: Deep Space Nine that I am simply ruined for other projects. Ye gods, now that I shown Guy Zach Nie and the Profesor DS9, will it be possible to sell them on the other shows? They're seen the lights of gay Paris, how can I ever get them to go back to the farm?

Zooey Deschanel Appreciation Day
Holy balls, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is going to have Malkovich! This movie has the potential to be one of my favorite movies of all time. I absolutely adore the old crummy BBC miniseries. If you can make a film with high production values - AND Zooey Deschanel! - while still retaining the soul of the BBC efforts, with which Adams himself was involved, well, the sky's the limit. I'm not saying the film will be great, but it has the opportunity to be mind-bogglingly incredible.

Big guns.
Bug guns.
Bog guns.

It's all essentially the same thing, you know.

Varsity
I'm staring at the cover art for MxPx's album Life in General: while an assistant principal-type adult looks on, a jock asshole (complete with mullet and varsity jacket) holds one punk in a headlock after depositing another in a trashcan. I love MxPx. I am, after a fashion, a bit of a punk. In high school, I wore a varsity jacket.

I loved that jacket. It's the best coat I've ever owned, but even more than that, I loved the letter. I was a three-year letterman on one of the top ten or top twenty swim teams in the State of Michigan. (And in those days, you had to earn a letter, they weren't just given away.) I worked my fat ass off for those letters, earning the nickname "the SKP Machine." If you don't know what SKP stands for, well, sucks to be you. You probably should have swam in high school. I wore my jacket with pride, because I earned it. Does that make me an active participant in the evil jockocracy?

Some would say yes. I wore the jacket, the same jacket as the assholes on the football team (though mine was different, since the swim team's letters invariably read "Big 9 Champs," while the football team struggled futilely to reach .500 in a given season), and that makes me as much a part of the problem as they were. I may not have pushed people around like they did, but I wore the same status symbol. I avoided getting teased for being a nerd by clothing myself in a wolf's skin. But you know what? That's whiny bullshit. Maybe the football players didn't give me as hard a time as they would have if I'd just been in the marching band, but that isn't my fault. I refuse to be responsible for how they react to the jacket. I got off my lazy butt and I did ten thousand yeards a day and that gives me the right to wear the symbol of that accomplishment and if you don't like it, be you fellow punk or football player asshole or whiny goth kid, you can go fuck yourself.

I did ten thousand yards a day, but if you're too small-minded to see anything beyond the jacket, how exactly does that make you any different than the jocks? I earned my jacket, and it means much more to me than you ever will.

Reliable Taste
When receiving pop culture recommendations, it is critically important to consider the relability of your source. Does this person have a clue what they are talking about? Do they like the same things you like? Or, if they don't, do they know what you like? And just because you like someone does not mean you should listen to their recommendations. Take for example K. Steeze. He is my friend and I love him to death, but his movie recommandations carry about the same wait as the late Idi Amin's. (No, I am not calling Steeze the moral equivalent of Idi Amin.) Steeze is a good guy, but his taste in movies and television shows is atrocious; his taste used to be questionable, but by this point it has become painfully obvious that he doesn't know quality from a hole in the ground. Poor Steeze, so very, very clueless.

H-A-D
Have a spontaneously combustible day.

The Watergirl doesn't know what a bug gun is. Who doesn't know what a bug gun is? (Scroll down, knucklehead.) Sheesh, some people.

If there's one thing Animal Face-Off has taught me, it's that size wins: hippopotamus beats bull shark; walrus beats polar bear; brown bear beats tiger. Weight equals victory. Victory is life.

Ritual in the Dominion
Pre-Combat
First: "I am First Omet'iklan, and I am dead. From this moment on, we are all dead. We go into battle to reclaim our lives. This we do gladly, for we are Jem'Hadar. Remember, victory is life!"
Others: "Victory is life!"

The White
Jem'Hadar: "We pledge our loyalty to the Founders, from now until death."
Vorta: "Then accept this gift from the Founders. May it keep you strong."

Whenever
"Obediance brings victory. Victory is life!"

"If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us,
do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die?
and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?"
--William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

Call me a cretin if you will, but I became familiar with this quote from, and will forever identify it with, Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country.

Today is much improved from this afternoon; Sports Night, combined with Around the Horn and Pardon the Interruption, was a wonderful restorative. Dinner also helped. We had nachos!

And now for a Guinness and "Visionary."

To this point, today has been a profoundly crummy day. Listening to A Jackknife to a Swan has helped, but I think I need to break out the big guns to drive away this funk: I'm going to go watch Sports Night, specifically the two-part "Draft Day" story, because war between friends is on my mind.

H-A-D
Have a blind day.

monster / n. 1 any grotesque imaginary creature 2 a very wicked person 3 any huge animal or thing

monster / n. 1 an imaginary creature, usually large and frightening, compounded of incongruous elements 2 an inhumanly cruel or wicked person 3 a misshapen animal or plant 4 a large hideous animal or thing (e.g., a building) 5 huge; extremely large of its kind

Proximity
If there is one lesson life has taught me again and again, it is that certain people will simply never get along. Not everyone can be friends, even people who have dear mutual friends. Some people should just be kept away from each other.

H-A-D
Have a Swiss army day.

Sweet freakin' daisies, SportsCenter is in Spanish! Wild! Wow, they sure are spending a lot of time on sooccer... and I don't mean MLS.

Skeeter's having some boy problems, and I don't think I'm much help. The only thing I can think of to do is post the lyrics to Fountains of Wayne's "Hey Julie." Again.

Trekkin'
I watched some of the bonus materials for Star Trek: Nemesis this evening. That made me sad. Compared to DS9, it's just so... immature. So juvenile. So undeveloped. These people have been treading water for fifteen years, not growing, not changing. And there is so much forced, hollow emotion in Nemesis, I just feel bad for everyone involved. Not quite embarrassed, but something not unlike it. The season-by-season boxsets of Voyager are coming out, but what's the point? Seven years of repetitive futility, seven years of unrealized potential, seven years of damn, dirty lies.

The Foreign Service Written Examination - Saturday
I climbed out of bed at 6:40am, the room bathed in gray light through the uncurtained window. I took a shower under water that was just a little too hot; oddly, though there was no fan, the steam cleared quickly. There's nothing I hate quite the same way as post-shower humidity; this was a good omen for the rest of the day. I dressed, ate my pre-planned breakfast - a Jimmy John's Slim 1 and a 20oz Dr Pepper - at my brother's desk, and was out the door by 7:26am.

I walked to Angell Hall as I have a thousand times before, and from there whatever dramatic expectations I'd had, foolish though they may have been, were thoroughly dashed. A wizened old lady and a girl my age in one of those atrocious hooded sweater-coats lead a group of us through Angell, past the Fishbowl, and into Mason Hall. Even twenty minutes before the examination began, the second-floor hallway was filled with people I've known all my life: the overachiever with his decorative leather portfolio, the girl in warm-ups whose face is painted despite the fact that it's early morning on a Saturday, the frat boy with a fashionable amount of stubble and a backwards visor, the bald twenty-five year old in a Made in Detroit brand sweatshirt (I'm assuming he's a metal fan).

We were divided into three groups by the first letter of our last name; I was in P-Z. Mason Hall, room 1427. If I never had a discussion section in that actual classrooom, I did in that very hallway. They checked our official registration letter and phot identification at the door to each classroom and assigned us seats. Standard chairs with attached desks. "Are you left handed?" The lefty desks are, fittingly, located at the left end of each row. No one is wearing a suit and tie. There's no Frank Oz. The proctors look as sleepy as the rest of us. This is nothing like Spies Like Us. There are instructions. No. 2 pencils and black ink pens only, if your cell phone or pager goes off, you'll be asked to leave and your results invalidated. No hats. All coffee cups and backpacks along the sides of the room. A few whispered jokes from the people who can't tolerate two minutes of silence in a room full of strangers.

As the day progressed, on five separate answer booklets, I signed my name and agreed not to divulge any information about the contents of the exam, presumably to enemy agents, maybe to a friend who, unbeknownst to me, is a Red sympathizer. You can't be too careful. I may have already said too much. I might already be a security leak. I might be going away for awhile.

Imagine taking five finals in one day, only they aren't testing any specific set of facts and figures that you've been cramming into your brain for the last ten weeks, but the general knowledge you have alredy rattling around in your head. They're judging you, as Michael Feldman would say, "For being who you are and knowing what you know." A few rudimentary economic questions, no math more complicated than you can do in your head. A glaringly disproportionate number of questions about intraoffice interactions. The State Department is more concerned with office politics than global politics? Multiple guess Scantron, followed by two essays, lunch, more Scantrons. English expression to end the day. Once you're done, you can leave, you don't have to wait for the whole test period. No one can leave in the final five minutes. Once you leave this room, I can't let you back in, thr proctor intones; so, be sure you have everything with you. My hand was still a little cramped from the essays.

We file out. We disperse. For my part at least, I was a little wasted, as much from the lack of sleep as the stress fo the exam, but felt restored to health and youthful vigor once I'd indulged in that classic exilir, Taco Bell. Chapulas for a better tomorrow. The sun was shining. It was a beautiful day in Ann Arbor. Results in late July. Happy birthday, Mike. My first choice for the interrogation (oral assessment) portion, should I earn a satisfactorily high score on the FSWE: Chicago (I can crash with Danny Boy); second choice: Washington D.C. (my sister). I'm not sure what Allan Foster Dulles would have thought of yesterday's proceedings.

O Brother, Where Art Thou? - Friday
My brother was here in old Grumlaw on Friday morning. My father made a non-vital repair to one of the side windows of The Last Angry Van. Before he left, the Mountain and I planned my arrival in A2; I was staying on for a few hours in GB to assist my father in putting new sway bars on Woody and the Impala. My brother said, "I'm going to spend the afternoon with the Conchshell, but we'll hang out this evening." Fine with me, I spend the early evening getting some vital and long-delayed work done for The Newsletter.

After successfully toiling in the Fishbowl for several hours, I stopped off at the Jimmy John's at Division and Hill to buy dinner and my breakfast for the next morning. I arrived at the Love Shack (the Mountain's lair) around 9:30. He was laying on his bed, watching E! with the Conchshell. I set down my backpack and sat down at his desk to eat my dinner (two Slim 1s) in peace. They both wanted to know why I got Slims, not regular Jimmy John's; that seemed very normal, because the first thing I always do with guests is question their cullinary choices. As always when I am around them, I try to mind my own business and keep my head down. The Mountain tried to engage me in conversation several times, but as soon as we'd begin, the Conchshell would call his attention back to the opera score she was examining.

As soon as I finished eating, I made a beeline for the door. They asked me where I was going. Their E! special on N*Sync having ended, they were now watching Wildboyz. I cited this as my reason, but my brother protested, saying that I loved Jackass. This is true, but that does not mean I enjoy either Wildboyz or Viva la Bam! The Conchshell protested that Steve-o no longer had a fish in his butt, but I was unswayed. Downstairs, I had noticed that the All-American Boy and Sam I Am, my brother's housemates, were watching the Tigers game. I told the Mountain and the Conchshell that I was going to join them, that I would rather watch baseball than stay in that room. Shocking as this was, it had the virtue of being true.

You all know how much I hate baseball and watching baseball on TV; if you do not, I will be happy to go on at greast and venomous length about my disdain for the "American pasttime." Suffice it to say that I loathe baseball, but at that moment, it was the far more appealing option. In my brother's room, listening to their mindless recitation of music school gossip and the Conchshell's classification of everything in the world as either "stupid" or "cute," I could feel myself growing dimmer, my formidable intelligence slowly but surely slipping away. My braincells were perishing at a calamitous rate, the truly sad part being that the surviving cells envied the dead, for their suffering was at an end. As IQ points ticked off like miles on an odometer*, I knew that something had to be done. Baseball, my old nemesis, was in that moment less mind rotting than listening to their banal banter. I bolted, and found unexpected refuge in a 17-3 rout of the Cleveland Indians by the Detroit Tigers.

To borrow Zooey Deschanel's priceless phrase from Big Trouble, I just had to get out, go somewhere else, go "where it's not so, I don't know, stupid."

After a little while, after the game was over and the boys split, the Mountain came downstairs and sat down. Soon, the Conchshell followed. In the course of the conversation, I made fun of his haircut, which is essentially a Beatle cut. In response, she called me a Nazi. Fortunately, they left for their party shortly thereafter. That morning, the Conchshell had had her jury, which is a big, stressful test in the music world. She wanted to attend this party to blow off steam, a typical college ritual. In her own words, she wanted to get "wizzasted." I remember at time (two years ago) when my brother hated people who drank expressly for the purpose of getting wasted. He despised, decried, and denounced those people; now, he is madly in love with one.

Whatever happened to the Bald Mountain? I try to fathom what deep unhappiness would make a man betray the ideals in which he so strongly believed, but without success. I am left wondering to where my beloved brother has gone, and who this imposter is, this stranger who wears his face and answers to his name.

*I know this makes no sense, since my IQ was dropping and odometers tick upward, but I just like that way this sounds.

Hellboy
Seed of Destruction
Wake the Devil
The Chain Coffin and Others
The Right Hand of Doom
Conqueror Worm
Weird Tales, vol. 1
Weird Tales, vol. 2

B.P.R.D.
Hollow Earth and Other Stories
The Soul of Venice and Other Stories

Now all I need is the money to acquire these volumes of supernatural horror and the macabre.

Hello, Kitty
Someone please tell me what exactly Sam hopes to accomplish by repeatedly head butting my elbow pit?

FSWE was this morning and afternoon. I have a couple "big" posts planned about the weekend, but now's not the time.

Issues Nos. 4 and 5 of Vol. V of The Newsletter have finally gone out, No. 4 a whole month late. We're finally getting back on track.

Enterprise was pretty good this evening. Fire, explosions, Future Woman. Neat!

Presently, I'm listening to Gordon. It's hard to believe it's been eight years since Rock Spectacle....

Ooo, there's a new post from Thursday; so, be sure to check it out. I started it Thursday, but only just now had the time to finish it.

A Bit of History
I do not wish to seem insensitive to the casualties that we have suffered in Iraq, but in light of recent hyperbole, I feel that a bit of historical perspective might be in order.

Iraq is 171,000 square miles in size; in twelve months of fighting, we have suffered approximately 600 dead.

Iwo Jima is 7 1/2 square miles in size; in thirty-six days of fighting, we suffered approximately 7,000 dead.

I watched "The Siege of AR-558" last night and "The Abandoned" this afternoon. "The Siege of AR-558" is one of the most affecting war stories you could ever see, right up there with Platoon or Band of Brothers. Episodic television, in the right hands, is capable of astounding storytelling.

Peril!
Papa paid out the Benjamins and the Mousemobile rides again! Or, "It's alive, it's alive!" Or, my beloved automobile is once again the Mousemobile that roared! Woo hoo! Mom still hates the wagon (potential names: the Woody Wagon, the Fauxmobile), but it's getting a little tiresome. Yes, Dad bought a car without telling her, but her primary complaint seems to be the damn thing's color; thus, she's coming off as petty and bitchy. Nevertheless, the Mousemobile is repaired, the trany no longer leaks like a sieve, and that's pretty much all I care about. I win!

I suppose if one thinks about it the only reason the Mousemobile has outlived the Pirate Boat and Big Honkey is my father's patronage. After all, if one shelled out the clams the Pirate Boat's rear axle could have been replaced, and though I do not know what specifically caused Big Honkey's recent, and lamentable, demise, but I'm sure it could have been remedied had enough money been thrown at the problem. Darth Vater is an abomination as a human being, but I owe him a great debt for the Mousemobile's continued health. Thanks, Dad.

H-A-D
Have an absurd day.

"What just happened?
She just happened,
She just happened to cross my mind,
Without warnng she crossed my mind,
What just happened to me?"
--The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, "She Just Happened" from Pay Attention

I think it sez a great many good things about the world that even Dicky Barrett, who possesses the Devil's own voice, sings about the love of a girl from time to time.

Zooey Deschanel Appreciation Day
Even though I'm getting sick and tired of Will Ferrell, I still love the movie Elf. The best part of the film is Ms. Deschanel's rendition of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." She has a lovely voice, yet seems so utterly unlikely to sing such an ardently cheerful song. Just one thing, though: she's about my age, 24; Will Ferrell was born in '67. The thought of them together just, well, it just doesn't sit right. She's not jailbait, but still a tad too young for him. Come on, casting directors, let's get on the same page here.

Sea Fever
The Mountain's senior recital this evening was quite fun. Saw the Mountain of Love, and of course the Conchshell, the All-American Boy, Lus Diddy, the Landau System, Dr. Saban, the Accompanist and the Accompanist's Husband, and the funnest folks in Frankenmuth, Roz and Marty. (They are so cool, I will never understand why they are friends with my parents; that's not a knock against my parents, it's just a fact that they are incredibly not cool.)

Doing my bit for king and country, I had five pieces of pie, one each of chocolate, pumpkin, apple, pecan, and blueberry. One of my most favorite expressions is "There's always room for pie," but I know realize this is not so. That boast is an example of my favorite fault: hubris. I'm feeling okay now, but only because I didn't have any dinner. Oh, I ate so much pie; right after I finished the last piece, it would have taken only a firm jostling for me to have produced "flung spray and blown spewm." *urp*

I do feel as if I've somehow benefitted science, though. I have now conclusively proven that there is not always room for pie.

Dead Wings
Well, I'm glad it won't be necessary to fire Dave Lewis. Excellent effort across the board in games 5 and 6. Good show, old boys. Now, gentlemen, I would prefer that you make the series against Calgary as boring as possible. Domination is nice, but I would prefer that you annihilate the Flames. ANNIHILATE!

Best thing I said all day: "What's the point of having a media empire if it isn't evil?"

This afternoon, after a morning spend going over the FSWE sample questions yet again, I watched "The Jem'Hadar", "Statistical Probabilities", and "Treachery, Faith, and the Great River." After we get back from A2, maybe "The Siege of AR-558."

Peril!
Mom is really, really upset about the stationwagon; she is still fuming. Dad had not yet decided if it is worth the expense to repair the Mousemobile. Mom is once again agitating to get rid of the Mousmobile, give me her Lumina, and get something "cute" for her to drive. At all costs, the Mousmobile must be preserved! (Come on, only two years until it's twenty.) And tonight? Pie. First, the Mountain of Love's recital, then pie. Mmmmm, pie.

H-A-D
Have a bad day after.

The Jem'Hadar
U.S.S. Odyssey - lost with all hands
U.S.S. Sarajevo - presumed lost
U.S.S. Maryland - presumed lost
U.S.S. Proxima - presumed lost

Peril!
Will the Mousemobile survive? Will there be a Count of Monte Carlo? What the hell color is the new wagon, anyway? For the answers to these and other automotive questions, stay tuned! These are perilous times.

The Newsletter
Yes, we've had some production problems, not unrelated to first the Mousemobile and then the van and now the Mousemobile again being in the shop, but The Newsletter rolls on undaunted. The Plate and I have discussed some wonderful ideas for the summer issues, cheap, gimmicky ideas to keep the readership interested. No, seriously, we're going to experiment with theme issues, entire issues without columns, and foreign languages, while at the same time remaining the same old The Newsletter you know and love. It's going to be wicked.

H-A-D
Have an intoxicating day.

The Dominion
Dominion proper
--the Founders
--the Vorta
--the Jem'Hadar
Cardassian Union
Breen Confederacy

This afternoon I watched "Inquisition", "In the Pale Moonlight", and "Inter Arma Enim Silent Leges." By Jove, DS9 is amazing, almost regardless of how many times you have seen an episode. Man, the Dominion War was already unbelievably fantastic as it was, and then... the Breen! Oh, man!

Sorry, Skeet, I just had to post about Star Trek; it had been weeks. New Enterprise tomorrow... at least in theory.

More fanart, nothing official, but damn that's cool.

Ha! Eat monkey-tossed feces, Clarett. I hate his jerk and hope he fails, and NOT just because he went to The Ohio State University. (Actually, I'm not sure if one season is long enough to count as having gone to a college.)

229
On this day, two hundred twenty-nine years ago - April 19, 1775 - the universe changed. With the fighting at Lexington and Concord between British Redcoats and colonial minutemen, the Revolutionary War began. By the time the Treaty of Paris was signed in 1783, the United States of America was born. The Americans, the denizens of Winston Churchill's "Great Republic," have had a profound influence on the course of human events, introducing democracy on a continental scale and eventually becoming the most powerful nation the world has ever seen. And at all began on this day, with a running skirmish in the woods of Massachusetts.

Americans troops have fought their way into Berlin, Tokyo, Rome, Paris, Mexico City, Seoul, Brussels, Amsterdam, Manila, Baghdad, and a thousand others, but never conquered an empire. Even when our troops arrived as conquerors, they left as liberators (with the exception of Mexico City). Democracy has been spread to every continent of the Earth, and American culture and commerce are so dominant some worry about the homogenization of all the world. And it all began on this day, two hundred twenty-nine years ago.

How's It Goin', Eh?
Gah, I can't believe Boston let Montreal win. You hosers! Listen, I respect Montreal's status among the original six and the many, many, many, many Cups they have won, but I can never in good conscience root for the team from la belle province. Damn Quebecois bastards!

So, my dad bought a car today. Of course, he neglected to discuss the plan with, much less mention it to, my mother; she is, predictably, quite peeved. It is a faux woody, the height of tackiness; the unpaneled metal is the most peculiar and annoying shade of purple. Bizarre is a word that springs to mind.

My father now owns six automobiles, all Chevrolets:
'85 Camero IROC Z-28 - bought new (has been sitting in the garage for three years while he installs a new engine and transmission)
'88 Astro - bought new (The Last Angry Van)
'86 Celebrity - bought 1993 (the Mousemobile)
'95 Lumina - bought new
'95 Impala SS - bought 1999
'95 Caprice Classic (stationwagon) - bought 2004

Formerly Known as Empire City
Precision is important. It is important not to confuse The Insomniac with The Somnambulant Man. Also, Formerly Known as the Justice League was hilarious.

H-A-D
Have a loud day.

Batman (1989) - The Joker

Batman Returns (1992) - Catwoman, The Penguin

Batman Forever (1995) - The Riddler, Two-Face

Batman & Robin (1997) - Mr. Freeze, Poison Ivy, Bane

Batman Begins (2005) - Ra's al Ghul, Scarecrow

If the latest film succeeds, and I hope that the collaboration between Christopher Nolan and Christian Bale will be a rousing success, one wonders which villains will be left to populate the later films. The Mad Hatter? Clayface? Scarface? Firefly? Magpie? Killer Moth? Batman has the best and deepest rogues gallery in all of comicdom, but after the top ten are exhausted (and he is quite unique in having ten quality adversaries), the pickings become pretty slim fairly quickly.

Of course, it would be worse in a potential Superman franchise. Lex Luthor, Brainiac, General Zod, Bizarro, Darkseid... and after that it drops off pretty steeply. I mean, what, a Toyman movie?

Hello, Kitty
It must be very unsettling being constantly surrounded by giants, creatures many times both your height and weight. What primordial feline instinct is it, Sammy, that makes you snap at a hand that pets your side after you've sat down in front of one of the giants. Sleep, little kitty, and dream your dreams of preying and playing.

El-Alamein
This was the strangest first mowing of my unfortunately lengthy lawnmowing career. Usually, it is agonizingly slow going, with long, wet grass and frequent clogs. Darth Vater informs me the new mower (which he's had for a couple years) is much better about not clogging. I can't speak to that, as today the lawn was exceedingly dry. The mower was kicking up so much dust I eventually went inside and fetched a pair of goggles I received one Good E. Bag Wednesday (once again "the gift of safety" pays off). I felt like one of Monty's Desert Rats out there. (Notice I did not say I felt like a member of the Afrika Korps. Though they were equally assaulted by dust and sand, it's not good to compare oneself to the Afrika Korps since they were, after all, fucking Nazis. I'm with Indiana Jones, I fucking hate Nazis.) In any event, it was really dusty.

Field Marshal Sir Bernard Law Montgomery, Viscount Montgomery; Star Wars; Indiana Jones; and BTW madness all in one post. I am the reference king!

First Primes
of Apophis
Bra'tac
Teal'c
Shak'l
of Anubis
Ha'rak

Tridentine Rite
Next weekend, for utterly unfathomable reasons, my mon is going down to Dayton to hang out with her mom. Of my four grandparents, Grandma Little is only one left alive. Why? Because apparently evil is it's own reward. I'm serious, she's horrible. How Grandpa Little, who was the nicest man in the world except for the very unfortunate flaw of his racism (he was born in Kentucky in 1921, what do you expect?), could stand her, much less marry her, is beyond me. Of course, the real reason she's still alive is probably that she's several years younger than the rest of them. But I digress.

Next weekend, Mom won't be here; so, I'm on my own for Mass. This is the perfect opportunity to catch the Latin Mass, i.e. the Tridentine Rite. I found it at a church somewhere in the wilds of Flinttown. Next week, I'll be up in that mug, 1547 style. (The Rite used up until Vatican II was virtually unchanged from its codification by the Tridentine Council in 1547.) Bugger off, accessible Mass in the local language! I have no idea if I'll enjoy a Mass in Latin, as I neither speak Latin nor know the Mass by rote, but I was born fifteen years after Vatican II and was raised in an exclusively contemporized parish; I think my curiosity about the old Mass is understandable.

Complicated
Driving my mom's car yesterday, bored by whatever was on NPR and without a tape at my disposal, I flipped around the dial. On CK 105 (that flashes me back to middle school), I heard the first single off Avril Lavigne's new album. I liked it, I really really liked it. I look forward to buying the new album.

As soon as I'm done here, I'm going to go mow the lawn. The downside: I have to mow the lawn; the upside: fat bank (relative). Summertime's in full swing: the flannel sheets have been put away, the fans have been taken out, and the ankle socks have replaced the crews. I put my big black shoes in the closet and my sandals down by the front door. Before Mass, I read about the Wings in the Sports section and watched Kerry on Meet the Press; after Mass, I changed the sheets of and then read on my bed and just now listened to the first fifteen minutes of This American Life that I missed yesterday.

H-A-D
avehay a igpay atinlay ayday

Ha, George Plimpton doing commercials (back in the '80s) for video games? That's awesome! The more I hear about the late Mr. Plimpton, the more I like him. Now, I just need to actually read some of his books....

Hello, Kitty
Shorts weather is apparently rough on Sammy. He absolutely refuses to sit on my legs when I'm wearing shorts. There I am, watching TV, and there he is, wanted to be pampered, but he simply won't curl up on me. Your loss, yo.

A very adventurous drive from A2 to GB in the Mousemobile this afternoon. Pressure. Panic. Peril. Fun had by all.

Parker Peppard's wicked ska-punk band: Polska or POLSKA?

Something appears to have gone terribly wrong with the Mousemobile; it is a lamentable coincidence that every time the Mountain has the Mousemobile for more than a few hours, something goes wrong with it. Or is that a lamentable "coincidence"? He's probably just jealous that I love the Mousemobile more than him. Anywho, Meine Vater and I shall investigate tomorrow.

I was very frustrated earlier, but as usual the act of writing was highly cathartic. On balance, it's been quite a lovely day. Though I do so hate the heat, even I love the first day of shorts weather. Just as I love short sleeves, I also love short pants.

When I was a kid, my dad would dress up as Darth Vader every Halloween. It was wicked sweet; he'd stand at the bottom of each driveway, absolutely radiating menace, caped from head-to-toe in black, broken only by his perfectly colored lightsaber. Hmmm, perhaps his new nickname should be Darth Vater? Were the Force strong with him he would certainly give in to the temptations of the dark side....