Just because I think they're funny, here are a couple of videos for your viewing enjoyment. There's one for the Star Wars fans out there, and another for those of you who love all things Walken. Happy holidays! Now you can't say I never gave you anything.

Check out the newest products from Nick's knitting needles of fury. Above you'll see my awesome new Mystery Science Theater-themed messenger bag. Below, you'll see my newest pair of socks (we're up to about 15 pairs at this point).

Oh, and check this out. It's knitted toilet paper, complete with its own knitted cardboard roll!

Look at the tiny little mouth. You'd think he'd be kind of ambivalent about his fate, but he almost seems happy, doesn't he?

Thank you, dear Committee members. Thank you for alerting us that Matt Damon is this year's sexiest man alive. I can never decide for myself, so every year I find myself eagerly awaiting your opinion on the subject. No really. Your insights are a beacon of light in an increasingly dreary world.

Okay, okay okay . . . let me just set the snarkiness aside for a moment. The thing is, I don't actually have a problem with Matt Damon per se (aren't you impressed by my use of Latin?), but why does it always seem to be the same three guys cycling in and out of the winner slot? Matt Damon. George Clooney. Brad Pitt. Matt Damon. George Clooney. Brad Pitt. Matt Damon. George Clooney. And...Mark Ruffalo? Ha! Just kidding. It's Brad Pitt again.

Boring.

Why not choose someone a little edgier? Why not choose someone new, or at least new to your more mainstream readers? Alan Tudyk, for example. The guy's adorable. Or why not someone capable of portraying a crazy person with uncanny skill, like Jeremy Davies or John Turturro? Or what about just giving it to Benicio del Toro? I hear he can flip you.

Also, the men you choose have been around Hollywood for awhile, so they're safe choices. You might as well be nominating Tony Curtis. (Wait, he's still alive, isn't he?) Anyway my point is, there are plenty of less predictable choices--many of them traditionally attractive--who would be suitable alternatives to the Damon/Clooney/Pitt trifecta. Jake Gyllenhaal. Mos Def. Jet Li. And you all know how I feel about Christian Bale. He's the more attractive, more successful brother I never had.

Nick and I were discussing this at the grocery store recently, and we decided that the one guy who's really overdue for this title is Bruce Campbell. Come on, Committee members. Here's a guy who's so masculine he's almost a caricature of masculinity. He's cartoonishly masculine, really...one of the few actors I've seen who literally has a lantern jaw. Plus, he has a tremendous sense of humor about himself, which is what sexiness is all about, right? Why doesn't he ever win? His work in Bubba Ho-Tep should qualify him, hands down.

One last thought. I'd recommend choosing someone who's not an actor for once. Believe it or not, there are plenty of sexy people in the world who don't live in Hollywood. I once saw a guy on the London Tube who was hotter than any of your previous winners, and he was wearing a kilt. Maybe you could consider picking a musician one year (Jack White). Or a slightly geriatric linguist (Noam Chomsky). Or even a physicist (*cough* Brian Greene *cough*).

Think it over, will you? Someday I might even consider buying your magazine.

Have I ever told you how much I loved the show Deadwood? It was beautiful and gritty and Shakespearean, and I miss the characters terribly now that they're gone. Except, of course, for George Hearst . . . vile, disgusting George Hearst, who killed the gentle Mr. Ellsworth and chopped off Al's finger (truth be told, I was more indignant about the latter). Unfortunately, George Hearst got out of the eponymous town unscathed, with the exception of a very minor bullet wound. I gotta tell you, this turn of events really chapped my hide. I understand that the writers had to work within the constraints of history, but . . . the man was pure evil. I would have preferred that they simply abandoned historical fact and gave the viewers what we wanted for the finale: sweet, sweet revenge. I've already imagined several alternatives to this ending, and here are a few of them.

Alternate endings for Deadwood:

1. Al throws Hearst off the balcony of the Gem. A stagecoach rolls over him.
2. Al lobs his treasured head-in-the-box at Hearst, knocking him right into Charlie Utter's fists of fury.
3. Al feeds Hearst to Wu's pigs. While he's still alive.
4. Mrs. Ellsworth stabs Hearst to death with a diamond-encrusted hair pin.
5. Seth Bullock makes his angry face and drags Hearst through the street again by his ear. But instead of depositing him in the jail, he walls him into an underground winery beside some casks of amontillado.
6. Doc drugs Hearst and delivers him to his secret mountain lair for some slightly unethical medical experiments. His eventual death proves to be a great boon to science.
7. Hearst turns out to be a robot. Richardson spills a bucket of water on him and he short-circuits, just like in Westworld.
8. The horse that paralyzed Steve realizes its error and delivers a comparable kick to Hearst's spine. Cue the theme from Mr. Ed.
9. Calamity Jane expels a deadly blast of hangover breath in Hearst's face, killing him instantly.
10. Zombie Bill Hickock rises from the grave and devours Hearst's brains.
11. Dan fights Hearst and tears out one of his eyeballs in the process. Maybe both.
12. The Pinkertons get sassy with Hearst's men. A major dance-fight ensues. ("When you're a Hearst, you're a Hearst all the way . . . .")
13. Trixie metamorphoses into her true vampire form and tears out Hearst's throat, letting him slowly bleed to death in the thoroughfare.
14. Reverend Cramed sprinkles Hearst with holy water and reads some pertinent Bible verses. Then he stabs him in the gut.

Much better, huh?

I don't know about you, but I can't watch television for more than five minutes without seeing a Spangles commercial. These ads always have a folksy, low-production kind of quality to them, as if they want you to believe that all the actors are local. They all feature a particular product, like the Western burger or the breakfast pita, and the promotion involves some sort of cutesy, themed scenario, like little kids dressed up in cowboy hats. Some of the commercials feature 50s-style songs that are disgustingly singable and tend to stick with you, like a wad of chewing gum on the underside of your brain ("M-m-m-mudslide!"). And the commercials are everywhere, infiltrating the membranes of our culture like some sort of virus. What's the reason for this juggernaut of kitsch and unpleasantness? Well, after copious research and a good deal of creative problem solving, I have arrived at an explanation. It is not, however, for the faint of heart, so I'd suggest that anyone prone to fainting be seated immediately. Ready? Okay, here it is: the invention and mass-promotion of the Spangles franchise is one of the preliminary stages in an imminent alien invasion.

Whew. There, I said it. You know that dark-haired woman who appears in nearly every Spangles commercial? The one with the ponytail? She's the supreme commander of the aliens. No question in my mind. She seems cute and benign, but trust me, one day soon we will see a Spangles commercial in which she unmasks herself. The tentacles will unfurl, the mucus-coated alien body will reveal itself, and then things will change for the human race. "Do not be afraid," she will intone, in a deep booming voice that is no longer modified by the voice box. "We are now in control of all your cities and nations. We have converted all your government buildings into processing centers, and we expect everyone to report to the nearest one within the next few days. You will not be harmed. Please do not resist. Dissent = disintegration. Thank you for your time." Soon after, we'll see alien propaganda and the institution of thought control. We'll see billboards that read "OBEY," and our only recourse will be in the form of Rowdy Roddy Piper and a 20-minute fight over sunglasses. I, for one, am not looking forward to this eventuality.

Do you still desire proof? Silly, stubborn readers. Perhaps the truth is not as self-evident as it seems to me. Perhaps it takes a bit of conjecture, a bit of imagination to arrive at this conclusion. Well just stay with me, and I shall lead you to the realm of truth, terrifying and devoid of temperature control as it may be.

The decor of Spangles is all about 50s/early 60s nostalgia. It's a tribute to the playful allure of that decade, the whole Pleasantville thing, in which everyone wears poodle skirts and no one talks about icky subjects like segregation. The interior of the restaurant is crammed full of framed pictures representing that era. Every flat surface is covered, just as every single nook and cranny is inhabited by some article of period memorabilia. There's a napkin dispenser on the table? Better jazz it up with some Elvis magnets! There's a railing by the condiment bar? Better candystripe it like a barber pole so when people see it they think: "Fun! Wow, I'm having fun!" Yep, all this stuff is supposed to be entertaining, but it's just too much, like that nightmare I had where Frankie Avalon was trying to suffocate me with a pillow. No human being could have settled on a design scheme like this. You'd have to have crazy, multi-faceted insect eyes to absorb it all, which is the first reason why I believe aliens are responsible. The other reason is that there is no thematic consistency between the items themselves. Part of the 50s/early 60s thing is the innocence factor, and yet there are plenty of oddly risque things in close proximity to more traditional ones. There is a portrait of Ozzie and Harriet Nelson placed right beside a movie poster for Reform School Girl. A photograph of The Four Letterman hangs just above a photograph of Marilyn Monroe in a bra. It's bizarre and haphazard, as if the person (or creature) who designed the place had no sense of the accepted aesthetic of the era. We've all been exposed to enough period kitsch to do a better job than this, so it's clear that no human being could be responsible for it. Well, possibly a feral child, but certain intellectual elements of the composition make this an unlikely explanation (feral children are not skilled at exercises in taxonomy). So, yeah, it all comes down to aliens. And they did a lot of research, I'll give them that. They learned enough to know that this particular period of time is one of the most celebrated eras in American history. They have embraced this mystique in order to gain our trust.

What is their ultimate goal? Do they mean us harm, or have they simply embarked on this elaborate form of infiltration so as not to startle us when they make themselves known? I have no way of knowing. But if science fiction movies have taught us anything, it's that there's a strong possibility they are here to destroy us and take all our stuff. Why the restaurants? Well, the first explanation that comes to mind involves a fundamental alteration of the contents of that steak burger you just wolfed down. After all, if they're planning to establish permanent residence on our planet, it's more convenient for them if we've all eaten each other up first. Or, it could be that the restaurants function as particle-displacing mechanisms that can "beam" their patrons to a nearby mother ship for closer scrutiny, perhaps sending them back to the exact moment they were taken and erasing their memories so that they remember nothing of the experience (especially the probe). Perhaps they want to replace us with pods so they can use our bodies as fuel. Or perhaps they realized that in order to dominate our world without our objection they need to make lots and lots of money. If they play their cards right, they could be as prolific as Starbucks within the next few years. They could overthrow every other restaurant in existence, at which point they might begin introducing soma into our burgers so that we are docile when they make their big move. Who's to say, really? They're aliens. They could do anything.

So the next time you see a Spangles commercial—and it will be soon—let it serve as a reminder to be vigilant. The dark-haired queen of the aliens is coming, and she has steak sauce.

Superman! Superman Superman Superman! Needless to say, I awaited the opening of this film with tremendous excitement. I was so excited, in fact, that I went to see it at its very first showing, even though Nick was unable to see it with me. I saw it again two days later (Nick was with me this time). And a week after that, I saw it in 3D at an IMAX theatre. Truth be told, I could watch it a dozen more times--in a row even, with my eyelids pried open Clockwork Orange-style--and I'd never ever ever be tired of it. Up till now my personal record for number of times viewing a film in the theatre has been 7 (The Matrix). With Supes, I may actually surpass that record. Thanks to this film, you see, I have ascended to the apex of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I have now reached that sweet spot of self-actualization.

All hail Bryan Singer, the world's great benefactor! Okay, I may be getting carried away, but you get the idea. I loved this movie. It was everything I could have hoped for. It could have gone wrong in a thousand different ways, but somehow it didn't. Somehow it transcended the limitations of the form to become the greatest piece of visual art since the horsie thing stepped on the swoopy-head guy in Picasso's Guernica. Why is it I get all messianic talking about the Man of Steel? Maybe it's because everything about the myth is larger than life, and the language describing it has to be the same. Because true myths are not just stories, you know. They are visions of how we see ourselves as human beings--what we hope for, and what we wish to be.

The film begins with a brief explanation of where Superman has been for the past few years. It seems that five years back, scientists found the remains of Krypton, and Superman immediately took to the skies to see it for himself. Like many adopted children, he essentially went on a quest to find his birth parents, to find that place where he could truly belong and not be an outsider. Now he is back on Earth, burdened with the knowledge that he is the sole survivor of his race, and he has to cope with the way the world and his loved ones have carried on in his absence. These are lonely discoveries for the Man of Steel, and they contribute to the overall sense of melancholy that pervades the film.

But this is not some kind of emo Superman. This Superman is just as charismatic and funny as ever, and his feats and rescues are every bit as impressive as in years past. Maybe more so. And Brandon Routh does a fantastic job of portraying him. With that chiseled jaw and those piercing eyes, he looks as if he was born to play the part. He has the perfect sense of natural poise and, when he's in Kentform, the sense of natural poise trying to disguise itself. As Kent, his mannerisms and nervous tics are an homage to Chris Reeve's interpretation in the 70s films. It's both new and familiar.

Which brings me to another point.

The Superman tale is woven into the fabric of our culture, and that the story simultaneously exists in the past and the present. Superman does not inhabit one point in time; he encompasses an entire continuum. He's much bigger than a single movie, a single comic book, or a single television series. He lives and breathes in our collective subconscious. He is more than the sum of all his parts. Bryan Singer clearly understands this, which is why Superman Returns contains nods aplenty to the 70s movies, including archival footage and recordings of Marlon Brando's majestic Jor-El. Lois Lane still has issues with spelling ("how many f's are in catastrophic?"), and Clark Kent still says "swell." The opening credits were done in the same tubular blue lettering. In addition, much of the clothing and set design was created with a 40s style in mind, hearkening back to Superman's WWII-era origins. The result is really brilliant--it's both modern and timeless. It doesn't feel separate from its predecessors. It feels like an authentic sequel, the natural outgrowth of earlier efforts. And of course, the John Williams score ties it all together, instantly creating the mood, taking us to that happy Superman place in our hearts so that we embrace whatever follows with open arms. With the exception of Superman III & IV, that theme has never led us astray. I get chills whenever I hear it. And when I'm in a dark movie theatre, possibly with a pair of 3D glasses on my lap, that theme makes me positively ecstatic. There's just something about it. Maybe it's because everything we see today is so full of sarcasm and nuanced angst (and being an indie film fan, I do love that), but the Superman theme is just unabashedly majestic, so fearlessly huge in scope. And when combined with the camera's grandiose tour of space from the opening credits, with its supernovas and swoops past ruined planets, it's enough to transport you back to childhood and the kind of awe you had when you first looked up at the night sky and thought about how freaking immense the universe really is.

Anyway, the rest of the cast was great as well. Kate Bosworth made for a good Lois Lane. She's both confident and scattered, affectionate with her family and yet at times completely aloof. Bosworth's Lane is a little more girlie than Margot Kidder's, but she's believable and likable. And of course she retains that insatiable reporter's curiosity that has so often resulted in personal endangerment. It should be noted that all the film versions of Lois are pretty toned down when compared with her portrayal in the comics. The comic book Lois Lane is not just ambitious but outright aggressive, and pretty much fearless. She's kind of scary sometimes, even to me, and it doesn't surprise me that they softened her somewhat for the 70s movies. After all, this was waaaaayyyyy before the era of Lara Croft: Tomb Raider and her generation of powerful yet sexy women.

The requisite villainess in this film is Parker Posey as Kitty Kowalski. Miss Tessmucker left some big ... er ... shoes to fill, but Posey does a great job of flouncing around in glammy outfits and being plenty entertaining on her own. She's simultaneously dumb in the expected way ("Like sea monkeys!"), and yet she can produce a bit of stinging sarcasm when the moment calls for it. ("Gee that's really something, Lex. It's freakin' Gone With the Wind.")

Now let's take a moment to talk about Lex Luthor. In fact, here's an impromptu poem about him:

Criminal extraordinaire
Connoisseur of phony hair
Thinks Clark Kent is super square,
Luthor Luthor Luthor!

Like it? I made that up just now.

WHICH ONE IS SCARIER?

(Caveat: The following paragraph may contain traces of SPOILERS. Those who are allergic to SPOILERS should not read on. I mean it. Seriously, if you haven't seen it, stop reading. Okay, well don't say you weren't warned.)

I think it goes without saying that Kevin Spacey was the sort of hardcore Lex Luthor that we just haven't seen in films to date. I loved Gene Hackman's version--I really did--but he always exuded more of a used-car-salesman vibe than one of actual menace. If anything, he was Herb Tarlek gone rogue. (Okay, that's a little unfair ... I suppose I can't hold Hackman accountable for the sartorial eccentricities of an entire decade.) But clothing aside, you never really believed that he would kill millions of people to further his empire. You never saw him physically assault anyone, much less stab them with a kryptonite shiv. Hackman just didn't give us the kind of formidable physical presence that Spacey does. Spacey's Luthor is not just insane, he's cold-blooded. Cutting Kitty's brakes for real when she was just going to pretend--cold-blooded. Threatening SuperKid with a glowing green tube--cold-blooded. Beating the crap out of Superman just because he can--cold-blooded. Spacey plays him like a modern-day Al Capone, flaunting his mischief with a sociopathic twinkle in his eye. It's funny, not long ago I watched an A&E special about the history of Superman, and I learned that it wasn't until the 80s that Lex Luthor made the switch from mad scientist to business magnate. And it makes sense, doesn't it? Within the context of modern life, there is no greater evil than a businessman. Businessmen are smart and ruthless. They're survivors (as we saw from the show of the same name). I think this was a very, very smart change to the lore, because Luthor's primary function is to be a foil to Superman. On some level, they have to be equals in order to balance out the story. Luthor has to be every bit as evil as Superman is good, and his machinations have to produce the kind of threat that is difficult to manage even for (maybe especially for) Superman. Bank robberies and crimus interruptus are one thing, but who can contend with the malevolence of corporate America? As Luthor observes during the film, Superman is great at swooping out of the sky and saving people, but he's not so hot on the details, like making your court date. This is a brave new world, in which red tape can be a sufficient weapon against a red cape.

(Notice: No SPOILERS beyond this point.)

There are several things in particular that impressed me about what Singer did with this film. For one, the physics of everything was rendered properly (at least to my admittedly untrained eye). When Superman lands the plane in the baseball field, he presses into the cone and a ripple goes through the fuselage, at which point he slowly lowers it from its nose-down position. This isn't the fakey one-handed Superman rescue we're all accustomed to seeing. The stuff that happens to the plane prior to this is also consistent with real-world physics (for example, the weightlessness of the passengers as the plane reaches its apex). Later on, a flare appears around his body as he re-enters the atmosphere. And toward the end of the film he goes rocketing through the windows of a skyscraper in order to catch a falling object. This makes perfect sense doesn't it? Superman would naturally choose the shortest path to his destination. But I don't think I've seen it on film before. Touches like this make the film feel more authentic, as if the action is taking place not in some slick movie world, but in our own.

(Ok, there are a few more SPOILERS in this next paragraph. So sue me.)

Another great thing was Singer's use of imagery and symbolism. This is much trickier than it looks. If executed properly, a conscious symbolism can really enrich the texture of a piece. If it's overwrought, we feel we're being bludgeoned by it, which is the way I sometimes feel when reading Toni Morrison (Ok, I get it! The corn is symbolic! Please stop, for the love of God!). For the most part, Singer succeeds in invoking a number of cultural elements without seeming heavy-handed. I mean, we all know that Superman is the quintessential American hero. He spends time all over the world, but everything about him represents American culture. Therefore, when Singer stages his comeback, it's natural that the backdrop would be a baseball field. Soccer and football may be comparatively more popular these days, but baseball carries with it a uniquely patriotic flavor that has not faded through the years, even in the face of decreasing ticket sales. The scene where the bullet crushes against his eye is also iconic. This is what Superman is all about for us. This is why he's a vessel for our collective hopes and dreams. Here you have the most vulnerable part of the body (at least for a PG-13 film), and a bullet can't so much as scratch the cornea. And just think of the part near the end where Superman falls to earth. Yeah, there's a crapload of Christ imagery there. That's really unavoidable with the Man of Steel, for obvious reasons (Jor-El so loved the world that he gave them his only begotten son...). But it's more than just that. It's positively Wagnerian. It's the twilight of a god. It's that little mark on a geologic timeline that signals the end of an era. This is why the scene is not just tragic--it's heartbreakingly beautiful.

Bravo, Bryan Singer. You rock my world.

Now to touch quickly on the romantic elements of the film. Most of Superman's emotional depth (and humanity, if you can call it that with an alien) has always been conveyed through his somewhat schizophrenic, on-again-off-again relationship with Lois Lane. Singer knows this is and smartly makes the most of it, giving us a complex situation in which Lois Lane has moved on with her life in Superman's absence. She has a live-in boyfriend and a son (oh snap!). Oh yeah, and she is fairly pissed at Superman for running off to Krypton without saying good-bye. It's a delicate situation for the film to navigate, and Singer treads a very fine line with it. It would have been so easy for Superman to come off as a homewrecker in this scenario, what with his occasional spying and his seductive aerial invitations. But it doesn't come off this way, and a lot of this is due to the performances of the actors involved, especially James Marsden, who plays the boyfriend. (Yes, he was Cyclops in the X-men movies, although it took me about thirty minutes to realize this because he wasn't wearing the visor.) He does an excellent job of not being all tearful and victimy. His character is attractive, successful, and imminently likable. At some point, of course, it becomes obvious to him that his girlfriend still has feelings for You-Know-Who (and vice-versa), but he carries this burden with an air of dignified melancholy. And the thing is, Lois clearly cares for him, too. It's a very grown-up scenario, one that is not at all black and white, and I appreciate that about it.

Ok, so to sum things up, Superman Returns is the greatest story ever told (apologies to Charlton Heston, of course)! The scope of the film was so much larger than I expected and contains some of the best action movie sequences in recent memory. One thing, though. What was with that blatant ripoff of 2001: A Space Odyssey? You know what I'm talking about, Bryan. The use of all those weirdly anharmonic voices when Superman was carrying that continent thing into space, just like in those monolith scenes. Call it homage if you will, but I'm onto you. Still, it's pretty effective at conveying a sense of eerie alien grandeur, I'll give you that, and anyway I'd rather movies err on the side of being too conceptually big than too small. I guess it's better to have Kubrick as an idol than the Farrelly brothers.

Four sticks of doom! See this film now--your immortal soul will thank you.

I see that ad for The Lake House, and all I can think about is that hideous chunky turtleneck Keanu Reeves is wearing. I want to look away, but I can't. I'm obsessed with it, so I just sit there and watch with the sort of grim fascination usually reserved for slasher films and presidential elections, and when at last the sweater appears—in all its hateful glory—I feel my blood run cold. That sweater is anathema to me. It's appalling, and I can't even say exactly why.

As a general rule, I don't wear these types of sweaters because they make me feel slightly suffocated, but it has never before bothered me when another person chose to wear one. So what, you may ask, is so terrible about this particular sweater? Well, I can tell you that part of it is my personal distate for men in turtlenecks. Something about a man in a turtleneck looks affected and unnatural to me. I mean, what are they going for? Casual WASPiness? Hoping to be scouted for a J. Crew modeling contract? I don't like it. And I think Nick had the right idea about Keanu's sweater situation when he said it was probably the result of the actor bringing a piece of clothing from home, believing it would be perfect for the character. But this was a mistake, and it was the mistake of Director Alejandro Agresti to permit it on the set.

Aside from issues of fashion, however, I really couldn't pinpoint my reasons for disliking the sweater. Maybe it's because the turtleneck looks like a living organism that is about to swallow Keanu's head. I don't know. I just know that looking at it fills me with quiet dread. It's like someone used the Necronomicon to open a portal to hell and this sweater is what came out of it.

If you still don't get what I'm saying, try reading Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart" again and substitute the words "Keanu's sweater" for "the old man's eye." Then perhaps you'll understand that the sweater must be stopped, for its every fiber is infused with evil. A pox on this film for unleashing such horrors on the world.

Stay tuned: The Superman Returns review will be incoming soon. Men in capes = good. Men in turtlenecks = suffering beyond measure.

Bob Davis Interviews Three Applicants for the Human Resources Job

Bob Davis: Hi, I'm Bob Davis, the vice-president in charge of Human Resources for Polaris Inc. I hope you don't mind the group interview format, but we have a lot of promising applicants and this is the best way for me to get a sense of who you are and whether you'd be suited for the position of Human Resources supervisor. So, I'd like you all to tell me a bit about yourselves and your previous employment experiences. Tell me why you believe you are qualified for this position.

The Grand Inquisitor: Ahem. Well, I spear-headed the Inquisition program for several years, and that taught me a lot about conflict resolution and how to deal constructively with difficult employees. I was also responsible for incorporating some fun, teambuilding exercises into the workplace. An interrogation session can be a great icebreaker for employees who don't know each other very well.

Bob Davis: Wonderful things, those teambuilding exercises. And the gentleman next to you?

Rasputin: I was the personal advisor to the Romanov family until some unfortunate events necessitated my departure. I also have a great deal of experience with molding corporate images.

Bob Davis: Great! Any special skills that you feel would be useful as the HR supervisor?

Rasputin: I cannot be killed.

Bob Davis: (chuckling) Well I don't think you'd have much of a chance to demonstrate that particular skill in this company. We haven't had an assassination of a human resources employee yet. But who knows, the year is still young, right? Hehe. Seriously, though, I think immortality is an enviable skill, and I'm sure we could all learn a thing or two from you. Now let's hear from the gentleman in the black jeans. Mr....Mustaine, is it?

Dave Mustaine: Yeah.

Bob Davis: Your hair is very long. How do you keep it manageable?

Dave Mustaine: Conditioner, and my own mixture of egg whites and motor oil.

Bob Davis: Is that motor with an umlaut? I know you metal types are pretty fond of umlauts. Hehe. Well, to the point. What sort of qualifications do you have for this position? What experience do you have with managing personnel issues?

Dave Mustaine: Well, back in '84 David and Greg were having this argument on the tour bus about how to distribute the groupies fairly cause David like blondes and Greg liked brunettes and they couldn't agree...

Bob Davis: (laughing uncomfortably) Fantastic! Well, that about wraps it up.

Dave Mustaine: (still rambling)... And I said, come one guys, we'll rotate, like clockwise...

Bob Davis: I'll call each of you when I've made a final decision. Thanks for your time.

Dave Mustaine: (grinning widely) ... And then everyone was happy, but they still couldn't agree on the beer situation...

Bob Davis sighs deeply and leaves Dave Mustaine alone in the room, talking to himself.

Mitchum Mayhem

And now, I'd like to have a private word with the Mitchum antiperspirant people. I've seen your Mitchum Man ads, and I'd like to advise you to stop before you embarrass yourselves further. The stuff the men do in these ads--persuading a woman that the intimate photos he's taking are for his personal collection, then sharing them with everyone he knows--that's not edgy and cool, it's just creepy. Men who do stuff like this go to jail. And if creepy is truly what you're going for, why not take it a step further with something like this?:

"If you drilled a hole in her wall so that you could watch her anytime day or night ... you might be a Mitchum Man."

See what I mean?

It's obvious why this campaign was launched. It has everything to do with the success of body sprays like Axe and Tag that are marketed toward younger consumers, most of whom have to get their moms to drive them to the store to buy it. But the Axe and Tag ads succeed where the Mitchum ones fail. Don't get me wrong, there's plenty that's offensive about the Axe/Tag campaigns. (A qualified feminist could easily find at least 30 mistakes of misogyny and gendertyping in each ad. Imagine a grown-up version of the back cover of Highlights Magazine.) But these ads are more palatable because they exude a fun, non-threatening, boys-will-be-boys kinda vibe. They are effective in selling an image to men, and yet the whole business comes off as harmless burlesque to women. It's genius, really. You watch it, you roll your eyes, maybe you laugh that they had the audacity to invent something called the Order of the Serpentine, and then you move on. That's why it works. Because it's ridiculous and over the top. But if I were at a guy's house and I opened the medicine cabinet to see a Mitchum body spray, I'd run for the hills. You see, after watching their ads, I associate Mitchum antiperspirant with greasy guys in trenchcoats who feel women up on the subway. It's a yucky, not-at-all attractive image.

You guys know what I'm saying, right? I'm talking about the difference between charming Eric "Otter" Stratton and Sleazemaster Quagmire. Meeting women through the obituaries is one thing. But when the lights go off, "Giggidy-giggidy" is the last thing any woman wants to hear.

Jai

A guy I know named Jai recently asked me to blog about him and his thrilling life. Here's what I came up with.

One day Jai went to a department store with his robot. The clerk was like, "you can't bring your robot in here." And Jai was like, "the hell I can't." And the clerk was like, "is it a seeing-eye robot? Cause only seeing-eye robots are permitted in this store." And Jai was like "Sure, why not? Yeah, it's a seeing-eye robot. Now will you get off my back?" And the clerk was like, "No way, I think you're lying. I don't think you're really blind." And then Jai was like, "I'm not blind, but this is totally a seeing-eye robot, and that's all that matters according to your own rules." And then the clerk was like, "But you shouldn't have a robot here if you're not blind." And then Jai was like "What, do you have some kind of sick prejudice against people who can see? I'm calling the ACLU right now." And then the clerk was like, "I'd rather you didn't. Let's see if we can handle this more professionally." And then the robot shot lasers out of its eyes and incinerated the clerk.

THE END.

Part I: My Olympic Delusions

When I was little, I had dreams of being both an Olympic commentator and a competitor. I'm not exactly sure how I planned to reconcile those two occupations ... I must have thought I could just climb down from the press box area, suit up, and get in line on the track between Kenya and Brazil. And when I was done, I could comment on my own stellar performance. Perfect set-up, right? Naturally, I wouldn't be a bit biased, and after winning the gold medal I would say nothing but nice things about the people who won silver and bronze.

I prepared extensively for both of these occupations. Or at least as extensively as could be expected from a kid with ADHD. For the competitor part, my goal was to break the world record in women's 100m and become the fastest woman alive. Modest goals, I know. But I had reason for optimism. When I was around nine I enjoyed a sizable (dare I say freakish?) growth spurt, leaving me with legs that were disproportionately long, like that of a baby giraffe. As a result, there was a period of time where I could run faster than any other kid in school, boys included. Can't you just see little nine-year-old me tottering along on these giant legs like one of Dali's surrealist elephants? I'm sure it was comical. Still, I had complete confidence in my Olympic future. Watch out Edwin Moses, I said. And watch out Carl Lewis. Cause here comes a fourth grader from eastern Kansas who's going to leave you in the dust! I read my dad's Runner's World voraciously, I chewed GatorGum (a long-extinct type of gum made by Gatorade), and I measured out a hundred-yard stretch of sidewalk by my house for practice runs. Sometimes I ran with my head thrown back like that guy in Chariots of Fire, although it kind of hurt my neck. I was very serious about all of this, you see. That is, until the dark hand of laziness settled over me and I decided it would be easier to be a puppeteer, a la The Dark Crystal. But before that ... ah, before that, I coulda been a contender!

As for my planned career as an Olympic commentator, the preparations were a little more simple. I would set my purple tape recorder by the television and record myself commenting on the Olympic events as they occurred. I would say things like, "Oh yes, that was an excellent jump. Much better than the other guy." Problem was, I never identified the other guy. The specifics of their performances also went unmentioned, and sometimes it wasn't even clear what event I was watching. But that wasn't the point, really, because it was really more about recording my experience of watching the Olympics. Not long ago, I made the mistake of letting Nick listen to one of these tapes. He has teased me mercilessly ever since. "Hey honey, aren't you going to tape yourself while you watch this?" Snicker, snicker. Yeah, I get it. I was a dork. But was that really more dorky than the time I built a vortex out of Legos so that my Fisher Price people could travel to another universe? For pure dorkiness, nothing beats that, baby.

Part II: Celebrity Propaganda on Ice!

As you have no doubt guessed by this point, I love the Olympics. I love ski jumping and bobsled (bobsleigh, officially) and snowboarding half-pipe and cross country. I love figure skating and luge, and I've even built up a healthy tolerance to curling. The only event I don't like is ice dancing. It's all glossy and melodramatic, like the skaters are acting out scenes from a Joan Collins novel. There's the shellacked hair, the demented beauty queen make-up, and the neon Barbarella costumes. Do they honestly think this looks good? And then there's the absurdity of the dancing itself, which makes Laurence Welk look like an absolute hipster. Look, I've tried to be tolerant. But the fact is, if I don't change the station quickly when ice dancing comes on, I'm afraid I'll start having that nightmare about Branson again, the one where I'm kidnapped by unscrupulous tap dancers and held hostage in a boxy little theater somewhere between Andy Williams and the Yakov Smirnov show. (In Soviet Russia, ransom pays you!) Trust me, I don't need another reason to wake up screaming.

Ice dancing aside, I will pretty much watch anything that goes on in the Olympics. However, the coverage was fairly ridiculous this year, and I can sum up the reason in two words. Apolo Ohno. Now before you start sending me hate mail, I'm not offended by him as a person or as a skater. I don't even know the guy. I'm just annoyed by the celebrity culture that caused him to be the most coveted interview in the whole games. I mean, did the announcers really need to chronicle his every movement? Apolo is entering the rink! Apolo is talking to his father! Apolo is adjusting his tights and scratching himself! And then they have to consult him on every occasion, on every topic imaginable. Oh no, it's been five minutes and no one has interviewed Apolo! What does Apolo think of the catfight between Chad Hedrick and Shani Davis? Does Apolo have an opinion on the situation in the Middle East? How does he feel about string theory? What about underwear...boxers or briefs? Sure, Apolo's a great speed skater, but you know what? There were a bunch of other great skaters there, too. That's kind of what the Olympics are about—people who are really, really good at their sport of choice. Interview someone else once in a while, you know? The worst was after the speed skating relays, when the interviewers nearly knocked over the other U.S. skaters to get to Apolo. I just sighed and left the room.

And then there were the stupid biopics. (I saw so many of these about Apolo's life that I could probably recite the timeline of his life more accurately than my own.) Is it just me, or have they gotten a little bit hilarious? Even the athletes who don't have an inspiring story of personal tragedy and struggle against adversity are portrayed as mini-saints. It all begins with the bittersweet music, and the shot of the athlete frolicking in the snow outside his or her family's rustic log cabin home. We see clips of the athlete's previous performances and watch at least one episode of the athlete in tears, after an injury or some other disappointment. At the end, there is the soft-focus close-up of the athlete looking contemplative and brave. "Johnny Weir has been struggling with his aura for years," the voice-over intones. "Will it betray him at a critical moment?" Sweet mother of Bode. It's like all the worst things about television have converged to form abominations so monstrous they just make you want to put your foot through the screen. Even if that means electrocuting yourself in the process, because hey, at least then your suffering would be over.

But I do love the Olympics, and I always feel a sense of melancholy when they come to an end. As a kid, I even dredged up some tears as the flame was being extinguished. This year, luckily, the nostalgia of the closing ceremony was attenuated by the sudden emergence of Ricky Martin and a bunch of scary clowns on bicycles. There's nothing like pure horror to make you forget that you won't be seeing ski jumping for another four years. It's brilliant. In fact, I think they should openly embrace the horror motif for the next closing ceremony. They should bring out acrobats with chainsaws and maybe little girls with ragged dresses crawling out of a 300-foot television. Perhaps they could have a special salsa number performed by the Event Horizon dancers. Lots of high kicks, Rockette style, and make-up that makes it look as if their eyes are missing. My god, that's inspired. You know what? They should hire me to choreograph the floor show for the next winter Olympics. Hey there, Vancouver! I'll plan your Olympics for you. Just give me a call and I'll send over some dioramas of my plans. But I should warn you, you will probably need to start making the sock puppets now. It'll take a while to get ten million made, and sweat shops should always be a last resort.

P.S. One more word about the floor show. During the mime show about the formation of Vancouver (starring an enthusiastic caveman guy who went ice fishing and suffered from a bad case of bed head), I kept trying to imagine what such a show would consist of if they were portraying the heritage of Kansas. What would they come up with? A bunch of Wizard of Oz-themed crap? Dancing sunflowers? Maybe some guys burning Darwin in effigy? Anyone have any ideas?

What if James Bond had been a cowboy instead of a spy?

Well, for starters, he would have a country twang. Every use of "Bond, James Bond" would be preceded by a hearty "Howdy, Ma'am." Rather than reporting to the good folks at MI-6, he'd be comparing notes with the head wrangler at the Lazy M Ranch. He would take his whiskey shaken not stirred. All of his cavorting and intrigue would take place on cattle drives and in saloons. It'd be fun.

Let's take a moment and look at how the Bond films might have been different if their protagonist had been a cowboy:

From Dodge City With Love

On His Marshal's Secret Posse

Goldfinger (Same title, except now it's about Sutter's Mill)

The Cattlehand Who Loved Me

License to Rope

GoldenEarp

Dr. Novocaine (About Doc Holliday, naturally. You knew who was a dentist, right?)

A View to a Necktie Social

Peacemaker

The Man with the Golden Boot

Tom Mix Never Dies

Octopussy the Kid

For Your Saddle Only

The Oklahoma Territory Is Not Enough

And so on. Of course, the dialogue would have to be modified to reflect the genre:

"Are ya waitin' fer me to talk?"

"No sirree, Mr. Bond, I'm waitin' fer ya to die."

Actually, the more I consider this the more I think there's something to it. Wouldn't it be fascinating to reinterpret all this spy vs. spy material through the lens of the Wild West? It's not as if there are so many substantive differences. They're both about stoic loners who engage in violent behavior for an honorable cause. They're both about men who change their women as often as their socks (more often, in the case of the cowboy). It'd be a pretty simple conversion, really. Got a nuclear weapon in the hands of a bunch of nihilistic political separatists? Substitute a bank robber with a pack of dynamite. Thrilling car chase through the French countryside? Make it a buffalo stampede, and you're gold.

Does anyone out there have the interest and temerity to bring this dream to life? Or maybe—just a thought here—I could generate interest in the highest levels of the industry. I'm envisioning an Indiana Jones-type feel to these, so perhaps I could persuade George Lucas to take on this project. You know, since he's all finished with the Star Wars films and everything. Wait, he is done with them, right? Anyway, I'm sure things are getting pretty quiet on the Skywalker Ranch, so maybe I'll head over there to pitch the idea. I have heard, however, that he sometimes shoots people on sight. So, Gentle Reader, if I end up dead in the next few months, you'll know George Lucas did it. Please don't let him get away with it (the way he got away with making Greedo shoot first). He's a smooth talker, that George Lucas. He'll swagger up to the witness chair in his uniform and terrify everyone with his bravado and his profanity. Don't let him pull rank on you, or tell you that if it weren't for him the entertainment industry would be a shambles. At some point he'll probably tell you that you can't handle the truth. But don't ease up. Press him until he screams in your face that he did the deed. I have faith in you, because deep down I know you're going to make one hell of a trial lawyer. Your father would have been proud.

Hmm. Maybe the movie should be about that.

Think the art of oratory is dead? Watch professional wrestling sometime.

I confess it, I have a weakness for this stuff. The theatricality of it all, the absurd costumes, the painstakingly choreographed pseudo-violence. It's like an action movie, compressed into the space of a few minutes: there is a hero, and a villain, and sometimes a love interest. Most important, there is always a story. Sometimes this story is told through a narrator (the announcer), but most often it is conveyed through dialog. The two wrestlers confront one another, one typically hurling accusations at the other in order to win the audience's allegiance. Even when all they are doing is offering descriptions of what they intend to do to one another, the one we want to win is always the one with the most colorful action plan. Instead of saying, "I'm going to defeat you by employing wrestling moves X and Y," the wrestlers are more likely to say something like, "I'm going to rip your head off, scoop out your brain, attach a vinyl strap to each ear, and give it to my kid to use for trick-or-treating." See what I mean? The second one is much more compelling. This is the guy you want to win.

Sad to say, but I think professional wrestling is our Lincoln-Douglas debates. Sound weird? Just think about it. Today's political debates are nothing like they used to be. I love watching them, but the oratory is just not there. Most modern politicians can't deliver a stirring speech to save their lives. What we get instead is some jackass brandishing a Polaroid and droning on like Ben Stein about some average Joe or Jane he pretends to care about. "Now I want to tell you about a young lady in Michigan who has five kids and is on a very fixed income...blah blah blah blah." I'm not complaining about the subject matter here either, because ordinary people often have extraordinary stories to tell. What bugs me is the abyssmal mode of delivery. And lately, the higher up you get in politics, the worse the speeches get. I offer as an example a certain president who shall remain nameless, but whose oratory ability is about on par with a package of Beernuts. (Every time he says "umm" I want to smack him. Didn't he ever have a freaking speech tutor? My God.) But back to the point. Without political debates and speeches to stir our native passions, what are we supposed to do?

Throughout history, human beings have always had a hunger for oratory. We thrive on stories, presumably because they offer a way for us to interpret our own lives, for us to put names to our hidden dreams and secret rages. And this is where professional wrestling comes in. Especially with the rage part.

So here's the setting of my enlightenment:

A few nights ago, I was watching WWE at the gym when Rowdy Roddy Piper sauntered into the ring. At first I was surprised to see him. Seemed like the nursing home circuit would have been more age-appropriate for him (after all, it's tough to wrestle with dentures and a colostomy bag). But I adore the man, and I've adored him ever since his hilarious turn in They Live (probably the greatest film of our age), so I gave the screen my full attention. There he stood, sans sunglasses. A tartan skirt swirled around his muscular thighs, and a black motorcycle jacket clung to his massive pecs. His ruddy cheeks were glowing in a way that reminded me of a basted turkey.

Then this 20-something guy named Randy came out, and it turned out that he was the son of Cowboy Bob, one of Rowdy Roddy Piper's old-time opponents. Randy was young and beefy like a football player, and honestly, he looked like he could wax the floor with my favorite Scotsman. Looking at the two side by side, Piper looked less like a professional wrestler and more like the crazy guy at the bar who plays Foghat on the jukebox and starts pummelling people every time he gets a few drinks in him. But Rowdy Roddy Piper is scrappy. He's got that brash highlander thing going on (minus the immortality and the broadswords, sadly), so that despite the slight doughiness of his midsection, it's clear he's one hell of a fighter.

Then Randy began speaking. The vein on his forehead throbbed as he recounted the many times he came home from school to find his father bleeding and bruised, broken in body and spirit, because of a losing match with Piper. The story went on, and the crowd began to respond with sympathetic shouts. Some were standing, waving their fists. The picture was forming in all of our heads, that of a little boy who loves his father and wants to avenge the wrongs done to him. It's a revenge story. It's a Western. And the picture was so vivid that—even knowing the whole thing was about as real as the plastic vomit you get from the magic store—I found myself almost, almost, almost feeling sorry for big, beefy Randy. This guy was good. He delivered his truckstop-redneck lines with a sort of Shakespearean purity.

At some point, though, Rowdy Roddy Piper had heard enough. Bristling with contrived rage, he muscled this young whippersnapper to the floor and began pounding him until the referees handily jumped in and held him back. Then the oratory began again. It was really quite beautiful. Eventually they fought properly, this time with Cowboy Bob joining his son for a little tag-team retaliation.

What's really going on here, of course, is a sort of seduction of the audience, and I'm not just talking about when Trish comes onstage looking like she's smuggling produce from the local Kroger. No, this is more a seduction of thought. These matches are really just morality plays in miniature, riffing on the most rudimentary notions of right and wrong. Each confrontation is never just about two athletes sparring. It's about vengeance. It's about some guy who's mad that another guy flirted with his girlfriend. It's about loyalty and betrayal and other stuff we can all identify with. It's got all the epic themes, but delivered with salt-of-the-earth brand drama and roughhousing.

Just imagine if the ancient philosophers had added a dash of violence to spice up their oratory. The Socratic method would be an entirely different animal.

"So, my good friends, are we to understand that logic is merely a contrivance?...an ephemeral tool with which we reassure ourselves of our innate superiority over the natural world?"

(body slam)

"Shall we then, as an experiment, eliminate logic in order to discover a more honest view of our world, ourselves?"

(piledriver)

"And if we do discard logic in such a fashion, could we ever retrive it? Would we even recognize it for what it was?"

(Perhaps a chair is thrown at this point.)

So yeah, that's my theory. And if you disagree with me, I'm going to have to tear off your limbs, twist them into funny shapes like those balloon animals, and throw your torso into a pit full of wolves. Nothing personal.

A few nights ago, I was sick with a nasty cold. I had no energy to speak of, so there were really only two options available to me: I could either lie in bed like some kind of Edith Wharton-style invalid, or I could cuddle up on the sofa with some blankets and watch television. So as not to feel more pathetic than necessary, I chose the latter. I flipped around awhile, but nothing much interested me until I hit AMC and saw the opening credits of Animal House. This has always been one of my favorite movies, so I made sure my orange juice was within reach and settled in to watch it.

But something was terribly wrong with this version. Dialog had been clipped out, scenes were abbreviated, and overall there was about as much bawdiness as you get watching coverage of the House of Representatives on C-SPAN. The scene with Mandy and Greg in the car, her with the latex glove? Removed. The scene where Larry debates what to do when his girlfriend passes out? Gone like yesterday's pancakes. But the real kicker, the thing that made me momentarily doubt my own sanity, was this—they put pants on Donald Sutherland.

If you've seen the movie, you know exactly what scene I'm talking about. Boon comes over to Katy's house, hoping to make up with her after their estrangement, but instead he storms off in a huff after seeing her professor in the kitchen without pants. And then comes a sly, hilarious moment. Donald Sutherland is standing there with his creepy-curly hair, that awful mustache, and an even more awful cable-knit sweater. All at once he reaches for something in a high cabinet; the sweater hikes up, and you see his bare backside, gleaming white and pale as a freshwater oyster shell. This scene is not about prurience. It's just funny as hell.

So I was lying there, watching this scene, and all of a sudden I realized that the first shot of the professor in the sweater had been entirely eliminated. All you see is Boon glancing to the side, the shock registering on his face, and then a shot of Katy saying, "Boon, I don't know what to say." If you'd never seen this movie before, you'd be thoroughly baffled by this. You'd be asking yourself, what could Boon have seen to make him storm out of the house this way? Was it one of those hideous avocado-plaid sofas? The remains of a goat sacrifice, perhaps? A poster for the John Birch Society? What in the name of all that is holy could it have been? You see my point. Thanks to the puritanical inclinations of AMC, this scene now makes no sense.

And then I saw it. Donald Sutherland in the kitchen . . . wearing pants. I felt like I had fallen into some kind of alternate universe, one in which Salvador Dali was a prominent physicist and Stellan Skarsgård was the King of America. The pants looked so authentic it was freaky. Just your average khakis. You would never know that they had been added in after the fact, and this completely creeped me out. I suddenly thought of that guy in 1984 whose job it was to revise history in order to comply with the philosophy of the current leadership. Yuck.

This got me thinking. If AMC is going to run a fairly tame movie like Animal House through the car wash, then I have some suggestions for other films that might likewise be sanitized for public consumption.

1. Risky Business—Put pants on Tom Cruise.
2. Basic Instinct—Put pants on Sharon Stone.
3. Showgirls—Just tape over the whole mess with a National Geographic special or something.
4. American Pie—Delete the famous pastry scene, and replace it with a scene in which Jason Biggs goes to church.
5. There's Something About Mary—Ben Stiller's character should now work in a bakery, which explains how he got that donut glaze behind his ear.
6. Life of Brian—Brian gets pants.
7. Secretary—All BDSM scenes are to be replaced with footage of James Spader playing laser tag.
8. Lord of the Flies—Even though they are stranded on an island and are forced to resort to primitive modes of survivalism, the boys get pants.
9. Dance with Wolves—Kevin gets pants.
10. Planet of the Apes—While standing trial in ape court, Charlton gets pants.
11. The Full Monty—Place CGI Playboy bunny tails over the men's bare butts. The title should reflect this change (i.e., partial monty, not full).
12. Pollyanna—The little boy who is skinny-dipping in this G-rated Disney movie should now have pants.
13. Y Tu Mama Tambien—Make liberal use of pan-and-scan technology to camouflage nudity/and or sexual situations. If this means focusing on a lampshade and overdubbing dialog from Henry V throughout the entire feature, so be it.
14. The South Park movie—Just run a clip from Laff Olympics when things get questionable. When you run out of those, move on to Schoolhouse Rock. During the musical numbers, play the theme from Mighty Mouse.

That's just to get you started, AMC. I'm sure you can come up with plenty more films to destroy with your antiquated views of propriety. As for me, I'll take my movies ungarnished and hot off the grill, hold the pants.

As I was taking a bath the other night, I started thinking about superheroes and how they are really archetypal figures in our culture, born of the same thirst for salvation and meaning that brings a lot of people to religion. I mean, it's kind of true, isn't it? Whether people choose to acknowledge it or not, lionization and celebration of superheroes is just a less direct form of worship. After all, superheroes do model value systems for us. It's more than just escapism; their lifestyles and behaviors reflect the deepest desires of our souls. And as I lathered my hair with body soap by accident, some specific similarities sprang to mind. So for your edification and enjoyment, here's a quick run-down of what religions roughly correlate to which superhero (at least according to my warped, scattered, and largely witless worldview).

Superman = Roman Catholicism. There's really no way around this. Superman is the big daddy of superheroes, a figure so fixed in our minds that we cannot imagine a world without him. It's all about the magic and the mystery with Superman; we understand him through symbols, because we can never attain true knowledge of him. If there's something you need from him, you will need to ask for Lois Lane's intercession. Oh, and consider this: he is a being from another world whose father sent him to save the poor lost souls of Earth. After he was killed (saving Metropolis from a creature called Doomsday), he returned to the city, leaving behind an empty tomb. This is pretty much a huge neon sign flashing in our faces: "Christ symbol! Christ symbol!" Also, the Superman legend is fairly resistant to change. Not that I am implying this has ever been the case with Roman Catholicism. Just ask Galileo if he appreciates being exonerated for his Copernican views some 350 years after the fact. I'm sure he's cool with it.

Batman. Hmm, slightly tricky. My first thought was that Batman was like Superman after the Reformation, but that's not quite accurate. The more I think about it, the more I think that his legacy has more in common with Buddhist/Taoist principles than those of Protestantism. For one thing, his whole existence is anchored in the understanding that all is transient, and that life is suffering. He came to this understanding early, with the death of his parents. Like the Buddha, Batman was a child of privilege who learned the importance of self-sacrifice, as well as the inability of worldly comforts to provide succor to the soul. As for the Buddhist emphasis on non-violence and asceticism . . . well, let's not go into that. It doesn't exactly jive with my previous conclusions and is therefore better ignored.

Wonder Woman = Greek polytheism. Obviously.

X-Men. For the most part, these guys tend toward Neo-Paganism and New Age thought. There's an emphasis on the evolution of the individual (not to mention the species), and many of the heroes have powers that are drawn from natural forces (Storm, Magneto, etc). There is, however, no crystal worshipping. That I know of.

Darkman = Vodun, or Voodoo. Darkman basically comes back from the dead in order to get revenge against his wrongdoers. Shapeshifting also plays a large role in his ensuing career (through the use of temporary masks of his own construction and his strategic use of synthetic skin).

The Justice League = the Norse pantheon of warrior gods.

The Fantastic Four = Shinto. Trust me on this.

Judge Dredd = I'm gonna have to go with the Gideons for this one, counterintutive as it may sound. Just remember that Gideon was one of the Hebrew judges discussed in the Old Testament. Like most of these Judges, he engaged in less than peacable behavior in the name of Jehovah. Now that I think of it, the Gideon moniker could also apply to the Punisher.

Of course, the realm of superheroes includes a large amount of fetishism, in that many superheroes have powers stemming from magical objects, like Green Lantern's ring or Wonder Woman's magic lasso. This is in keeping with the religious practices of the Egyptians, the Pre-Columbian peoples, and certain Native American tribes.

So in conclusion, it is my belief that superheroes are derived from extant spiritual traditions and are born from the generalized human desire for external salvation.

P.S. Please don't write me to complain about any of my ridiculous assertions. By now it should be apparent to everyone that I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. I mean, seriously. I can't even find my shampoo when I need it.

Come on. Really. Are we seriously talking about this? Are we seriously having a nationwide spasm of moral indignation because a game known for its extreme violence and gritty content has a secret sex scene embedded somewhere within it? (Thanks to the media, millions of American kids now know about this feature, and most of them probably wouldn't have discovered it on their own. Congratulations, Hillary!) Speaking of which, doesn't Hillary Clinton have any real issues to tackle, like, say, poverty or something? I'd call her gesture quixotic, but that implies a certain nobility of purpose, and I'm pretty sure there's no nobility whatsoever driving this pandering effort to garner votes from more conservative types. Has she even stopped to think about what this sort of crusade will mean for the youth vote, which would otherwise be more likely than any other age group to lean her way in a presidential bid? I used to like Hillary Clinton a lot. I used to defend her when people made nasty remarks about her behavior while first lady. But now I'm just disappointed, because her desire to be seen espousing 'family values' has seemingly triumphed over her personal ethics. This moral posturing does not make her worse than other politicians, I know. It just means that she belongs in their ranks more than I ever realized before. Alas and alack.

Okay, enough about Hillary. I'm still baffled by the outrage over Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. This game was already labeled "M," meaning it was only intended for those 17 and older. No one younger than that should have been buying the game. So how did all these young kids end up with it? A whole lot of parents must have been purchasing this for their kids, and it occurs to me that maybe they should have paid better attention to the content labeling system instead of blindly carte blanche-ing whatever their moody teenagers happened to toss in the shopping basket. Another point of interest: in order to view the game's sex scene, you have to download a particular mod. I would imagine any kid who is smart enough to download this mod is also smart enough to know how to find (gasp!) real pornography on "the Internets," and not the silly cartoonish stuff found in GTA. After all, the sex scene in GTA is not hardcore. No genitalia are exposed. I'm guessing it's more of a Shannon-Tweed-on-Skinemax kind of thing.

I haven't played the San Andreas version, but I have played the original GTA. It was fun to drive around and try to get away from the cops, but ultimately it couldn't hold my interest. (You have to do all these missions, and that detracted from the basic Pole Position appeal for me. I have undiagnosed ADHD, you see.) Other than driving, there wasn't much to do but treat your character to a lap dance, so I gave it a try. I have to tell you, it looks pretty ridiculous. The cartoon stripper writhes mechanically around you and sometimes her leg disappears because of a display bug. It's kind of like getting a lap dance from Robocop (or worse, from a hologram of Robocop). At any rate, with this unintentional bit of comedy as my reference point, it's hard for me to imagine that the famous San Andreas sex scene is anything but hilarious. It's probably about as hot as Marty Feldman at the South Pole. But I guess that's beside the point, isn't it? The point is, somehow we've decided as a culture that the violence contained in the rest of the game (e.g., running people over, random shooting sprees) is just dandy, while a low-grade pixellated depiction of sex is the moral equivalent of drowning a kitten. As I see it, this weird, hypocritical denunciation of GTA is just one more symptom of our society's larger problem in dealing with sex issues.

In the interest of resolving some of these issues, I've set up an appointment for America to meet with a therapist. Would Thursday at 3:30 work for everyone?

Come one, come all, to the extravaganza of evil! Behold the tableau of terror, the pageant of panic, the sordid spectacle of screams! Witness the excesses of bloodthirsty historians! Murder is their profession, mayhem their hobby! Children admitted free!

So the other day I was watching a program on the History Channel about royal scandals, old and new. The segment I caught was about Marie Antoinette, "Ms. Let-them-eat-cake" herself. Anyway, the narrative culminated in one of the channel's typical dramatic re-enactments, in which we were shown Marie being prepared for her execution. We saw her in prison, saw her getting her hair cut for the final time, and then we saw her being slowly led to the scaffolding, a white linen gown billowing out around her as if she were the tragic heroine of a Tennyson poem. It was pretty eerie and cool. Next, we saw her head being placed in the guillotine, and I found myself beginning to shift uncomfortably in my seat. How much would they show? I wondered. After all, the guillotine is a particularly nasty way to go.

The device itself always reminds me of two things: 1) Madame Defarge in A Tale of Two Cities, perversely working away with her knitting needles while head after head is lopped into the basket, and 2) a weird film about the Rapture that I was forced to watch in youth group long ago. The latter included several beheadings and featured some of the most appalling special effects I've ever seen. Seriously, they made Clash of the Titans look like a Kubrick film. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, the final few seconds of Marie Antoinette's life were grisly in the extreme, and I have no interest in seeing a graphic representation of this event. I mean, there's a reason Mr. Peabody never brought Sherman in the Waybac machine to see it.

I'll end the suspense right now—luckily, the program in question did not simulate the exact moment Marie Antoinette's head was severed from her body. What we did get, however, was repeated shots of the gore-covered blade falling, repeated shots of blood spattering on the executioner's shirt, and repeated shots of blood pooling down on the scaffolding, dripping down the stairs, etc. Seriously, for about five minutes, it was one big fiesta of blood. I was so surprised that I began to laugh out loud (I'm sure this annoyed my fellow gym enthusiasts, but I honestly couldn't help it).

Now let me clarify for a moment. As most of you have figured out, I have fairly morbid sensibilities. I enjoy the frisson of harmless (read: fictional) violence, and I love everything everything on the spectrum from Edgar Allan Poe to Rob Zombie. But in this context, I couldn't help feeling a little weird watching the blood spatters darken the executioner's sleeve over and over again. You see, I've always regarded the History Channel as kind of a neverending class filmstrip, but one that doesn't require me to take notes for a quiz next period. There's this calm, didactic quality to it that instills confidence and makes you feel like you're making good use of your time. But with this weird Marie Antoinette bloodbath, it was like I started dozing off in the middle of the filmstrip and then everything turned dark and creepy and Freddy Krueger showed up and it was just bad mojo, all around.

What's up with this, you may ask? When did our venerable History Channel become a purveyor of cheap thrills? One explanation is that it was sweeps week and the violence factor was amped up accordingly. Could be. But I think it more likely that our current crop of historians, who have always had a reputations as a mild-mannered lot, are just now beginning to bare their fangs at an unsuspecting nation. They are shuffling off their mundane coils and embarking on a new world of sensationalism. I think it's only a matter of time before the History Channel becomes known by its sub rosa moniker, "Channel of a Thousand Corpses." And with a title like that, they could take over the world.

Not that that's what they're planning. But seriously. Keep your eyes open.

So I was in the convenience store the other day, getting my requisite Friday night Twizzlers, when I saw a cardboard display by the door featuring some items of particular interest. The top shelf of the display featured a small poster with a pen-and-ink rendering of Darth Vader and a small inset of the Emperor, just for fun. The quality of it was highly suspect—like fan art gone horribly wrong—and it reminded me of when I was 15 and won that Budweiser bar mirror from the carnival. But below the poster were the real objets d'art: a row of child-sized plastic guns with "Space Weapon" emblazoned across the packages. The font was designed to mimic that sweeping, sci-fi text we're all accustomed to seeing from George Lucas's scrappy little film franchise. It's clever—when you glance at the logo, your gestalt mechanism kicks in and instantly translates it as Star Wars. But it's not Star Wars at all. It's Space Weapon. And it's not some cheap replica toy that's intended to resemble some particular weapon in the movie—it's a cheap replica that epitomizes non-specific science fiction concepts and features a little button that you depress to make a chirpy weapon sound. Cheeeep-cheep cheeeep-cheep cheeeep cheep! Space Weapon is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

As such, I can't help but love it.

I like it that not only do we have major brand spinoffs of popular culture in this country, but we also have this shadowy underclass of derivative wannabes that are several steps removed from the real thing. You want a Disney's Princess Collection Little Mermaid tiara? I can give you a generic Fish Princess bejeweled crown-type thing on which the glue marks are still visible. You want a Harry Potter action figure? I can give you a Boy Wizard with Forehead Blemish toy. The whole phenomenon reminds me of Plato's "Allegory of the Cave," what with the cascading representations of reality, each one more and more removed from the original truth of the thing. I'll spare you any further gratuitous philoso-blather on this issue (mostly because I'm not smart enough to be witty about it), but I do think I'm onto something.

Oh, and as a side note, I'm still annoyed that those Reno 911 action figures aren't actually for sale. "I'm undercover," says the pink boa-draped Lt. Dangle doll. "Deep undercover."

Other favorite off-brand toys:

1. Potato Patch Tikes
2. Doubly Famished Hippopotami
3. G.I. Jedediah
4. Loose Lips Sunk My Battlecruiser
5. My Apologies
6. Robots in the Ring
7. Poorly Behaved Adolescent Girls with Fashionable Clothing
8. Thermogenic Matchbox Cars
9. Friedrich the Locomotive Caboose
10. Alan the Assembler

So everyone's all excited about the release of Star Wars, Episode III: Assault on the Myth. And just as with the previous two, we're seeing all sorts of cringe-inducing commercials that exploit our instinctive, nostalgic loyalty to the franchise. Against my will, I find myself amused by the M & M parody of the famous Darth Vader strangulation scene. (Nooo! They're using my own childhood against me!) But really, there are plenty more of these ads that are not even funny at all, that in fact have the effect of filling you with unbearable regret. With these commercials, it doesn't so much feel like shameless advertising as it does like the characters themselves have fallen on hard times. When I see Chewbacca in the recording studio, for example, I have the unpleasant sense that he's only agreed to do this because his five little furball kids are going hungry. I don't want to think of Chewbacca as a father struggling to feed his family; this makes me sad, and there are enough real life things to be sad about.

Yes, folks, it's the return of Lukesploitation.

As each of the new films has come out, the ads have gotten progressively weirder. I heard one yesterday that totally threw my spiritual planets out of alignment: it was for some phone company, and it featured two soccer-mom-sounding women discussing how you could get Star Wars tickets or movies or something for signing onto a particular plan. So the first woman says, "I don't know, I'm not a super-fan or anything." The second woman then proceeds to quiz her in order to prove otherwise. "Finish this name: R2___? Jabba the ___?" Woman #1 is able to answer these questions immediately and, faced with such overwhelming evidence of her geekhood, she finally relents. "Ok," she says. "I guess I'm kind of a big fan." Riiiiiight. Because only hardcore fans would know about an obscure character like R2D2 or Jabba the Hutt. Those guys sort of slipped under the radar for most of us, didn't they? I mean, how could a casual viewer possibly be expected to remember the name of the beeping trash can thing? And I must have watched Jedi ten times before I noticed the GIANT GELATINOUS MUPPET WITH AN ENLARGED LIBIDO THAT IS A PIVOTAL FIGURE IN THE PLOT. But seriously, what is up with this commercial? Is there some dramatic culture shift that's occuring of which I'm unaware? Is it now desirable to be identified as a hardcore Star Wars geek? Are soccer moms really stitching their own Jedi cloaks now? Or is this all, perhaps, just another ludicrous construct created by the marketing Mephistopheles of our time?

The funny thing is, Woman #1 wouldn't even have had to see the movies to know the answers to those questions. All she would have to do is be alive and at least the cognitive equal of a box of rocks. Because you can't avoid Star Wars. It's like a vengeful Mafia. It will hunt you down where you live. It will ooze through the holes in your duct-taped door frames. You would have to become a total recluse to escape it, and even then, you never know when a long black Caddy full of Storm Troopers is going to pull up in front of your remote schack and take you for a ride. So the idea that being able to regurgitate the basic character names qualifies you for membership in some exclusive subterranean organization is pretty comical to me. Once Mel Brooks has made a parody of your movie, it doesn't exactly qualify for underground status anymore. (Sidenote: I do happen to be a huge fan of Episodes IV-VI, but it's probably just Stockholm syndrome.)

Here's the best part. At last, the commercial is winding down and the phone prices and restrictions have been duly recited. Woman #1 then says this (shudder): "Do I get to see Anakin in leather pants?"

What what what?! Anakin in leather pants? Woman #1 wants to see a whiny genocidal teenager in leather pants? Is this the new standard in sexiness? If so, I've got some great pin-ups of Pol Pot as a young man. Look, I'm a healthy girl, but I've never once found anything even remotely attractive about Anakin Skywalker in these movies. (Not that this is Hayden Christensen's fault; he's quite good-looking ordinarily, he's just had all the sex appeal syphoned out of him by that awful Lucas dialogue.) His character in Episode II was creepy, annoying, and just begging for the inevitable Kenobi Kung Fu that will necessitate full-body reconstruction and the grafting on of that nifty James Earl Jones voicebox. And that was just in the second movie. I don't even have to see the much-hyped Jedi Cub Scout bloodbath to know that he's not exactly the Jack Lemmon for this Ann-Margret.

Yuck. Please give me my normal commercials back. I'd rather tolerate the everyday condescension, insults, and gender exploitation of modern advertising than have to think about whether Chewbacca has a pension plan.

The other day, I was in a taxi with an MGM executive who just happened to leave behind a piece of paper. Curious, I took a look at it and was astonished by what I read. For your edification, I have reprinted it verbatim.

Horror Movie Development Worksheet

A. Steal. Just rip off an idea from a rival movie company, and make enough minor changes that you can claim you thought of it first. For example, if their film is about man-eating alligators, make yours about man-eating crocodiles. Then when you are asked about it, you can look like a veritable zoologist. "They're totally different reptiles," you'll say. "While the alligator and crocodile have certain similarities, the crocodile can never fully close its mouth, so the teeth are always visible, a fact which lends itself much better to the horror genre. Compared with crocodiles, alligators look downright jovial."

B. Horror Movie Mad Libs

A group of sexually active teens pulls up at a ___________. They meet a mysterious __________, who warns them not to visit the nearby ____________. But the teens laugh it off and head straight for the ____________ anyway. It's old and creepy and they start to explore, breaking off by couples. One of their group, incidentally the only person without a date, is a practical joker, and the first couple thinks he is responsible when a ____________ bursts in with a _______________ in his hands. But it's no laughing matter they discover, as the intruder proceeds to _____________ them, so that when the next couple come in, they see ________________ hanging from a __________. The second couple arrives and runs into the basement, which is festooned with _________. They try to run out, but are neatly dispatched with a _______________. The third couple is smarter than the others. They devise a plan to trap the _________________, and the plan seems to work. The booby trap captures the _________, and just when you think they're going to get away, here comes a second _____________ (the mysterious ______________ from the first scene) with a _______________ as sharp as a ________________. They are _________________ in one slice.

C. Remake a horror classic. Points for irreverence will be awarded to those remaking Hitchcock. You think they liked Strangers on a Train before? Think how much they'll like it when it's starring Chris Kattan and Melissa Joan Hart.

D. Adapt a popular video game for the screen. Any game is fair game, as long as it involves vampires, zombies, or werewolves, and is anchored by a reasonably incomprehensible plot.

E. Think The Shining, but set in:

1. A spaceship
2. Congress
3. A battle cruiser
4. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame
5. A dirigible
6. Burger King
7. Dave Mustaine's living room

F. Essay

In 500 words or less, describe the single scariest dream you've had. Now add a creepy child, a deformed killer with a catchy name, and a corporate cover-up. You've got a winner!

I checked CNN's site this morning, and there—just above the latest helping of Michael Jackson schadenfreude—was a video clip of Kelsey Grammer falling off the stage at some performance. 'Hmm,' I said to myself, 'this is news?' Of course it is! Because if there's anything we Americans love, it's watching people fall down. Deep down, we're a nation of six-year-old kids. How else to explain The Three Stooges? How else to explain America's Funniest Home Videos? How else to explain Jim Carrey, Mary Catherine Gallagher, and Gerald Ford? We love it when people fall down. We eat it up. But the pratfalls of people like Kelsey Grammer also appeal to our more sophisticated sense of irony because they form such a sharp contrast to his prim-n-proper persona. It'd be like if you saw Sir Ian McKellen blowing bubbles in his milk.

Here's what I imagine is going through people's minds while watching that video of Kelsey Grammar:

He's walking, he's walking, he's walking, I wonder if he's really as pompous as Frasier Crane, he's so smart I wish I were that smart I need to subscribe to one of those 'word of the day' things, then I can impress everyone at my class reunion and maybe I'll wear a top hat for extra effect and OH MY GOD HE'S FALLING KELSEY GRAMMER IS FALLING WORLD-RENOWNED ACTOR KELSEY GRAMMER IS FALLING I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT AN ACTOR OF SUCH FLAWLESS ELOCUTION AND DIGNITY IS ACTUALLY FALLING, I have fallen a bunch of times like at my wedding and that time I got drunk and wandered into Disneyland and now I'm laughing because I remember how upleasant it was and how the Mickey Mouse bouncers really roughed me up and I'm glad it happens to other people especially famous people because bad things should happen to them to compensate for their being famous and getting all that free stuff and I'm glad it's not happening to me, look at me not falling while Kelsey Grammer is falling, it's hilarious I'm better at walking than Kelsey Grammer which means I could be on television, too, and maybe get married to that hottie he's married to, what's her name I don't remember, but you know what would be even better, if Denis Leary or Eminem or Tom Cruise fell down (but really he's hard to hate since that movie with the robots) or that arrogant effete Dennis Miller who is too smart for his own good and indulges in obfuscation for the sake of obfuscation, yeah I'd love to see Dennis Miller fall off the stage maybe fracture a femur or something not anything fatal but something I could feel good laughing at and say yeah Dennis you're really smart but gravity is the great equalizer isn't it! Yeah, that'd be good, that'd make me happy.

What is it with Americans and our taking pleasure in the clumsiness of others? It's really kind of twisted—a comedic-pseudosadism. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to finish watching this Chris Farley movie. It's almost at that part where he trips and crashes through the coffee table for the fifteenth time.

Saturday night I saw Inigo Montoya in person at the Crafton-Preyer Theatre on the KU campus. As it turns out, Mandy Patinkin—actor, singer, and all-around theater junkie—attended KU in the early 70s. He was invited back this weekend to speak about his life and work, in an event known as "A Conversation with Mandy Patinkin." It took place in a smaller theater, meaning that the discussion was more intimate and really did feel like a conversation. I was sitting on the mezzanine level, and I could see his nose hairs. They were quite well trimmed.

The evening began with some KU musical theater students performing a montage of songs from Patinkin's career. While they sang, they assembled two seats on the stage and a table with flowers between. (Think Inside the Actors Studio.) Then Monsieur Mandy came out and sat in one of the chairs, while Jack Wright, professor of theater & film at KU, sat in the other. Wright asked a variety of questions about the actor's life and motivation, what he looks forward to, what he would tell actors just starting out (basically, "don't do this unless you have to"), etc. There was a large screen behind them, and it was used to show clips from Patinkin's Broadway career, film roles, and television. Mandy's musical theater career included playing Seurat in Stephen Sondheim's Sunday in the Park with George, Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, and (my favorite) Che Guevara in Evita. He starred in this one opposite Patti Lupone, who played a killer Eva Peron with an absolutely enormous mouth. (Seriously, have you seen her mouth?) Also, remember Alien Nation? I totally forgot he was in that. And we saw a snippet of his Showtime program, Dead Like Me, in which he plays a reaper who has to look after a novice reaper. Not much has captured my imagination lately when it comes to television (except for As the Galactica Turns and everything on Adult Swim, that is), but I may have to check this one out. If it's still on, that is. I don't even know.

On to The Princess Bride. Apparently, there was a contest on campus to make the best short-short film incorporating the theme of Inigo Montoya, and the winning piece was shown during the "conversation." It was a vignette about two college guys in a library. "Did you find that book on Trotsky you were looking for?" one of them asks. The other approaches slowly, with wide-eyed cartoony menace, and announces, "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." He then proceeds to slice the first guy's cheeks with a pink highlighter. It was awesome. And it really is funny that the Inigo Montoya character has attained such mythic popularity, saturating the culture so thoroughly that people still bandy about his signature phrase eighteen years later. (Yes, this film was made in 1987, in the height of bad bad hair, one year prior to Working Girl.) Mandy talked at length about the intensive training he and Cary Elwes had to undergo in order to learn to fence. We're talking ten hours a day with Olympic fencers for a period of six months, and by the end, the two of them had gotten so good they were able to improvise the choreographed routine for better camera play. I kind of expected him to sigh impatiently and flash a strained smile when people asked about Inigo Montoya, but he seemed delighted by everyone's enthusiasm. He said it's one of his proudest acting achievements.

Miscellaneous info about Mandy:

He came to KU because of a girl, who turned out to be dating someone else when he got here. Sigh.

He barely went to any class that didn't have to do with theater.

Harvard University once gave him a plaque to thank him for speaking at the school. It read, "thanks to Mandy Patinkin for her service..." His wife told him to send it back for correction. Instead, he framed it and put it up right inside the front door.

He is embarrassed by his receding hairline.

He seems like a really nice guy.

Thank you, writers of The Shield. Before this week I'd never seen your show, but they don't allow us to change the station on the televisions at the gym anymore so this Monday I got to enjoy an entire episode. The story was modestly engaging, and I was excited to see Glenn Close has found meaningful work again. The story was this: two rival gangs in Los Angeles were immersed in a war that new police chief Glenn Close was determined to stop. She ordered the cops under her command to put pressure wherever they could in order to find out information about why the war was occurring. As the cops got to the heart of the issue, they discovered that the war was over a woman who had left the gang leader on one side for a banger on the other side. 'Well what do you know about that,' I said. 'Just like the Trojan War.' Of course, I thought this was merely an amusing coincidence until near the end of the episode, when the Helen character announced that one of the leaders of the gang had been tied to the back of a truck and dragged around the block several times. 'Ah yes,' I thought. 'There's no question now. This is The Iliad, and that guy getting dragged around the block was supposed to be Hector.'

I love it! It was a little goofy, sure, but I totally applaud their ambition. And at least it was subtle. They didn't ram the reference down our throats. If it had been Law & Order, the writers would have had a character come out and say: "Hey, this is just like the Trojan War! Let me tell you the story in tedious detail as if you'd never had a high school history class!" And then McCoy and his assistant du jour would have engaged in some acerbic banter about 'defense attorneys bearing gifts,' or something stupid like that. At least the writers of The Shield have more respect for us than that.

Maybe the writers had hope that the viewers would get the reference because of that recent film, Sparta. No wait! It was Troy, wasn't it? Morty? Yes, Morty's telling me it was Troy. I mean, it seems reasonable to imagine that after this blockbuster film came out, people would be more aware that there is a famous epic poem called The Iliad and that it was written by a character from The Simpsons. But you never know. This is America, after all. So in the interest of uncovering the truth, I sent an interviewer into the field to find out. Here's a small portion of the video transcript.

Interviewer: What do you remember about the film Troy?

Average Joe: It had Tyler Durden in it and that guy from The Hulk.

Average Jane: You mean Brad Pitt! I read that he has a thing about having his feet exposed and that for a long time he refused to wear sandals during the filming.

Interviewer: You'd imagine he'd at least have to have his heel exposed. Heh heh heh.

Average Joe: Why is that?

Average Jane: What?

Interviewer: Well, he played Achilles, didn't he?

Average Joe: Umm...I thought they were saying "a killer" the whole time.

Average Jane: All I know is I got whiplash turning my head between him and Orlando. See my Mrs. Orlando Bloom handbag? I got it on sale.

Average Fido (with a voice like Brian from The Family Guy): My owners are illiterate. You'd better try that couple over there—the ones prattling on about Swedenborg.

Anyway, I love it when movies and television shows borrow themes and stories from literature. And the more ham-fisted, the better. Watching some of these things, you can almost see the screenwriter laboring away in a studio apartment somewhere, bemoaning the sort of doggerel he is forced to write in order to scrape by, and thinking to himself, "By God, I'm going to add some dignity to this scatalogical abomination! I'm going to add a mention of King Lear! Or a Christ reference!" So then we get things like Saffron Burrows' ridiculously melodramatic act of sacrifice at the end of Deep Blue Sea, which is hilarious and wonderful. For some reason, uncovering these gems in unexpected places is even more satisfying than any of the more "serious" treatments of the classics (anything directed by the self-righteous Kenneth Branaugh, for example). I'm still waiting for the futuristic, zombies-on-a-spaceship rendering of Macbeth, starring Bruce Campbell.

So again, thank you to writers of The Shield for giving me the opportunity to recognize a literary reference. As a former English major, this is really all I'm qualified to do.

For a while now, I've been seeing lots of red plaid pants, black sweaters with safety pins, and mass-produced handbags with the Sex Pistols logo emblazoned on them. I hate to say it, but punkness has become trendy. Suddenly, everyone is a fan of the Ramones and the Clash. Black Flag bumper stickers have re-emerged with a vengeance, and everyone can sing at least one line from "God Save the Queen" (although it's usually the titular line). So how come no one seems interested in new punk music? There are a number of groups around who feature punk elements: the Donnas, Green Day, the Ataris, Mars Volta, etc. (Sorry, kids, I don't count Mediocre Charlotte—they're a bit overproduced for my taste.) And for every one I can think of, there are thousands I don't know about, floating around in local clubs and cranking out great energetic music without commercial acclaim. In my book, even Wesley Willis could fall into this category. But no one seems interested in these guys as ambassadors of punk. Maybe it's because they don't really know or care what punk is about.

I'll admit it, trying to attain anything like a comprehensive view of punk music is a tricky thing. By nature, anti-establishment music thrives under the radar, and many high-minded punk bands today are committed to distributing their music without a profit. They don't care if you know who they are; making a principled stand for (or against) something is more important to them. And then there's the issue of purity of form. Many former punk types are experimenting with other types of music. A prime example is Neko Case, who has been counter-culturing the bejeesus out of country music for years now. So unless people are good listeners or particularly gifted at tracing the rhythmic ancestry of artists, they don't recognize what they're hearing as punk derived.

So why are so many unlikely people today striving to emulate that Sid Vicious sneer and stitching skull appliques onto all of their clothing? Maybe it's because they've all hired their own full-time punk consultants:

Shall I slick my hair to points? Do I modify my speech?

I shall wear plaid flannel trousers, and mosh upon the beach.

It's a little absurd—the appropriation of Outsider-dom—but I suppose it's no worse than when high school poseurs like me donned tie-dye and peace signs in hope of invoking some of the fervor and broad-mindedness of the 60s. As for the music itself, it can only be a good thing that more people are exposed to it. I'm glad that people have discovered the Clash. They're better people for it, I guarantee. But there's something about having that music removed from its original context that makes it a little less meaningful to your average Barry and Jill. What Barry and Jill seem not to realize is that punk, even in its hey-day, was never what could be described as popular. In a time of white blazers, pastel undershirts, and sockless boat shoes, it was definitely not popular to be a punk. Kids with spiked hair and "Anarchy for the UK" t-shirts were mocked mercilessly in school. Just like the Goths. Just like the skaters (who have also experienced a somewhat amnesic resurgence of popularity). Just like anyone else who expresses disdain for the mainstream culture, even if in doing so they embrace a homogeneous culture of a different sort, with its own costume and expectations. But that's a much lesser offense in my book. The initial defining of self is what's important, because eventually all these kids realize that it doesn't matter what you wear on the outside. Punk is a state of mind, and clothing is the least of the tools at your disposal for expressing it. More effective tools include embracing satire in all forms, embarking on anti-corporate campaigns, writing zines, supporting struggling artists, and volunteering to transform your community into someplace that represents your values.

But back to the issue at hand. To me, the public's recent enthusiasm for punk is just like anything else. Society rejects the phenomenon when it's new and dangerous, then later—when it's no longer in danger of accomplishing any real subversion—romanticizes it into oblivion. But that's where society is mistaken, because genuine punk cannot be castrated by commercialism. It's still there, in the alleys and clubs, in the unexpected heroic acts of individuals. It's like a superhero you can't kill. It may be forced to shed its title, but that very loss of nomenclature is what may allow it to penetrate the culture more thoroughly. In its insidiousness, it will be that much more powerful. With any luck, we'll be on our way to a punk renaissance.

And now, please bow your heads with me as we recite a few choice lines from the Dead Milkmen:

"Punk rock girl give me a chance,

Let's go slamdance,

We'll dress like Minnie Pearl,

Just you and me punk rock girl."

Wonder Woman of Paradise Island would like to announce her betrothal to Boba Fett of Concord Dawn. The bride-to-be is the daughter of Queen Hippolyta of Paradise Island. She is scheduled to graduate with honors in May 2005 from the University of Kansas with a bachelor's degree in Political Science. Wonder Woman will be attending law school at Columbia University, New York, NY, in the fall of 2005. She is a member of the KU Honors Program, the KU Handbell Choir, Greek Club, Archaeology Club, Kickboxers for Hera, and Alpha Alpha Alpha. Her plans for the future include becoming a district attorney (she is an avid fan of Law and Order), having two or more children, and fighting crime in a bathing suit.

The groom-to-be is the son of Jango Fett, and is the sworn enemy of Mace Windu, the Jedi knight who killed his father. Boba Fett is scheduled to graduate in May 2005 from the University of Kansas with a bachelor's degree in Economics. Fett is a member of the Omega Omega Omega fraternity, the Campus Objectivists, the Friends of Capitalism Club, the Society for Creative Anachronism, Philosophy Club, and Robotics Club. He intends to be a bounty hunter upon graduation. He has not yet chosen the setting for his postgraduate work.

The 7 p.m. March 22, 2005 ceremony is set to take place at First Presbyterian Church in downtown Lawrence, with Emperor Palpatine to officiate. A reception is to follow at the KU Student Union.

Fett has agreed to wear his fiance's magic lasso while taking his vows in order to ensure that his replies are truthful.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the movie, American Psycho. Just last Monday, my friend and I saw a gentleman in downtown KC who was the embodiment of Patrick Bateman, vice president. He didn't just resemble him; he was him. He wore a long wool coat over designer business attire, and he was wearing headphones. Remember Christian Bale at the beginning of the film, walking purposefully through his office listening to "I'm Walkin' on Sunshine"? It was just like that. You could just tell this guy lives a life of profound self-delusion.

Which reminds me of that film starring Peter O'Toole, called The Ruling Class, in which a landed gentleman named Jack believes he is Jesus Christ. Through therapy and extensive interventions by his family, Jack comes to adopt a more normal persona. He begins to answer to the name Jack. Problem is, his Jack is Jack the Ripper. The idea is that someone behaving in a kindly, New Testament sort of way is seen by society as being aberrant, whereas someone behaving like Jack the Ripper fits right in. If you haven't seen this film, you should rent it immediately. It's rather long, but quite worth it, if only for the scene in which Peter O'Toole's Jesus faces off with another 'Jesus' from the psychiatric facility. (This second guy fancies himself "the Electric Jesus" and pretends to shoot lightning bolts at Peter O'Toole.)

Which reminds me of the movie Being There, starring the inimitable Peter Sellers, who is a such a rock star in my book it's not even funny. He portrays an extremely simple man, whose extremely simple words keep getting twisted and misrepresented by everyone around him. He ends up advising the president of the United States.

Which reminds me of Stranger in a Strange Land, by Robert Heinlein. People just can't fathom that this beefcake guy from Mars does not have a hidden agenda.

Which reminds me of Dostoevsky's The Idiot, a much earlier and better executed disquisition on the same topic: namely, how people can't communicate on an authentic level because of the collision of text and subtext.

Which reminds me of every Harold Pinter play ever written.

Which reminds me of They Live!, starring Rowdy Roddy Piper. In this film, society is infiltrated by aliens who ensure our docility by subliminally encouraging us to consume, reproduce, and OBEY. One man, however, is given the sunglasses to see through it all. Huh-larious.

Which reminds me of the "To Serve Man" episode of The Twilight Zone. (It's a cookbook!!!)

Which reminds me of Brazil, and the lady with the acid therapy. Just when you think the guy has escaped, well...I won't ruin it for you. (The image of Michael Palin in that cherub mask still gives me chills, by the way.)

Which reminds me of Andy Warhol's Dracula, a weird criticism of capitalistic society delivered with sexual metaphors.

Which reminds me of David Cronenberg's Videodrome. But just a little bit.

Which reminds me of Pink Floyd's The Wall. This was intended to be an indictment of war, but ended up being chiefly about one guy's spiraling descent into mental illness (and maggots). I have a great affection for this film, although I'm not sure why. Probably because I, too, am a person of considerable angst. Anyway, great music.

Which reminds me of Lost Highway, that bizarre foray into schizophrenia in which Bill Pullman plays acid jazz, Patricia Arquette is both blonde and brunette, and Robert Blake is really, really, really-really scary. (Sadly, that movie has made it a little too easy to belive the current allegations against Mr. Blake.) Anyway, there's a great Lou Reed song and a murder that may or may not have occurred.

Which reminds me of Vanilla Sky, in that you never know what is really happening and what is only a dream. Some people may find this to be profoundly unsettling, but hey, you get to see Tom Cruise run around with a disfigured face, screaming "Tech support! Tech support!" Lots of mergers and acquisitions.

Which reminds me of...American Psycho?

Hi there, Man and Woman ahead of me in line at the grocery store. I notice that you have two shopping carts full of soda—all in 2-liter bottles. There are so many of them piled in there that they keep falling out. Are you planning to go into business? Am I going to see you two downtown tomorrow, peddling your wares from a street corner? I'm just asking because it's going to take the cashier until the end of time to scan your merchandise, and I have a few things I'd like to take care of before then.

If you're not planning to go into business with that soda, then what are you doing with it? Here are a few theories I've come up with; please tell me when I'm getting warm.

1. You misunderstood your local drug dealer when he requested 50 kilos of coke.
2. You're hosting a pizza party for every child in North America.
3. You're hoping to find the golden ticket that will entitle you to a tour of the famous Billy Barq's root beer factory.
4. You took the term 'soda fountain' a little too literally.
5. You're going to empty the bottles out, lash them together, and use them as a flotation device to carry you across the Atlantic. (You'll be the new Lindberghs!)
6. Pepsi fetish.
7. You're going to cut off the tops of the bottles, fill the bottoms with water, and start your own hydroponics lab.
8. You've developed a type of car that uses soda as fuel.
9. You've developed a killer robot that uses soda as fuel.
10. You're going to secretly replace our oceans with Mountain Dew to see if anyone notices.
11. You're trying out the South Lawrence Dr. Pepper Diet.
12. You'd like to buy the world a Coke.
13. You're a member of the Michigan People's Liberation Front, and you're planning to conduct a full-scale marine assault on Wisconsin from the banks of Lake Michigan, using only bottle rockets.
14. You were recently accused of being oblivious to pop culture.

Dangermike

My friend Dangermike from grad school just did me the honor of linking to my site on his blog, so I thought I'd do the same for him. Here it is. Try it out—you'll like it. His blog contains all sorts of sardonic commentaries on life, the universe, and that jackass at work who is sick but won't go home, even though he's coughing incessantly and getting phlegm all over your keyboard.

Pink Hair

I have pink hair now. Why pink, you ask? Mine is not to reason why; mine is but to do and blow-dry.

Roman Roads

Gas is officially more expensive than college. Until that hydrogen car becomes a reality or the Prius comes down a bit in price, the rest of us will have to make do with walking. (Ali G pitched the idea of a hover board to some executives not long ago, but I don't think anything came of it.) In the mean time, I think we should follow the example of the Romans and build us some decent roads for walking. For those of you who are not as old as I am, this is how you build a Roman road: 1) put a layer of stones on the bottom; 2) a layer of pebbles, sand, and cement goes on top of that; 3) add some other kind of cement mixed with broken tiles; and 4) add another row of smooth stones that are cut to fit together without poking through your sandals. Sounds easy, huh? I expect you all to try this. Go ahead—you can fashion your own via Domitiana from things you have in your garden. Of course, if you build a Roman road to your neighborhood grocery store, you'll probably be violating some silly local ordinance. Just pay off your local official like a dutiful citizen and everything will be fine. You can probably even persuade him or her to start a Roman road construction project on a city-wide scale. I've already come up with a project slogan, too. "Roman Roads—the Wave of the Future Borrowed from Your Past, Unless You Are Non-European or the Kind of Communist Who Prefers to Emulate the Han Empire." Just remember your three R's, kids. Roman Roads Rock!

Scrubs

I like the show Scrubs.

Alaska

Drill Alaska now! We weren't using those caribou anyway.

Still Passionate After All These Years

Darling Mel's re-release of The Passion, his 2004 docudrama about JC (not Johnny Cash), will hit theaters on Friday. It's called—no kidding—"The Passion Recut." The original "Passion" grossed more than $370 million in the United States alone, but it also grossed a bunch of people out, so Mel has released this new version with much of the gore and blood spatters removed. When asked for comment, Gibson replied, "I like me some gore, but I understand there are some wusses who prefer lightweight hippie drivel." Gibson's next project will be working with Rob Zombie on House of a Thousand Corpses: Part Deux.

Karen Is Tired of Ganking

Stop it! Undead people of the Horde, just stop it! How is it even fun for you to materialize out of nowhere and kill players who are forty levels below you? You don't get any experience points. You don't get to loot our bodies. All you get is the sick satisfaction of knowing that you're interfering with our enjoyment of the very game you love so much. What gives? It is seriously un-sportsmanlike, and it makes me furious. Nick says that ganking is kind of like hazing, except that it goes on forever. Not looking forward to that. I've been playing for a few weeks now, and I've built up a decent character. But I'm switching to a different server and starting over because I'm tired of getting attacked while I'm minding my own business trying to complete a quest. I've got my hands full with the NPCs as it is. As if the firebolts from the baby dragon whelps and the relentless pecking of the dire condors weren't enough, we get undead meanies springing from thin air and ganking us, too? Not cool. Oh, and check it out. Sometimes high-level players do something called 'corpse camping,' which means they wait around by your corpse for you to resurrect so they can kill you again. That's real mature, guys. You are bad people, all of you.

I realize that players on both sides do this kind of thing, but my only experience is wandering around Lakeshire as a level 17 Alliance human and getting killed every few minutes by the Horde for no reason. This is what I get for being ambitious, I guess. And sure, it's partly my fault. I didn't really understand the full implications of being on a PVP server. I figured there was some sort of honor system (and I understand there used to be), by which players would leave you alone if you were way below their level. And even if this wasn't the case, I figured I wouldn't encounter the PVP stuff until I reached much higher levels. I didn't expect to get ganked at level 17. I mean, really. Level 17? It's like killing a puppy.

The thing is, why not just leave me be? You were once a newbie like me. (Old man, look at my life. I'm a lot like you were.)

Science News

After examining a computed tomographic scan of Tutankhamun's head several months ago, scientists have determined that he was not ganked.

Hi there. Ordinarily I wouldn't take up your time with this kind of thing, but I have a fantastic idea that I think would be a financial windfall for everyone involved. No, it's not some crazy pyramid scheme involving the sale of herbal supplements or sunflower seed casings that are supposed to purify your chakras or something. Perish the thought. What I have in mind is much more practical and doesn't require turning all your friends against you. Still interested? That's what I thought.

Here's the thing. Ordinary weddings are a thing of the past. These days, what people really want is a memorable, distinctive ceremony that will make their friends gnash their teeth with envy. I've thought up just such an idea and, if you don't mind me saying so, it's truly brilliant. I'm not the type to shamelessly self-promote, but this idea is so good it transcends all issues of vanity. You might even say it's my moral responsibility to share it with the world. So here goes. My idea—and I hope you're sitting down—is to conduct mobile weddings. That's right, mobile weddings. Weddings on the go, for the caffeine- and meth-fueled generation of today. What better way to express the inexpressible zeitgeist of 21st century life? I'm telling you, this could be the beginning of a second Renaissance period. As for the vehicle itself—anyone can rent a limousine. But what about an antediluvian Ford Pinto? An old, battered, dinged-up, paintless Ford Pinto straight from the junkyard? This adds an element of camp to the wedding that will inspire undying admiration in your hipster friends. Also, because it's a Pinto, there's the exhilaration of taking your life in your hands. There's always the possibility of being rear-ended during the ceremony, and the subsequent romance of a Romeo-and-Juliet-style double-death scenario. What do you get when you combine love with the hazards of vehicular unpredictability? A pure distillation of life, that's what.

The couple can sit in the back, with the minister or officiant conducting the nuptials in the front passenger seat. And here's the money shot. Picture this—Erik Estrada is driving. Huh? Huh? Erik Estrada? Do you love it? I knew you would. And it doesn't stop with Mr. Estrada, either. Trust me, there is an untapped bonanza of B-list celebrities out there who would be thrilled to participate in a project of this artistic magnitude. Frank Stallone, Coochie-coochie girl Charo, Alex Winter, Bonnie Franklin, Ron Palillo, and Tom Jones (he would totally do it) are all prime candidates. As a bonus, if you really wished to fondle the cash cow, you could turn the whole thing into a reality show. You'll be burning piles of money for fun in no time at all!

Imagine a group of couples sitting around at a dinner party, sipping chardonnay. Each couple is regaling everyone with stories about their wedding. Biff and Betty say they got married in Hawaii. Bor-ing. Jim and Julie tell about how they got married in space. Ho hum. And then it gets to Esmeralda and Archibald, who explain that they were married in an ancient Ford Pinto driven by Howard Hesseman. Everyone is breathless. The air becomes electric, and the social net worth of the couple goes through the roof! Think of the possibilities!

So this is how it works. I'll get together a motorcade of Pintos if you guys recruit the B-list celebrities. What do you say? Mobile Weddings, Inc. Everyone will love it. I know it, you know it, and the American people know it.

Thanks for your time.

The notorious bunny show has been canceled! After Secretary of Education Margaret Spellings lambasted an episode of "Postcards from Buster" (a show about an animated bunny) and demanded that PBS refund the money used to make the show, PBS quickly dropped the episode. They dropped it before Spellings had even finished her sentence. A PBS spokesperson, however, claimed that the Education Department's statements had nothing to do with their decision not to air the show. She said that the decision was due to a realization that homosexuality was a sensitive issue that parents should address with their children in their own time.

Wow. The show must have been pretty bad, huh? Is Buster the Bunny perhaps shown flipping through a coffee table book featuring the art of Tom of Finland? Well, here's a summary of the episode in question. Buster takes a trip to Vermont and visits some people who live on farms and make maple sugar. He meets two lesbian couples, who make out right in front of him. Oh, wait, actually they don't. They don't do anything like that. They don't make radical feminist statements. They don't force Buster to wear leather or rainbow beads. They're just there, and their job is to explain to Buster about how maple sugar is made. The fact that they are lesbians is incidental.

I'm pretty disappointed with PBS. They caved to the demands of the White House without so much as a protest. The reason public television for children is cool is that its only agenda is education, not to be a mouthpiece for whatever administration is in power. Otherwise, they might as well put Scott McClellan in the PBS President's office and let him spin around in the big chair as much as he likes. This act of cowardice does not bode well for the future of public television, either. I mean, what's the point of a network that operates without commercial funding if it's going to eventually become Fox News II?

Another thing that struck me about this whole brouhaha is that the bunny show in question is not even about pro-gay values. It's about basic tolerance, and viewing other people as human beings whose sexuality is only a portion of their identity. (And this is only in subtext—it doesn't overtly address any of this.) It's difficult for me to understand how conservatives can get their panties in a wad about this. What is so wrong with making kids understand that everyone is deserving of respect? Even if you disagree with their lifestyle, even if you think those wacky homosexuals need nothing more than to be converted to Christianity, you still have to address their basic humanity. In other words, if what you're so concerned about is their eternal souls, then first you have to acknowledge that they have souls. See my point? So I ask again, even if you are a devout Christian, what could be wrong with teaching kids to have respect for others? That's what Jesus did, right? He didn't convince people to follow him by being all snotty and imperious. (Has the religious right ever really thought about what Jesus would do?)

Clearly, certain people have a problem with Buster the Bunny because they realize that their agenda is best served when Americans with differing views are at odds with one another. And it's much easier to get folks all revved up about your cause if you have dehumanized the enemy.

Anyway, after slamming the amoral Buster the Bunny for his association with those dangerous lesbians, Spellings has surely got her flaming, lidless eye fixed on PBS. With that in mind (and given PBS's recent talent for pandering), I wouldn't be surprised to see some disturbing new episodes of "Postcards from Buster," in which Buster visits the prisons at Guantanamo and learns that sometimes suspending habeas corpus is the American thing to do.

I'm addicted to Kirby and the Amazing Mirror, which I've been playing on my GameBoy for a month now. Kirby is this little pink marshmallow of a guy who has to scuttle around in a bunch of different worlds, pass through portals, and defeat a series of nasty bosses. I think about Kirby all the time these days (I even dream about him), and I've come to the conclusion that Kirby should run for our nation's highest office. Just hear me out.

Why Kirby should be president:

1. Although pink, he is not nearly as controversial as that yellow sponge character.
2. He does a little dance whenever he gets a piece of food.
3. He can summon three of his friends in turbulent times, and they will annihilate whatever enemy gets in his path.
4. His image could be imprinted on our currency. He would be holding a giant hammer and looking cute—Japan would love us forever.
5. He can swallow his enemies and assume their powers.
6. If he holds his breath, he can float. Handy for international espionage.
7. He is not xenophobic. In fact, his goal is to travel to as many places as possible.
8. He is never reckless with the treasure he collects. There would never be a deficit.
9. He can endure ten blows from a giant spike before dying.
10. He can regenerate.
11. He looks natural wielding a sword that is bigger than his whole body.
12. Sonic the Hedgehog could be his Secretary of Defense.
13. He is a bachelor. He could wed a European princess for the sake of a strategic alliance.
14. He will never choke on a pretzel.

By the way, Nick is addicted to Warcraft, which he's been playing for 72 straight hours. We're both losers.

So I guess Elvis would have celebrated his 70th birthday last Saturday. He was born in 1935, and were he still alive, his appearance would now be approximately how he was portrayed in Bubba Ho-tep. Over the weekend, a whole onslaught of fans descended on Graceland for the occasion (or just outside, since they weren't permitted on the grounds). They sangs songs and cut a 'Happy Birthday' cake, which the celebrant couldn't enjoy because he was dead.

When asked about the purpose of the festivities, one of the fans made this messianic statement, "You have to always think of what would Elvis want. He would want us to love each other, bond together as a family and be kind and giving. We're Elvis family, not just fans."

Wow.

Sorry to break the news to you, Elvis enthusiasts, but you really are just fans. As much as you'd like to cling to the King's great dead sequined coattails, you're not his family. Not in the genetic sense, not in the mafia sense, not in the drag queen sense—not in any sense. Graceland is not where you go when you die. Furthermore, this is not the way normal people behave, at least when they are taking their medication in an appropriate fashion. I adore John Lennon—even made a pilgrimage to the Imagine mosaic in Central Park, as you might recall—but I'd never presume to say I was part of his family. That is, unless the term 'part of the family' doesn't mean what I think it means. If it actually meant "one who stalks a dead person," then they might be onto something.

It's not that I don't get the power of music. I'm listening to Pink Floyd's Animals right now, and it's making me feel like I could conquer the world if I wanted (don't worry, I won't). But to confuse the art with the artist is a dangerous prospect. It's why so many young ladies who go backstage at concerts end up with social diseases. It's why people condemn Ezra Pound's poetry when they should be restricting their criticism to the man himself. (Not long ago, the city of Lawrence tried to name a creek after William S. Burroughs, who lived here for the last years of his life. They failed, because reactionary city council members protested that Burroughs was 'a degenerate' and shouldn't be lionized in any fashion.)

Is it ketchup on my dress that makes me so digress?

Look, Elvis had a gift. Of course he did. He may even have been a visionary of sorts. But these individuals with their Elvis fetishes strike me as a little too David Koresh for their own good. Like one day we'll read in the papers that a bunch of them shared a compound in Tupelo, Mississippi, and committed mass suicide after a hearty meal of peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

Then again, maybe I'm just confusing the idiocy with the idiots. Maybe I should just stop criticizing and let the Elvisites have their fun. After all, I like to think I'm part of Erik Estrada's family, and my therapist says there's nothing unhealthy about that.

For the past few weeks, Nick has been growing his facial hair into a goatee (or, as our friend calls it, a van Dyke). I've been monitoring him carefully just in case any sinister behavior crops up.

Have you noticed that facial hair is out of vogue in politics? A clean-shaven chin is de rigueur these days, whichever side of the aisle you happen to be seated on. Bush has no facial hair, Kerry is sans beard, and then there is the glabrous Dick Cheney, whose smooth jowls put baby bottoms everywhere to shame. What of Al Gore, you ask? Well, keep in mind that it was only after the 2000 election that Albert grew that Grizzly Adams wilderness beard. Is this anti-hirsutist attitude predicated on a perception that facial hair somehow represents untrustworthiness? Does a small grouping of whiskers give people the impression that something unpleasant is being covered up? Let's examine this for a moment.

15 People with Facial Hair, and Whether or Not They are Evil

1. Jimi Hendrix—not evil
2. Jerry Garcia—too mellow to be evil
3. Sam Elliott—somewhat evil, but in that roguish cowboy sort of way
4. Abraham Lincoln—not evil
5. Kenny Rogers—hard to say
6. Kenneth Branaugh in Wild Wild West—evil
7. Rasputin—Svengali! (evil)
8. FDR—not evil
9. The psycho guy in Sleeping with the Enemy—totally evil
10. The kind-hearted drama teacher in Sleeping with the Enemy—too wussy to be evil
11. ZZ Top—yet to be determined (have you read the Dark Tower series?)
12. Santa Claus—not evil
13. Satan—quite evil (reportedly)
14. Kris Kristofferson as Whistler in the Blade series—not evil, followed by evil, and then not evil again
15. my dad—not evil

Lastly, here's a picture of Nick with his sinister new look. What do you think, should we get him an eyepatch?

My best Christmas gift this year was a replica lightsaber, given to me by Nick. It's a glass halogen tube, and when you turn it on it makes that electric humming sound we all know and love. Here are some night photos we took a few days back.

Eat your hearts out, geeks of the world.

This link is a trap!

Last Friday I heard a report on NPR about electronics chain Best Buy and their new customer profiling practices. I understand this has been reported on Slashdot, too. For those who haven't heard the story, the deal is this: Best Buy has just implemented a sort of triage system that determines which customers are worth the employees' time and which are not. They staff is trained to recognize certain types of customers and allot their attentions accordingly.

At the top of the list are "Barry" and "Jill," descriptors that designate yuppie-types and soccer moms with a disposable income. "Ray" indicates a family man on a budget. "Buzz" is the electronics geek who comes to the store in search of computer hardware and the newest gaming technology. Best Buy really wants to lavish attention on Barry and Jill, since they are the most likely to spend more money on a regular basis. Buzz is the next most desired customer. He purchases high-dollar items, but it may only be a couple of times a year, so he doesn't get quite as much coddling. And then you have Ray, who will not even be approached most of the time, because he doesn't have a fistful of dollars (there's a Clint Eastwood joke in here somewhere).

I was not really shocked that Best Buy employees do this. I was shocked that this system has become an official company procedure.

Look, I'm not naive. I understand that stores have been doing this since time immemorial. I shop at Nordstrom dressed nicely, and also dressed like a slob, and it's no accident that the staff is much more solicitous of my needs on the former occasions than on the latter. Salespeople learn to recognize likely customers based on their shoes, watches, etc. Remember that scene in Pretty Woman—where Julia Roberts is turned away from the upscale clothing store because she's dressed in thigh-high boots and spandex? This kind of thing occurs at most luxury stores across the world. What you don't expect is for it to occur at a chain where the Wal-Mart crowd shops. Most anybody can afford to make a purchase at Best Buy, so does it seem right that the staff is being instructed to ignore Ray, just because it looks like his income is a bit lower? It makes me feel like vomiting all over Barry's $500 shoes.

People try to pretend that class doesn't matter in this country, that somehow we're above all of that ugliness, floating on some democratic cloud of lofty egalitarianism. This is an outrageous joke. Truth is, this country has never been more socially stratified than now, and class mobility has never been more difficult to achieve. And then places like Best Buy come along and etch class discrimination right into their company policy. Just warms the heart, doesn't it? Especially at this time of year, when we are reading Dickens to our children and dropping quarters in the Salvation Army buckets.

Best Buy wants to be the hot nightclub that only the coolest, richest kids get into. I'm just waiting for them to hire bouncers to keep out the riff-raff.

What do you say, dear Reader? Should we buy from Dell, instead?

Man, I'm irritated right now.

You there, in all of those gay-marriage amendment states (those of you who voted "NO" are exempt), you are no longer allowed to watch Will & Grace, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, The L Word, or Queer as Folk, and you are also not allowed to talk about how much fun your gay hairdresser is.

The backlash against gay marriage we witnessed in this last election is profoundly embarrassing for this country, given the strides ahead we have made in the past few years (i.e., removing sodomy laws, allowing gay marriages in San Francisco and Massachusetts). Co-opting gayness has become hip in mainstream America; nearly everyone you ask claims to have a gay friend. But it's clear that the same people who gush over their adorable interior decorator are the ones who decided that he can't get married to his partner of fifteen years. How do they miss the hypocrisy of this? It reminds me of the people (not so long ago) who spoke in sugary, condescending tones about their African-American housekeepers. "She's just a doll, and so smart!" But would they have wanted the housekeeper to attend the same school as their sons, or—gasp—get married to one of them? No, because deep down they were just as bigoted as the folks in white robes and pointy hats.

Did I mention I'm irritated?

This is what's going on with the topic of homosexuality in this country, and I have just now realized it. The veil of perception has fallen from my eyes and I can see Middle America in all her naked provincialism. (Grant me a little latitude for this naivete; I live in a very liberal town.) All this time, I really thought things were improving. But what's happening now is even more insidious than out-and-out Jim Crowism, because now people are not even acknowledging their prejudices—they are merely paying lip service to a fashion trend. Gay culture in the mainstream is the social equivalent of flared jeans, and who knows where those will be next season? I'm telling you, we're due for another civil rights movement, and this one will be a doozy. I think it will come soon, too, because the kids of today are far more tolerant and enlightened about homosexuality than most of their elders. But I hope we can do some soul searching even before then, and do the right thing because we know it's right, and because we've made a conscious decision not to be intolerant idiots anymore. I hope, I hope, I hope.

So in Karen's New World Order, will you be allowed to go to a Broadway show if you voted for the gay-marriage amendment? Nope. Watch The Birdcage or Victor/Victoria? No way. You don't deserve it. Come back when you have something besides hatred to offer the country. You can maybe be the housekeeper.

Last Saturday night, Nick and I went to the Godzilla film festival at Liberty Hall. We were in for a treat. A giant inflated Godzilla sat atop the building, menacing the patrons who dared to enter that hallowed hall. "Rawrr!" you could almost hear it shrieking. "Rawrr!!" There was a t-shirt give-away beforehand, and a discussion panel after—everything a Godzilla geek could require. And as if that weren't enough, we were in a theater that served beer!

The film we watched was a recent one (2001), entitled Gojira, Mosura, Kingu Gidora: Daikaiju Sokogeki (Godzilla, Mothra, King Ghidorah: Giant Monsters All-Out Attack). Directed by Shusuke Kaneko, this movie capitalizes on all the zany campiness of its cinematic predecessors, while drawing from scene staples of more recent action movies. (This is epitomized by the scene in which a hero emerges from the wreckage—stepping through curtains of smoke—to the strains of triumphant gunslinger music.) Indeed, the special effects are just good enough to demonstrate that the filmmakers could have done better, which is why it's so funny that the monsters themselves still look as goofy and lumbering as always.

The plot is this. Yuri, a young reporter for a tabloid TV show specializing in UFOs, goes in search of a bona fide story when bizarre seismic activity is noted in various sectors of Japan. We know this because a whole lot of people run around sterile-looking offices shouting "The epicenter is moving! The epicenter is moving!" Once several more epicenters occur, it becomes obvious that there is more than one creature rearing its ugly head. There is Godzilla, sure. But there is also a deadly trio of Protector Beasts: armadillo-looking Baragon, three-headed dragon Ghidorah and, of course, Mothra. We are told that Godzilla is back because the Japanese have forgotten the fallen of WWII, a phenomenon that is only partly explained by the movie's metaphysical mumbo-jumbo. But no matter. The important thing is that they fight! The monsters get together and have magnificent, heroic, and wildly destructive battles. Their grunts and screeches may have been foreign to me (and to the Japanese, as well), but I've no doubt that in his peculiar brand of monster-speak, Mothra recited his own version of the famous St. Crispin's Day speech, to encourage his trusty band of brothers before facing the ultimate enemy. ("And monsters in Tokyo now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their monsterhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.")

It's important to note that the movie is intentionally tongue and cheek. My favorite moment occurred when a bunch of tourists were gathered on an embankment in the countryside. After spotting the massive Baragon in the valley below, one of the tourists says, "It's so frightening, but also cute. Take my picture before we run." Naturally, this delay costs them dearly, as Godzilla emerges from behind the ridge and smashes them all to smithereens. "Rawrr!!" This is comedy gold, folks. Another moment of gratuitous destruction comes when a girl lying immobile in a hospital bed watches Godzilla's massive form move by her window. He passes, her breathing begins to slow, and then the massive tail comes thumping through the window. "Smash!!"

Yes, like always, Godzilla pretty much pulverizes Tokyo. There are the compulsory scenes of people running, and of buildings getting stepped on. After all, Godzilla is still a city boy at heart.

Gojira, Mosura, Kingu Gidora: Daikaiju Sokogeki is one movie that does not flinch while exploiting the conventions of its genre. It's hilarious and fun, especially with beer in hand. I heartily recommend it to Godzilla fans everywhere.

P.S. There is no significance to the 5-minute Photoshopped Kurtzilla above, except that it amused me. I just know that if Snake Plissken came back as a monster, this is what he'd be. "Rawrr!!"