Honolulu Blue Forever
My heart was full of glee this afternoon when Jeff Garcia's pass was intercepted and returned for a Bears' touchdown in overtime. It was an odd sensation. I feel no particular animus against Garcia, he's never done anything to me, but such is my resentment for the messianic way he was treated by the state media over the past week that I was truly pleased to see that he personally cost us today's game against the Bears. I learned something about myself today, I learned that I cannot cheer for the Detroit Lions as long as Jeff Garcia is the starting quarterback. I bear the man no individual ill will, I do not wish to see harm befall his person, but I loathe what he represents: Steve Mariucci's desire to blame all the Lions' shortcomings on Joey Harrington. I've said it before and I'll say it again, Joey Harrington will never be Joe Montana and he certainly deserves a healthy portion of the blame for the Lions' 2-3 record this season in games he started as QB. But what evidence is there that Mariucci is taking any person responsibility for the movable feast of ineptitude that is his football team? Instead, Mariucci is pathetically trying to recapture the "glory" of his years in San Francisco, bringing in such old chums as Garcia (thanks again for the overtime interception, that was beautiful) and Ted Tollner (an offensive coordinator so bad at his job as to make UM's Terry Malone look good). I cannot root for the Lions as long as Jeff Garcia is the starting quarterback, but nevertheless I will wear my Lions T-shirt tomorrow. Let's say I'm doing it for old times sake (it is, after all, old enough to give the Lions' division as the old NFC Central, not the modern NFC North).

The Living Daylights... Saving
My mom woke me up this morning at 9am, i.e. it felt like 10am. Dear Bog, woman, what is wrong with you? The whole beauty of the end of daylight saving time is that I can sleep in until what feels like 11am, but then pull a fast one on the universe by getting out of bed at the new 10am. If I get up at 9am, what feels like 10am (the time I usually arise on Sundays), I'm letting the universe get away with stealing an hour from me when DST began last spring. Only by spending that extra hour in bed can I balance the scales and restore justice. So, even though my eggs got cold, I struck a blow for justice and went back to sleep for an hour. Thanks to the modern marvel of the microwave oven, I was able to stick my tongue out at the universe and eat warm eggs, too. Victory for ZIM!

I was really hoping Minnesota would hang in there and pull at a win at the last second. Alas, 'twas not to be.

Also, I was watching C-SPAN during halftime of the Minnesota-Ohio State game and came across a meeting of a British foreign policy committee. Why can't we have politicians with names as cool as Jack Straw?

Hyperlink. It's times like these that I'm really glad President Jimmy put pressure on our then-ally, the late Shah of Iran, to permit the Ayatollah Khomeini, may he burn in Hell, to return to Iran. That was a good move, Jimmy, a really good move.

The Magic of Shazam!
I have recently learned that the classic DC villain Vandal Savage, a foe of heroes across the generations from the original Justice Society of America in the 1940s to an upcoming series of appearances in The Flash, was co-created by Alfred Bester, author of my favorite book of all time, The Stars My Destination. I had a germ of an idea about how to work Vandal Savage into The Magic of Shazam!, tying him into Shazam's early career as Champion (magic word: Vlarem) and possibly teaming him up with King Kull, but nothing definite. I still don't know how exactly, but now that I know he's a Bester creation I must work Savage into MoS! Vandal Savage is a 52,000-year-old immortal Cro-Magnon; so, compared to him even the approximately 8,000-year-old Wizard is a spring chicken.

I don't know if I'd use it or even for what I'd use it, but I came up with an alternative way of forming the Wizard's name, Shazam. The real S.H.A.Z.A.M.:

S = Wisdom of Solomon
H = Strength of Hercules
A = Stamina of Atlas
Z = Power of Zeus
A = Courage of Achilles
M = Speed of Mercury

Now, Black Adam's magic word "Shazam" is formed using the names of several Egyptian deities and in the Golden Age Mary Marvel's "Shazam" was formed using Greco-Roman goddesses; what I've come up with here is just an alternative Greco-Roman "Shazam," maybe for a still very vague and undefined villain Major Marvel:

S = Stamina of Sisyphus
H = Courage of Hector
A = Strength of Ajax
Z = Speed of Zephyr
A = Wisdom of Aesop
M = Power of Mars

I'm also thinking about reviving the villain Mr. Who, the principle difficulty being I know virtually nothing about the original character. The only idea I have about him is that his codename is a horrible pun on his name like Mr. Freeze (Victor Fries): Mr. Who (Mr. Hu). We all have good ideas and bad ideas; take a wild guess into which catagory the above falls. Then again, puns have been a part of comics for a very long time.

I'm also working on a couple more brand-new villains, King Celsius (all I have is a name and I desire to make him different than the other DC "ice" villains*) and Vainglorious (I have a costume and part of a motivation, I'm still playing with the name and the origin/motivation). Other possible names for Vainglorious include Excelsior, Exemplar, and The Perfect.

Lastly, I think I've nailed down the first year of The Magic of Shazam!:
No. 1 "Giant Atomic Robots, Part 1"
No. 2 "Giant Atomic Robots, Part 2"
No. 3 "Giant Atomic Robots, Part 3"
No. 4 "Giant Atomic Robots, Part 4"
No. 5 "Giant Atomic Robots, part 5"
No. 6 "Giant Atomic Robots, Part 6"
No. 7 "Faerie Tale, Part 1"
No. 8 "Faerie Tale, Part 2"
No. 9 "The Mechanical Man of Mystery"
No. 10 The Crocodile Mob in... "A Piece of the Action"
No. 11 "Kristallnacht, Part 1"
No. 12 "Kristallnacht, Part 2"

*Ice-themed villains I can think of off the top of my head (if there are others, they must be pretty obscure):

Mr. Freeze (foe of Batman)
Captain Cold (The Flash)
Killer Frost (Firestorm)
The Icicle (the JSA)

Honolulu Blue Forever
It's the damnest thing: for the first time in my life, I am actively rooting against the Detroit Lions. On every play, I want the Cleveland Browns to triumph. I hated Trent Dilfer's interception just as much as I enjoyed Detroit's missed field goal. Each time Steve Mariucci's face appears on screen, both of my middle fingers become erect and are aimed at the visage of Mooch. Acting on instinct, I was happy when Jeff Garcia scrambled in for Detroit's lone first-half score, but I immediately remembered myself and felt ashamed of my joyous outburst. Joey Harrington will never be Joe Montana, but fuck Steve Mariucci and Matt Millen for placing all the blame for the Lions' offensive ineptitude on Harrington. Never an unkind word for Roy Williams for his many drops nor Charles Rogers for being a whiny dope-fiend nor the offensive line for their sieve-like play nor offensive coordinator (and Mariucci crony) Ted Tollner for his massive incompetence, but Harrington gets benched. Today, I hate the Lions, though if they lose as I wish them to I will of course wear my Honolulu blue T-shirt tomorrow in solidarity. The Lions will always be my team, no matter how much I hate them. Let's go Browns! Win this one for Bernie!

No Joy
As you may recall, I was most displeased with the illegal touchdown scored by a Spartan defensive lineman in the Michigan-Michigan State game three weeks ago. The Guy referenced this play, an inexcusable violation of the rules of the game on the part of the game's officials, in an attempt at levity, assuming we all, no matter our allegiance, enjoyed the sight of a big lineman rumbling seventy yards for a touchdown. In this he was mistaken and his comment arosed my ire. K. Steeze then came to The Guy's defense, though The Guy himself took no offense, and said, "if you [me] don't change your ways soon, you won't have many BTW friends left. It's not a threat." I had no idea that my BTW friendships were so imperiled, that the bonds of our comradeship could be so easily sundered. I will never change. Ire/anger/wrath is one of the seven deadly sins and I embrace it at my soul's peril, but embrace it I do. So, though I love all of my fellow Blue Tree Whackers, it seems only a matter of time before I am expelled from that august brotherhood. With that in mind, it seems foolish to permanently brand my body with the mark of an organization that seems intent on being rid of me. So, I will not be getting the BTW Monkey tattooed on my right forearm in December, nor ever. If I decide to get a different tattoo placed opposite my skull-and-crossbones, I will have to be certain of the design and placement for at least six months; so, the soonest I may be getting a new tattoo is late April. I will keep you updated on any decisions.

As for BTW, I love all my fellow Whackers and I sincerely hope that our splendid association will continue for all our lives despite Steeze's dire prognostication.

Happy birthday to the Mountain of Love.

Tony Blair seems like a good chap and for a European leftist (though solidly center-left) politician he has conducted a brilliant and bold foreign policy, but still, he's Labour. What Britain needs is a return of the Tories. Bring back the Iron Lady! Failing that, how about these guys?

At the Show
Sweet fancy Moses, MxPx is awesome! This week, I've been rediscovering the myriad glories of Life in General and Slowly Going the Way of the Buffalo. Also, MxPx is playing three times in Michigan next month. Methinks I'll be going to the Novermber 5 show at the State in Detroit rather than either of the shows in East Lansing (the air there reeks of impending doom!) and Big Rapids.

MxPx: because only losers write songs longer than 1:59.

The Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
Hyperlink. No one, save a few far right-wing Japanese nutjobs, can dispute the horrors visited upon the Chinese and Korean peoples by the Imperial Japanese Army between 1895 and 1945. And there is room for legitimate disagreement about visits to the Yasukuni Shrine by prominent Japanese politicians, especially Prime Minister Koizumi. But I have to laugh whenever the Chinese government makes a fuss about the shrine. After all, Mao Zedong killed a hell of a lot more Chinese between 1949 and 1976 than the Japanese did between 1931 and 1945, and yet the Chinese Communist Party actively encourages pilgrimages to view Mao's corpse, preserved and displayed a la Lenin, in its shrine off Tiananmen Square, in the very heart of Beijing. The Japanese occupation was monstrous; the crimes committed in the Emperor's name rival those of the Nazis in Russia. But more Chinese died - broken, starving, humiliated, and alone - from the Great Leap Forward and the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution than from anything the Japanese did. The People's Republic of China will have every right to complain about Japanese officials visiting the Yasukuni Shrine the day after Mao's bloated corpse is finally put in the ground in an unmarked grave alongside his millions of victims.

The South Koreans, on the other hand, make a strong case about the offensiveness of the Yasukuni Shrine.

Elseworlds
In addition to The Magic of Shazam!, I'm developing a couple of Elseworlds ideas for Superman and Batman. Quoting, "In Elseworlds, heroes are taken from their usual settings and put into strange times and places - some that have existed and others that can't, couldn't, or shouldn't exist. The result is stories that make characters who are as familiar as yesterday seem as fresh as tomorrow." The very nature of comics, the slow, sequential ways stories are told over the course of months, promotes stability (some, not I, would say stagnation). This is as it should be, I think. Comics starring Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman have been in continuous publication for nearly seventy years; on the theory that if it isn't broke don't fix it, radical changes, no matter how highly touted, might damage or remove some of the very elements that have made the characters' popularity so durable. That's why I really like Elseworlds stories, because they allow the writer to go that extra distance, telling a story at the boundaries of creativity without killing the goose that lays the golden eggs. (Resistant to change as I am, classifying a story as an Elseworlds tale gives me a needed safety blanket.)

{Superman: Empire of Krypton}
Instead of Kal-El being the last son of Krypton, the scientist Jor-El and the general Dru-Zod were able to gather the resources to construct a starship to evacuate one thousand Kryptonians prior to the doomed planet's explosion. Kal-El, the eldest son of Jor-El, and a horde of robot servants are sent ahead of the starship Kandor as a scout. Kal-El's rocket lands in a field on the Kansas farm of Jonathan and Martha Kent. The Kents investigate the crash and discover the smoking rocket; Kal-El emerges from the rocket, informs the Kents in Kryptonese that he is very sorry they saw him, and promptly disintegrates them with a ray gun. (That scene was the first idea I had and inspired everything else.)

Kal-El and his robots quickly establish a hidden listening post in the Arctic and begin monitoring all Earth broadcats, eventually translating Earth's languages and collecting data useful to the coming Kryptonian invasion. The rocket is reconfigured into a cloaked spy satellite. Tiring of living in isolation in his self-dubbed Fortress of Solitude, Kal-El manipulates records to create for himself the identity of Clark Kent from Smallville, Kansas. "Kent" begins work as a mild-mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper, the Daily Planet (Lois Lane, Perry White, Jimmy Olson, et cetera). Kal-El acquires an apartment in Metropolis, but frequently journeys back to the Fortress.

In time, he discovers that the radiation from Earth's yellow sun has imbued him with powers beyond those of mortal men. Jor-El had anticipated improvements to Kryptonian physiology under the yellow sun (the doomed planet Krypton orbited a red sun), and in fact that had been one of the reasons he and Dru-Zod has selcted Earth to be their "New Krypton," but Kal-El's abilities far exceeded his father's predictions. Kal-El considers becoming a superhero in order to infiltrate the Justice League of America (the "magnificent seven": Wonder Woman, Batman, Aquaman, Green Lantern [Rayner], The Flash [West], Captain Atom, and Firestorm), but elects to remain hidden according to Jor-El's original plan, albeit in the guise of Clark Kent.

Then of course comes the fighting. The Kandor arrives in orbit, her Kryptonian crew revived from their long cryogenic sleep. Jor-El offers the people of Earth the opportunity to surrender; believing in the inherent superiority of Kryptonian culture, he assumes that humans will welcome the chance to have their lives improved by the technology of the new Kryptonian ruling class. By contrast, General Zod wishes to wipe out the human race in order to make New Krypton purely Kryptonian. The people of Earth refuse Jor-El's "generous" offer and Kryptonian warsuits descend to subdue the planet. The JLA and the world's other superheroes fight back, but suffer horrific casualties and slowly lose ground until Batman calls in the JLA's secret weapon, Captain Marvel.

Kal-El had wanted to use his powers in the invasion, but Jor-El had insisted that superior Kryptonian technology would carry the day. However, when Cap disables the warsuit piloted by Kal-El's cousin, Kara Zor-El, Kal-El leaves his post aboard the Kandor and assaults the World's Mightest Mortal mano a mano. Kal-El kills Cap, though not without taking a savage beating. With both Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel dead, Batman orders a general retreat and Earth's heroes go to ground.

While Kal-El, referred to by the terrified human press as "The Superman," leads the Kryptonian forces, including Kara and Kal-El's younger brother Kon-El, on a hunt for the remaining heroes, Dru-Zod grows envious of Kal-El's powers. Zod has himself thrown out an airlock perilously close to the Sun, betting that his close proximity to the star with quickly saturate his cells with yellow solar radiation, granting him powers comparable to Kal-El's and enabling him to survive the hard vacuum of space. Zod's gamble pays off. Returning to the Kandor under his own steam, Zod murders Kal-El's parents, Jor-El and Lara, and Kara's parents, Zor-El and Alura, and unleashes an ancient Kryptonian weapon, the Eradicator, to cleanse the earth of non-Kryptonian "impurities." Because he's Superman, Kal-El triumphs over both the Eradicator and Zod, though not before the former recites Terence Stamp's classic line, "Come, son of Jor-El, kneel before Zod."

* * * * *

I still have a lot of things to work out. I'm not including the Martian Manhunter in the JLA because I have an idea for a sequel, Empire of Krypton II: The War of the Worlds, involving an attack on New Krypton (formerly Earth) by the forces of Mars and Rann, and possibly other planets, too. I have a nagging feeling that I should find a way to make Luthor a more prominent character in Empire of Krypton, but really what I want to do is save him, too, for the sequel. This isn't just the hubris of thinking there will be a sequel, I honestly think that with the modified origin story, the invasion, and the battles with the Eradicator and Zod Empire of Krypton is already quite busy. Of course, if I could pitch it as a 12-issue maxiseries (most Elsewords tales are only two or three issues long) there would be time to work in Luthor, Batman's chief ally in the resistance after the Kryptonian victory, and his superweapon against the Superman, the flawed clone Bizarro.

Instead of being a half-human/half-Kryptonian clone of Superman, I've made Kon-El (Superboy) Kal-El's younger brother. I haven't decided if Kal-El will try to establish the Clark Kent identity in Smallville, perhaps befriending Lana Lang and Pete Ross, or only create that persona as an adult when he decides to work at the Planet to do first-hand reconnaissance about Earth. I also haven't decided what to do about Lois Lane: do I make her a collaborator, in love with the Kryptonian Superman, or does she remain loyal to Earth? Which element is more important, her historical relationship to Superman or her reputation as a hard-nosed (and thus presumably loyal to Mankind) journalist? Like I said, lots to work out.

I also have an idea for Batman, called Batman: The Dark Night, but I don't feel like describing it now. In a way, it is the reverse of Superman: Empire of Krypton, I have the characters and motivations all worked out, but I don't have a plot yet.

Hail to the Losers
The danger following Michigan's victory of Penn State is that Lloyd's boys are going to make the mistake of thinking they're good and that the losses to Wisconsin and Minnesota were flukes. This is not the case. Considerable peril lies ahead, especially since the Iowa and Northwestern games are on the road. Still, 4-3 (2-3 against real competition) is better than 3-4. If we are to have a chance moving forward, though, Coach Carr must make some significant changes among his assistants. Go Blue!

The hated Irish of hated Notre Dame came within a single play of defeating the vaunted Trojans of Southern Cal. I fear for the future, a future full of sickening glories for hated Notre Dame, while at the same moment I remember fondly the recent past when those bastards were brought low and yet still refused to learn the very Catholic virtue of humility. Since at least the Roman Republic there has been a terrible tendency to idealize the past as a means of condemning the present. I have never had any use for such nonsense, but I will say this: I miss Bob Davie and Tyrone Willingham.

The Last Best Hope
One of the most endearing things about Sarah Vowell is her near-worship of Abraham Lincoln. But, that's neither here nor there. Hyperlink.

The Ocean Blue
Happy Columbus Day, everybody! Sure, sure, those lazy bums in the federal government had a three-day weekend because Monday was Columbus Day (observed), but today is the real anniversary of Christopher Columbus's discovery of America. No disputes will be entertained:

Columbus didn't really discover anything, since the Indians had been in the Americas for millennia. Humbug. Western civilization is at present the dominant cultural, political, and economic force in the world, and Columbus's journey is what introduced the New World to the crowned heads and huddled masses of Europe, cradle of western civilization. Rightly or wrongly, the Indians are mostly gone, there impact on these paired continents wiped away by the ascension of the Europeans and us, their successors.

What about the Vikings? They called Newfoundland Vineland. Again, so what? Yes, hooray, good for Lief Ericsson, but in the end what did his discovery of Vineland reveal? The great navigtors of Portugal and the Muslim empires had no idea there was a continent blocking the westward passage between Europe and Cathay; so, what did Ericsson's discovery matter? A discovery no one knows about might as well not have happened.

Columbis didn't discover anything. The idiot thought he was in India or Cathay, and anyway on that first voyage he only explored the Caribbean, not either of the continents. Again, so what? No matter how wrong he was about where he was, his journey prompted others to make further explorations. The exploration of the New World was so important that today the efforts of the great navigators of Portugal, who favored reaching the Far East by sailing down around Africa, are all but forgotten. Even the lonely outpopst of Macao has reverted back to China.

Without Columbus, the New World might never have been discovered. No Pilgrims. No thirteen colonies. No Revolutionary War. No Declaration of Independence. No Constitution of the United States. Hell, no United States. No Gettysburg Address. No crusade to eradicate the Third Reich. No NATO to oppose Stalin. No World Bank, United Nations, International Monetary Fund, World Health Organization. If you love America, take a moment to appreciate that without the Admiral of the Seas, mistaken fool that he was, our great republic might never have come into being. The world might have been denied its "last best hope," in the words of President Lincoln. Happy Columbus Day!

Thirteen Days in October
I meant to post this yesterday, when there would have been exactly a fortnight remaining. All Christmas lists must be finished and distributed by October 25, two months before the big day. This is only fair as it will give yourfamily and friends plenty of time to purchase the gifts you know you (or at least I) so richly deserve. Less than two weeks now to decided what you really want. Don't delay!

The Magic of Shazam!
Good things happen late at night while half-watching episodes of Dog: The Bounty Hunter (on A&E). Last week, I had Dog on while I was rereading all the notes I'd made in my The Magic of Shazam! notebook. (A converted day planner, it's not dedicated to that topic alone. It also contains all my notes for a proposed but rejected expansion of the Smith and Winkler universe, background information on In Search of the Perfect Lesbian, and lots and lots of other stuff.) Suddenly, like a of lighting from a clear blue sky, the title of the first MoS! story arc came to me:

"Giant Atomic Robots"
Nos. 1-6
There will be lots of introduction and expository dialogue because this arc has to set the tone for my take on Fawcett City. Dr. Sivana is behind a series of thefts at university research labs and high tech companies around Fawcett, as usual using proxies, this time Ibac and a new villain, Xenophon. Setting the stage for the future, Ibac is dragging into the bowels of Heck by his demonic master and Cap meets Professor Timothy Tinkle, his doctoral student Ivan Derook, and their invention "Timmy" or the T.M.I. (Tinkle Machine Intelligence). Billy meets Veronica Deng (sorry, Kiel) while hosting W.H.I.Z.'s "Battle of the Bands," Nick and Nora Bromfield depart for Europe seeking treatment for a rare disease afflicting Nick, Uncle Ebenezer schemes to throw Billy and Mary out on the streets, and neo-Nazi vandalism and intimidation mare the tranquility of Beck Memorial High School. The thefts have been to gather materials for Dr. Sivana's latest attempt to destroy the Marvel Family, the nuclear-powered robot Mr. Atom. Captain Marvel and Mr. Atom slug it out over Fawcett City, with Cap forced to restrain himself for fear of causing a thermonulcear detonation in the heart of the city.

Fairly early, I decided that the first big story had to feature Dr. Sivana and not Black Adam. This was due in part to my dislike for the current hero worship of Black Adam happening in the DCU, but mostly because when all is said and done Dr. Sivana is Captain Marvel's first and greatest enemy. Throughout the Golden Age the Marvel Family battled one insane Sivana scheme after another; Black Adam appeared in only one Golden Age story. Okay; so, a Dr. Sivana story, but what? I had the idea that Sivana would steal the power of Shazam for himself and weaponize it, but I'd already reserved that idea for the No. 25 extravaganza, the conclusion of "Man of Science." I also wanted to introduce a new, independent Mr. Atom, as opposed to the automaton seen in The Power of Shazam! It took me way to long to realize that I could kill two birds with one stone by having the first arc be about Dr. Sivana's invention of Mr. Atom. Duh. As soon as I thought of it I wondered why it hadn't occured to me sooner. Such is life.

Now that I had a story, gradually working in Ibac, Xenophon, Nick's illness, the villainy of Uncle Ebenezer and the like, I still needed a title. Early ideas included "Present at the Creation" and "The Nuclear Option." I didn't know what I wanted, but I knew it wasn't either of those. Actually, I quite like "Present at the Creation," but it just didn't seem right for this story, even though it is about creation, or at the least invention. Then, while staring at Dog's horrific yet wonderful hair, it struck me. "Giant Atomic Robots." Of course. What had I been thinking? I want The Magic of Shazam! to give Captain Marvel some street cred by allowing him to fight truly frightening and malevolent villains, but at the same time I want it to be a lot of fun. And what, my friends, is more fun that giant atomic robots? Nothing, that's what.

The Magic of Shazam! "Giant Atomic Robots." Look for it in a comic shop near you not any time soon.

Simply put, the Mountain of Love is amazing.

I like Joe Pa's answer to the question, Is Penn State back?: "I'm not sure we ever left." Penn State is back. This week, that is a glorious thing. Next week, well, 3-3 against 6-0. What do you think is going to happen? Still, any given team can beat any other given team on any given Saturday; that's why they play the games.

For now, congratulations to the Nittany Lions, and thank you, Mr. Paterno, for beating the hated Buckeyes. That helped redeem today. The Happy Valley is happy tonight.

Hail to the Losers - Second Attempt
I lost my first attempt at this post to a malfunction at Blogger. It was the first post I've lost in months. How utterly appropriate. It doesn't rain but it pours.

At the end of regulation in the Michigan State game, I said that Rivas should lose his scholarship. After he kicked the game-winner in overtime, my father asked me if I'd reconsidered; I didn't answer one way or the other. It now seems clear that my first instinct, rash as it was, was nevertheless correct. Today, Rivas cost us the game.

That said, there is plenty of blame to spread around. Ecker missed two easy catches and after that wasn't thrown to again. Despite Massaquoi's injury, I feel this was the right decision; it was only a matter of time before one of Ecker's drops turned into an interception. How many times was Hart hit at or behind the line of scrimmage? Another truly offensive performance by our offensive line. Henne, proving that last week was a fluke, missed Avant in the endzone at least three times, throwing the ball where no one could have caught it. Way to go, Froshie, way to show that your worst critics, myself included, we right in calling you overrated. Bog, I wanted so much to believe in Chad Henne....

Moving on, it is imperative that Terry Malone's reign of ineptitude be ended immediately. But, we all know Carr won't make any changes until after the end of this year's sorry campaign; I will be pacified as long as Malone has been replaced as offensive coordinator by the start of next season. And here we encounter a real problem: Lloyd Carr will not fire Terry Malone, no matter how incompetent he may be. So, what are we to do? The rest of this season does not matter. It does not matter. What matters is that Lloyd Carr may be too stubborn to do what is necessary for the good of the program. I hope that he is not, but as I said, it is imperative that Terry Malone's reign as offensive coordinator comes to an end. If Coach Carr is not willing to replace Malone, he should himself be fired. Carr should be made to choose: to whom is he loyal, Terry Malone or Michigan? Michigan cannot prosper with Malone is charge of the offense; so, whom does Carr choose? Michigan or Malone? If he chooses Malone, his tenure at Michigan must end. No man is more important than Michigan, not Terry Malone and not Lloyd Carr. If Lloyd Carr will not fire Terry Malone, Michigan must fire Lloyd Carr.

After the loss to hated Notre Dame, I guaranteed three Michigasn losses. I never thought that we would suffer three defeats in only six games. This is a disaster without precedent. I'm almost used to a 2-2 record, but to be 3-3 two games into the Big Ten schedule? Not even at the zenith of the dark bastard's influence did I imagine such a horror. I guaranteed three loses, but said that I was personally inclined to four. In all truth, at this moment in time we will be lucky to make it to the end of the year without only four losses. Of our remaining five regular season games, we have the potential to lose to Penn State, Northwestern, Iowa, and Ohio State. It is impossible that we will lose all four of those contests, but the potential exists to lose to any of those opponents. I mean no offense to Indiana's fans, but we all know that even in our present state of wretchness we are not going to lose to Indiana. Sweet fancy Moses, how did it all go so wrong?

I said last week that we aren't a very good football team, but I never imagined that we were this bad.

The Madness of Hate
The Goldbricker hates Muslims - all Muslims - so much that today he said that in Bosnia and Kosovo the Serbs had the right idea, they just went about it in a ham-handed way. Srebrenica was a ham-handed stab at doing the right thing? You sick fuck.

The really sickening part is that last week I actually felt a twang of sympathy for my father. He is a deeply unhappy, self-hating man. I thought about the character of Captain Qweeg in the movie The Caine Mutiny. Qweeg is cowardly, domineering, and abusive towards his men, very possibly as a result of war stress from his tours in the US Navy during the Battle of the Atlantic. After one incident, a repentant Qweeg assembles his officers and while he cannot bring himself to actually apologize for his actions, he does say that the officers and crew of a ship are like a family, and so they need to lean on each other and depend on each other in moments of failure and weakness. The officers of the Caine eventually unseat Qweeg citing his mental instability and are acquitted by a court martial. After the court martial, their own military attorney denounces them for their ingratitude to Qweeg; yes, Qweeg was a bastard, but he had served in the Navy long before Pearl Harbor, putting himself in harm's way to protect his officers, then civilians. For his pre-war service, the officers should have helped Qweeg when he asked them to.

So, I thought about the Goldbricker as if he were Qweeg. My father hates his job, but is terrified at the prospect of losing it because he has not managed his money particularly well. His career has been a pathetic failure compared to that of his father, a brillaint but unforgiving man, a self-made man, who died a millionaire. He has a wife and son living in his home who try to speak to him as little as possible, in his mind because we don't want to hear the truth he speaks. He is a lonely, unhappy man; so, perhaps, I thought, I should extend a helping hand, aid him in his time of need as Qweeg's officers didn't. Fortunately, he then praised Slobodan Milosevic's policies, if not the man himself; my father is no Captain Qweeg, my father is Martin Bormann.

My father obsessively reads every obscure medical newsletter he can get his hands on and believes that snake-oil salesmen hold the key to longevity. He thinks he's going to live to be a hundred. I hope his does, because he will spend the last forty years in isolation after his wife divorces him and his children cut off all contact. Rot in Hell, you miserable filth.

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.