So, who do you think did it? The Joker? Two-Face? Arson seems a little obvious for Firefly. Bane?

Which name do we like best for Billy Batson's girlfriend in The Magic of Shazam!:

Jessica Deng

Veronica Deng

Jessica Zhou

Veronica Zhou

She for certain has an uncle named Joe Zhou (host of W.H.I.Z.'s The Joe Zhou Show), but up until this point he's been her mother's brother. Neither changing him to her father's brother or keeping him as he is will cause me any consternation.

Proud Europa
The talks regarding Turkey's accession into the European Union are a farce. Turkey will never be admitted to the EU, or rather it will never achieve full membership. The Europeans will propose all manner of options for second-class and at some date in the future some Turkish government might agree to that condescending indignity. Why won't Turkey be admitted? Because Turks are not white. Sure, the Europeans will cite economic and political reasons, but those will be but smoke and mirrors. Turkey was a stalwart ally of the West all through the Cold War, even as East Germany, Poland, and the former Czechoslovakia supplied men for the Communist war machine; today, Poland, the Czech Republic, and Slovakia are all full EU members. The former East Germany automatically rated all the Union's advantages as soon as it was folded into the Federal Republic. Okay, it could be argued that all the Eastern Bloc states were mere pawns to their Soviet masters, but what about the damn dirty neutrals like Austria and Ireland? While the Red Army crushed rebellions in Hungary and Czechoslovakia and while Alexander Solzhenitsyn rotted in the Gulag, Eire and the Osterreich couldn't even be bother to breath a word of protest. Yet they are most welcome at the EU's banquet table while steadfast Turkey is left on the outside looking in. Yes, the Austrians are shrill xenophobes, but at least they are relatively honest about their xenophobia.

If you take a different view, I'd be happy to discuss it in the comments. In fact, I would be in your debt.

Meanwhile, the Croatians shouldn't have any further problems joining the Euroclub. Sure, during the Bosnian War their armies slaughtered Bosniak and Serb civilians by the boatload, but Croatia is a good Catholic, white country. Welcome aboard!

Avery Brooks. Happy birthday, sir, and thank you for being the greatest of all the captains courageous.

I mowed the lawn this afternoon after the Lions game (I blame Roy Williams and Charles Rogers, both of whom dropped at least two passes). The afternoon high was around 80 F. There was a definite July-esque quality to the atmosphere, between the Sun and the humidity and the sound of neighbors' lawnmowers. Man alive, the Sunday after the Michigan-Michigan State game should be spent wearing a sweatshirt and raking leaves, not sweating your sack off in shorts behind the blasted mower.

In a related item, Indian summer can kiss my assballs.

I'm listening to Mustard Plug's Skapocalypse Now. The Plug has never been my favorite band, but I tell ya, there's just nothing better than third wave ska. Nothing.

Between the Michigan-Michigan State game and the ongoing Purdue-Notre Dame game, I'm not sure I've ever seen two separate Big Ten games officiated so poorly on the same day. What the hell happened? With rare exceptions like the "phantom second" debacle of 2001, Big Ten officiating used to be something to be proud of. What did it all go so wrong? The way the two games cited were and are being officiated, the Big Ten might as well bring in NBA referees. They would probably know more about the rules of football than the current zebras. This is a disgrace.

China Has Stood Up
Hyperlink. Fifty-six years ago today, on October 1, 1949, Mao Zedong, Chairman of the Chinese Communist Party, stood atop the Gate of Heavenly Peace in Beijing and declared that after centuries of intimidation and humiliation by the Western powers, China had stood up. So began the People's Republic of China, a ruthless and mercurial dictatorship that has been, sadly, the best government the Middle Kingdom has had since the fall of the Ming Dynasty in the mid-seventeenth century. These are interesting times that prompt myriad questions. How long will the CCP be able to maintain it's unchallenged dominion over the people of the PRC? How many more Tiananmen Square Massacres will there be between now and the establishment of a government truly of, for, and by the people in China? Will the fear and loathing in the Strait of Taiwan escalate into full-scale war?

Hail to the Losers
My postgame analysis: The Wolverines aren't a very good football team, but they're better than the Spartans. (Michigan is "we" in defeat and "they" in victory.) How about those daunting three second half points by Stanton's offense? Hail to the victors, baby, the leaders and best.

I wore shorts and sandals today even though the afternoon high was only supposed to be in the high sixties. Or rather, I did so because of the relatively low afternoon high. My feet were freezing. It was glorious. I don't know if it's because today is Friday or because today is cold or because tomorrow's October or because I saw The Epoxies last night (and experienced an epiphany in realizing that I no longer mind being one of the old guys in the crowd) or because the BTW Forums are back or what, but I feel rejuvenated today. I feel rad. I feel like I could take on the whole Empire myself.

Hail to the Losers
No fair weather fan am I, I am confident of a Wolverines victory tomorrow afternoon. The Spartans are ranked No. 11 in the country; we're unranked for the first time since the fall of '98, Brady's first season as starting QB. They are on the rise, we are on the decline. Their offense is a scoring machine, ours in anemic; their defense is bad, ours isn't good. They are riding high, we are turning on each other in our frustration. Simply put, we have them right where we want them. These are the Michigan State Spartans, after all. If a life spent in the great State of Michigan has taught me anything, it is that Spartan sports teams are dangerous, unpredicable opponents... until the exact moment when they and their fans begin to think highly of their chances. Then, in classic Spartan fashion, they fall apart. I don't simply suspect that it will happen tomorrow in Spartan Stadium, I'm counting on it. Victory for MSU? Not bloody likely. Go Blue!

The Epoxies were awesome tonight. Like RCY, they are all about showmanship. Their music is wicked awesome, but it it The Epoxies' dedication to showmanship that really sets them apart.

The Magic of Shazam!
Now, whether or not I will ever be employed by DC Comics to write a series called The Magic of Shazam! depends on a large number of factors, one of which is the outcome of the upcoming miniseries Infinite Crisis. Four simultaneous miniseries are leading into Infinite Crisis, which has been promoted as laying the groundwork for the next ten to twenty years of comics in the DC Universe much as Crisis on Infinite Earths did in 1985-86. (I fear for the future.) At the conclusion of Day of Vengeance, one of the lead-in minis, the Wizard Shazam was dead, murdered by The Spectre; the Wizard's home, the Rock of Eternity, had exploded over Gotham City, killing thousands; and Billy Batson, who had been in the Rock of Eterntiy when it 'sploded, was falling to his death over that same Gotham City.

Now, clearly Shazam is not actually dead, since Black Adam is clearly visible in several preview pages for Infinite Crisis made available by DC Comics. Black Adam, Captain Marvel's opposite number, derives his powers from the Wizard, just like the Marvel Family (Cap, Mary Marvel, and Captain Marvel Junior a.k.a. Kid Marvel in The Magic of Shazam!). Logic. Of course, Infinite Crisis is being written by Geoff Johns, who has misrepresented Black Adam's connection to Shazam in the pages of JSA; so, I wouldn't put it past those rat finks to kill the Wizard and simply retcon Black Adam's powers as being derived from some other source. Wankers. But I digress.

When all is said and done, I presume that somehow the Wizard will be alive again, or at least in some state of ghostly life whereby he can still bestow his powers on Billy Batson (Cap), Mary Batson (Mary), and Freddy Freeman (Cap Jr./Kid). The Magic of Shazam! is being developed under the assumption that everything will be as it was before the catastrophic events of Day of Vengeance No. 6.

The No. 50 Extravaganza
"The Red and the Black"
Nos. 45-50
Theo Adam wrests control of Black Adam (technically, Theo's own body) from the ancient Egyptian spirit of Teth-Adam. He assembles a new Monster Society of Evil to keep the Marvels occupied while he tries to destroy the Wizard Shazam. Theo has been essentially a prisoner in his own body since gaining the power of Shazam as Black Adam; he figures the only way to be truly free is to eliminate the Wizard, source of Black Adam's power. Captain Marvel and Black Adam battle in the heart of the Rock of Eternity while Mary Marvel and Kid Marvel battle Dr. Sivana and the Monster Society for control of Fawcett City.

"The Revenge of Theo Adam"
Nos. 51-52 (maybe 53)
Though Black Adam seemingly failed to kill the Wizard, Shazam and the Rock of Eternity have disappeared. Consequently, Theo Adam is free of Teth-Adam's influence and Billy, Mary, and Freddy have none of the powers of Captain Marvel, Mary Marvel, and Kid Marvel. Theo Adam, a thoroughly evil man, originally murdered Billy and Mary's parents C.C. and Marilyn Batson and now seeks to kill their foster parents, Nick and Nora Bromfield. Hardened criminal and experienced knife fighter Theo Adam versus Billy Batson, all 5'6" and 125 lbs. of him.

"From Here to the Rock of Eternity"*
Nos. 53-56 (maybe 54-57 or even 53-58)
Even without Black Adam, what's left of the Monster Society is more than a match for Fawcett City's remaining defenders, Bulletwoman, Robot Marvel, Mr. Tawny, and the municipal Constabulary. Sterling Morris, great friend of Captain Marvel and owner of radio station W.H.I.Z., sends an expedition in search of the missing Marvel Family: boy reporter Billy Batson, the leading expert on the World's Mightiest Mortal (Morris doesn't know Billy's secret); Billy's field producer Whitey Murphy; W.H.I.Z. public relations director Beautia Sivana; and "expert guide" Avi Ducret (Spy Smasher), brought along at Billy's insistence. The expedition scours the four corners of the earth for any sign of the Wizard while Mary and Freddy do what they can to keep Fawcett City from falling to the Monster Society of Evil.

*Maybe I do things ass-backwards, but I like to think up titles and then see what kind of stories I can come up with to fit them. A great example is "From Here to the Rock of Eternity"; it popped into my head as soon as I added From Here to Eternity to my Netflix cue several months ago and I loved it immediately, though originally as "From Here to (the Rock of) Eternity." But, I never had a good story for it. As I was thinking of a story suitable as an "event" for issue No. 50, a world-shattering battle between the two champions of Shazam, Captain Marvel and Black Adam, seemed perfect ("The Red and the Black," stolen from the novel, which I've never read). The aftermath of this conflict seemed like the perfect time to depower Captain Marvel, something I needed to have happen before "The Revenge of Theo Adam," one of the firts ideas I had for The Magic of Shazam! (the visual in my head is of Billy and Theo fighting on a steep rooftop in a snowstorm at night, Nick and Nora being in the Swiss Alps at the time). Once I connected those two disparate ideas, and if I do say so myself I think they dovetail quite nicely, it seemed natural that Billy would embark on a quest to find the Wizard and thus restore the powers of the Marvel Family. This story was included in the previous post as "We're Off to See the Wizard" or "The Yellow Brick Road." Just before I fell asleep, I connected the search for Shazam story with "From Here to the Rock of Eternity" and they seemed like a natural fit. Hooray for me.

Not to boast, but, man, The Magic of Shazam! would be so cool.

The Magic of Shazam!
"Present at the Creation" (tentative title)
"Faerie Tale"
"Kristallnacht"
"The ODESSA File" or "Spy Smashing"
"Ibac's Back"
"Night of the Crazy Chicken"
"Radioland Murders" (or, if Lucasfilm objects, "Murder in Radioland")
"I, Robot Marvel"
"Man of Science"
"Heck in the Pacific"
"The Faerie Queene"
"Manhunters Are From Mars, Worms Are From Venus"
"It... Came From Outer Space!"
"V for Vengeance"
"Crocodile Tears"
"Wonders and Marvels"
"The Beast-Man Cometh"
"The Red and the Black"
"The Revenge of Theo Adam"
"We're Off to See the Wizard" or "The Yellow Brick Road"
"The Curse of the Mummy"
"Conqueror Worm" (or, if Mike Mignola objects, "Mr. Mind: Conqueror of Earth")

and of course

The Crocodile Mob in... "A Piece of the Action"

Honolulu Blue Forever
Last fall, I instituted a policy of wearing a T-shirt in support of my teams after every loss, but never after a victory. I don't know why I didn't remember to do that last week. So, on Monday I am going to wear one of my Michigan T-shirts, to show that I remain loyal even as the Maize and Blue go down in flames, and on Tuesday I'll wear my Lions T-shirt in memory of our trouncing by Chicago a week hence. I don't wear my Red Wings jersey after every loss because a) it's a jersey not a T-shirt (I don't own a Wings T-shirt) and b) the hockey season is eighty-two games long, for Bog's sake. Even if the Red Wings do well, as I expect they will in the "new" NHL, there are going to be more losses than during the sixteen-game NFL season or the twelve-game NCAA schedule. I bitch and moan about the Wolverines and the Lions because I care, perhaps too much.

Hail to the Losers
It's going to be a long, hard Fall.

Mundane Happenings
This afternoon I had a new experience, I returned a brine tank to Culligan. The entire time all I could think of was Moltar saying "brine shrimp" on Space Ghost: Coast to Coast, a million years ago when there were still talented people in the proto-Adult Swim wing of Cartoon Network. I say a million years ago because that was back when I was in high school, a million years ago. Also, the brine tank rusted on my shorts. Blast!

After that, I cut my hair. I normally cut it using the level 2 attachment on my electric sheers, but today I used the level 1 attachment. Sometimes you just have to do that. So, for the next few days - the better part of a week - my head will be scalp gray intead of hair brown.

Before writing this, I performed the usual internet rounds. Since no one blogs anymore, I had to ask myself, Why do I bother? I was not able to provide myself with a satisfactory answer. Therefore, I think I'll stop. The blog fad is over, at least within the various circles of my friends, and there's no bringing it back to life. One or two hardy souls might make a renewed stab at it, but we all know this will be nothing more than a short-term rearguard action. This is a sad development. For a while there, bloggy blogs were a good way to stay in touch with far-flung friends.

I just finished my DVD boxset of Playmakers, a one-hour drama series from ESPN that lasted all of eleven episodes. I completely understand why the NFL put such great pressure on ESPN to cancel it, but I wish the executives at ESPN had shown a little more backbone, as it was a really good show.

I think tonight I just need to give myself a little time to be sad and lonely.

Tat Two
I've decided to push back getting the BTW Monkey tattooed onto my right forearm from October to November or December. Last week, I received an envelope that contained a letter from the Red Cross thanking for my last blood donation (August 19 of this year, bloggy blogged as "My Time Among the Vampires") and a blood donation card. Do you know I've only donated blood three times in my life? Man, I suck. So, since I won't be able to donate again for a full year after I get the Monkey, I've decided to go under the Red Cross needle one more time before I go under the tattoo needle.

When was the last time you gave blood, you selfish wanker?

Also, is there a lyric in all the wide world greater than "But in my defense I'd do it again" from Guster's "So Long"? Perhaps not.

R.I.P. Simon Wiesenthal
Rest in peace, Mr. Wiesenthal, and thank you for your good works. Hyperlink. To paraphrase and contemporize General Sheridan's immortal phrase, "The only good Nazi is a dead Nazi." That said, Mr. Wiesenthal had the right idea in opposing the murderous revenge squads that after the war hunted down Nazi war criminals and killed them where they stood. Secondary only to their unrelenting and irrational hatred for Jews the Nazis believed in the triumph of thuggery over law. Mr. Wiesenthal knew that if we were to avoid repeating the mistakes of history, the Nazis had to be brought to trial. Their monstrous acts had to be brought before the light of the law, to whither before the righteousness of open, accountable justice. The Nazis did not deserve the quick release of wild vengeance. The law is infuriating and too often twisted to serve the wicked, but without law we have nothing. Simon Wiesenthal, who had even reason to want every Nazi he could find dead, knew this better than anyone else. May he rest in peace.

Bad Guys
Francis Dolarhyde a.k.a. "The Great Red Dragon"/"The Tooth Fairy" - Red Dragon
(on film: Tom Noonan, Manhunter; Ralph Fiennes, Red Dragon)
Jame Gumb a.k.a. "Buffalo Bill" - The Silence of the Lambs
(on film: Ted Levine, The Silence of the Lambs)
Dr. Hannibal Lecter a.k.a. "Hannibal the Cannibal" - Red Dragon, The Silence of the Lambs, and Hannibal
(on film: Brian Cox, Manhunter; Anthony Hopkins, The Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal, and Red Dragon)

Good Guys
former Agent Will Graham, FBI - Red Dragon
(on film: William Petersen, Manhunter; Edward Norton, Red Dragon)
Special Agent Clarice Starling, FBI - The Silence of the Lambs and Hannibal
(on film: Jodie Foster, The Silence of the Lambs; Julianne Moore, Hannibal)
Section Chief Jack Crawford, FBI - Red Dragon, The Silence of the Lambs, and Hannibal
(on film: Dennis Farina, Manhunter; Scott Glenn, The Silence of the Lambs; Harvey Keitel, Red Dragon)

Goldbricking Scoreboard
Days since last worked: 18
Days of work missed: 11

The frustrating part is that my father really does have back problems. He has suffered periodic muscle spasms in his lower back my whole life. I am not unsympathetic. But how can I be expected to take him seriously when his condition suddenly and dramatically improves every Friday only to rapidly deteriorate again the following Monday? And now he is practicing revionist history, claiming that he was simply taking the week after Labor Day as a vacation. Odd, considering at the time he said his back was acting up. Sorry, now I'm just being petty.

The Netflix Queue
My movie watching has slowed since the Goldbricker's latest streak began (he didn't go to work again today). I often watch movies late at night just before I go to bed, but this has become less attractive since the Goldbricker, staying up late every night, invariably bothers me about what I'm watching. And then he does that unnerving thing where he stands off to one side and behind you... and just stands there. Forever, breathing heavily through his nose and generally being unnerving as all hell. It's disturbing.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (I hate Hunter Thompson, but the film was directed by Terry Gilliam)
The Rules of Attraction
Laws of Attraction
The Wizard of Oz (amazingly enough, I've never seen it)
The Magnificent Seven
The Sand Pebbles
My First Mister
Psycho
Dial M for Murder
The Country Girl

Goldbricking Scoreboard
Days since last worked: 17
Days of work missed: 10

The Girls of September '79
Happy birthday to the Watergirl!

Honolulu Blue Forever
After this season, Joey Harrington's career with the Detroit Lions will be over. He'll be let go only to be replaced by that worn down hack Jeff Garcia. Why? Because Garcia is Steve Mariucci's friend. New offensive coordinator Ted Tollner's performance to this point in the season has been offensive, but his job is secure. Why? Because he's an old friend of Mariucci's. Talent doesn't seem to even be a consideration; the Detroit Lions have become a retirement plan for Steve Mariucci's washed up old buddies. Joey Harrington will be gone, and yet Matt Millen has been given a five year contract extension. Dear Bog, the Lions had the worst record in the entire NFL over Millen's first four years; so, I honestly don't know if the fan base can withstand another five years. And why will Joey Harrington be gone? because in the eyes of the Detroit media, Charles Rogers, Roy Williams, and Mike Williams are the three greatest receivers to ever play professional football. Each one is Jerry Rice and Lynn Swan rolled into a single perfect receiver; not just players, Rogers, Williams, and Williams are receiving gods. So what if their numbers on the field don't merit them any special attention. Matt Millen drafted them so they must be Bog's gift to Mankind.

Joey Harrington will never be Joe Montana, but he is going to be blamed almost exclusively for today's loss and isn't the least bit fair. Nice route Roy Williams ran on the interception in the endzone. Is Charles Rogers healthy this season? I couldn't tell you, because he's invisible on the field. Why does Millen keep drafting wide receivers when the Lions have one of if not the single worst offensive lines in the entire league? Oh, wait, because he's incompetent. That's right.

The Lions are never going to have a winning season until Millen and his pet Mariucci are run out of town. If I hadn't endured the 2-14 and 3-13 seasons under Morningweig, I wouldn't believe that it's possible to miss Wayne Fontes this much.

Victory for MSU!
At no other time in my life have I been so happy about a Michigan State victory. I feel kind of sick, but that's a small price to pay to see that arrogant piece of garbage Charlie Weis go down in defeat. I've never heard anyone else disparage the talent and competence of college football coaches as savagely as did Weis when he was first hired by the hated Fighting Irish. I always enjoy seeing Notre Dame lose, but today was extra sweet as the contest against Michigan State was Weis's first home game. Bwa ha ha ha ha! Yes, the hated Irish thoroughly beat my beloved Wolverines, but as the year progresses I think that will seem less and less remarkable for the simple reason that lot of teams are going to beat us this year. In true Spartan fashion those boobs from MSU almost blew the game at the end, but they pulled it out in OT. Teague's touchdown run was glorious to behold.

I understand the argument that a Notre Dame loss makes Michigan look even more pathetic, but I've never been able to view football with the cool detachment needed to embrace the purely rational perspective; so, in the context of last week, today I hated ND just a little bit more than I hated MSU. Make no mistake, I still hate the Spartans, but for besting the hated Irish today they have my thanks.

And Charlie Weis can go to Hell.

The Price of Spite
Recently, I've had several opportunities to put to the test my infatuation with the spiteful life. It is most interesting to put into practice what has been to this point mere theory. I am also learning that spite may be a virtue, but if so then like all virtues it must be its own reward.

And as with all things save true virtue, it is best in moderation.

Perchance to Dream
I've been aware of having early morning dreams for each of this week's first three weekdays. It is rare enough for me to remember any dream and three days in a row is without precedent.

Monday, September 12
I had a dream about Emily Deschanel. It seemed as if we were friends and she was giving me advice on how to win the affections of a girl I liked; about that girl all I can say is that she was not Ms. Deschanel's lovely sister, Zooey. I think Emily Deschanel was there because the preceeding weekend I'd seen her guest starring in an episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit and in numerous commercials for both her new television series, Bones, and the Sci Fi Channel's airing of Stephen King's Rose Red, in which she starred.

On a related note, I meant to tape the series premiere of Bones and the season premiere of House, both of which I knew I'd miss while at the Ska is Dead show, but I forgot. Curses!

Tuesday, September 13
In this dream, I wrestled a talking crocodile that was trying to eat my cat, which seemed to not be Sam. The crocodile and I didn't talk about anything specifically, we just kind of chatted as I tried to subdue it in a weird version of our living room. I think this one was inspired by the Fox Sports commercial in which JB, Terry, Howie, and Jimmy save a little girl from an alligator. I saw that ad several times during the Lions-Packers game. I think I'm kind of disappointed that both days' dreams had such easily traced roots. I would hope that int he future my dreams are less mundane.

Wednesday, September 14
I know I had a dream just before I woke up on Wednesday morning, but I don't remember what it was about. I have vague notions of a gorilla, but that might just be wishful thinking.

Another oddity is that on Tuesday I woke up early. I never wake up early. My first alarm clock goes off at 8:50am, allowing me to hit Snooze twice before the primary and secondary clocks ring simultaneously at 9:08am, at which point I generally get up, though sometimes I hit Snooze again and nap until 9:17. Yet, Tuesday morning I found myself staring at LED numbers stating that the time was 8:43am. I was so confused I couldn't go back to sleep before the first clock when off like clockwork at 8:50. Later, I began to suspect that I must have been awoken by the sound of my mom closing the front door on her way to work; it seems the most likely explanation, but I have no proof, only a supposition, though a logical one.

I Don't Trust Clark Kent
In the two and a half weeks since the hurricane, the self-declared Fourth Estate has covered very little else. But, as soon as al Qaeda murdered a significant number of innocent civilians, Iraq was suddenly back in the headlines. In the last two and half weeks, new schools opened in Iraq; the proposed Iraqi constitution continued to be debated; and Sadr City, just one year ago the center of Iran's efforts to hijack Iraq's new democracy, was held up as a model of reconstruction efforts. How much of this was covered on ABC or NPR? Essentially none. Yet, Zarqawi's "declaration of war" on Iraq's Shiites lead ABC World News Tonight last night and today occupied the first hour of The Diane Rehm Show. Should yesterday's horrific bombings have been given the amount of coverage they were? Absolutely. But, shouldn't the progress of the last two and half weeks been equally reported? Yes, it should have. That would have been good journalism. There is steady progress towards a free and prosperous society in Iraq, but there si also terrible bloodshed. That's the truth of what's going on over there.

But, the vast majority of the American media has very little interest in reporting the truth. Most journalistic organizations in our great republic seem primarily interested in pushing a political and social agenda, namely that President Bush is the worst imbecile to ever occupy the White House. I'm sure many of you reading this knoew that I consider myself a Republican and are thus dismissing my argument, but I ask you, if what I propose is not the case, why was Iraq ignored for two and half weeks only to reclaim the spotlight yesterday? Please, leave your thoughts and opinions in the comments section. I would love to hear a plausible alternative theory. Most American journalists do not care about the truth. Please let me know if you disagree, because I sincerely wish I was wrong.

The Girls of September '79
Happy birthday to Skeeter!

Last night's show was great, but it was unbelievably hot inside St. Andrew's Hall. Even the skinny high school kids were sweating like Wilsons. One nice thing about seeing Mustard Plug is that they've been around so long there are lots of fans my age or older at each show. That'll show those young whippersnappers!

The show was one of the stops on the Ska is Dead 3 tour. I tried to buy a tour shirt, but was informed that the only size they had was youth medium. Hey, I understand not carrying too many shirts for us fat guys, but youth medium? Those shirts will only fit the littler little punk rock girls. Ridiculous. Still, I bought a sweet Mustard Plug shirt, a tour poster, and two live albums by The Toasters.

I've had dreams each of the last three mornings; so, I hope to have time to write a "Perchance to Dream" post tonight. And now I must return my nose to its customary position on the grindstone.

Goldbricking: Keep the Dream Alive
I've decided to change The Malingerer's blog codename (real name: Rick Wilson) to The Goldbricker. It sounds better both on its own merits and by sort of referencing Goldfinger (the Bond villain, not the band). Anyway, the Goldbricker hasn't been to work since the Friday before Labor Day, September 2. He's pretending that his back hurts, but we spent all day yesterday working on the sliding door to the downstairs half-bath. And he's been customizing some cardboard boxes for his massive VHS tape collection, sitting on the family room floor and leaning over and squatting and all the sorts of things a person with a bad back can't do.

I'm just about the laziest person I know; so, I don't know why his goldbricking so offends me. But the fact remains that it does. I have a plan to acquire some of that ever so satisfying retribution and have already set it in motion.

The Visual Cacophony
Ninety percent fo tghe work of redecoration my bedroom has been accomplished. All I'm waiting on now is for two posters to finish flattening. Have I mentioned that I've stored all my posters and sundriy decorations in tubes? I forget. In any event, I have. For two years, my lovely posters sat between two sheets of cardboard, a great place to put them if you intend to hang them back up quickly, but a crummy method of long-term storage. So, now I've taken all my pretties, rolled them up, and placed them in stout, clearly labeled tubes. So, whenever I get out of here, it will be that much easier to take the visual cacophony with me and unleash it on my next domicile.

I Don't Trust Clark Kent
During the Goldbricker's goldbricking, I have returned home each afternoon to find the family room TV set to Fox News. And even though the Goldbricker is usually upstairs, the TV is still one and the volume is cranked up. Being local-news-writ-large, Fox News is airing wall-to-wall hurricane coverage. This is hardly surprising given the lemminglike nature of American "journalism." What is surprising is that I am noticing less and less difference between what I hear on NPR on my drive home and what I see on Fox when I walk in the front door. Sure, they approach Katrina's aftermath from opposite ends of the political spectrum, but aside from that each talks about the hurricane to the near-exclusion fo all else, repeating the same vapid comments and analyses ad nauseum. And a single tear runs down my cheek.

9/11
Four years. May the Lord watch over each of you and your friends and family, and may He bless the United States of America.

R.I.P. J.L.I.
Sue Dibny - Identity Crisis No.1 (of 7)
Blue Beetle - Countdown to Infinite Crisis
Maxwell Lord - Wonder Woman No.219
Rocket Red - The OMAC Project No.5 (of 6)

I don't care that Keith Giffen is one of the principle plotters of 52, that can't make up for the abuse that DC is heaping on the old Justice League International. Who's DC going to kill next, L-Ron? Manga Khan himself? As predicted, things are indeed getting worse and there is as of yet no indication when if ever they will start to get better. And even Superman/Shazam!: First Thunder is turning out to be kind of lame. (Of course, given Judd Winick's authorship that is hardly surprising.) Jumpin' Jack Pratt, what are those idiots thinking?

Thank Bog for B.P.R.D. and Fables, the two brightest lights in an ever darker night.

The Girls of September '79
Happy birthday to Never Girl!

Hail to the Losers: Post-Game
All congratulations to the hated Fighting Irish of the University of Notre Dame. They whooped us in every phase of the game and dominated us far more than the 17-10 score would indicate. Today the far better team won.

I don't mean what I'm about to say, but it illustrates how poorly Chad Henne played this afternoon: for a moment, I actually missed John Navarre. In all seriousness, what in Bog's name happened to Henne? I've never seen him meltdown like he did this afternoon. The most remarkable thing about his perfoamnce last year was the poise he showed under pressure. Today wasn't just a sophomore slump, today was a complete regression. Henne folded under pressure like never before, and from the way he only ever looked at only one receiver (in this case, Ecker), it did almost seem that Navarre has returned to give us one last scare... and because he wanted a beer. Henne should be our starting quarterback, but were I in Coach Carr's shoes I would give Matt Gutierrez significant playing time next weekend against Eastern Michigan so that he has some practical game experience in case today's pathetic performance by Henne turns out to be more than a one-off aberration.

I was actually impressed by the defense. Yes, they still suck, but holding Notre Dame to just 17 points is perfectly adequate. They did what they needed to do for us to win, only to be betrayed by the dreadful impotence of the offense. Also, I don't care how much potential he has, I don't want Kevin Grady to touch the football again until he's completed the ancient football ritual of carrying a ball with him around campus while his teammates try to strip it away from him; I think 30 days should be sufficient. A running back who puts the ball on the ground is more harmful than no running back at all. Grady has played in only two games for Michigan and he fumbled in both. That augurs ill for his future.

We will be lucky make it to January 2 with only three losses. To my way of thinking, four losses seems far more likely. No.3 team in the country? We don't deserve to be No.33. Just pathetic.

Hail to the Losers: Halftime
We're fucked. The defense is playing better than I thought they would, but that's not saying much since eleven corpses could play better than I thought the defense would. Chad Henne is revealing himself to have been a single season flash in the pan, which has caught we completely off guard. I thought Henne was the real deal, but apparently all you have to do is knock down a couple passes at the line of scrimmage and he falls apart. So, with a barely adequate defense and an utterly inept offense (who'd have predicted that?), we're fucked. I'm guaranteeing three loses this year, though personally I think we'll lose at least four. If the offense can't produce, we're looking at bad days against Michigan State, Iowa, and Ohio State, and Bog help us in a bowl game, even against mediocre competition.

It's time to start thinking about firing Lloyd Carr. I don't want him fired and I don't think he should be fired, but we will be a second-tier team as long as Jim Herrmann is defensive coordinator. If Lloyd is not willing to make the changes necessary for us to win, there won't be any choice but to thank him for everything he's done and fire him because he's unwilling to fire his friend. It's ugly, but if we don't do it, we can kiss the chance of ever winning another Big Ten championship goodbye.

Also, shit, Gutierrez wasn't good enough to take thte starting quarterback job away from Henne, but if the offense doesn't get something - anything - going in the third quarter I think we'll have to make a change under center. Fuck, this sucks so much.

The Girls of September '79
Happy birthday to Mrs. Blinky!

Too Much is Never Enough
There are now ten separate images of Darth Vader in my brother's room, ranging from a pizza box top celebrating the release of the Special Editons in 1997 to the Voice Changer helmet I got for my birthday this summer. This is so awesome.

Always Two There Are
Darth Plagueis (killed by Darth Sidious)
Darth Sidious

Darth Sidious
Darth Maul (killed by Obi-Wan Kenobi)

Darth Sidious
Darth Tyranus (killed by Anakin Skywalker)

Darth Sidious (killed by Darth Vader)
Darth Vader (killed by Darth Sidious)

I spent the entire morning working on the lastest issue of The Newsletter. As is my habit, I saved regularly. The HAl started to act up and couple of programs froze. Eventually, I had to control-alt-delete the damn thing until it restarted. Curses, I thought to myself, I'm going to lose the last fifteen minutes of work. Upon moving to a different HAL, I learned that in fact nothing had been saved. All those times I'd pushed control-S and saved my work? Meaningless. The first HAL's ZIP drive completely fucked me over. An entire morning's work is gone. Poof!

You're always told to save your work regularly because HALs can crash unexpectedly. I did that, and the bloody machines still found a way to screw me. Note to self: give serious consideration to becoming a Luddite.

Lex-icon
A pair of sentences I love from Superman For All Seasons, courtesy of Lex Luthor, "Some people like to refer to this time of year as 'Autumn.' I prefer 'Fall.'" Monday was the last day of Summer, Tuesday was the first day of Fall. I'm sure Fall is lovely in Metropolis.

The Visual Cacophony
The phrase I like to use in describing my interior decorating philosophy is visual cacophony. If I have done my job and decorated a wall properly, your eyes will be assaulted by color and overwhelmed by a collage of images. In addition to rearranging and augmenting the decorations in my bedroom and the Mountain of Love's bedroom/the guest room, I have decided to add some flair to my backpack, Big Red. For years and years I wore on old Army surplus backpack, the ubiquitous Army Bag. Army Bag was a good soldier and served me well through nine years on campaign until eventually succumbing to the ravages of age. (I still have Army Bag, but its straps are broken and, as they are made of an odd plastic, unsalvagable; so, today Army Bag is used for long term storage.) It is unfair to compare Big Red to a living legend like Army Bag, but in our two years together Big Red has never let me down. Almost from the beginning, Big Red bore two inscriptions: "The Last Angry Man" on the lifting handle and "The Rebel Black Dot Society," of which I am still the first and only member, on the outermost pocket. As of yesterday, three patches have joined the festivities, creating not a visual cacophony, but at least a visual bruhaha: a pirate flag, a gift from the Mountain, on the outermost pocket; Guster's Little Friend on the left strap (an idea I stole from the Mountain's backpack); and the shield of the Second World war-era American Volunteer Group (Claire Chennault's Flying Tigers) on the right strap. I'm quite pleased with the overall effect.

Vote For Kodos
Seriously, since when are hurricanes become a partisan issue? Who is the blame for the devastation along the Gulf coast: Governor Haley Barbour of Mississippi, a Republican, or Governor Kathleen Blanco of Louisiana, a Democrat? Silly me, I thought it was a hurricane, the quintessential definition of an unpredictable Act of God. Does Jesse Jackson believe that Vice President Cheney is on a clandestine ship off the coast of French Guiana operating a top secret typhoon generator?

Very little was actually accomplished today. The paint on the family room walls is dry and all the furniture is back in place, but for unknown reasons The Malingerer finds it necessary to slowly, slowly, dear fucking Bog ever so slowly clean each item before putting it back in place on the shelves flanking the TV cabinet. Yes, these items need to be dusted off, but there is no reason to be moving so slowly. And of course he needed to leave the TV turned to Fox News even though he spent most of the afternoon out of the family room and even though Fox's programming is wall-to-wall hurricane coverage, making Fox even more repuganant that usual (a feat in an of itself). So, I spent most of the day in the living room, watching TNT's Law & Order marathon and waiting to be called to help. It was glorious.

I Don't Trust Clark Kent
Also, I really want to congratulate NPR for this past week's coverage, which was as single-mindedly mindless as anything you'd see on any of the 24-hour cable TV channels. Congratulations, NPR, you're as insipid as MSNBC!

Farewell to the Last Summer of Star Wars
You can argue about when exactly summer ends: when kids go back to school in mid-August, as soon as August is over, the official beginning of fall in late September (but only if you're a tool). But it's a pointless debate. Everyone knows summer begins with Memorial Day and ends with Labor Day. It's a delightful, not fearful, symmetry. So, today was the lasy day of the last summer of Star Wars. I hope you cherished these days, because we shall never see their like again. May the Force be with you.

There is a brief window every night between approximately 12:30 and 1:30am when I can fall alseep. At 2:00am I come alive, like Casey's other senses in that one episode of Sports Night. The problem is that between 12:30 and 1:30 I usual decide to read and I have a troubling tendency to read books I enjoy. This means I tend not to want to set them down and before I know it 2:00am has arrived and I'm ready for action. Getting your second wind at 2:00am is great for Risk nights, but kind of inconvenient the rest of the time. Yeah, eventually I'll fall sleep, but what about tomorrow? On Saturday, I woke up at 1:00pm; today, I climbed out of bed at noon. I love sleeping in as much as the next guy, but there comes a point when you're wasting time that you'd really rather spend on something else. But, alas, it's 3:30 and Superstud is so funny I've been laughing out loud; so, I might as well try to do something productive with this time. I'm going to rearrange the posters in my room, or to be more accurate I'm going to continue the rearrangement I've been conducting for the past two days.

The Newsletter Must Die
Of late, several people have mentioned to me that I've seemed rather forlorn about the state of The Newsletter. They've urged me to keep a stiff upper lip because this is just a rough patch and soon enough life will be all wine and roses. It occurs to me that some of my friends don't really know me all that well. Regarding The Newsletter, I feel better than I have in months. The reserves are full to the gills with guest columns, staff columns, and features just waiting to be run; without receiving any new material, I could probably put together two full issues, a rare situation in The Newsletter's four interrupted years of existence. More importantly, though, I no longer care. I tried caring, I invested great emotional significance in the endeavour, and all I got for my trouble was disappointment and ingratitude. I'm not trying to the cool, aloof, amoral guy, I'm just done caring. To use a fire analogy, I'm not going to burn The Newsletter down for the insurance money, but if there is a fire I can guarantee you, as the chief of the volunteer fire brigade, that I won't be lifting a finger to put it out. I know the staff well enough to know that it is only a matter of time before there is a fire. A cigarette thoughtlessly tossed aside. Faulty wiring. Some neighborhood kid with a twitchy eye and a book of matches. And by the time it's over there's only a pile of ashes left and nobody knows what happened. It's only a matter of time before The Newsletter burns down, and good riddance once it does.

Don't worry about how I'm dealing with the recent unpleasantness, guys. I'm doing grand. In the sordid history of the affair I've never been better, because now I can be as casual about the whole enterprise as all of you have always been. We don't need no water, let the motherfucker burn.

In a mostly unrelated aside, Fahrenheit 451 is a really lousy book. It succeeded only in convincing me to never read anything else by Ray Bradbury. Ick, it was awful.

Article III
Hyperlink. Rest in peace, sir. Thank you for your long years of service to the Union.

The Red Planet
Science? I know that NASA has had it's share of fiascoes and SNAFUs, but I never get tired of this amusing tale of European hubris.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
I don't care if Northern Illinois had the 11th best running attack in Division 1 football last year, what is happening today is un-fucking-acceptable. Why in Bog's name does Jim Herrmann still have a job?

Advice For Living
Life is better while wearing a pith helmet. Which reminds me of the old Wilson Superhero Universe villain Pith Helmut.

M2K4...5!
Science! Hyperlink. It should of course be noted that Spirit and Opportunity were designed to operate for 90 days... and have currently been in operation for 20 months. Wow! The nerds at NASA have really outdone themselves this time. Woot!

B.A.P.F. Lives
Upcoming Shows
Tuesday, September 13 - "Ska is Dead 3" Mustard Plug w/The Toasters, the Planet Smashers, St. Thomas Boys Academy, etc. @ St. Andrew's Hall in beautiful downtown Detroit

Thursday, September 29 - The Epoxies @ the Magic Stick... also in Detroit, but I've never been there; so, I don't know if that section is beautiful

Are you in or out?

Goodbye, Kitty
Five months ago today, on March 31, we pumped Sammy full of poison, putting my precious kitty out of his aged misery. This month, August, he would have turned nineteen years old, though we don't know the exact date of his birth. He was only six weeks old when we got him in October of 1986; he was so tiny as his little claws dug into my mom's old puffy gray parka, the first time I ever saw him. He was communal property of the whole family, but I named him Sam on the ride back to our house in our now long-gone 1979 Oldsmobile stationwagon. Later, his full name would be determined as Samuel Bubbles Sink Cat Wilson. In my youth, I named most of my possessions after myself, the most notable and hilarious example being a large hard plastic shark I named Michael Patrick Donut Shark.

Until I left for college, feeding Sam as one of my chores, but we weren't especially close. He was a bastard. I loved him, but he wasn't a cuddly kind of cat. My brother and sister and I always said that the blackness of Sammy's heart was revealed by the fact that he only liked to snuggle on our father's lap. Sam, whose fur was white with gray patches, was the great white hunter. When he first started going outside, we had rabbits living under our deck. Shortly thereafter, we didn't have rabbits. We had mice behind the garage. Then we didn't have mice. He killed shrews and birds and brought them to the back door as offerings. He always liked to eat grass, though he would inevitably throw up later, leaving the undigested blades in a puddle of liquid on the kitchen floor or the family room carpet. He was so aggressive that as soon as he was old enough he had him declawed, even his rear paws. Even so he picked fights with every cat in the neighborhood, almost all of whom were bigger than him (he was incredibly slender, no matter how much we fed him), and almost always won. They'd limp away and he'd return to the house with a fully intact coat of fur. The Mountain was the youngest and for a very long time the smallest of us kids; so, Sam bit him the most. Visitors always tried to pet the cute kitty and many got bit for their trouble; we tried to warn people, but they wouldn't believe us until after Sam struck.

He was neutered as soon as he was old enough, but that didn't stop him from having a long-time romance with the Mountain's fuzzy slippers. I learned about sex by asking why he was always mounting the slippers and ramming his pelvis into them.

By the time I returned home, Sammy was an old, old kitty. He still wanted to go outside all the time, but eventually we realized that though his spirit was willing, his flesh was too weak to cut it out there in the rough-and-tumble world of the backyard. He and I spent a lot of time together and it soon became the most natural feeling I the world for him to jump up on my lap and try to steal my cheese. Aftyer I'd quickly devour it, he's settle down on my legs and fall asleep. It was a good relationship. I didn't want to disturb him and he didn't want me to leave the plush green chair in front of the living room TV. Slowly but surely his advanced years started to wear on him; first he developed a heart murmur and then his kidneys started to shut down. His muscle mass disappeared, making his slender frame seem gaunt, despite a diet of veterinarian-recommended diet of high-calorie kitten food and medicinal food for his kidneys. One day he just laid down and didn't get back up again, not really. He could stand, but he was unable to raise his head. His neck muscles were too weak. He'd always hated his carrier; so, I gently laid him in an open-topped cardboard box lined with towels and Mom and I drove him to the vet's. He died as soon as the poison hit his veins, a sign of how close to death he'd already been, the doctor told us. Three of my four grandparents are dead, but I haven't cried like that any other time in my life. Water flowed from my eyes as if from a hose and my whole body shuddered. Thank Bog Mom drove, because I never would have gotten home alive; I couldn't see through the tears. April 2005 was the worst month of my entire life.

I loved Sammy more than I've loved all but a handful of people in my whole life, my family included. Goodbye, Sammy, I love you.

The Great White Hype
A moment ago I was attempting to access my Yahoo! email account and an advertisement caught my eye. It was an American Express ad featuring the text "Have you seen Andy's mojo?" next to Andy Roddick's mug. You mean the Andy Roddick whose ass I watched get kicked on television tonight? The very same. Roddick lost to a chump no one has even heard of (no offense, Gilles Muller, and congratulations on your well-earned victory), and he's American Express's poster boy. Roger Federer is the undisputed master of men's tennis and yet he's nowhere to be seen. Yes, he's Swiss and Lord knows I hate the Swiss, but let's give the man his due. Thinking about Andy "All Show and No Go" Roddick and Roger "I Have a Stupid Haircut" Federer, I'm reminded of the moment in the pilot episode of Sports Night in which Natalie explains the inspirational story of fictional African marathon runner Intizaki Nelson to a suit from the network who responds, "Isn't there a twenty-two year-old American we can talk about?" (Paraphrased.)

I hate Roger Federer for the simple fact that he's Swiss and I hate Switzerland, but he is the best player in the world in his sport. Isn't that what sports is supposed to be about, who's the bext player, not who's the best looking American who used to date teenie-bopper singer/actresses?

Mmmmm, Hommus
I drove down to Ann Arbor this morning and had lunch with the Sardine at Jerusalem Garden. Our waitress had a mustache, or at least she had more hair between her upper lip and nose than do most women and non-mustachioed men. After she had taken our order, Sardine remarked that she was cute; I replied, "Nah, she has a mustache." The Sardine then chastised me for being mean. How does that work? The waitress had a mustache! Sardine didn't deny that the waitress had a mustache; so, what exactly did I do that was mean? I didn't call her Mustache Girl to her face, I merely remarked, in response to the Sardine's appraisal of the waitress's physical appearance, that she had a mustache. I called a spade a spade. If someone called me fat I wouldn't accuss them of being mean, I'd say that they have a masterful command of the obvious. I am fat. Our waitress at Jerusalem Garden had a mustache. When did speaking the truth about someone become mean?

Also, I really have to commend the Michigan Department of Transportation for their fine efforts at rendering US-23 completely impassable between Flint and Ann Arbor. Well done!

Science! Fucking awesome.

Vote For Kodos - Back Into the Fray
There are many reasonable people of good conscience would vehemently oppose the war in Iraq. Bereaved mother Cindy Sheehan is not among them. A pair of choice quotes from "Mother Sheehan": "We have no constitution. We're the only country with no checks and balances. We want our country back if we have to impeach George Bush down to the person who picks up the dog shit in Washington. Let George Bush send his two little party animals to die in Iraq." Sheehan is so distressed by the death of her son that the only way for her to find a little peace is for Barbara and Jenna Buch to die, too? Something about that sentiment seems quite odd and more than a little bloodthirsty to me.

And: "America has been killing people on this continent since is was started. This country is not worth dying for." I would humbly submit that her late son, may he rest in peace, who volunteered for the Army, disagreed with the last part.

Nixon in China
Hyperlink. In Israeli politics, most of the prime ministers are former generals, from the late Yitzhak Rabin (Labour), may he rest in peace, to Ehud Barak (Labour) to the current PM Ariel Sharon (Likud). But even so, just as only Nixon, the consumate Red-baiter, could go to China, only Sharon, architect of the settler movement, could dismantle the Gaza and West Bank settlements.

The Peacemakers
Anwar Sadat was assassinated by Egyptian Islamic Jihad (today, EIJ has been folded into al Qaeda; Dr. Zawahiri, al Qaeda's no. 2 man, was the leader of EIJ). Was he killed because of internal repression within Egypt or because he'd signed the Camp David Accoreds with Israel? Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated by a right-wing Israeli terrorist because of the farcical Olso Accords with the Palestine Liberation Organization (subsuquently reorganized as the astoundingly corrupt and inept Palestinan Authority). One begins to wonder is Arafat was unwilling to make peace with the Israelis, the thus keep his own people poor and benighted, because or a fanatical hatred of all Jews or simply because he didn't want Hamas and/or Hizbollah to kill him. Hmmm. In either case, let us hope that Abu Mazan is made of sterner stuff.

Advice for Living
If you are a twenty-six year-old virgin, avoid reading Paul Feig's brutal and brilliant Superstud: Or How I Became a 24-Year-Old Virgin. If you're a normal, well-adjusted person, by all means read Superstud as Paul Feig is a splendid and discerning writer. Hi, my name is Mike and I'm a eunuch.

Steeze just sent me mp3s of two RCY songs, "The Cowboy, the Indian, and the Cyborg" and "Teddy's First Night in the Drunk Tank." Awesome! I cannot wait until we record CODENAME: Koala.

The Death of a Thousand Cuts
The message from the staff has been received loud and clear: they hate "Summer Reading" issues of The Newsletter and are entirely unwilling to participate them. Not one of them came out and told me that, no one objected when I informed them of the suymmer schedule, including two "Summer Reading" issues, they just failed to submit any material for "SR." Okedoke, there will NEVER be another "Summer Reading" issue of The Newsletter, not as long as I live and breath. I don't care if Zooey Deschanel asked me to bring it back*, that ship has sailed. The reasonable thing to do would be to accept the failure of "Summer Reading," allow myself to feel both disappointment and regret, and move on to the next issue.

Instead, I decided to kill The Newsletter. I put more time and energy (and yes, as long as we're talking about it, money) into The Newsletter than the rest of the staff combined. They don't have the right to be disinterested in "Summer Reading." "SR" has been a part of The Newsletter since Volume III, the summer of 2002, our first summer; "SR" isn't just another occasional feature, to my mind it is an integral part of The Newsletter. I do 90% of the work for The Newsletter: I send out the submission schedule, I gather the submissions, I mock up the issues, I produce the Xeroxes, I address the envelopes, I seal and stamp the envelopes, I do all of the grunt work... and I write at least as much if not more than anyone else. If I'm going to do all that work, is it really too much to ask to set the parameters for the blasted thing? Apparently so, because those ungrateful bastards hate "Summer Reading." Who are they to decide what will and won't constitute The Newsletter?

But I know myself well enough to know I don't have the chuzpah to kill The Newsletter, not in one fell swoop. My dedication to spite is not that strong, and I hate myself for it. My only redemption lies in that my heart is black enough to kill The Newsletter by inches. I will end it through a concerted policy of malign neglect. It is not my intention to boast (too late?), but The Newsletter cannot long survive without me, without my enthusiasm. Now someone else can be the cheerleader. Someone else can be the idea man. I'm done trying to improve The Newsletter. I'm on autopilot, just like everyone else. I care exactly as little as they do.

I wonder how long The Newsletter will last without a heart. I'm going to be devastated when it finally ends, but no one ever said being spiteful would be easy.

*This is clearly a lie, since we all know that if I ever actually met Zooey Deschanel I'd be putty in her hands.

Hi, gang. This has not been the best summer for the Secret Base, mostly my fault as I attribute the lack of a burning desire to write to my own laziness, but in my defense I believe I have traveled more this summer than in any other similar period. My third trip to upstate New York was put together on the fly, but we must remember that it was preceeded by two distinct trips to upstate New York and only my second ever journey to the Left Coast. On Sunday, I spend a unexpected three horus in Virginia (at Dulles); so, if effect it's almost as if I went to visit The L.A.W., too. The summer will close as it began, with me on the road, helping Cap'n Malice move from one apartment to another in the same complex. (How do I get myself into these things?) On Memorial Day I remembered the previous year's nearly identical trip and on Labor Day I will work as a pack mule. The Last Summer of Star Wars has not been what I expected, but that is not all bad. Now that I'm going to be home on a consistent basis for the first time in a month and a half, I'll finally bloggy blog like I used to. First up, the last two and a half days of "L.A. Story," followed by "Team Bachelor: Reed's Wedding" and "Team Bachelor: Booth's Wedding."

The Mountain of Love left for Ann Arbor about an hour ago, going back "home" after his third and probably last summer at the Seagle Music Colony. Next summer: Glimmerglass? My thoughts are jumping all over the place, I should wrap this up. Today was a good day. I didn't see Skeeter before she left for New York, but I spent the whole day with the Mountain, some time this afternoon with The Guy, and my brother and I saw Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith for my thirteenth time and his third. A good day indeed.

Soon, I shall be departing for this summer's third trip to the wilds of upstate New York. I really, really don't feel like going back, but the Mountain needs my help. What choice do I have? At least I'll get to drive all the way from fucking Cooperstown, New York to good ol' Ann Arbor, Michigan by myself, and you know I've been itching for a long solo drive. It won't be strictly solo since I (piloting The Last Angry Van) will be caravaning with the Mountain of Love in his new car (tentative name: the Senator's Daughter), but still, I'll be alone in the car for hours and hours and hours.

Wish me luck as I contemplate whether or not to kill The Newsletter through the death of a thousand cuts.

Despite all my complaining, the news is awesome!

"Will you please hold my hand?
I can't, I'm independent!
I want to be your man
You can't, I'm independent!

I'll call you the phone
You can't, I'm independent!
Let me know when you're home
I can't, I'm independent!"
--The Forces of Evil, "Independent" from Friend or Foe?

My Time Among the Vampires
This afternoon, proving that television advertisements really are quite effective, I donated blood at the American Red Cross downtown. It's been far too long since I last donated; Wednesday evening, I saw an ARC ad warning of a grave blood shortage and, damn it, I did my duty as a semi-concerned citizen and dialed 1-800-GIVE-LIFE.

The health questionaire asked about the possibility of having contracted Creuzfeldt-Jakob Disease, the human form of mad cow, from spending time in Europe between 1980 and 1996. I just really like looking at the word Creuzfeldt.

Above my head were ceiling tiles painted by local high school students. One bore a large peace sign and the words "Peace Ya'll." I had never before encountered a misspelling of the word y'all. Fascinating. Another bore a lovely American flag (with fifty-five stars) and the words "God Bless America" in letters of alternating red, white, and blue. From little kids, okay, I'll accept any old number of stars; I suppose I should just be happy there were the proper thirteen stripes. I found myself wondering what those five states of a future United States might be. Cuba? Manitoba? England?

Mid-donation, the lady who had inserted the needle into my arm swapped jobs with a ham-handed guy sporting a mustache. Ham-handed, you ask? When he was withdrawing the needle from my arm, I heard him say "Whoops," which is among the last things you desire to hear when a needle is being extracted from one of your veins. And the needle hole seemed to bleed more profusely than usual. Thus, ham-handed. But, my arm has yet to turn black; so, I think I'll be okay.

Holy Mother Church and the Twelve Tribes
I've very glad that His Holiness Pope Benedict has visited the synagogue in Cologne. Hyperlink. The Catholic Church has centuries of official anti-Semitism for which to atone, and I'm not sure God will ever be able to forgive us for our collective inaction during the Holocaust. But, since while most Poles hated the Nazi occupation they were more than willing to aid in the extermination of their Jewish countrymen, it is fitting that a Polish pope was the first to even visit a synagogue. And it is most appropriate for a German pope, in his youth a reluctant inductee into the Hitler Youth, to be the second.

A Pole and a German: symbolic dynamite. May God forgive us both for what we did and, perhaps more importantly, for what we failed to do.

Feel free to light my pants on fire, becuase there isn't going to be an "L.A. Story" post today. I know, I know, I'm a big fat fucking liar mere days after complaining about being labeled a big fat fucking liar. But, as I said in that very post, I have told my fair share of tall tales. "Come on, liar man, weave your web."

I shan't bore you with the details, but it is a damn shame that today is the only time in the history of the universe that it will ever be August 18, A.D. 2005. Something so precious and unique shouldn't have been marred by so much crumminess.

But, at least I did see Revenge of the Sith as planned. The Guy is absolutely right, it does get better each time, amazingly enough. Wow. Again, from the very depths of my soul, thank you so much, Mr. Lucas.

Tomorrow, I'm going to the cheapy theater to see Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith! At only two bucks a pop, I may go see it every day as long as it's there! Hooray for the Last Summer of Star Wars!

More "L.A. Story" tomorrow, I promise. I've got to get that monkey off my back.

So, I've decided to finally get the BTW logo tattooed on my left forearm in October. I decided to get the tattoo years ago, and have now completed the mandatory "six months of certainty" waiting period several times over, I've just never committed to a date. I still haven't pinned down a specific date, but it will happen sometime between October 1st and All Saints Day. In theory, you should try to expose a tattoo to as little light as possible; solar radiation breaks down the inks, leading to fading. This isn't really an issue with the skull-and-crossbones on my right forearm since it is a pretty simple design and only one color, black. Even if it fades, it won't be a big deal to have someone go over it with more black. The BTW monkey logo isn't terribly complicated, but it's still more intricate and more colorful than the skull-and-crossbones. My hope is that by having it done in October it won't be exposed to nearly as much sun in its first few months as was the skull, which I got on May 10, 2002. Now, do I want to have it done at the same parlour as the skull-and-crossbones or find a new place? As I've said, I'm very happy with my first tattoo; so, in all probability I'll return to S & C Tattooing in Ann Arbor for the second.

Deception and Deceivers
On the last day of July, I drove to Jackson to see the Michigan Shakespeare Festival's production of Twelfth Night, a play revolving around a woman disguised as a man and her unrequited love for her master, a nobleman. The woman acts as an intermediary between her master and a local lady, to whom the master is a suitor. It's both funny and quite touching. I was accompanied by an online acquaintance, the Friendster Girl; knowing she is a theatrical actor, I invited her on a whim. It was the first time we had actually met, but we'd been exchanging emails for several months and we able to maintain a lively conversation about a number of topics. And then the oddest thing happen: she called me a liar.

Now, make no mistake, I have told my fair share of tall tales; so, in certain contexts I might rightly be called a liar. And I have, in a phrase of which I am perhaps overly fond, an adversarial relationship with the truth. But for all that, it's not like I walk around with my pants perpetually on fire. I had given the Friendster Girl no reason to call me a liar, yet that's what she did. Not in so many words, but I told her of my nigh-legendary resistance to inebriation, and she said flat out that she did not believe me. If she does not believe to be true that which I insist to be true, she is calling me a liar, yes? Now, just wait one cotton-pickin' second, lady, where do you get off calling me a liar? Were you there on any of the nights when I gave inebriation the old college try? Have you seen the lists of what I imbibed? Have you even seen me take a single drink, let alone down eight Guinnesses in three hours? In answer to the last three questions, no, no, and no.

So, I'm done with her. My time is too precious to squander it trying to convince virtual strangers of the veracity of the facts of my life. I've deleted all the emails we exchanged and removed her from my list of friends at both Friendster and MySpace. This was not a romantic angle I was working, this was just someone who had initiated contact with me out of the blue. If nothing else, I suppose this incident has reaffirmed my suspicions about the sort of people who contact strangers online. Call me a liar, will you?

VJ Day
Sixty years ago today (because Japan is on the far side of the International Date Line and therefore half a day ahead of us here in the Eastern Time Zone; so, there it is already August 15), the air, sea, and land forces of the Empire of Japan unconditionally surrendered to the Allies. The surrender ended a war that had been going on in one form or another since 1931, had engulfed large swaths of Asia and the entire Pacific Ocean, and had cost untold millions of lives. The swastika had been torn down months earlier, but only in August was the war finally, finally over.

The Second World War claimed more lives than any other conflict in history. That truly global slaughter ended sixty years ago today. The very least we owe our honored dead is to remember.

Condi Rice sez, "You're a loser!"
So, for the second consecutive year my score on the Foreign Service Written Examination was insuffcient to allow me to advance to the Foreign Service Oral Assessment. The principle frustration is that the results are only presented in pass/fail format. I have no idea how I did relative to last year, nor if I am on the cusp of advancing or just embarrassing myself.

Worse, though, has been my mother's reaction. She is acting like my life is over, as if my worth in this world is determined solely by my inability to pass the FSWE. Judging by her demeanor, I might as well taking up drinking as a serious hobby and register for food stamps. Thanks a lot, Mom, and fuck you. She sez she has confidence in me, but the lie of this is betrayed whenever there is the slightest set-back. If you think I'm a loser, just say it to my face. Don't pretend that you're proud of me and then act as if the world is ending every time any little thing goes wrong. Thanks for having such faith in me, Mother.

Boy howdy, how nice it must be to be a hermit.

L.A. Story
Thursday, July 21
On Thursday morning, I awoke to find the Professor preparing to leave for his lab. The important thing here is, the Professor has a lab! (And I got to see it on Saturday!) Around noon, Steeze, the Belle, and I drove to Santa Monica. We dropped her off at the aquarium where she has an internship and got the nickel tour. it's a tiny littel aqaurium right on the beach that pimarily caters to school groups. Man, kids have to love that place. Science! Because she only had to work for a few hours, Steeze and I decided to tool around instead of returning to BTWest.

We stopped of lunch at El Cholo and our waitress freaked out over my T-shirt (it reads: "The Aquabats! The Last Great American Band"). Apparently, she was herself a fan of The Aquabats!, though oddly enough she didn't know that they are still together. Truly a shame, since they do more touring in SoCal than anywhere else and had she applied herself she probably could have seen a quite a few times over the past few years. We continued driving around Santa Monica and Steeze pointed out all the post-production and editing service companies located there. Yeah, based on the exteriors they all could have housed accounts and loan adjusters. We drove around Hollywood, and as we passed Paramount, the only movie studio still in Hollywood proper, I mourned the recent death of Star Trek.

Fun fact about Hollywood: if you want to use the w.c. in any of the fast food restaurants, you first have to buy something. The doors all sport elaborate locks and only paying customers receive the magic token to gain entrance. Despite these precaustions, the walls are still covered in grafitti. The only difference from Michigan? The grafitti is in Spanish!

We picked up the Belle and drove to the house where she is officially staying this summer, though in practice she lives at BTWest. She picked up a few items and told her sponsors she'd be back after the weekend and then we returned to BTWest. The only thing I truly hated about LA was the traffic on the freeways. And not even really the traffic, but the resignation with which everyone faces it. I am well aware of the blood pressure-raising futility of getting angry at traffic congestion, but fucking come on, people! Going 35 miles per hour on an expressway is unacceptable, yet my compaions all seemed grateful that we weren't at a complete standstill. Yes, traveling at 35 mph is much better than not moving at all, but what the fuck ever happened to standards?

Steeze and I did some brainstorming about Serma 6, a comic book idea he's been working on for a year or so, and the Belle did an admirable job concealing her boredom and bemusement at two grown men trying to figure out the motivations of fictional teenagers on an alien planet. After the Professor returing home (from the lab!), he and I discovered Kofi Annan's blog. The secretary-general's quite a weird guy.

We ordered pizza for dinner (I keep mentioning where we ate not because I'm obsessed with food, but because we really didn't do many touristy things; so, restaurants are the prinicple places I went outside of BTWest) and spent most of the night playing Risk. I rolled very poorly; so, I don't want to talk about it.

Friday, July 22
The day of The Island! I journeyed to California so that I could see the Professor and K. Steeze, but the timing of the trip was determined by the premiere of the movie The Island, on which Steeze worked as a post-production assistant. Still, we had plenty of day to utilitze before the evening's festivities.

Again, I woke up when the Professor was going off to work, but this morning that did not mean I was up before Steeze and the Belle of Texas. The left to drop Steeze's car, the Pirate Boat 2000, off at the shop to have it's air conditioning system repaired. As I was still groggy, I decided to stay home. It was kind of weird beign on a completely foreign apratment all by myself, but I took the opportunity to take a shower, shoot some pictures, and write in my journal.

Shortly after they returned (all the driving we had done to this point had been in the Belle's as yet unnamed car), we headed off to Home Despot to commence a new art project, Three Doors Down: Circle, Stripe, Sock. Originally, it was titled Three Doors Down. When Steeze showed me the design, three separate illustrations to be hung side by side by side, I instictively labeled them "Circle", "Stripe", and "Sock" just so I would know about which one we were speaking at a given time. Steeze found this hilarious, so Circle, Stripe, Sock was added to the title.

BTWest is a sadly stereotypical adult apartment; I won't lie, I'm disappointed in Kevin and Jon. Neither one has a single decoration in his bedroom, and precious little light. It's a loft and so there are only four rooms: foyer/kitchen/main room; two bedrooms, one of which they built themselves (quite impressive, that); and a water closet. They've painted the main room quite a fetching shade of maroonish red and it has adequate light (though more would be better), but their bedrooms? I go back and forth between creepy and just plain sad. The one decoration in the main room is a series of twelve small canvases arranged four across and three high, painted in the pattern of a gray rectangle surrounded by a white border. In typically glorious BTW fashion, it is titled The Deconstruction of Western Civilization as We Don't Know It and I am rather fond of it.

But now I am off to eat dinner, and after that it's Sci Fi Friday; so, Friday shall be concluded another time. Next time on "L.A. Story": the Triumph of the Narwhal!

Rest in Peace, Mr. Jennings
I am a frequent if monotonous critic of American journalism; so, my sentimental reaction to Peter Jennings's death may catch a few of you off guard. But I loved the man. Yes, in recent years I've rolled my eyes at many of his turns of phrase, but I never, ever stopped watching. I grew up watching Peter Jennings, and ABC World News Tonight with Peter Jennings has been a nightly ritual in my house as far back as I can remember. Even when he made his, as it turned out, goodbye speech a few months ago and told the world he had the cancer, I always believed he'd be back. I can't believe I'll never watch Peter Jennings anchor another newscast. Jim Lehrer and his creepy eyes may appeal to my intellectual thirst for news, but it was Peter Jennings with whom I felt truly comfortable, and though I am loath to repeat such an inarticulate phrase, I just can't believe he's gone.

Thank you for a lovely half hour every night, sir, you will be greatly and genuinely missed.

Perchance to Dream
All the Holocaust movies I've been watching are starting to get to me. This morning, I had a dream in which I was a Jewish European during the Second World War. I think I was in one of the wartime ghettos, not one of the death camps, but you know how dreams are, details are always sketchy. Nothing really happened, but I felt a profound desire to be anywhere but where I was. Not a dream I wish to repeat.

The Power of $hazam!
I did something very odd on Wednesday. I bought Shazam! no. 1, a comic book from 1973. I own a few other random comics from the '70s, but they are all torn and tattered and were bought on a whim for $1 each. This book was in reasonably good shape and I paid significantly more than $1, approximately $19 in fact. I'm very disturbed with what this might mean. I am not now nor do I ever wish to be "a collector." (No offense, Neutral Man, but your obsessions frighten me.) I don't want to pay outrageous sums for rare comics or other flotsam. I don't want to painstakingly preserve my books for posterity. I buy comics to read the stories! I have been reading comics for five years and to this point, and Bog help me, forever more, I still do not bag and board my books. They just sit naked in their boxes, smushed together, each already being corroded by the oils from my hands when I, Heaven forbid, read the damn things. And I don't want that to change!

For all the inherent danger of becoming that lowest of creatures, the collector, I think Wednesday's purchase was okay. a) I really like Captain Marvel, the star of Shazam! b) Perhaps more importantly, I bought the book on a whim. I was staring at "Flint's #1 Wall of #1's" in Comic Relief waiting for the proprietor to hand me this week's pulls, when I saw it. Wow, Shazam! no. 1, Captain Marvel's first appearance in the DC Universe and first official publication since 1953. Neat. Then, like Homer Simpson when he realized he could afford Tom Landry's hat, I realized that if it wasn't too unreasonably priced, I might be able to afford it. So, I asked the friendly proprietor how much for that puppy in the window, found the deal to my liking, and engaged in a little of the old capitalism. And c) I think the fact that I even bothered to enumberate reasons a and b is a good sign that I'm still quite a ways from acquiring a climate-controlled safe and referring to its contents as my Precious.

Keep an eye on my, though, okay? Wilsons go crazy as they age; so, be vigilant.

On the Road
Traverse City, Michigan - camping, Memorial Day weekend
Schroon Lake, New York - the Mountain of Love at the Seagle Music Colony
Los Angeles, California - BTWest
Syracuse, New York - Reed's wedding
Bay City, Michigan - Booth's wedding

Plus, to Ann Arbor for Neutral Man's farewell and to Jackson for Twelfth Night. No wonder I've fallen behind in giving my comics a second read before filing them away.

Also, while I still like Sarah Vowell, the next time she mentions Indians in one of her essays, I'm going to scream.

L.A. Story
Wednesday, July 20
Man, I really really really hope Northwest Airlines goes out of business. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. If anyone wanted to kill me, it would be extraordinarily easy as I am extreme creature of habit. After a pleasant drive to Metro, I parked, as is my custom, at U.S. Park and took the shuttle to the fancy pants Northwest Terminal. Normally, I fly Orange County Air; so, woo hoo, this was the big leagues. I felt bad that I didn't tip the driver, but I didn't have naything smaller than a ten. Sorry, ma'am.

I breezed through security and that's when all my troubles began. My boarding pass very clearly read "Gate A66." Okedoke, I hopped ont he tram and rode up to the north station. As soon as I stepped off the tram, a voice came over the loudspeakers, "Attention Northwest... blah blah blah." My gate had been changed from A66 to A12. Okay, I can handle that. I'm not happy about it, but into every life a little rain must fall. But then the voice said, "Check your boarding pass." Lisaten, motherfuckers, I checked my Bog damned boarding pass, I'm looking at it right fucking now, and it very clearly fucking reads Gate A66, not Gate motherfucking A12. I can deal with the gate change, but to then say that I should check my boarding pass is to imply that I've made a mistake, which at that point I hadn't. Northwest decided to blame me and my fellow passengers for their mistake. Shiteaters.

Injury added to insult, once I finally got on the plane I was in the middle "bitch" seat, not the window I'd booked. Fortunately, there was only one other person with me in the very last row; so, she took the window, her assigned seat, and I sat on the aisle. And of course we lifted off exactly sixty-five minutes after our scheduled departure. And of course airlines don't serve food anymore, nto even on transcontinental flights, though they will sell you a crummy snack pack for a king's ransom. Next time, I'm flying El Al. I hear they still take service seriously.

We had to have made fairly good time, because we landed only forty minutes behind schedule and to have made up twenty-five minutes on a four and a half hour flight isn't bad. At LAX, I walked right past K. Steeze, the Professor, and the Belle of Texas. I vaguely registered a cute brunette off to my left, but had to do a double take before I realized I'd seen that face before and, man alive, she was flanked by my fellow Blue Tree Whackers. We had a nice laugh about my obliviousness and then went gentle into that good night. (The lady at the Detroit check-in counter had made fun of my old, battered bags, but once in LAX I had zero trouble spotting them on the conveyor belt. As always. Fuck you, lady, and have a nice day.)

We drove past a neat, ultramodern restaurant that the Professor had for the past several years assumed was the control tower (even thought it is flanked by taller structures) and made a bee line for the In & Out Burger. Let me say first that the In & Out Burger is my kind of place; the portions are large and greasy, the decor and employee uniforms are delightfully retro, and best of all it's cheap. That said, the name In & Out Burger is wickedly misleading. In last 2oth/early 21st century American English, the phrase "in & out" implies celerity. Like, you pull up to the bank and say, "I'm just need to use the ATM. I'll be in and out." Quick. Technically, every time you use a building you're emabarking upon an "in & out" transaction, otherwise you'd still be inside that building. So, I'm not out of line saying that the name In & Out Burger clearly implies that you'll get in and out with relative speed. Such is not actually the case.

Still, like I always said, it is my kind of place and I had enough fries to make my feel slightly sick. We drove to BTWest, a loft in a converted factory, the boys showed me the Risk board they had stuck to the the underside of their glass dining table with putty, and as both the Professor and the Belle had work in the morning (he had work, her job is a volunteer internship) we all went to bed. Or rather, I went to couch. Or rather, I went to love seat. Being taller than the love seat was long, I slept in a mostly upright position with my feet sticky up into the air off the other end. Hardly comfortable, but such are the thrills of travel.

The Professor offered me his bed, but even I am not so boorish a guest as to turn my host out of his own bed.

[I also wrote up the events of Thursday, July 21, but as I tried to post them, the fine fuckers at Blogger informed my that the service was unavailable due to "scheduled maintenance." Nice of them to let the rest of us in on their schedule. As always, I hope every single motherfucker at the Blogger division of Google bleeds from his eyes every day of his wretched life from now until death.]

Next time on "L.A. Story": Thursday. (Before Blogger fucked us all over, that would have read, "The Triumph of the Narwhal.")

The Return of the Secret Base
On the one hand, in the last month I have done, by my standards, quite a bit of traveling. I've driven through the fabled Canadas to the boondocks of upstate New York, taken advantage of Wilber and Orville Wright's hard work all the way to and from the Left Coast, and then traversed anew the Great White North on the way to a thriving metropolis in upstate New York. In my travels, I have seen a goodly percentage of my friends, all of whom I do not see as often as I might prefer. I've also taken a few daytrips throughout my beloved Great Lakes State. These treks have had a negative influence on this blog, the Secret Base of the Rebel Black Dot Society, of which I remain the sole member. Or perhaps the travel is just an excuse (the Syracuse excuse?). I tend to think not, but truly that is neither here nor there. In the recent past, this blog has not been all I have wished it to be, and I dedicate myself to righting the course. Coming attractions:

"L.A. Story" - a full recounting of my second journey to the Bear Republic.

"The Adventures of Team Bachelor" - all the festivities and misadventures of the wedding in Syracuse

The best is yet to come. Or at least I hope so. If what came before was the best... wow. And not the good kind of wow. No, not at all.

"You told me no,
Said you loved me, though,
You have to go your own way.
You change your mind,
You know where to find... me,
I'll be around."
--Duvall, "I'll Be Around" from Volume & Density

Science!
Live on TV, I'm watching a man walk in space. What a time to be alive.

Pug Uglies
The most efficient means of luring the Pug Uglies back into their cage is baiting. For half a bone-shaped biscuit, they'll run - not walk - to their cage and stand just inside the threshold. I give each his treat and then close and seal the cage, where they will remain for the next several hours. The last few visits, they seem to have lost most interest in running around the house for a few minutes and instead want to cut straight to the chase. Okay, fine by me, but you guys to realize this means you have to spend even more time inthe cage, right? Alas, I'm not sure their little canine minds are capable of delaying gratification for even a few moments. They want a biscuit and they want it now! Consequences (what's a consequence?) be damned.

And now back to bed for an hour!

Is there any movie that couldn't be improved by the presence of Sean Bean?

Pug Uglies
The key to caring for small dogs is bribery. Tyson and Patrick don't like their cage, but bribe them with half a Milkbone each and they run into their box with the celerity of bats flying out of Hell. I'm also taking care of Mac, a Cairn terrier. (Like Toto!) Those three little dog-monsters have done much to overcome my prejudice against filthy dog-monsters, but I remain convinced that I shall never myself own a dog-monster. Back in the day, when we took weekend trips we'd leave out two or three bowls of dry food and three or four bowls of water and lo and behold, three days later Sam would be just as fit and unhospitable as he was at our departure. The dog-monsters require almost constant care. Like old people. And boy howdy do I hate old people. Nevertheless, I forgive the dog-monsters this transgression because they are so monstrously adorable. Especially Tyson, whose eyes point in different directions. He's googly-eyed!

L.A. Story
The first and most important thing to know about my trip is that I traveled 2,000 miles to play five games of Risk and help teach the Belle of Texas to play euchre. I saw neither the Hollywood sign nor the LaBrea Tar Pits. But I did assist in the purchase and transport of a 32" x 80" door, which was subsuquently nicknamed "Sock" and painted with an argyle pattern to resemble a pair of Steeze's boxer shorts. And thus was the first third of Three Doors Down completed. And jumpin' Jack Pratt, am I glad I'm not going to be around for the painting of "Circle." "Stripe" should be easy, but there's no way "Circle" won't be an arduous ordeal. Then again, an ordeal that isn't arduous isn't really an ordeal at all, but rather some kind of inconvenience. "Circle" won't be an inconvenience, it will be a nightmare. I really dodged that bullet.

Victory for ZIM!

So tired...

Neutral Man's farewell festivities on Saturday, Shakespeare in Jackson on Sunday, Reed and Cristina's wedding in Syracuse next weekend... humbug. I am a lazy, lazy man, kids, and right now my sitting-on-my-fat-arse is being severely curtailed. I love all the things I'll be doing the next few weekends, I just wish they could have been moved distantly spaced.

Pay me no mind, I always whine like this during these social streaks. Soon enough I'll once again be a recluse who never sees his friends and all will be right with the world.

All Holocaust All the Time
Movies Nos. 3-7 in my Netflix queue, annotated with hyperlinks to the Internet Movie Database. Nos. 1 and 2 are parts 2 and 3 of my three-part introduction to the cinema of Spike Lee, Summer of Sam and 25th Hour. I really liked He Got Game; so, I may have to add more Spike Lee "joints" to the list.

Conspiracy
Uprising
Europa Europa
Out of the Ashes
The Grey Zone

The Troubles
Fucking Paddies. Okay, first of all, if this is real, huzzah, but since when were terrorists known for actually keeping their word? Plus, news reports all day have said that "the IRA" has agreed to give up terrorism (though NPR shied away from calling their actions terrorism, instead preferring the unacceptably sanitized phrase "armed struggle"), but what they are talking about is the fucking Provos. Yes, the Provisional IRA is the largest of the several groups calling themselves the Irish Republican Army, but in recent years, specifically since the Good Friday Agreement, they have not been nearly as violent as the Real IRA or the Continuity IRA.

So, it's just plain sloppy, incomplete journalism to say that "the IRA" has agreed to cease its decades-long campaign of terrorism. Remember right after 9/11, when the major media organizations all said that they would start doing a better, more thorough job of covering events outside the United States? Yeah, nice to see how well they are following through on that promise. But I digress.

I hope today's honeyed words will mean an end to the savage murder of civilians in the name of Irish Republicanism, but I'll be a monkey's uncle before I take terrorists at their word. Cliched but true, there's nothing for it but to wait and see.

Hey, how did Jaime Fox go from Ray to Stealth inside of a year? How the mighty hath fallen....

Yeah, so my hope is to post about Los Angeles tomorrow. I left LAX at approximately 11:00pm Pacific Daylight Time (fucking Northwest, both my flights were late) and arrived at DTW at approximately 6:00am Eastern Daylight Time; my sleep cycle is still kind of messed up. Like, last night I got more than a full night's sleep, something like nine hours, but I still woke up tired. Note to self: only travel westward. The next time I visit the Left Coast, remind me to take the long way 'round to get home. Los Angeles to Tokyo to Kyrgyzstan to Turkey to London to Detroit.

Hate and Ignorance Go Hand In Hand
So, The Malingerer now believes that AIDS is a "homosexual disease" and that neither HIV nor the AIDS virus may be tramsitted through vaginal intercourse. He presented me with his "evidence" and told me that "doctors and nurses from around here" had told him that only gays and drug users get AIDS; congratulations, Dad, you've regressed to the early '80s. I retorted that there are doctors, both medical and philosophical (MDs and PhDs, kids), who support the "intelligent design" incarnation of Creationism, and that doctors are as human as the rest of us, and subject to the same prejudices and madnesses. I cited the vast majority of medical opinion and he declared the CDC (the Centers for Disease Control) to be part of a vast left wing conspiracy. Furhter, the notion that any heterosexual non-drug users had ever gotten AIDS was a "media creation." He seems to have missed the fact that I was comparing him unfavorably to a Creationist, a group he regards and despises as morons.

The good news (at least for me) is that this claim of AIDS only striking homosexuals proves that my father is not, as he now claims, a Christian; so, I'm once again confident that he's going to Hell when he dies. God has clearly never spoken to my father, for no one whose heart He has touched could embrace such mindless bigotry. I'd ask my dad to watch the movie Boys Don't Cry, but I'm afraid he'd admire the homophobic murderers. My father has always been an asshole, but he used to be smart, with a curious, inquisitive mind. Now, well, he uses about the same percentage of his brain as does Pat Buchanan. In other words, essentially none.

Manfred von Richthofen
Yesterday, I turned 26. I've now outlived the famous Red Baron, but only at the cost of failing to achieve any similar degree of public recognition. Blast! In any event, I had a most profitable birthday. The loot:

Star Wars
Darth Vader Voice Changer hemlet
Risk Star Wars Clone Wars Edition
Episode III clone trooper helmet sticker

Books
Sarah Vowell, Take the Cannoli
Steve Martin, The Pleasure of My Compnay
Charles Brooks, ed., Best Editorial Cartoons of the Year - 2005 Edition

CDs
Duvall, Oh Holy Night

DVDs
Star Trek: First Contact
Star Trek: Insurrection
Space Ghost: Coast to Coast - Volume Two
Space Ghost: Coast to Coast - Volume Three "This is 1997"

Awesome. My thanks and love to my brother, sister, mother, and father.

City of Angels
More on my vacation soon. For now, let me just say that we played many games of Risk and taught the Belle of Texas how to play euchre, the temperatures in Los Angeles were cooler than they are here in Grand Blanc, and here are five words guaranteed to make you jealous: the Triumph of the Narwhal.

Rest in Peace
Hyperlink. Thank you, Mr. Doohan, for your decades as Montgomery "Scotty" Scott, chief engineer of the starship Enterprise. Warp speed and Godspeed, sir.

Apollo 11
Thirty-six years ago today, Neil Armstrong took, "One small step for [a] man, one giant leap for Mankind," and he and Buzz Aldrin became the first men to walk on the Moon. In the words of The Onion, "Holy Shit Man Walks On Fucking Moon." Out of all the human beings who have ever lived, only twelve men have ever walked on the Moon, all of them Americans. In the words of the late Sam Kinison, "If you want to impress us, bring back our fucking flag!"

Apollo 11
Neil Armstrong
"Buzz" Aldrin

Apollo 12
"Pete" Conrad
Al Bean

Apollo 14
Alan Shepard (golf, anyone?)
Ed Mitchell

Apollo 15 (crew all University of Michigan alumni)
Dave Scott
Jim Irwin

Apollo 16
John Young
Charlie Duke

Apollo 17
Gene Cernan
Jack Schmitt

I'll be back in Michigan on July 25; so, no bloggy blogging until at least then. Try to survive without me, darlings.