The Eagle & Child

A New Bibb in the Leo File Files

2009-08-20T18:07:00.011-05:00

Where's the photo, you ask? Well, unlike most of America, I do not think that posting photos of my family members online for all to see is the wisest e-choice. Call me an overprotective father if you must, but you'll just have to settle for Weird Al's newest (and most amazingly animated) video about that notorious badass, Charles Nelson Reilly, after whom our little adopted kitty was named. Isn't that right, Forky?

Ladies and Bloglemen, I have a son. His name is Oren Aardvark File (only slightly changed to protect the incontinent), and he was born at 7:40 p. m. on August 13 after his mother endured unspeakable physical duress in bringing him into this world.

This got me to thinking.

Why did women come off so poorly in the whole Eden curse situation? I mean, Adam had to go work for his food, which really only amounts to fresh air and varied experiences, while Eve was saddled with horrible pain just for propagating the species. And the snake? The one crafty SOB who truly caused all the trouble? His legs were taken away, true, but then he was given monster fangs, around 150 hearts, the ability to prolong his life through skin regeneration, neurotoxic venom, camoflauge capabilities, and a knack for slithering at...get this...up to 13 mph! What the frick, God?!

Anyway, I feel your pain, ladies. And I've seen it all happen firsthand. Jeez, guys, did we ever luck out on that deal.

An Even Badder Seed?

2009-08-03T20:55:00.009-05:00

Holy sleeper, blogfans! Have any of you seen the latest offering from the erstwhile lackluster Dark Castle Pictures division of Warner Bros.? No? Well, you're not alone. It hasn't done particularly well at that fickle spinster known as the American box office, and I must say that, while it totally does NOT deserve such widespread panning, I can guess why it hasn't blown the average movie-goer out of his sweaty socks. For one thing, everyone at Rotten Tomatoes seems to have missed the joke. This isn't supposed to be some probing commentary on the dangers that lurk within our oh-so-secure suburban lives, and it isn't an investigation of the deep psychological scars {tacit plot spoiler alert} associated with certain physical conditions. This little gem is pure, unadulterated camp. And it's not even contemporary camp. It's 50s camp!

OK, so maybe there's a bit too much skin in Orphan for the 50s label, but aside from that, this wonderful movie is a delightfully self-conscious remake/update of the 1956 Warner Bros. "shocker" The Bad Seed, a truly disturbing little film about a precocious psycho named Rhoda who "didn't mean" to brutally murder several people who pissed her off. The ubiquitous nods to Bad Seed are practically palpable in Orphan, but I guess most audience members are too ignorant of the classics to note the allusions. This Bibb, however, was enthralled and tickled black as Esther's evil hair (which was often tied up in pigtails as an homage to her blonde predecessor in tot terror). The scene with the white roses had me cringing in my stadium seat, and the film's wrap scene tag-line had me rolling in the sticky aisles! {Dialogue spoiler alert}

Esther (bloodied and clutching feverishly at her adopted mother/victim in the middle of a frozen lake): "Don't let me die, Mommie."

Kate (suffering from several stab wounds and a gunshot to the shoulder): "I'm NOT your Fu(&!NG MOMMIE!"

Oh, bloggies, I loved this movie. I could not believe the evil that Esther unleashed on her unsuspecting (though admittedly screwed-up and self-involved) adopted family. Seriously, go out and rent / Netflix / Hulu / iPhone / Limewire The Bad Seed if you have not seen it, and then go and visit Esther. I promise you that she's the one you'll want to take home.

"There's something wrong with Esther."

Palin Passes

2009-07-29T10:50:00.008-05:00

The Colbert Report

Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

Sarah Palin Will Be Missed

http://www.colbertnation.com/

Colbert Report Full Episodes

Political Humor

Tasers

Sure, I know the pundits are whispering in their online polls about Palin '12, but I think we've finally seen the last of this insufferably buffoonish clown and her childish attempt to be taken seriously in the political world. Did that sound too harsh? I'm sorry. Let me paraphrase in a euphemistic paragraph that won't upset her oblivious fans:

Regrettably, I sense that Governor Sarah Palin's participation in the vicious media cat-fight that is American politics has come to a premature end. All those long words and bothersome facts became too much of a burden for a woman of the future. How can she be expected to read up on the issues when there are so many Alaskan animals to slaughter? And those hideous newshounds simply would not stop reporting on her pregnant daughter, who she tried to keep safely out of the public eye by hiding her in plain sight at every single one of her political rallies, speeches, debates, and televised events. Plus, who wants to be a "lame duck" for 140 days? Not this straight-shooter. (*Wink*) She's a maverick who tears down bridges to nowhere in our post-9/11 world . . . only now she'll do it at home while writing her multimillion-dollar memoir. Take it easy, Sarah, and don't forget to spell-check!

There. Does that satisfy the Palinites? How anyone could legitimately respect that woman will forever be beyond my belief.

Le Merde de Taureau

2009-07-27T17:43:00.007-05:00

These jerks sound exactly like my lit class students. "Yeah, I remember that part, the part when that guy told the other guy about how he was made and stuff. That was interesting" (this was during a discussion over Shelley's Frankenstein).

Genius of Juvenalia

2009-07-07T10:53:00.013-05:00

For those of you who may not know, I am a card-carrying nerd and have been for years. Actually, I think my nerd card dates from that fateful afternoon in August of 1989 when my friend Brent loaned me a copy of the "UHF" soundtrack. I listened to that cassette so many times in such rapid succession that I wore out the magnetic tape and had to buy Brent a new copy. To this day, I have the entirety of "The Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota" memorized down to the interjections and the background vocals.

Thus, one could say that "Weird Al" Yankovic is not only a symptom of my nerdishness, but he is also at least partially to blame for its inception. After listening to that gloriously clever album on my Fisher stereo system in the halcyon Oklahoma summer of '89, I realized that I no longer cared if people would make fun of me for liking such things; they were simply too pleasurable to pass up for something as paltry as social acceptance.

Anyway, I believe the above video demonstrates the essence of his genius in a way that few others in his impressive body of work ever have. Those of you who like the Doors (and Jim Morrison's in-your-face, drug-augmented smuggery) will hardly miss the canny allusions involving random stock film footage looped behind psychedelic acid filters and shots of the desert. One thing must be said about Al the Parodiest: the man knows his material.

Like the childhoods of countless others, my adolescence was unpleasant and occasionally emotionally draining due to my parents' alcoholism, pathological dishonesty, and bankruptcy, but "Weird Al" was always there to make me laugh until I needed to pee. If you've longed to try him out but were afraid to be labeled a nerd, now is the time to cross over, because it has never been cooler to be uncool.

Click the T!

Old Glory On An Asherah Pole

2009-06-29T20:41:00.013-05:00

So, the Israelites had this annoying tendency to idolize the wrong things. They made that infamous calf at the base of the holiest mountain on Earth and danced around it while God spoke to Moses. They married into the indigenous Canaanite religions and bowed down to Ashtoreths and Baals before Joshua was even cold in his grave. Then they elected an unfortunate series of corrupt kings who continued to read books on Wicca and erect...well...inappropriate erections.

A good but somewhat recalcitrant judge named Gideon began the process of pointing out these sacrilegious inconsistencies amongst the Lord's people when he chopped down his father's Asherah pole (a totem-pole-esque edifice honoring the Hebrew goddess of fertility, Asherah) and demolished the adjacent altar to everyone's favorite euphemism for the Semitic rain god Hadad, Ba'al. Ever since, party-poopers like Gideon and myself (with the incredibly unpopular spiritual gift of discernment) have been doomed to deconstruct the myriad surrogate deities we alleged followers of the Lord set up in place of the real Jehovah. And here I go again...

Folks, this past Sunday morning in "church" I bore witness to an orgy of patriotic gyration the likes of which Sodom and Gomorrah never even dreamed about. Proud, shrieking eagles swooped across the altar; monstrous flags obscured the stained glass portrait of Jesus; Uncle Sam stomped in with Old Glory hoisted higher than the cross. We sang every trite, maudlin bunting song in the red, white, and blue book. We waved little plastic replica flags (that were, I giggled to note, made in China) in time to "Grand Ol' Flag," a tune I'm quite sure none of the salivating patriots realized originated in a toe-tapping Broadway show and NOT as the follow-up track to Lee Greenwood's "Proud to Be an American."

Now I don't mind celebrating the Grand Ol' Fourth any more than the next guy. But in the house of the Lord, I would like to reserve my adulation for Him, AND ONLY HIM. I will NOT condone an entire Sunday devoted to tired, over-simplified praise songs exalting our perfect, morally pure and supreme nation of almighty glory and power...but with "never a boast or brag." My gall caught in my throat.

Am I just a jumpy jeremiad? Have any of you experienced this disappointing trend? What is to be done? I cannot follow Gideon's example and simply cut down the flag to use as fuel for burning the bunting-and-balloon altar to the great god Freedominus Americammon. Maybe Jefferson was right: the separation of Church and State doesn't seem like such a bad idea after all.

Judges 6:25-32; 1 Kings 18:21-39

Gradalis Scholasticus

2009-06-05T22:05:00.006-05:00

Holy...Grail, blogademes! Your intrepid Sir Bibs was at long last deemed worthy of a glimpse of the holy of holies this afternoon at around 4:00. After questing for many years (nine, but who's counting?), this weary knight of knowledge has finally neared his journey's end.

I passed my Ph.D. qualifying exams today. That's right, blogstudents, I'm one dissertation away from being...wait for it...a bona fide doctor! Not the kind that makes lots of money for splicing a couple of arteries together and then going off to play golf all week, but a doctor nonetheless! The official term for my current status is ABD (Almost Brain Dead), and many schools will actually consider hiring me now! No kidding! I already got a call from the local community college about setting up an interview (and before you scoff, consider that, in these turbid economic times, community colleges are paying much more than their university counterparts).

O Lord, thanks be to Thee for Thy mercy and guidance! Bless this travel-sore wanderer and lead him to the sacred grove of academe!

Gehenna or Bust

2009-04-22T20:16:00.007-05:00

To take a break from the List of Doom, I wanted to refer all you blogophytes to an imminent movie event not to be missed. Coming out on May 29, Sam Raimi's return to "Real Horror," piquantly entitled Drag Me to Hell, will at long last restore my faith in scream cinema. Think The Evil Dead with (only slightly) better effects.

The plot: in brief, a creepy old gypsy woman (what could be more deliciously melodramatic?) is denied an extension on her mortgage payment (what could be more culturally topical?), and the unfortunate bank bureaucrat responsible spends the remainder of the film hysterically fleeing a legion of sardonic (and surprisingly articulate) demons, while her skeptical boyfriend refuses to entertain even the possibility of a diabolical curse and continuously assures her that she's overreacting and that . . . you guessed it . . . it's probably nothing!

Can you believe it? It's a tract for our troubled times, complete with the evil eye and cackling bugaboos around every corner! What could be better for a nation in dire need of catharsis? Wouldn't we all like to see one of those damned bankers suffer the conflagratory pangs of compulsory damnation? I only hope the bank our "heroine" works for goes by the name "Atlantic Investments Group" or something like that. Kick some ass, Raimi!

Countdown to Comps, DEFCON 1.75

2008-12-31T19:14:00.014-06:00

Guess what, blogfiends. Your faithful Bibb has completed his Ph.D. coursework, and he's headed for the ominous comprehensive exams in the spring. In the meantime, he has to read around 140 books to prepare. Can you friggin' believe it?! What the crap, dudes? You'd think I was trying to get a degree in reading stuff...or something.

Anyway, I thought it might be a gas to record my progress, and since no one reads this blog and I need a visual reminder of how far I've come (and how far I've left to go), I've decided to keep tabs on my reading here on the old E&C. Haven't you always dreamed of getting an inside look into the exciting world of the doctoral graduate student? Well, here's your chance. Let me tell you, it's not all girls, glamour, and rock n' roll. Actually, it's very little of those. It's mostly dust, papercuts, and coffee mugs.

So here we go...

FINISHED
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad
Hard Times by Charles Dickens
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot
Adam Bede by George Eliot
Silas Marner by George Eliot
Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
Vanity Fair by W. M. Thackeray
Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Barchester Towers by Anthony Trollope
Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson
Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson
The Subjection of Women by John Stuart Mill
Culture and Anarchy by Matthew Arnold
A Passage to India by E. M. Forster
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
Dubliners by James Joyce
In Memoriam, A. H. H. by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Man and Superman by George Bernard Shaw
Selected Poems by Robert Browning (Dude Kicks Some Righteous A)

IN-PROGRESS
Mrs. Warren's Profession by George Bernard Shaw
AND Portrait of a Lady by Henry James (audio file via Librivox)

NEXT-IN-LINE
Howards End by E. M. Forster

Check back for updates as I slog through the list of doom. And feel free to ask me questions about the books as I finish them. It will be good practice for the exams.

FOX Stole my Post

2008-12-18T11:01:00.011-06:00

I thought this might brighten up the holiday blues for some of you poor Christmas protesters out there. If you find yourself losing your cool this holiday season, try getting the whole family to gather around for a good old-fashioned Yuletide Tirade. Make sure to invent several original compound modifiers, like "lard-spattered" or "poop-loving." And be honest; it helps add to the sense of fury.

You're welcome, bloggerinoes, and Happy Holidays.

Christmas? Humbug!

2008-12-05T11:06:00.030-06:00

Not me, that's for jingle-damned sure.

Obviously, the bitterness came early this holiday season, kiddoes. As my sainted mother used to say, I am "sick-unto-death" of hearing about other people's problems, questions, concerns, plans, desires, intentions, opinions, and suggestions. Perhaps this comes of being an instructor and having to listen to hosts of questions about everything from online technical issues to where to properly place a staple on a printed document (yes, that actually came up this year).

Perhaps my acidic Scroogeyness comes of my increasing disinterest in anything occuring in the so-called "real world" these days. I mean, what is there in real life that even holds a candle to poetry, to the beautiful other-worlds of Auden, Eliot, Thomas, Keats, Arnold, Browning, Yeats, Heaney, Milton, Shakespeare, Coleridge, Tennyson, Hopkins, Poe, Robinson, Rossetti, Dickinson, Donne, Blake, Baudelaire, Byron, Frost, Whitman and Wordsworth? I'd exchange an average day of my lackluster life for any single line by any one of these poets, especially at Christmas. No, really, that is not an overstatement.

As the horror of another empty Christmas darkens the horizon, I realize how truly little I care about several specific things. The following litany of holiday "who cares" includes the items that will elicit either complete indifference from me, or possibly a swift sidekick to the face. And lucky you, I decided to list them, jazzy X-mas bullet-style! Boo-yah!

I don't care about your awesome Christmas party. Nothing is quite as irksome as having to listen to the lame exploits of your stupid holiday get-together. Grow up.

I don't care about Christmas gifts for me or for you. Don't ask me what I want for Christmas because the reply, like "For you to move to Australia," might cause you pain.

I don't care about the discounts you got on anything. The surest way to provoke me into punching you in the kidneys is the mention of any sale you encountered this year.

I don't care about your festive, seasonal decorations. In fact, if you'd like to avoid having them ripped down and burned, you might just keep them in the attic this December.

I don't care about the marvelous Christmas goodies you made. Actually, the very word "goodies" makes me want to break something brightly colored and cheery, like your face.

I don't care about the kickin' Christmas mix you downloaded on your iPod. I'll shove that little white bastard where the majestic Tree Topper's light don't shine.

I don't care about your family's holiday plans. Whoever's coming to your house this year is probably just as big a moron as you are, and you'll all have a splendidly moronic time together, I'm sure.

Take that, Holiday Season! Don't pretend you're happy around me. Don't tell me 'tis the season to be jolly. Let's see some humility and contrition. If you want to talk about how the human race was so repugnantly foul that our kind and perfect Creator had to take on human flesh and die to redeem us from our disgusting, brutish, sinful selves, then gather 'round the egg-nogg bowl and we'll chat awhile. Otherwise, stay the holly-hell out of my anti-festive face.

Merry Christmas!

Please excuse the preceeding vitriolic invective against Christmas and Christmastime. The author simply needed to vent his burgeoning frustrations and did not intend to offend, frighten, belittle, intimidate, undermine, judge, or trivialize any of your sacred holiday feelings. The author merely asks you to abide by the listed suggestions to avoid his increased displeasure and discomfort, and he wishes to inform you in no uncertain terms of his sincere hope to avoid harming you for contravening any of the enumerated prohibitions on his list. Offer expires 12-31-08. Void where prohibited.

Leftovers: Gobble, Gobble, Toil and Trobble...

2008-11-27T08:30:00.001-06:00

Yep, Halloween is history, my little gobblets. Make way for gluttonous consumption on a national scale the likes of which you haven't seen since...well, since Halloween. That's right, wood-chuck chuckers, it's Thanksgiving Day!

So get out there and buy! Buy! Buy! Buy! First go and buy more food than most Ethiopians see in a lifetime and plop it down on the table for your fat relatives and fat friends! Then sit around and stuff your fat faces with grease and butter until you simply must get up from the table and either poop explosively or vomit in a projectile fashion! Whee! American traditions are great!

Oh sure, I know what some of you must be thinking: "But Thanksgiving is about taking time to thank God, Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Vishnu, Cthulhu, or Burt Reynolds for all the blessings he/it has given me during the past year!" Sure it is. How does consuming obscene quantities of food that could have been given to those who have nothing to eat qualify as an adequate expression of thanks?

Then after you have bought everything Kroger has on its shelves and thrown about half of that away or given it to the cat/dog/Uncle Larry, it's time for the quickest turnaround in the whole dizzying spectrum of consumerism! The Holy Mammon Day After Thanksgiving! America's newest and most popular holiday! Get your newly acquired fat thighs a-pumpin' toward the Wal-Mart because there's a sale on fat pants, and pretty much everyone in your family will need a pair this...um...Wristwatch?...Litmus?...oh, you know, this Holiday Sale's-on!

Let's just cut the crap, shall we? Let's just call the year's end by the name it so richly deserves. Santa Claus is the king of our Bethlehem; there's less and less room at the Holiday Inn for the real King of Israel with each passing December. It's a mad world, folks, and we need to wake up and smell the crazy.

Happy Meowlloween!

2008-10-31T20:53:00.007-05:00

Mrs. Leo File is a very talented jack o'lanterneer, n'est-ce pas? Hope everyone has a creepy, disturbing Hallow's Eve. I realize this friggin' adorable pumpkin makes it rather difficult to sustain any viable sense of fear, but if you could have seen this same gourd this afternoon when I hurled its putrid, mold-infested pulpiness into the trash bin, you would have screamed in terror.

By the by, if you haven't heard the latest shocking election news, head on over to Forky's blog for an amazing update. Wind's in the east...mist comin' in...like somethin' is brewin' and 'bout to begin...

Oh, and here are the results of our attempted Halloween photo session with a certain recalcitrant kitty. Guess those Sears memory snaps are out of the question.

And the Penny Begins Its Descent...

2008-10-22T17:31:00.003-05:00

So, just to prove (to myself, mostly) that I'm not the only voice of sanity in a world blindly crying out for Palin-genesis, I extend to you the following poll results.

Am I attempting to launch an entire argument in urge of celebration based on one poll? No. What sort of composition instructor could I claim to be with such lackluster, spotty evidence? But the proof will undoubtedly be in the pudding come Nov. 4th. Let us fervently hope that Polly Palin's antics have finally sunk ol' Maraudin' Maverick McCain's creepy pirate ship of a campaign.

Beyond the Palin

2008-10-16T18:17:00.005-05:00

Here she is, ladies and gentlemen, the next President of the United States of America. Yep, you heard me right . . . President. Let's just face the facts, shall we? McCain is an old man. He's a very old man. He's 72, people. He will become our oldest inaugurated president if he wins the election, beating out poor ol' Ronnie by over three years! I'm talkin' OLD. And he's not exactly raisin' and ropin' broncos, either. His health's not so great, despite what we're being told by his campaign jockeys. He's had cancer. Lots of it. Admittedly, it was just melanoma, but the last instance was a rather serious invasive melanoma that required extensive surgery and some facial reconstruction. Add that to the fact that he looks like the photosensitive ghost children from the film The Others and you've got yourself the makings of a chronic condition.

And he's just plain old. I'm not an "ageist," whatever the hell that means. I don't go around belittling people because they're younger or older than I am; that makes about as much sense as my ridiculing those who are taller or shorter than I am, what I suppose the buzzwordsmiths would dub a "heightist." Nevertheless, only a fool would deny that health deteriorates with age. Sorry folks. Fact o' life.

And guess what often expedites the effects of age? Stress. And guess what's probably the most stressful job on the planet? College professor. But the presidency has to be a close second. Thus, we get Madame President Palin. Ohhh. I lost control of my bladder just typing that. Just take a look at some of her greatest hits.

On our "post-9/11 world" -
Gibson: We talk on the anniversary of 9/11. Why do you think those hijackers attacked? Why did they want to hurt us?
Palin: You know, there is a very small percentage of Islamic believers who are extreme and they are violent and they do not believe in American ideals, and they attacked us and now we are at a point here seven years later, on the anniversary, in this post-9/11 world, where we're able to commit to never again. They see that the only option for them is to become a suicide bomber, to get caught up in this evil, in this terror. They need to be provided the hope that all Americans have instilled in us, because we're a democratic, we are a free, and we are a free-thinking society.

On foreign policy and anyone who "hates what we stand for" -
Ifill: Secretaries of State Baker, Kissinger, Powell, they have all advocated some level of engagement with enemies. Do you think these former secretaries of state are wrong on that?
Palin: No and Dr. Henry Kissinger especially. I had a good conversation with him recently. And he shared with me his passion for diplomacy. And that's what John McCain and I would engage in also. But with some of these dictators who hate America and hate what we stand for, with our freedoms, our democracy, our tolerance, our respect for women's rights, those who would try to destroy what we stand for cannot be met with just sitting down on a presidential level as Barack Obama had said he would be willing to do. That is beyond bad judgment. That is dangerous.

On Alaska as the last great hope against invasion by the Russians -
Couric: You've cited Alaska's proximity to Russia as part of your foreign policy experience. What did you mean by that?
Palin: That Alaska has a very narrow maritime border between a foreign country, Russia, and, on our other side, the land-boundary that we have with Canada. It's funny that a comment like that was kinda mocked, I guess that's the word. Well, it certainly does, because our, our next-door neighbors are foreign countries, there in the state that I am the executive of. We have trade missions back and forth, we do. As Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border. It is from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right there, they are right next to our state.

On getting those worn-out troops some guns so they can hunt moose (priorities, you know) -
Palin: I heard from many Alaskans serving overseas during my trip to Kuwait in July. One of the most frequent questions was about the status of hunting seasons upon their return. While I can't grant our troops the chance to hunt in closed areas or in places with species restrictions, I do want to recognize them and help them hunt this late fall or winter when they get home.

Well, that's great. The economy's in the toilet, the Middle East is a bigger, hotter mess than ever before, and most of the rest of the world hates us, but at least the moose and caribou seasons will start on time. GOD HELP US IF SHE GETS WITHIN 50 MILES OF THE WHITE HOUSE!

Please, people, don't put this woman in charge of the free world. Vote Obama / Biden on Nov. 4.

Captain Emo

2008-09-26T14:38:00.010-05:00

So I'm in this poetry workshop, right? Total B-sh!t, right? Yeah, you know? So I bring in my latest heartsong, and the blind fu(&ers can't see past the ends of their own poses, you know? I mean, I'm pounding out raw nerves, and all they have to send back is lame MAMA-TOLD-ME-TO-WASH-MY-HANDS propriety, you know? Sometimes, I mean, God!

I sing from the core of my being, yeah? No one tells me who I am, dammit! If I say that "Death relished my Dad," then that's what fu(&ing Death did to my Dad! Relished him! Damned fresh, that is, but not one of these EMPLOYEES-OF-THE-MONTH knows the first thing about fresh, yeah? They sit in a censor-circle every Wednesday night, waiting to SH!T on freshness, you know? They open their torture chests, drag out the usual IMPLEMENTS-OF-RESTRAINT: Rhythm, Meter, Purpose, Comprehendability, and they beat me with them for hours; gotta satisfy that sadism until somebody gets hurt. S. O. S. (SAME OPRESSIVE SH!T)

Ooh, real nice brain-bling, Professor Predictable, yeah? I'm going to haul out my dusty collection of factoids for you to choke on, you know? Go FU(& yourself! Take it back to the prison-house, turnkey! I know that "God's flesh hangs loose on a coathanger, like my sister's vulva," and I'm going to throw off your INTIMIDATION-JACKET to tell the world about it, right? I mean, right?

And . . . scene. Welcome to the world of "contemporary poetry," ladies and gentlemen, where rhyme and meter are parents who just don't understand, and historical or literary allusions are the tools of the fascist elite. Lord help me. Help me resist the temptation to go emo-stomping.

Thundering News

2008-09-06T23:13:00.008-05:00

So, do you remember that little girl in Adventures in Babysitting? The one who wore the little helmet with wings through the whole movie? Yeah, that's kinda me.

Though Iron Man will always be my heart's favorite in the Marvel Universe of superheroes, I've been in awe of Thor since I was around five years old. He's not just a dude in tights with powers foisted accidentally on him in some dubious scientific snafu.

He's an honest to God...well...God.

And in case you haven't been up on your comics lately (as I am ashamed to admit I have not), he's back from the void of nonexistence, and he's pissed.

Apparently, my good pal Iron Man stole one of the Thunder God's golden locks way back when the Avengers first convened, and recently he went and made a, you guessed it, Thor-Clone. This abomination seriously insulted the Odinson, and he had to bring the hammer down on old Shellhead.

It...was...AWESOME. And the coolest part of the Thor saga is that Asgard is now hovering over Oklahoma, and Thor is traveling around waking up the other Norse gods.

And all of this is happening in the comics just as they have announced the Thor movie project, slated for 2010. Oh, it's a wonderful time to be alive and a comic nerd.

Felis Satanicus

2008-08-22T20:50:00.005-05:00

Do not adjust your blogs, ladies and gentlemen. You have my word that this image has not been doctored in any way. In fact, you can read the whole freaky story here. The really sad part of the tale, however, is that they named him "Yoda." Yoda?! You have so many wonderful opportunities to indulge your wit in assigning this rare animal a name and you choose Yoda?!!

What about "Dr. Faustus"? What about "Beelzebuffy"? What about "Meowphistophiles," for pity's sake?! I mean, I would have even settled for the predictable "Hellcat" before I'd have agreed to the completely non sequitur Yoda. Some people just have no imagination.

Don't Judge Me

2008-08-21T16:30:00.004-05:00

Bored? Enjoy creating original animation? Just hopelessly nerdy? Well, have I got the waste-your-time website for you. Go immediately to Create Your Own Superhero at Marvel.com and pretend you're Stan Lee for an hour. Excelsior!

All Glory to St. Michael!

2008-08-15T09:44:00.012-05:00

Is anyone else tired of this fellow? Sure, he can swim. I'll admit that. But is that reason enough to declare him a demigod? Are we Greek? Given the ponderous piles of word-worship the Olympic commentators have heaped upon the Phelps altar over the past couple of weeks, I don't think we're far away from erecting a Liberty-scale statue of him in Ann Arbor. Something like this...

Why is it always so easy for someone who's exceptionally good at something athletic to become a hero? Do they really deserve such complete adoration? If aliens invaded tomorrow, what good would Phelps be in defending us from the attack? What would he do, shame them into retreat by soundly beating them in the 200m? I mean, at least the Greeks chose heroes who could legitimately defend them from the wrath of foreign invaders or the gods, truly heroic men like Hercules, Achilles, Theseus, Perseus, and Odysseus. But whom do we choose? These people.

If these are our champions, then we should probably prepare ourselves for a pretty sound alien beatdown. People are so anxious to indulge in narcissistic hero-worship that they will pledge their undying allegiance to any pan-flashing celebrity who reminds them most of themselves. I think it was Bertolt Brecht who once wrote: "Unhappy is the land that needs a hero." Too true, Mr. Brecht, but I think I would revise that statement to read, "Unhappy is the land that collects heroes like action figures."

Oxford Across the Water

2008-08-06T02:06:00.008-05:00

Well, folks, I am attempting to upload my first England video to blogger this evening, so you will have to let me know if it actually works for anyone besides myself. Technology is a fickle hag, and there's no telling whether she'll give you butterfly kisses or stab you in the back.

Anyway, for better or worse, here it is. Enjoy.

And there's more where this came from . . . Stay tuned.

Homecoming

2008-07-27T17:27:00.011-05:00

Imagine a darkened room, permeated with the mouth-watering aroma of roast beef, warm ale, and pipe tobacco. Imagine a small, unassuming corner table next to a modest hearth just past the bar.

Then imagine a man in a heavy tweed coat bustling in from the street, beads of rain dotting his leather satchel and the glint of firelight reflecting off of the buttons on his ornate waistcoat. Already seated at the corner table is a man with a high forehead, his hands folded neatly in front of him and a small Bible lying open near his arm. Next imagine each of these two learned gentlemen acknowledging the other with a courteous nod and brief salutation.

"Morning, Tollers. Beastly weather, isn't it?"

"Morning, Jack. The wind practically ripped my coat from my shoulders during the ride down Banbury. But I've got some more of my nonsense to show you."

Then imagine the newly arrived man throwing back the flap on his satchel and drawing out a bundle of worn-edged papers. And on those coffee-stained pages...well, you can just imagine what immortal stories those florid, graceful strokes might entail. Such may have been a Monday morning meeting of the Oxford Inklings at the old Bird & Baby.

And I ate an Angus burger at that very table. Awesome.

The Reluctant Return

2008-07-24T09:26:00.006-05:00

Much as Hadrian and Trajan before him (pictured here on the right) were compelled to relinquish control of their British province to their unworthy successors, I was compelled to come home from my foray overseas. Needless to say, I will visit the beauteous island of Britannia again someday, but for now, unfortunately, duty calls here in the boring ol' USA (aka "Wannabe England").

There will be much more to come in the way of holiday snaps, of course. Just at present, however, I'm rather knackered, so you'll have to excuse me for a bit while I have a lovely kip in me own bed. Cheers for now, mates.

Land of Hope and Glory

2008-07-08T21:34:00.005-05:00

Well, blogblokes and blogbirds, the time has finally come. I will have my hands too full tomorrow to post anything legible and coherent, so consider this as my last broadcast for a fortnight. England beckons, and finally, I shall answer the call. I will be in contact with you Yanks via the Web, so feel free to send me your messages, questions, suggestions, and what not.

When (and if) I return, I shall plaster my photos all over my blogspace like an anglo-maniac. I will miss you all, and I sincerely wish you could all come along with me on this most life-changing of journeys.

God Save the Queen.

Oxford's Calling, Too

2008-07-08T00:01:00.011-05:00

I'm going here . . .

And here...

And here . . .

And here . . .

And, most appropriately, here . . .

Where is this, you ask? Did you note the unobtrusive plaque on the wall above the hearth?

That's right. You may commence with the envious groaning.

London Calling: In Three Days

2008-07-06T21:13:00.005-05:00

Lord & Lady Bibb of Eyrieville,

On behalf of oneself and the entire royal family, one extends to you and Lady Bibb the heartiest welcome our noble land can muster. May your stay exceed your expectations in every respect, and may the noble grandeur of London shine forth from every pavement stone as you two explore her limitless treasures. Should you want for anything while you tarry under British skies, please simply notify one of my guards posted outside of Buck House, and my staff shall attend to your needs posthaste.

Perhaps Your Lordship and Her Ladyship might do one the great pleasure of joining one for an afternoon constitutional along Birdcage Walk on Saturday. One shall strive to meet you both across from Anne's Gate at 15:30, provided one's schedule allows one to breathe the summer air for a few blessed minutes.

Your Humble Servant,

Liz II

Pixar's Foll-E

2008-07-03T17:47:00.009-05:00

Psst!

Is it safe to write anything even remotely negative about Wall-E, the animation gods' annointed avatar? Will I be censured? Bull-whipped? Transported? Will I have my personality reassigned by Disney scientists, my currently cynical outlook replaced with unending happiness and a fervid desire to buy huge quantities of Wall-E merchandise? I don't know, and I don't care. Ladies and gentlemen, Wall-E is a preachy, disconnected, self-congratulatory, and perhaps most unfortunate, boring movie. That's right, fanboys & fangals, I said it. BOOOO-ring.

I must confess to a certain degree of confusion about the ridiculously egregious praise this film has received already. Just as a sampling, take a gander at the following review blurbs I chose at random from several "top critics" on Rotten Tomatoes. I haven't seen this much unwarranted gushing since The Departed opened in '06:

Peter Travers, The Rolling Stone: "First reaction: WALL-E, directed with a poet's eye by Andrew Stanton (Finding Nemo) from a whipsmart and shrewdly accessible script he wrote with Jim Reardon, is some kind of miracle. Talk about daring. It's Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot mixed with Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey and Terry Gilliam's Brazil, topped with the cherry of George Lucas' Star Wars and Steven Spielberg's E.T. , and wrapped up in a G-rated whipped-cream package. What could have been a mess of influences is instead unique and unforgettable. Tons of movies promise something for everyone. WALL-E actually makes good on that promise. It's a landmark in modern moviemaking that lifts you up on waves of humor, heartbreak and ravishing romance. Want proof that animation can be an art form? It's all there in the groundbreaking WALL-E."

Joe Morgenstern, The Wall Street Journal: ". . . the film stands as a stunning tour de force. The director has described it as his love letter to the golden era of sci-fi films that enchanted him as a kid in the 1970s. It is certainly that, in hearts and spades. Beyond that, though, it's a love letter to the possibilities of the movie medium, and a dazzling demonstration of how computers can create a photorealistic world -- in this case a ruined world of mysterious majesty -- that leaves literal reality in the dust. I'll write more about this in Saturday's Weekend Journal, but for now I must drop my inhibitions about dropping the M word -- especially since I've already used magnificent -- and call "WALL-E" the masterpiece that it is."

A. O. Scott, The New York Times: "Rather than turn a tale of environmental cataclysm into a scolding, self-satisfied lecture, Mr. Stanton shows his awareness of the contradictions inherent in using the medium of popular cinema to advance a critique of corporate consumer culture. The residents of the space station, accustomed to being tended by industrious robots, have grown to resemble giant babies, with soft faces, rounded torsos and stubby, weak limbs. Consumer capitalism, anticipating every possible need and swaddling its subjects in convenience, is an infantilizing force. But as they cruise around on reclining chairs, eyes fixed on video screens, taking in calories from straws sticking out of giant cups, these overgrown space babies also look like moviegoers at a multiplex. They’re us, in other words. And like us, they’re not all bad. The paradox at the heart of “Wall-E” is that the drive to invent new things and improve the old ones — to buy and sell and make and collect — creates the potential for disaster and also the possible path away from it. Or, put another way, some of the same impulses that fill the world of “Wall-E” — our world — with junk can also fill it with art."

I'm sorry, but WHAT?! Were you shemps watching the same movie I was?! I believe it was the inimitable Oscar Wilde who once wrote, "Remote from reality and with her eyes turned away from the shadows of the cave, Art reveals her own perfection, and the wondering crowd that watches the opening of the marvelous many-petalled rose fancies that it is its own history that is being told to it, its own spirit that is finding expression in a new form. But it is not so." So the very fact that you dweebs think this film's clumsy, frantic attempt to teach us all about love in the time of environmental tribulation is a form of "art" demonstrates exactly the opposite. True Art doesn't trip over its own didactic agenda. True Art doesn't try to mask said agenda with "feel-good" allusions to old musicals (and since when is Hello, Dolly! "half-forgotten," Mr. Scott?) and cheesy rhetorical appeals to pathos, appeals like the musty old "lonely and awkward outcast" chestnut. No, true Art doesn't seem like art at all. And the simple fact is that Wall-E is trying WAY too hard to be art.

From the moment I saw the "clever" autopilot helm-bot's plagiaristic red eye, plucked from the archetypal Hal's cold, robotic face, I knew we were in for a perpetual "wink" of a film. Like J. K. Rowling and the Indulgent Fifth Book, Pixar's Stanton badly needed an editor on this project, someone to provide the check and/or balance to his endless parade of cleverness. How many times did we need to hear the laboriously knowing line "I didn't know we had a pool!" aboard the cutely christened starship Axiom? Seriously, I counted at least three repetitions. Like my esteemed blog-colleague Forky has already asserted, repetition itself is a major problem in the film. The movie's anxious, eager-to-please, clamoring reiteration resembles a four-year-old child begging his distracted father to "Watch me! Watch me, Daddy! Daddy, watch me! Are you watching? DADDEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

And as an avid reader of nineteenth- and twentieth-century children's literature, I must own up to an intense distaste for ponderously didactic narratives. Stories packed so full of noble morals for their potentially innane and drooling audiences (I do concur with at least one of Scott's points; the big floating babies definitely represent Pixar's, or at least Stanton's, view of the movie-going public) usually wind up confusing their less intelligent viewers, dazzling their trendy left-wing groupies, and annoying the s#!t out of their moderately savvy critics. But the truly frustrating thing about the latest Pixar pic is that none of the savviest in the latter group seem to be doing their jobs in discussing it. Honestly, Mr. Morgenstern. Did you really just write that the CGI-scape of the abandoned planet Earth "leaves literal reality in the dust"? Shall we order up a hoverchair for you? Go outside once in a while, Mr. Morgenstern.

And as for my little fit of pure ennui brought on by this film's supposedly brilliant opening sequence, I can only shake my head and wonder if I've finally gone insane. When I say bored, I don't mean a trifle disinterested. I was yawning and checking my watch. Go ahead, blogosphere. Write your snide comments about how insensitive I am, about how I have no sense of taste when it comes to highbrow cinema (yeah, they'll be changing to limited releases at arthouse cinemas for the next Pixar product).

But you know what? I like silence in films, so my boredom cannot be fobbed off on a simple lack of dialogue. After all, I loved No Country for Old Men, and that one contained huge sections of wordless action. No, blogpals, the problem lies in the film's smug sense of self-justification. I was bored because, from the opening credits with their tired "song-in-space" gimmick to the closing scenes depicting happy hippies dancing with birdies, I felt like I was being winked at. The film seemed to say, "We're fu(#ing Pixar, bitches. Everything we touch turns to fu(#ing gold. Did you see what we just did there? We played a showtune in outer space. Did you see all the satellites and space junk around the planet? We'll show it again, just to make sure you felt the hammer blow to the head. Did you notice that the massive shapes at the opening are actually piles of trash, not skyscrapers? We'll run those by you one more time. C'mon people, you have to admit we're the shiznit."

Let's all just take a deep breath, step back from our praise-pulpits, and qualify our universal endorsement of this film as the chosen one. Admittedly, it's not crap. Just as Finding Nemo was not crap. But when compared to the other titles in Pixar's portfolio, Monsters, Inc. and The Incredibles, for example, Wall-E belongs at the bottom of a rather large heap.

London Countdown: T-Minus 1 Week

2008-07-02T22:56:00.007-05:00

Ok, folks. Enough with the "Stardate" crap. I'm seriously going to England in one week. Less than that, actually. I'll be within walking distance of Buckingham Palace. I'll be able to see the Thames from my hotel window. I'll hear Big Ben chime the hour all day long. Crikey.

At this stage, I no longer know whether all this is a dream or some kind of horribly cruel cosmic joke. Will I arrive at the airport only to hear the raucous laughter of all of the staff, clutching their sides and howling, "You thought you were going to England? What a maroon!" I've actually visualized this scene in a recent dream sequence. The lady at the X-ray machine shakes with huge guffaws as she tears up my boarding pass. All of the other passengers hoot with joy and toss their half-empty Starbucks cups at me as I am unceremoniously escorted out of the terminal by two chuckling security guards. Gosh, I'm neurotic.

But I suppose those are just dreams. I really, really am going to my favorite country in the world. Will I weep? Will I fall to my knees in Heathrow International and sing "God Save the Queen" at the top of my lungs? I don't know. But I know one thing for sure. When Bibb returns (provided that Mrs. Bibb can drug him and drag him to the plane), he'll have a gaggle of photos to share.

No Disassemble Wall-E Five!

2008-06-26T21:19:00.006-05:00

Like those plucky and industrious Japanese, the Faustian animators at Pixar have assimilated another pop culture icon into their unstoppable juggernaut of cinematic domination, and no one seems to care. This time, friends, in spite of Wall-E's evident status as the CGI Messiah (seriously, you should read some of the effusive worship-schlock spilling out of the collective mouth of our nation's "critics"), I shan't be put off the scent so easily.

I adored . . . no, ADORED the original Short Circuit movies. I memorized them and recited them in their resplendant entirety to family and friends. Along with Tim Burton's Batman and Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, the Short Circuit films supplied almost all of my conversational raw materials between the years 1985 and 1990. And I guess I'm really rather tired of Pixar's undefeated record at the box office. Is it just me, or do any of you feel even the slightest twinge of suspicion about any studio that seems incapable of producing a bad film? I mean, no artist hits the creative bullseye every time. Not even the Omnipotent Beatles were exempt from the occasional flop (QED the lackluster "You Can't Do That" and the totally indulgent "Wild Honey Pie"). And to tell the honest truth, I like the Beatles (and others) all the more for stinking up the scene once or twice during the course of their illustrious career. Sure, some would offer up A Bug's Life as Pixar's less-than-stellar follow up to the Earth-shattering genius that was Toy Story, but even Pixar's cast-off garnered a 91% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

Part of me genuinely hopes that I will find Wall-E repugnant and lame when I inevitably venture forth to see it this weekend. But the other part of me, the part that Pixar owns, clamors for more computer-animated goodness like a heroin addict with the DTs. To paraphrase the most recent installment from our good friends over at Futurama, "Love the Pixar."

Oh, and less than two weeks on the countdown and all that rot, what what.

London Countdown: T-Minus 3 Weeks

2008-06-18T15:40:00.003-05:00

Captain Bibb's Blog: Stardate 061808.3

In the interests of time, I must make my entry a bit shorter today. Preparations for landing have begun (such activities take a good deal longer when you're traveling by space balloon than they do when you use interplanetary vessels like Light Clippers and Solar Schooners), and there are a million things to do every minute. To be honest, I am grateful for the distraction of overseeing the landing because to focus on what happens afterwards is to neglect my official duties as captain. Nevertheless, we received our British transport passes this afternoon via satellite transfer, and seeing the destinations printed on them proved to be another source of the seemingly inexhaustable excitement generated by this journey. To think, I shall walk the streets of Oxford! An uninspiring prospect for some, but the pinnacle of existence for one such as I.

Well, my engineer just notified me that I am needed on the lower basket, where a portion of our hull seems to be unravelling due to the stresses of our descent through the atmosphere. We must also begin the ballast disintegration procedure over the next few hours or else run the risk of being swept off course by the powerful upper winds of the North Atlantic jet stream. Busy days! But the island grows very near, indeed, and my heart leaps within me.

London Countdown: T-Minus 4 Weeks

2008-06-11T19:17:00.005-05:00

Captain Bibb's Blog: Stardate 061108.1

There she lies. This morning, just after breakfast, my first mate came to my cabin door and knocked gently three times. This action was per my earlier instructions, of course. The entire crew knows how much I desire to see the great land of my forefathers, the wellspring of modernity, the cradle of the industrialized world. At once, I was out of bed and on the bridge, peering through my squinted eyes at the bright hodgepodge of blues and greens that filled the ship's monitor.

Believe me when I tell you that I almost wept. Had I not been afraid that such a public display of emotion would incite laughter, or worse, contumely, I would have shouted "Huzzah!" and danced around like an impish moon-fox. O, how I long to touch the very soil of that great land, to revel in the simple breathing of its air, to move about in the same segments of time-space that once clung to the immortal forms of Marx, Darwin, Mill, Bentham, Newman, Arnold, Tennyson, Dickens, Barrie, Carroll, MacDonald, Yeats, Wilde, Conrad, Wells, Stevenson, Tolkien, Lewis, and, perhaps the most noble name of all, J. Rudyard Kipling. The honor seems beyond all comprehension, beyond any merit a humble traveler like myself could possess. I am compelled to ask, "Who am I? What right do I have to be here among the ghosts of intellectual giants? Surely my place is on a lowlier rung of humanity's ladder."

And yet, there she lies. Just a few weeks more, and our descent will be complete. In the name of St. Christopher, may those weeks pass swiftly!

London Countdown: T-Minus 5 Weeks

2008-06-04T15:16:00.007-05:00

Captain Bibb's Blog: Stardate 60408.3

Things have been relatively smooth during our careful descent to the outer atmosphere, but today we ran into a tiny snag. The weather above the Isles turned rough and unpredictable early this morning, which prevented our navigator from making the necessary calculations for our intra-atmospheric trajectory. Apparently, this sort of thing is common with travelers to England, as the meteorological conditions there change rapidly and often. I have calmed the crew and assured them that this minor setback will do little to delay our arrival, but I cannot help but notice the flaring tempers and raw nerves all over the ship. Such is travel. Such is life.

On a more uplifting topic, however, the plans for our visit become more exciting with each new communiqué we receive from base command. Yesterday, we were informed that Her Inimitableness has requested our presence at a traditional theatrical performance of some sort on the Monday following our touchdown. According to our correspondent, such performances were common in the Middle and Late Renaissance periods in English history, and the "play" we will see comes from the distinguished pen of William Shurkspore...Slacksnear...or something along those lines. They tell us that a reproduction of his original theater still stands in New Southwark, though they had to relocate the structure several times during the Great Floods of 2666. At any rate, such an evening's entertainment should prove the perfect distraction for my exhausted crew, and I welcome the opportunity to view the art of ancient cultures.

London Countdown: T-Minus 6 Weeks

2008-05-28T16:01:00.010-05:00

Well, I suppose I'm on my own out here in the lonely blogosphere. No one appears to have anything to say to me these days. But you know what, I'm going to keep blogging anyway! I do this as a substitute for journaling, so who cares if none of you silent blogvoyeurs wish to reveal yourselves through comments! Fine! Crouch behind your keyboards like the cowards you are!

Captain Bibb's Blog: Stardate 52808.4

As you can see, I'm making my continental approach now. We have almost the whole of Europe and Africa on our viewscreen, a beautiful and humbling sight to behold. The phosphorous emeralds and sapphires of land and sea appear to be dropping off the map in the encroaching darkness that swallows the retreating rays of the setting sun. From our current altitude of over ten miles above the Earth's surface, the shimmering glory of our destination catches the eye with its verdant beauty.

This morning, we received a communication outlining our invitation to the Intergalactic Ambassadorial Reception Ceremony of the Keys at one of London's oldest and most historical landmarks, the Tower. We are to report promptly to the West Gate at 2130 hours, whereupon we will be shown into the inner chamber and given an audience with the Rector Regalis herself. Her Luminosity will dine with us and allow us to view the ancient "crown jewels," the royal headress and paraphernalia worn by primitive kings and queens of England before the International Conglomeration Act of 2510.

She has promised us the best accommodations at her disposal, but I have informed the crew that we will be staying on the bend of the Thames formerly known as Pimlico. The landing platforms are all located there, and most of the continental transport originates there as well. Her Ebullience's palace is undoubtedly grand, but I would prefer to experience London as the tourists of old must have seen it, tramping its gritty streets and following its labyrinthine paths to the hidden treasures at its heart. The excitement is scarcely containable.

Wait...Those Aren't the Pips

2008-05-22T11:34:00.007-05:00

For those of you who do not follow Americon Idle (and no, those aren't typos; I'm attempting to be clever), there was one brief moment on last night's show that partially made up for all of the crappy singing and homoerotic bickering between Seacrest and Cowell this season. I suppose it made me long for the bygone days of variety comedy shows. Remember those? Great, hilarious programs like The Carol Burnett Show and Monty Python's Flying Circus, where truly intelligent people would come up with outrageous sketches that did not wholly depend on sexual aberrance or political pandering (thank you, SNL).

Anyway, you should probably watch this first to give yourself some enjoyable context for the more recent clip. Incidentally, this is one of my favorite songs of all time, and it really felt like Thalia, the muse of comedy, took special pity on me last night after Archuleta butchered Lennon's immortal song "Imagine," when she gave me this refreshingly funny (in a 1960s and 70s sort of way) clip to watch. Enjoy.

London Countdown: T-Minus 7 Weeks

2008-05-21T15:53:00.011-05:00

Oh, bloggykins. I shudder with tremulous delight. As I write this, Louis Armstrong is telling me what a wonderful world we live in, and though I rarely agree with Mr. Armstrong, I'm compelled to concur at the moment.

The time is coming, my friends, when I shall pass into that glorious land of myth and fairy tale known as . . . England. Even the very name itself rolls off the tongue with a delicious magic, like some ancient Celtic spell. Soon she'll be all mine, the leas, the rivers, the rolling hills, the fog, the heaths, the moors, the overpriced transportation. I realize I sound a bit like a maniacal Bond villain, poised to set in motion some fiendish plot to take over the world, but I'm really just planning a humble trip to the greatest nation the world has ever known. That's right, America, I said it.

I feel like an explorer about to embark on an epic journey to a land he's only read about in ancient, mysterious tomes. My ship has come within a few hundred thousand miles of my destination, and I'm making preparations for my final descent. I plan to be your Bibb-on-location during this trip. If there is anything you have always wanted to do in London or Paris, just let me know and I will take a picture of myself doing it (within reason). I call it vicarious vacationing, and I thoroughly enjoyed it when my in-laws did it for me on their trip to the Holy Land a couple of years ago.

Seriously, I'll do almost anything. Want me to kick a Buck House Guard in the shins? I'll do it quickly and run away. Want me to hurl a croissant at a street mime in Paris? You know I'll do that. Want me to lie down in the "zebra crossing" in front of Abbey Road Studios and sing "Octopus's Garden" in its entirety? I'd rather do "Oh! Darling," but whatever; you're the boss.

*Beep!* "Shall we prepare for our orbit of descent, Captain Bibb? Over."
*Beep!* "Set a bearing of 49 degrees, Commander, and bring her into Gyre Descent Pattern Gamma. Over."
*Beep!* "Aye, aye, sir. Over."

Tee, hee!

A Tin Man with a Heart

2008-05-18T16:46:00.018-05:00

Ok, I haven't blogged about it yet, perhaps because I wanted to test my infatuation with a little critical distance. But blogbots, even after the most objective period of reflective evaluation I could muster, I'm still nuts (& bolts) about Iron Man.

First off, let me clarify my history with, I would argue, Marvel's greatest character. Since I was around 8 years old, Iron Man has been my favorite super hero. Yes, even over the titans Superman and Spiderman. My late father and I would froth at the mouth at the very mention of Tony Stark and his dazzling array of awesome armor. I collected the IM comics with obsessive avidity, literally Marvel-ling at the often ludicrous storylines and soap opera style twists they would deliver. I thrilled when he fought with the Hulk (and won). I swooned when he joined the Avengers on their intergalactic campaign to stop the insatiable Thanos from assuming control of the universe. I squealed when he battled the nefarious Mandarin, with his ten extra-terrestrial rings of power. I wept when he "died" in No. 284.

Maybe my idolization of this seemingly less interesting hero stems from some inherent fascination with the steadfast but flawed mechanized man. I've always loved the metal underdogs in heroic literature. Going at least as far back as Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (ca. 1380), literature's love affair with the metallic man with a heart of gold can be demonstrated in numerous examples. The most basic, I suppose, would be the medieval British knight.

Protected only by the thin layer of metal plating affixed to his body, the courageous knight sallied forth to defeat all manner of hideous monsters. But as the story of Sir Gawain so wisely reminds us, the knight is never as invincible as his appearance would have us believe. There's almost always a figurative "chink" somewhere in his armor, a character flaw or debilitating fear that must be faced and overcome before any true glory can be achieved. The character of Iron Man definitely draws resonance from this literary tradition of the valiant knight. He fights on behalf of those who cannot fight for themselves, but he's never truly out of danger himself. He may be tough on the outside, but he's still just a scared, fallible human being underneath, which leads us to another great example of the imperfect metal man, Baum's Tin Woodman.

Professed to be "heartless," the Tin Woodman actually has the largest heart of all. He weeps off and on throughout the Oz books, but lest that suggest to you that he's a weakling, remember that it is the Woodman who beheads the wildcat so that the Queen of the Field Mice can help drag the Cowardly Lion out of the poppy field. He's certainly not afraid of getting his cans dirty. The Iron Man comics allude to Baum's most charming invention quite directly, and the film picks up on Stan Lee's obvious linking of the two by having Pepper Potts present the reformed Mr. Stark with his original power servo, around which is appropriately inscribed, "Proof that Tony Stark has a heart." Our final example also involves a man unsure of his humanity, one whose immense power only serves to expedite his downfall and highlight his imperfect human nature.

Convinced of his superiority but ultimately the most insecure of all tragic heroes, Darth Vader becomes a living machine, his humanity compromised and melded with his ruthless desire for absolute control over himself and his destiny. But despite his terrible despotism and record of widespread genocide, Anakin Skywalker never truly disappears behind his metal mask. As his son rightly asserts, there is still a substantial amount of "good" in him, buried beneath the mass of restrictive mechanics that isolate him from the world.

So what's your point, Bibb? Well, I suppose my point is that, for me, Iron Man now represents (and maybe always has) my father. He was a profoundly flawed individual, consumed by self-doubt and alcoholism, but he also did his best every day to put on a brave "face" and protect the ones he loved from the horrors of the world. He didn't always succeed in this endeavor, but his willingness to keep trying definitely shows how much heart he truly possessed. And I hope that one day I can be as tough as he was without losing the humanity that made him a great dad and a good friend. And though he didn't live to see Iron Man on the big screen (we often talked about how Tom Selleck would make the perfect Tony Stark, but I like to think he would have been pleased with R. Downey, Jr.'s performance), I hope he knows, wherever he is now, that he was always my favorite hero: an occasionally malfunctional machine with a good man inside.

I love you, dad.

Ex Libris

2008-05-08T15:47:00.009-05:00

Oh! The relief, blogapaloozas! The immense, profound relief! I just submitted the third of my three major term papers for this semester, and life instantly got 60-75% sweeter!

Admittedly, I still don't know what my grades will look like, but I think they'll all be A's. Folks, I only have one more semester of school . . . PERIOD! Do you understand me?! One semester stands between me and the end of school for all time! No, I don't think you quite grasp the significance of this situation. Let me elaborate.

1. Counting all my public school experience (K-12th grade), I've been in school for 20 years. That's two decades. That's two-thirds of my entire life. Capiche?

2. After this coming fall, I will NEVER have to write another G-D@#?ed term paper for the rest of my G-D@#?ed life on this earth! Do you hear me?! NEVER!!!

3. In just two short months, my lovely bride and I will be soaring high over the Atlantic Ocean on our way to my true homeland, the United Kingdom. I'm so giddy about this trip that I'm having trouble suppressing the desire to tap dance as I type this. Honestly, I will kneel and kiss the soil when we arrive, international decorum be D@#?ed!

4. I don't have to go back to Eyrieville U's campus for almost three whole weeks! That means no schoolbags, no rushed breakfasts from Morebucks, no innane lectures where I have to listen to hours of loquacious BS spewed forth like offal from the mouths of pimply, insecure graduate hacks! Halleloooooooooooooo . . . . . . . . . YA!

Now maybe you understand. If any of you have any favors to ask of me, now would be the time. I'm in one of the most optimistically bubbly moods of my whole life. When Monday comes, however, and the grades are posted, things may well come crashing down. Until then, blogfellows, I'm the happiest Bibb in town!

He Loves to BLEEEEP!

2008-05-05T21:34:00.005-05:00

I don't normally do this, but I almost fell out of my chair this morning when I saw this video. For those of you who retain rosy, nostalgic memories of that mythical street, the video may soil those memories. But honestly, people, if you don't find the "Song of the Count" hilarious, something is truly wrong with your funny bone.

So if the mid-May blues have got you down, click on the link and give the video a chance. I guarantee you at least one laugh...or maybe two. Two laughs, ah, ah, ah.

Lilapsophobia

2008-04-24T17:35:00.013-05:00

So, Eyrieville has been pelted by horrific weather recently. Hail the size of Volkswagen Jettas. Winds that tear your shorts off on the way to the mailbox. Thunderheads so dark and ominous that one expects the four horsemen to come galloping out of it, flaming swords in hand.

What's going on here? Honestly, every Thursday night the firmament opens and the Lord allows the bottom to drop out on us for several hours. This has happened for the past six weeks, loyal bloggeneers, and this Bibb is getting a bit twitchy over it.

Have we got a Jonah here in Eyrieville? Is someone trying to hide from God's commands down one of our back avenues? Should I organize a posse? I don't know that I've ever been this freaked over meteorological phenomena before. I've lived through a Texas hurricane, an Oklahoma tornado, a Wyoming blizzard, and the movie Michael Clayton, so one would think I would be past any revenant disaster phobias by now. But I'm not, blogfellows, I'm just not.

Take a look at the following photograph.

Now try to imagine that bearing down on you as you desperately try to drive away from it. No matter which direction you take, the twister follows, even if you make a 180 degree turn. This describes a recurring dream I've had about tornadoes off and on for most of my life. I'm no Freud, but I guess for me, tornadoes represent the unbridled power of God through nature, and my attempt to outrun them or evade them may indicate a latent fear of answering God's purpose for my life.

Good grief...I'm the Jonah?

What should I do, blogpals? Try to confront the twister in my dream? Go Pecos Bill on its ass and rope it into submission, metaphorically speaking? Or have I got things all wrong with my analysis of the dream?

Whaddya say, bloggerinis? Put Bibb on the couch and pick his addled brain.

Tempus Subsisto

2008-04-19T23:52:00.015-05:00

Tick, tock, blogowatts.

Lately, I've been thinking how supremely satisfying it would be to have the power to stop time's irrevocable flow. Why hasn't one of our think-tankers figured that one out yet? We've isolated the addiction gene, constructed the Tapei Tower and the Three Gorges Dam, and flown remote control robots to Mars, but we still look like amateurs when it comes to boring old time.

C'mon, eggheads! Einstein gave you a damned good foundation! Where are our chrono-physicists? Where are the tempologists? Where, great Scott, is our Dr. Emmett Brown?!

One-Point-Twenty-One Jigowatts!

Many a time this semester, I've glanced forlornly up at the HUGE clock that hangs above our fireplace (why did I do that to myself?) and I've thought, "My life is running out with each modulation of that insufferable second hand. And what have I done with this precious second? What about that one? And the next?"

Folks, I wrote myself a letter when I was fifteen years old. I sealed it and scrawled "Do not open until January 2025" on the back (along with an incredibly lame clock with lightning shooting through it; I told you people I was nerdy). When that January finally rolls around, I will have reached my 45th year. I'll probably have kids in high school, a tenured position at some modest teaching college (God willing), and the United States Secretary of Education for my wife. And do you know what's really weird? I have no idea what I wrote in that letter.

I think it was some hair-brained teenage dream about inventing time travel (I thought I was a budding physicist in those halcyon days), but I really cannot recall. If only I had invented that most glorious of science fictions, the obsession of every moderately brainy kid who read Mr. Wells's fantastic novel--the first to put forth the suggestion that there exists a fourth dimension, one accessible to everyone with a functioning memory:

"But you are wrong to say that we cannot move about in Time. For instance, if I am recalling an incident very vividly I go back to the instant of its occurrence: I become absent-minded, as you say. I jump back for a moment. . . . and why should [the civilised man] not hope that ultimately he may be able to stop or accelerate his drift along the Time-Dimension, or even turn about and travel the other way?"

So you see, in a way I did invent time travel by writing that letter back in 1994. When I open it in 2025, my mind will travel back along the Timestream to that spring afternoon in my room with the green shag carpet on 10th street and uncover the revolutionary scientific aspirations of a lonely 15-year-old. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is pretty cool.

But it would still be awesome if I could get a little of what Joshua got that hot day outside Gibeon.

That's a hint, God.

Stud Within, Nerd Without

2008-04-12T15:03:00.015-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen of blogopolis, I think I may be a nerd.

I have attempted to stave off that particular moniker for quite some time now. I'm not sure why, but I have an aversion to the "nerd" stigma. Maybe because so many neanderthals in junior high were so quick to assign that label to me, and maybe I'm not so anxious to admit they were right.

Or maybe it's just that at the core of every guy dwells the soul of an ass-kickin' stud. Ladies, you may not know this about men, but every last one of us thinks he's a superhero. I'm serious. If you could access the inner workings of the male psyche, you would see that we all believe we could beat practically anyone in a fight. Sometimes we size up another guy we see, and we think, "Hmm, pretty big, but if it came right down to it, I could break him in two."

And I'm just not ready to give that inner stud his permanent walking papers. You know? Sure, I admit that I'm overweight. I don't have a rockin' six-pack like certain other bloggers who shall remain identified as FORKULELE. I can't even get in and out of our tiny new Civic without grunting like an arthritic rabbi. But I could still soundly kick all your butts in my mind.

Looking around my office, however, I must concede that the nerd vibe is undeniable.

And that's not the half of it. Sure, they're action figures. But did you notice the absurdly nerdy care that went into their positioning? Did you observe the miniature dioramas that echo scenes and thematic elements from the films?

See, here Anakin Skywalker duels with Obi-Wan in their final climactic battle. Do you notice the shadow of Vader mirroring Anakin's movements? And the tiny Vader between his feet? These things aren't just set up willy-nilly; there was serious thought put into each interaction, into every bend of a leg and every wardrobe choice. I'm so ashamed...

Here, Gandalf the White wards off the deadly blows of a Nazgul, while Treebeard looks on from the background. What's wrong with me?

Trust me, people, the nerdapalooza doesn't stop there, but I'm actually getting embarrassed of myself, so I'm not sharing any more. Nevertheless, I need to know if I'm beyond rehabilitation. Blognerds, can I ever be as cool as, say, this dude?

Probably no hope for that, huh? Well, I suppose I will just have to settle for the nerd niche in society. But I refuse to completely abandon my aspirations toward studliness and ultra-coolness. I am going to start working out, and I'm going to try to wear actual pants a little more often (instead of the nerd's uniform of cargo shorts and Star Wars T-shirt that I'm currently sporting on a daily basis). Any other tips on how to be cool and studly? Do I have to be able to crush walnuts with my pecs? Do I have to lift small vehicles over my head while smoking two cubans? Do I have to go out and maul some monstrous beast for sustenance? You tell me.

In the meantime, I'll just have to settle for this clown.

RinGrudgEye = Sh#tter

2008-04-05T16:41:00.015-05:00

You know all about the story.

Some waify Japanese broad with debilitatingly morose emotional problems dies, and guess what! Her evil, stringy-haired spirit harasses an artsy dude with stubble and his anorexic blonde baby of a wife until her mysterious and carcinogenically dull secret is revealed! Such innovation! Such imagination! Such a breath of fresh...wait...

Haven't we seen this before?

And before that?

And before before that?

OMG, blog-peeps. Why do I keep going to these movies? Moses, smell the roses, already. If there's a pasty Asian face on the movie poster, with wide eyes with no discernible irises, the film will shamelessly borrow wholesale from its Japanese ancestors. I mean, are there even any angsty Japanese girls left? I would think we'd have killed them all off by now, but there seems to be an endless stream of them, ghoul-shuffling their way across studio apartments everywhere and frog-crawling through bedsheets to beat the band!

What will it finally take for the movie execs over at Churn-'Em-Out Pictures to realize that their cookie cutter thrillers are as washed up as an unwanted demon-girl at the bottom of a New England well? We get it! Evil never sleeps, eats, pees, washes its hair, changes its clothes, or dies. But can we at least get a different set? A slightly altered wig for the Tokyo ghost? I honestly think the twerps in Shutter went to the EXACT SAME HOUSE they used in The Grudge at one point in the film! For Hitchcock's sake, people, are we that stupid?!! Are we willing to lie back like hogs in our own filthy slop and gobble down whatever odious corn-pone they lob in our direction?

We're on the bus...a Japanese ghost girl appears in the window. We're in the shower...a Japanese ghost girl paws at our hair. We're sleeping next to our ignorant spouse...a Japanese ghost girl crawls out of a closet. We're casually reading the morning paper...a Japanese ghost girl pops up in the crossword. I can't even brush my teeth without a Japanese ghost girl handing me the toothpaste! Where does it stop?

So I've decided to take another imaginary blog-poll. Since the plot probably won't ever change, and since they seem to keep hiring the same two twenty-somethings to play the horrified victims in every one of these wretched films, I'm going to at least hope for a slightly modified ghost demographic.

So, Japanese ghost blogs, which shall it be...

A.) A Mexican ghost grampa

B.) A French ghost chef

C.) A Canadian ghost mountie

D.) A Chilean ghost spelunker

You decide.

We Regret To Inform You...

2008-03-27T21:24:00.014-05:00

Recently, eaglets, I received yet another "Dear Nigel" letter from a group of Snoddy Snodgrass editors who thought my paper was "very fine" but not quite suited to their esteemed SCHOLARLY journal. Try another journal, they say. Maybe one that's more "devoted to narrative." As opposed to what, I say? Papers on the proper way to tie your Windsor? Comparative analyses of the "summering" experience on the French Riviera vs. the Italian Riviera? Structural interpretations of the perfect soufflé au fromage? Poppycock!

Apparently, one must sell one's soul to Mephistopheles in order to succeed in this business. But since I don't know the proper spells for such an endeavor, perhaps you blogles (that's blog-eagles, you know - I love a good portmanteau) could provide me with paper topics snooty enough to satisfy even the bluest of the high-falutin' bluebloods who run these SCHOLARLY journals (in between their tours of the Swiss Alps and their deep-tissue massages). So whaddya say, eaglogs? Can you spare an upper-crust thesis or two for a poor tramp from the boondocks?

Crown Him with Many Crowns

2008-03-23T22:06:00.003-05:00

HE IS RISEN!

Christ, the Lord, is risen today, Alleluia!

Sons of men and angels say, Alleluia!

Raise your joys and triumphs high, Alleluia!

Sing, ye heavens, and earth, reply, Alleluia!

Love’s redeeming work is done, Alleluia!

Fought the fight, the battle won, Alleluia!

Lo! the Sun’s eclipse is over, Alleluia!
Lo! He sets in blood no more, Alleluia!

Vain the stone, the watch, the seal, Alleluia!
Christ hath burst the gates of hell, Alleluia!

Death in vain forbids His rise, Alleluia!

Christ hath opened paradise, Alleluia!

Lives again our glorious King, Alleluia!
Where, O death, is now thy sting? Alleluia!

Once He died our souls to save, Alleluia!

Where thy victory, O grave? Alleluia!

Soar we now where Christ hath led, Alleluia!

Following our exalted Head, Alleluia!

Made like Him, like Him we rise, Alleluia!

Ours the cross, the grave, the skies, Alleluia!

HAPPY EASTER, EVERYONE!

BUNNIES BE DAMNED!

Green with Shame

2008-03-17T00:56:00.016-05:00

Despite my best efforts, Danny O'Bloggerans, St. Patrick's Day was celebrated with the same feckless inattention to historic tradition and alcoholic irreverence as always. Take a gander at these incriminating photographs if you doubt me.

I'm not sure if that's supposed to be a shalale or a lead pipe in Starey O'Typeagan the Leprechaun's knubby fist there, but you can be sure he beats his wife with it!

Yes, that's the best way to reclaim your Irish roots and honor the Motherland. Cram as many shamrocks into the eyes of the spectators as possible, and maybe they won't notice how much you resemble the crypt keeper.

I'm not sure who suffers the greater injustice here, the Irish or the Little People. And no, I don't mean the ones who hung out with Darby O'Gill.

Apparently, St. Patrick was also responsible for ridding Ireland of its Lhasa Apsos.

Oh, for the love of Erin. No comment.

When Patrick Goes Marching In...

2008-03-14T14:28:00.006-05:00

On Easter Sunday in 433 AD, the blessed Saint Patrick led a humble band of missionaries against the amassed strength of Ireland's druidic magicians in order to announce the arrival of the Gospel at the High King (Ard-Righ) Leoghaire's feast at Tara. A stern decree had been issued that no fires might be lit before the lighting of King Leoghaire's hearth to announce the feast, but Patrick lit a fire on the tallest of the hills around Tara in open defiance of the King's silly proclamation. The resulting battle between the enraged druids and St. Patrick reads like a wizard battle scene out of Lord of the Rings. I will let the inimitable Catholic Encyclopedia take it from here.

"On Easter Day the missionary band having at their head the youth Benignus bearing aloft a copy of the Gospels, and followed by St. Patrick who with mitre and crozier was arrayed in full episcopal attire, proceeded in processional order to Tara. The druids and magicians put forth all their strength and employed all their incantations to maintain their sway over the Irish race, but the prayer and faith of Patrick achieved a glorious triumph. The druids by their incantations overspread the hill and surrounding plain with a cloud of worse than Egyptian darkness. Patrick defied them to remove that cloud, and when all their efforts were made in vain, at his prayer the sun sent forth its rays and the brightest sunshine lit up the scene. Again by demoniac power the Arch-Druid Lochru, like Simon Magus of old, was lifted up high in the air, but when Patrick knelt in prayer the druid from his flight was dashed to pieces upon a rock."

Man, is that ever awesome!
St. Patrick kicks ass for the Lord!

"I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass!"

One Shamrockin' Saint

2008-03-10T21:01:00.007-05:00

Erin go Bragh, blogprechauns! As you know, we are but one brief week away from that greatest of all hagiolidays, St. Patrick's Day 2008! In honor of the coolest of the "secular saints"--as Valentine, Nicholas, and Patrick are often called by the heathen hoards--I have embarked on a little educational endeavor to make your St. Patrick's Day more meaningful this year. Every day this week, I will post one new factoid about the Irish missionary, so maybe this year will register as a reverential tribute to a truly great (though possibly at least partially fictional) man of God instead of just another reason to get plastered on green beer.

And so, without further shenanigans, here's today's fascinating Patrick fact:

One of St. Patrick's first miracles occured near Slemish, where a pagan chieftain accosted him as he made his way up from the river Boyne. The chieftain, Dichu, intended to brutally maul the unarmed saint, but when he raised his sword to strike, his arm froze in place and would not budge until he pledged his fealty to Christ and St. Patrick. Afterwards, Dichu offered his own barn to the saint as a rustic church, where Patrick oversaw his first administration of the eucharist in Ireland. Today, the place is still called Sabhall (pronounced 'Saul'), meaning barn, and a small replica stone barn has been erected there to commemorate the site.

Sidhe's a Lady

2008-03-07T14:45:00.012-06:00

I'm not sure why I decided to post this, but I just finished a major essay assignment on this old faery hag here, and I suppose I just feel like penning an elegiac funeral ode.
So anyway, here goes:

The Death of Queen Maeve
by Bibb Leo File

Her royal robes do drag on the stony palace floor;
O! Great Queen! To think you shall be pale forevermore!
Her mighty golden locks now have fallen into gray;
O! Strong Queen! To think they shall soon fade and rot away!

Go tend the dying Queen, she who totters on her feet,
Now, Old Queen, your revels share no more in wine or meat,
Go help the dying Queen, her gold crown has dropped to earth;
Now, Frail Queen, the young of Tír-na-nÓg will give you berth!

Sail west from green Connacht 'til you reach that happy shore,
There, Brave Queen, you'll find the key to Knocknarea's stone door;
And rise to join the dance as it spins across the sea,
Then, Bright Queen, you'll know what it is to rule the Sidhe!

Pronunciation Guide:
Maeve = Mayv
Tír-na-nÓg = Teer-nah-nohg (with a long 'o', as in 'No')
Connacht = Cuh-naut
Knocknarea = Knock-nuh-ray
Sidhe = Shee

Obamaphone

2008-02-28T07:05:00.007-06:00

Those of you bloggerinoes who live in the great state of Lonestaria probably got a little Barak booty call yesterday. How did you like that?

I must say I felt rather flattered when Sen. Obama dropped me a line just to see whassup, and to buddsy-wuddsy an early vote out of me. Actually, it kinda weirded me out just a little bit. I'm already fairly skittish about having a cell phone at all, and now even my democratic right to choose the leader of the Free World (a world which is becoming increasingly more expensive) has been violated and usurped by the Almighty Cell. If the evil little thing didn't occasionally play "May It Be" by Enya to placate me, I would have hurled it into the Eyrieville Gorge long ago.

Back to Barak, I almost feel sorry for him after that call. He seems a tad too eager for the job, like that Sophomore running for Student Body President who xeroxes flyers to put on people's windshields and organizes an undergrad "mixer" on campus with ginger ale instead of booze. I mean, honestly. What's next, Obama ringtones?!

Apparently, yes.

Quod Erat Demonstrandum!

2008-02-25T08:47:00.006-06:00

What did I tell you?

5 out of 6 ain't bad, n'est-ce pas? And a couple were real surprises, according to the experts. I'm like Cassandra, cursed to know the future but denied the respect and credulity of my peers!

Ok, so I'm a Cassandra who didn't see that Tilda "I look like a snake" Swinton was slotted to win for Michael Clayton. But who can blame me? Did any of you see Michael Clayton? ZZZZzzzzzzzz. As my clever wife declared when the ridiculous credits began to roll across Clooney's Cary-Grantesque display of bewildered innocence, "That was like the male version of Erin Brockovich, only not as good." I concur.

Seriously though, next year I'm entering an Oscar pool for some cold, hard cash.

BEWARE THE FALL OF TROY!

unless that already happened...

And the Winner Is...

2008-02-24T19:08:00.011-06:00

Are you watching? Just for the record, I am. And I have some predictions. I always have predictions, and I have a rather uncanny record of guessing the right winners in the big categories. Of course, no one ever believes me when I say that I guessed correctly the next day. So this time, I'm posting my picks for all to see (with a time and date marker, mind you).

And so, here are Bibb's Oscar predictions:

Best Actor: Daniel Day Lewis, There Will Be Blood

Best Actress: Marion Cotillard, La Vie En Rose

Best Actor in a Supporting Role: Javier Bardem, No Country For Old Men

Best Actress in a Supporting Role: Ruby Dee, American Gangster

Best Picture: No Country For Old Men

And for an easy freebie...

Best Animated Feature: Ratatouille

We'll see if my preternatural soothsaying abilities are still working this year...
(Post your own picks if you dare, but do it quick!)

Hail to the Chief!

2008-02-22T13:10:00.008-06:00

Mark my words, blogpundits, this is the fellow who'll be giving you the State o' the Union in the upcoming years. Oh yeah, he's in like Flint. I don't know why McCain keeps kidding himself...and Hillary? She all but forfeited when confronted with the radiant glory that eminates from Mt. Obama in Austin last night. "I am honored to be here in your presence, my leige." That's a direct quote.

Seriously, folks. What is the deal with Obama-worship? I mean, I like the guy a lot, and I might even vote for him this November, but geez-oh-man has his hype been blown into the stratosphere! Women are fainting at his rallies! Like he's the fifth Beatle!

And his charisma doesn't stop there. He's been compared to everyone from Martin Luther King to John F. Kennedy. Who's next, Gandhi? (That's right, here comes another lame photo joke.)

The truth of the matter is that Barak Obama is a brilliant rhetorician. You know, one of the people who actually paid attention in Composition 101 back at Lameityville Community College? He understands how to adapt his message (whatever that actually is, no one can say for sure) to the needs and expectations of his audience, without (and this is the tricky part) their knowing they're being manipulated. When he addresses his plans for the future--all that CHANGE we've heard so much about--he adopts the JFK voice and mannerisms. When he's talking about racial or social injustice, he channels MLK like a pro. Seriously, watch him speak and you'll see what I mean. Just don't allow yourself to be wholly engrossed by the Obamypnosis in the process. It's rather like unfocusing your eyes to see the hidden image in one of those 3-D pictures. Yep, here it comes...

Creepy, huh? Anyway, let's hope that all that rhetorical voodoo he's using is just one weapon in a politician's inevitably manipulative arsenal, and not all there is to him. I don't think so. Even in the midst of his razzle-dazzle, there are moments of genuinely inspirational wisdom. Still, one never knows just how any candidate will perform until one sees him (I feel a slight need to add "or her" here, but honestly, that's not something we need to worry about yet, is it Hillary?) in the Oval Office behind the Resolute Desk. So for now, blogvoters, I withhold judgment...

Shaken...Not Stirred

2008-02-14T22:33:00.005-06:00

Check Them Out

They Seriously Rock

And Say 'Hey' To Eugene For Me

The E & C Returns!

2008-02-10T22:06:00.000-06:00

Evening, blogginers! I'm back from the murky gloom of my cynical boycott of blogs. Sure, I tried the whole creative routine there for a while, but it's a slow, taxing business to forge a cyber-narrative all by one's lonesome.

Never fear, though, all you die-hard fans of The Cyndrille Orchard. I will still occasionally update the story as I find the time. I realize that I'm talking to practically no one, but you must give me my delusions of blog-grandeur.

So, prepare yourselves for that old-time commentary from everyone's favorite book fetishist. Think of all the topics we'll have to discuss! The presidential election! My imminent trip to London this summer! Forkulele's greatest hits! Oh, the horizon teems with possibilities.

I simply cannot wait.

It's good to be back.

The Cyndrille Orchard: Brother Cyril's End

2007-12-01T23:14:00.000-06:00

"R-Regmayon?"

Brother Cyril's breath hung on the chilled air for a moment before it was borne away by the wind.

"In Ellest's Name, Regmayon!"

Again the old cleric's call elicited no response from the silent forest. A pipbird rustled somewhere in the brush.

The path became steeper as Brother Cyril again moved slowly forward, his aurignas incantamas fluxuating rapidly between cobalt blue and a fervid violet, streaked with black. His cloak floated out behind him, undulating slowly in the colored cloud.

The Captain's Post stood to the right of the path with its heavy front door ajar. Brother Cyril could see a table and a few rough chairs, one of which leaned against the far wall, as though it contained some invisible person reclining after a heavy meal. And on the gritty floor, placed in front of the stone hearth like a cooking stool, was Captain Regmayon's crimson hat.

"Justificatus abatem," Cyril rasped, and the swirling color vanished instantly. Beads of sweat developed on his clammy forehead as he strode quickly toward the open door. Captains of the Orchard Guard never remove their hats before sunset; it is a part of their rigid disciplinary code to observe the strictest dressing schedule. Routine and procedure are the Guardsmen's best defense against the beckoning, and never in Brother Cyril's memory had even the smallest detail in their meticulous regimen altered. A Captain's hat on the floor at three-quarter bells was revolutionary.

"Regmayon? Are you in here, Captain?" But no one was in the post. No fire burned on the hearth, and no plate was set on the table for twilight's repast. The Captain's bed was undisturbed, and his patrol saber hung from its peg, the silver filigree on its handle depicting traditional scenes from the contruction of the Orchard Wall. Cyril stood looking down at the Captain's hat, so incongruous with its harsh, minimalist surroundings. Made of double-pressed crimson velvet, the hat tapered down from the crown toward the brim, giving it a slightly funnel-shaped silhouette, and silver wings encircled its base in a band. Its brim was wide, and embroidered branches outlined in purple thread twisted in byzantine patterns across its front. And crowning the whole opulent affair was a straight silver plume mounted on the crest, its whispy featherettes fluttering in the frigid breeze from the open door.

"Where on terras...?" Cyril began, but his question was interrupted by a quick, intrusive thought that seemed to come from outside his conscious will. The invader expressed its message in a melodious whisper, like the private confession of a lover.

"The Captain belongs to us," said the beautiful voice, "And so do you."

"INTERCEDIAM MAXIMA--!" But Cyril's protection prayer broke off in mid-utterance.

There was silence again in the forest. Only a light rustling from beyond the massive orchard wall disturbed the stillness that settled over the place like a blanket.

In the Captain's Post, Regmayon's hat sat in front of the hearth as before, and Brother Cyril's silver stole lay neatly folded beside it.

Futurus Persevero

The Cyndrille Orchard: Haim Vaylen's Househand

2007-08-30T11:39:00.001-05:00

The entryway to Vaylen Hall was brightly lit with torches on either side, the faint scent of oil perceptible beneath the rich, sweet smell of animal skins that filled the place. I slowly closed the massive oaken door behind me and moved a few steps toward the entrance to the main hall. The parchment, tightly clasped in my sweaty fist, was irreparably open; I had fervently tried to meld the wax seal back together with the feeble flame from my tinderbox outside on the lawns, but I had only managed to melt what remained of the seal and stain the margins of the parchment in the process.

"Mayhap I can plead the duckfoot," I thought frantically, "S'Haim knows well my plodding, rolling gait; I near enough toppled his best beekeep three springs gone. And along," I reasoned, "such yammers at the base have the bell-tone of truth in the echoing."

But inwardly, I knew that no such apologetics would repair the heinous act I had comitted in reading the message's opening lines. And no amount of whipping or blinding could erase that knowledge from my foolish, addled brain. What is more, I knew that Haim Vaylen would know this fact even better than I, and I shuddered to think what he might plan for me when he learned the truth.

The hall stood virtually empty when I leaned through the archway; only one of S'Haim's househands remained after the evening feast, tidying up the table and sweeping up the scraps from the dusty floor. I recognized him as Biernon Janusen, the High Butler, and I nearly ran from the house as if it had been S'Haim himself standing before me with his thorned riding crop in hand. Janusen was well known amongst Haim Vaylen's servants as a vengeful snitch and an insufferably cruel master to those unfortunate enough to work directly beneath his station.

Frozen like a sweaty pillar of stone near the archway, I noted Janusen's hoary head tilt slightly to the left, as though he had just discerned the subtlest of noises from my corner of the vast room. And before I could make up my mind to drop the parchment on the threshold and flee the place, the High Butler had whirled around and spotted my terrified countenance, whereupon he abruptly shouted, "Yon churl! Dost thou hide in shadows in the presence of thy elders? Come forth, and speak thy errand or know the wages of serpentine stealth!"

"Many 't-tritions, Your H-H-Height," I stammered, "My errand is this message, but in flying nigh I've trespassed the seal . . . of no intent, Ellest's Word . . . but I know not how to --"

"How dare thy sullied tongue trace the name of the Most Holy!" boomed Janusen, his blue-tinted veins throbbing alongside the wild, glossy balls of his bulging eyes. He hurled his broom to the floor and strode over to me with a speed that defied his many years and his bent frame. "Have a thought for the due reverence of the Host of Skies or speak nary a word more before me!"

Having lowered my head at this latest rebuke, I merely continued to stare at the slated stones around my feet until Janusen's rough hand clutched my chin and raised my face on a level with his own. At this proximity, I could smell the unpleasant odor of unwashed linen and stale perspiration that surrounded the old codger like a putrescent bubble. Janusen snatched the parchment from my hand and gaped at the condition of the document.

"O, the lowest dungeon is reserved for thee this ev'n, without question," he said with an ill-disguised sadism, "S'Haim shall not let this pass in peaceful reprobation."

My already horrified imagination began to paint vivid pictures of my half-naked body chained to a wall of wet stone, rats and other unspeakable creatures skittering around my feet, and the presence of something evil in the darkness, something beastlike and yet calculating, that slapped the cold floor with its loathsome fin-like hands. I had never seen the hall's bottommost dungeon, but there were tales enough to make it a place more fearful than Dis itself. My eldest brother's employer had been placed there for his fault in losing 50 of Haim Vaylen's best cattle. His stay had only been three nights, but he had reputedly lost the ability to speak afterwards.

"I beg of your Height, sir, I sketched no ill-works on my duties here; I only stumbled on the verge, sir, and the heft of my fool trunk having landed fully on the seal, I did snap it 'neath my cursed belly." I did not, as any fool would be wise enough to emulate in a similar situation, inform the High Butler of my subsequent reading of the parchment's contents. I fully expected Janusen to sneer at my feeble excuse and escort me immediately to the Bailiff's Hutch for my nightmarish incarceration, but the grizzled old cur seemed preoccupied with something more important than my obsequious drivel.

Though he did not note my observation, quick as it was and concealed to a certain degree by my ramblings, I followed his watery gaze to where it rested on the opening lines of Haim Vaylen's letter. No sooner had it landed there but it was full again in my face, searching, scrutinizing every inch of my features to detect even the slightest trace of a knowing look or embarrassed twitch. I stopped in my bootless narration and simply concentrated on maintaining the inviolate placidity of my expression, lest the anxious old fool should see anything there he might construe to be guilt or consternation.

After several tense moments, Janusen stepped back, releasing my chin but almost imperceptibly tightening his fist around the confiscated parchment. The paper crinkled and popped with an echo in the high-vaulted ceilings. "Well, now, lad-o-luck," he said in a voice markedly less venomous than that previously employed to lambast me, "The night's gone on ahead and left us behind now, wouldn't you agree? Let us say enough's enough for this one time and not trouble S'Haim out of bed, shall we? After all, no harm's really done now that thou hast perfected thy duty and delivered up the scroll. Run along back to the dens now, and we'll just keep this little exchange betwixt chumleys for a sport."

Dumbfounded and amazed by my fortunes, I nodded a hasty oblige and retreated hurriedly toward my humble domicile, little thinking what import my conversation with Janusen might have for the future. If I had only known what would come around by my knavery that night, I would have walked much slower . . . and with my cursed head hung low.

Futurus Persevero

The Cyndrille Orchard: Brother Cyril's Path

2007-08-07T11:08:00.000-05:00

Though obviously uneasy about the horrible noises coming from the path ahead, the old man forced himself to remain composed and dignified. He straightened his navy blue Annunciation robes and adjusted his bright silver stole, which had drifted askew during his rushed walk from the rectory.

Another scream echoed against the darkening sky, and the old man paused in his progress. If that was Captain Regmayon, and it had certainly sounded like his voice, though it was hard to tell since he had never used it to express fear before, then the old man had no business going any farther along the path. Then again, if he did not investigate, the Elder Council would send another, and he did not wish to be responsible for that unlucky soul's destruction. He muttered a prayer of invocation under his short breath, and instantly a faint blue glow like sunlight rippling underwater began to cling to the edges of him and his hair and beard blew back from his head in a nonexistent breeze.

Another scream, this one much louder and somehow more final than the last. Whoever was making those sounds was not likely to make any more. The blue glow surrounding the old man turned a deep shade of scarlet as he stopped again, shaking his head and turning around several times in the middle of the path. The evergreen trees on either side of him seemed to grow darker by the second, and when he glanced up at the sky, he could already see the Old Mother constellation emerging from the hazy gloom.

"It's too late," he whispered to no one in particular. His strange aura changed again, this time to the color of aged cheese. "No . . . too late, too late," he repeated, secretly hoping that the time it took to say the words would confirm the observation. A few yards ahead, he could just make out the break in the trees where the Captain's Post stood, a harsh, utilitarian building of limestone and clay. He could see no movement at all, but he was sure he was being watched. For a moment, he simply stood frozen on the pathway, staring straight ahead. Then he lowered his wrinkled face to the stones of the path and a tear rolled slowly down the side of his hooked nose. "Oh, all right," he said, "Ellestral volitum facilitum."

Suddenly, the sickly yellow light around him turned a fierce shade of cobalt blue, deeper and richer than a midday summer sky, and the old man resumed his march along the path. His beard whipped back over his shoulder as he walked, and the layers of blue light around him drifted farther and farther outward, until his hunched form was lost in the middle of the undulating blue cloud. When the cloud reached the Captain's Post, it turned and disappeared around the corner, moving slowly but inexorably down the main road to the Sophia Gate, the largest entrance into the Cyndrille Orchard.

Futurus Persevero

The Cyndrille Orchard: Prelude

2007-07-29T21:16:00.000-05:00

Every three generations, a new Custodian was chosen and allowed inside.

For four hundred years, the Elders had appointed gatekeepers at each entrance and armed them with crystal swords engraved with the sacred words of protection, the words that keep the cyndrilles safe from blight and corruption: "Ellestral formigum sumptra cyndrillianus." Or in the Lowspeech of the Valley, "May the strength of Ellest the Eternal protect our cyndrilles forever."

As a turfboy of the Valley, my chances of even glimpsing the Orchard's outer wall were exceedingly slim. In the first fourteen years of my life, I had not been closer to the Orchard than the Procession Arch, and then only at night when the only evidence of the Orchard's existence was the phantom glow from the swords of the gatekeepers, an eerie grey light like the reflection of the moon on a mist at sea. By order of the Elders, no one was to approach the wall without the messenger's mirror, a square panel of polished silver that would reflect the gatekeepers' swordlight and announce the coming of someone from the Valley. This procedure was the direct result of the tragedy of Ferfton the Tiller, whose ill-advised visit to the Orchard one summer's eve had cost him his right leg.

The Elders' precautions were somtimes deemed too strict by a small faction of the people of the Valley, but the bulk of them understood that the Orchard Guard had been established for the good of all. The power and enticing beauty of the cyndrille trees, the silvery boughs of which were just visible above the stone wall that ran around the Orchard, could drive men mad with desire. The story is still told of how once, before the great wall was constructed and the Guard established, a crew of fifty lumbermen looking for new logging grounds ventured into the open Orchard and set up camp. By sunset on the first day, many of the men had lost their minds in the midst of the silver trees. Each began to threaten anyone who came too close to the special cyndrille tree of his choice, and before the passing of two days, all fifty men had perished at the hands of their friends.

At the time of the Annunciation, there had not been a breach of the Orchard wall for many hundreds of years, and most believed this to be due to the vigilance of the Guard. Their unwavering calm and swift defense in the course of their duty was legendary: it was said that the gatekeepers did not sleep, and that in their constant surveillance of the lands surrounding the Orchard, they had even trained themselves not to blink.

But when the 20th Annunciation drew near, and the Elders began consulting the Ancient Writ to determine what sign the next Custodian would bear, something strange began to happen to the members of the Guard. I accidentally heard of the trouble from the High Messenger Byornon Konvaya, who arrived with a spray of soft earth on his black horse Plota one evening at dusk, after the diggers had hung up their spades and the fireflies were beginning to glimmer like sparks in the dark places of the pasture.

"Boy, Ima need yo ta hustle this message on up the hill'n right quickly," said Haim Konvaya, "and just yo ta sure Haim Vaylen gets it 'for enny else." His thick, matted hair was pulled back into a ponytail and cinched with a silver locklet, and he knitted the carefully groomed eyebrows that curled like the twin arms of a vine over his commanding green eyes to emphasize the gravity of his order. As he tossed a parchment roll on the ground at my feet, he flung his huge arm back toward the Master's House, and I knew at once that I had better hurry.

"Ya, Haim," I said, "As quick'n I may." And I hurled myself across the furrows as fast as the soft soil would let me. But as I neared the yards of the Field Master's House, my foot caught on a shrub-root I had overlooked in my haste, and I fell splayed across the cool, wet grass. When I pushed myself up from the ground, cursing my foolish clumsiness, I noticed that the wax seal on the parchment had broken beneath my weight, and the message lay partially unrolled in the fading light.

Instinctively, I cast my eyes up to the evening sky, for to read a sealed message before its addressee meant a violent flogging at the very least, and blinding at the worst. I realized with dismay, however, that I had already seen the first line of the letter, written in the silver ink of the Secretary of the Elders, and it burned in my mind's eye like the white spots that float in one's vision after glancing too directly at the sun.

"My Most High Servant, Haim Vaylen,

Thy assistance is needed most immediately at the Temple of the Ancient Writ. Bring the strongest of thy house, for the wall is breached and the Guard has fallen..."

Futurus Persevero

Why Blogs Suck...

2007-07-24T00:17:00.001-05:00

Let me count the ways:

1. NO ONE READS THEM.

2. They're usually hampered by excessive "cuteness" involving bad puns and lame titles.

3. They contain even less useful information than the half-baked codswallop on Wikipedia.

4. NO ONE READS THEM.

5. Making them is extremely time consuming, even worse than PowerPoint presentations.

6. Who the hell are we kidding? They're as dead as disco. MySpace and Facebook are the new kings.

7. NO ONE, BUT NO ONE, READS THEM.

8. They allow fools the right to publish their folly, thereby infecting us with foolitis.

9. They were invented by nerds who desperately needed to vent about how disappointing the "X-Files" movie was, or some such related nerdery.

10. AND NO ONE, I MEAN ABSOLUTELY NO ONE, READS THEM!!!

It's time for a change.

The countdown has begun...

The Bibb Apple

2007-07-03T23:14:00.000-05:00

It's a helluva town, so they say. And Bibb's gonna put that to the test. That's right, loyal blogapaloozas, yours truly is off to the city by the bay...the windy city...the land of a thousand lakes...the big easy...well, damn. That place where Spider-man lives. And Bibb needs your help to make it a super-special funathon not to be forgotten (even with extensive therapy).

The great Forky of New Yorky has graciously made room for me to stay in his rickety old mansion in midtown, where the locals say a powerful gypsy woman once conjured demons from the depths of a cauldron forged from the sticky black souls of the damned.

Forky's Place (Dramatic Recreation)

But as exciting as this trip is bound to be of its own accord, I just know that you poor saps out there who have to stay home all summer in the raging flood waters of the Lone Star state are just dying to experience Gotham vicariously through the exploits of your favorite Bibb. So send me the craziest ideas for adventure you can devise.

For example, should I...

1. Apply for a job at the Times Square Applebee's?

2. Drop a steaming cup of egg drop soup off the top of the Empire State Building?

3. Exorcise Forky's haunted manse?

4. Ask several people on the subway where Spider-man lives?

5. Go see Mary Poppins?

Your imagination is the only limit. I will be in The City for six days in August, and I solemnly swear to perform the three wackiest ideas / activities / misdemeanors you can come up with. Think of me as your New York puppet: you pull the strings and I dance & sing!

Coffee with Darth

2007-06-15T11:59:00.001-05:00

Recently, I had the unique opportunity to sit down over a nice cup of jawa...I mean java...with that most feared and respected of all Sith Lords, Darth Vader. I found him relaxing in his library, enjoying the simple pleasures of a leisurely summer's morning. Though not many know of his intellectual pursuits, Darth is apparently quite an avid reader. His interest in history, politics, and philosophy, particularly the works of Emperor Nero, Machiavelli, and Nietzsche, has developed into a full-blown passion.

Sipping Darth's fresh ground Columbian brew, I asked how he had come by his fervid desire to rule the galaxy.

Me: "Was absolute domination of the known galaxy a childhood dream? Or did you develop an interest in tyranny during college?"

DV: "Impressive. Most impressive. Obi-Wan has taught you well. You have controlled your fear. Now, release your anger."

Me: "Well, thank you. I went to Johns Hopkins. And you're really not as intimidating as everyone thinks. But I have no reason to be angry, and I don't know anyone named Obi-Wan. Why would you think I was angry with you?"

DV: "Only your hatred can destroy me."

Me: "That won't be necessary. This is certainly not a defamation piece. The people just want to know a little more about you; they want to know the man inside the helmet. What about your ambitions? What makes a man decide to overthrow the Republic?"

DV: "Your powers are weak, old man."

Me: "What's that supposed to mean?! I'm only 28!"

DV: "Perhaps you think you are being treated unfairly?"

Me: "No, no. I just don't understand what my age has to do with this. What's got you so riled up today? Are you worried about that defense project you were telling me about?"

DV: "The Death Star will be completed on schedule."

Me: "I'm sure it will. I was just asking to be polite."

DV: "I find your lack of faith disturbing."

Me: "I have nothing but the utmost confidence in your leadership abilities. Really, I'm one of your biggest fans. Don't let there be a conflict between us."

DV: "There is no conflict."

Me: "I'm glad to hear it. I was hoping we could just relax and have a friendly conversation."

DV: "You are unwise to lower your defenses!"

Me: "Always the statesman. Well, I suppose we could turn to more political matters. What is your response to the rumors that several of your staff are using Imperial transports for recreational and promotional campaign purposes? Are your subordinates running a payola operation right under your...um...nose?"

DV: "Do they have a code clearance?"

Me: "I have no idea. I would assume so if they are running around with Imperial property. What do you intend to do about this?"

DV: "Leave them to me. I will deal with them myself."

Me: "So now you don't want to talk politics? What's the deal here?"

DV: "I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further."

Me: "That's it! I've had it! This interview is over. You're the single most frustrating person to talk to in the universe! I'll come back when you're ready to be less frickin' obtuse."

DV: "As you wish."

Me: "Is that all you have to say for yourself? I must say, after your conduct this morning, I'm not at all sure your subjects will form an overly positive opinion of your personality."

DV: "Nothing can stop that now."

Me: "Fine. I don't suppose there's anything I can say to change your mind?"

DV: "It is too late for me, son."

Me: "It's never too late to reclaim a positive public image. That's what the Internet is for! I can change the people's opinon of you with a click of the mouse!"

DV: "Don't be too proud of this technological terror you've constructed."

Me: "Alright, then. Any last thoughts?"

DV: "You've learned much, young one."

Me: "It doesn't really feel like I've learned anything at all. But, well, thanks for your time, anyway."

DV: "You have only begun to discover your power. Join me, and I will complete your training. With our combined strength, we can end this destructive conflict and bring order to the galaxy."

Me: "I thought you said there was no conflict! I just wanted to ask you a few harmless questions about your hobbies and favorite songs, for heaven's sake! You're the one who had to turn it into this ridiculous argument."

DV: "Don't act so surprised, your highness. You weren't on any mercy mission this time."

Me: "OK, that's enough. Cut the tape off."

Well, there you have it, folks. An enigmatic, scary, frustrating man. What kind of strange, powerful mind lurks behind that pointy, angular medical capsule mask? The world may never know.

The Power of the Dork Side...

2007-06-09T21:10:00.001-05:00

Well, blogpals, it's finally happened. Hitherto, I would have simply classified myself as a 'nerd', or a 'geek' at the worst, but now I have crossed over completely. I have been seduced by the Dork Side. I went to the opening day festivities of what borders on a crazed fan convention: the traveling Star Wars science exhibit at the Ft. Valuecity Museum of Science and History.

I admit that my initial interest in the exhibition was almost purely intellectual. But when I arrived at the museum and they were blasting the Imperial March through loudspeakers attached to the building's exterior, and stormtroopers, bounty hunters, and...be still my beating heart...Lord Vader himself were all milling about the lobby, the dormant midi-dorkians flowing through my veins sprang into life and filled me with unlimited dorky power.

Yes, the tingling sensation of burgeoning dorkiness washed over me in a wave, and soon I found myself pointing to the full-grown men in costume and explaining the fundamental differences between the attire and equipment of Jango and Boba Fett to my indifferent wife. Next, with a dorkish squeal of glee, I would latch onto the nearest 'celebrity' and demand that a picture be taken at once. For example...

And again...

I became almost manic upon seeing the actual Yoda puppet used in The Empire Strikes Back, and I giggled like a silly schoolboy when I found the glass case containing the actual Vader suit worn by David Prowse in A New Hope. The photos below won't convey the pure dorky ambrosia of seeing these marvelous artifacts in person, but try to imagine yourself there...use your feelings.

These are no lame, tattered Halloween costumes, folks. These are originals! Frank Oz had his sweaty arm inside that Yoda! Peter Mayhew struggled to resist the temptation to scratch his cheek inside that Chewie fur! Anthony Daniels tottered around in a black leotard inside that C-3PO! Great scott, people! Do you understand what I'm saying here?! IT WAS LIKE THE POP CULTURE HOLY GRAIL!

Whew...sorry. I let my dorkemotions get the better of me there. I became so infatuated with each and every magical display that I occasionally lost track of my lovely wife. She wandered outside and was attacked by an Acrocanthrosaurus.

Luckily, a burgundy SUV drove by and startled the beast back into the trees. Finally, it was time to pack up the light saber and head home. When we arrived, we found that even little Nelson had joined the Dork Side.

Now he refuses to answer to anything other than "Darth Kittious," and he's been using the force to choke birds in the backyard all evening.

Needless to say, if this traveling exhibit comes to your corner of the galaxy anytime soon, you must fulfill your destiny and go see it immediately. But beware the power of the Dork Side, and remember the words of wise Master Yoda: "Nerds lead to Geeks, Geeks lead to Dorks, Dorks lead to pain and suffering."

May the Bricks Be With You...

2007-06-07T23:37:00.001-05:00

I don't normally blog about video games. Movies and books are typically more in my bailiwick. But dang it if I don't feel compelled to share about this one. When you die, you merely return to the bricks from which you were composed (an apt visual representation of a complex theological concept), and every level is jam-packed with cleverly hidden treasures and extras. I've never had this much fun with my Braincube TM, and these games have even renewed my passion for the original Star Wars saga. Playing through them has almost convinced me to shell out $12,000 for a tiny Preggo TM Playset . . . almost.

Some of you may not yet own a Stupendo Braincube TM, and others of you might have already upgraded your system to a Sex-Box 360 or a Slaystation 3, but if my opinion is worth diddly-poop to the three of you who occasionally visit this humble blog-corner, I recommend that you toss those other systems in the bin and return to the game console that actually makes use of that most neglected of bodily organs . . . the mind.

And just when you thought it couldn't get any cooler . . .

Kitty Livin'

2007-05-24T14:19:00.000-05:00

Ah, to live the life of a cat.

No responsibilities. No job. No psychological angst. No deep philosophical quandaries.

They truly lead a charmed existence. They wake up around 11:30 a.m. and then take their first nap at noon. They eat at 6:00 every night - two scoops of Purina Cat Chow (Indoor Formula). Then they take their evening poop in a giant plastic poop-dome full of the very finest kitty litter Fresh-Step has to offer.

When their adopted owner comes home, he or she always pounds on their bellies just the way they like. They roll and crawl and mewl with infinite pleasure.

Sure, they're occasionally forced to pose for ridiculous and demeaning photographs.

But that's a small price to pay for free room and board and constant affection.

In the evenings, they crawl into bed with their adopted parents and plant themselves firmly in the very middle of the mattress (the very softest and warmest spot). Sure, sometimes inconsiderate people force them to endorse over-the-counter cold medication...

Or Meow Mix kitty snacks...

...but such minor inconveniences are just par for the course.

Kitties of all sizes are essentially the same. They all sleep close to 18 hours each day and still manage to retain that sleek athletic physique. Due to their fierce appearance, they have nothing at all to fear from anyone or anything else.

Yes, the life of a cat is to be envied. I believe it was the wise Thomas O'Malley who once said, "Everybody wants to be a cat." Or was it Berlioz the Kitten? No, I'm fairly certain it was O'Malley.

We could learn a lot from kitties. Follow their example and just go with the flow. Let the problems and prickly pickles of life roll off your fuzzy, spring-loaded back. Forget those high-dollar entertainment systems. Just play with a milk twisty on the kitchen floor for a few hours. Hey! Where'd it go?!

And always put some effort into your appearance. Try to look more regal, even majestic, at all times. No matter what anyone says, never alter your expression even the slightest bit. Lick your lips subtly if someone displeases you, and lay your ears flat against your skull if you're really mad.

Let go and have some fun! Right around bedtime, just cut loose and run across the house as fast as you can, producing gutteral growl/meow noises as you go.

But more importantly, be proud of yourself. If we learn nothing else from kitties, we should remember that we are better than everyone else, and we should always act accordingly.

28 Posts Later

2007-05-15T12:48:00.000-05:00

"The satire is biting, and so are the zombies." Mmm, God, I love me a good zombie zeugma.

Britain is struggling to repopulate its devastated urban areas, virus-ridden corpses strew the streets, hideously mutilated skeletal skin-bags are poised just behind every half-open closet door, and two innocent children are just bustin' to go exploring in this post-bioapocalyptic wonderland! Bring on the really fast, extremely angry zombies!

Treat yourself this holiday season (I refer here to Memorial Day, but really any holiday will do), and go see this blood-spattered horror-fest with a touch of Greek tragedy thrown in for us nerdophytes who desperately need some esoteric allusions to make us feel clever. Cowardice! Betrayal! Viral infection through an ill-advised kiss! It's all here, and at the risk of sounding like Ron Popeil, but wait, there's more!

Zombie films have long suffered from a poetically appropriate lethargy and decay that lumbers along like the creatures they feature. They have no plot skeletons: contrived situations and one-dimensional characters rot their innards and cause a premature "death on film." And just when you think the gory, gut-slinging action is about to really burst forth like a fresh body from the grave, the tiny, fleeing band of zombie refugees finds some new hole to hide in, and all we as audience members get to quench our zombie-lust is a few bangs and groans from the other side of the titanium door. Oh, please.

But not this little slice of zombie cake! The action is unrelenting and horribly uncomfortable! During the film's opening sequence, I actually had to avert my eyes for a moment. ME! I'm the guy who sat through The Exorcist with a bowl of Chef Boyardee Spaghetti-O's, laughing hysterically the entire time. And it may be because of my irrational fear of crowds (agoraphobia, for those of you who think I'm making up disorders), but the scene in the quarantine building with all the biting and screaming just about put me over the zombie edge.

I don't want to splatter you with spoilers, so I'll bring my homage to a close. But let me say that the makers of this little gem have managed to do what no zombie filmmakers have done before: they made a sequel better than the original. So go get drenched in zombie sweat! It's well worth the horrible nightmares.

By the Power of Greyskull!

2007-05-03T18:24:00.000-05:00

I wholeheartedly agree with Forky. Do yourself a favor and go see this film. There are really no words to adequately describe it. Suffice to say that Jim Broadbent has a car accident involving an angry swan . . . and that's about the least unusual event in the film.

The Professin' Profession: The Prologue

2007-04-26T17:57:00.001-05:00

Oh my, gentle blogheads.

Oh my.

Today, as I sat in my cubicle reading through the rough drafts of my two giganto-projects for the semester, projects that comprise my total grade for two classes, I heard Prof. Criesalot burst into the office bewailing something at the tippity tops of her overworked lungs.

Prof. Criesalot: (hurling herself into her swivel chair) Mwaaaah-hoooo-hoo! *snuffle, snuffle* Mwahh-haaa-hooo-hoo!

Prof. Schadenfreude: (supressing a grin) Gee, Criesalot, what's the matter?

Prof. Criesalot: Mwaah-hoo! Dr. Supravizor called me *snuffle* into her office today *snuffle* to tell me that she was . . . MWAHHH-HOO-Hoo-hoo0o0o0o0o! . . . concerned about one of my student evaluations from last *snuffle, sniffle, snuffle* last semester.

Prof. Dropeaves: (peeking around her cubicle wall) Really? What did it say?

Prof. Criesalot: O0oo00oo0o0o0o0o-hoo0o0o! Sh-she said the st-student compl-plained about me letting everyone go early from class all the t-time and n-n-n-not explaining the readings from the book f-f-fully . . . *snuffle* . . . I g-guess I just SUCK AS A TEACHER!!! MwO0oO0oo0O-HAaaa-oooo000000ooo!

Prof. Schadenfreude: Gee, I don't think you suck. I mean, how often did you let them go early?

Prof. Criesalot: *snuffle*

Prof. Dropeaves: I let my students go early sometimes. How early did you release them?

Prof. Criesalot: (buries her face in her hands) *sniffle, snuffle*

[Student enters with a question for Criesalot, looking embarrassed]

Student: Um . . . Professor Crazypot?

Prof. Criesalot: Criesalot. Did you need something?

Student: I just wanted to turn in my essay revision; I sent you an e-mail about it.

Prof. Criesalot: Just put in on the desk . . . wait . . . what do you think of me as a teacher? Whatever you say, it won't affect your grade.

Student: Uuuhhmmm . . .

Prof. Criesalot: Come on, you can tell me. Honestly.

Student: You're pretty good, I guess. Sometimes you rush through things too fast, though. Maybe if you didn't let us out so early, we could spend more time on the material . . .

[Criesalot rushes from the office, weeping loudly; Student stands awkwardly against the wall]

Prof. Dropeaves: She'll be right back.

Annnnd . . . scene.

I wish I was making this stuff up, me bloggys, truly I do.

Stay tuned for more installments of "The Professin' Profession"!

Cuniculus Terribilis

2007-04-07T20:06:00.001-05:00

In the tradition of our good friend Forky Fourchette over on the 42nd floor, I have collected a series of unsettling photos involving horrible bunnies in honor of Pagan Fertility Day...I mean Easter. If your church decides to participate in an egg hunt or a festive dance round the maypole this weekend, think back on these images and cringe inside your new, brightly colored Easter clothes. For you know....

...he's watching, and he's worse than Santa.

Vote for your fave!

Oops...how'd that one get in there?

OK, so this last one isn't terrifying. But you have to admit that the idea of bunnies high on candy and behind the wheel (with nothing left to lose) is pretty scary.

O'erwhelmed & Unemployed

2007-03-30T13:12:00.001-05:00

Sorry my blogs have been so sluggish lately, but I have so much work to do sometimes that I simply cannot breathe. I swim through mounds of tasks, menial and herculean, on a daily basis, and I have nearly drowned many times. One of the academic librarians at our great Eyrieville University told me that she dropped out of her PhD program due to chest pains resulting from extreme panic attacks. All around me graduate students are dropping like novice soldiers in an epic battle with bloodthirsty monsters, and I sometimes wonder how long my paltry shield will hold out against their ceaseless onslaught.

Also, I desperately need a job for the upcoming summer. The powers that be at Eyrieville U have slashed my department's budget once again, and there will be no classes for the Teaching Fellows this summer. I have sent out applications to the local community colleges, but few have responded, and those that have all tell me how impressive my credentials are before they inform me that yes, they have no bananas; they have no bananas today. So, blogensteins, you must help me choose my summer job. Here are some choices:

Lame-ass Book Clerk at local Christian bookstore.
Lame-ass Book Clerk at local used bookstore.
Lame-ass Book Clerk at Our Lady of Barnes & Noble.
Male prostitute (The wife might protest, depends on the money).
Ninja assassin-for-hire.
Domestic cat-trainer.
Wandering minstrel.

Cast your vote for my pathetic employment! Or suggest another pathetic job not listed here! Woo! Overeducated unemployment is great!

Paddy Cake?

2007-03-16T22:29:00.000-05:00

God Save Ireland!

Boycott the One-Legged Dancer

2007-03-01T21:44:00.001-06:00

Are any of you folks out there fans of the ABC hit show "Dancing with the Stars"? Well, stop it. They've really sunk to new lows this season by tossing Paul McCartney's shrew of an ex-wife into the toe-tapping contestant pool. She's mean, vicious, and as you can see in the quote above, she "like[s] Mickey Mouse." Creepy.

Mills claims, among other things, that Sir Paul McCartney committed the following horrible acts during their marriage:

Physically attacked her several times, including an incident when he stabbed her with a wine bottle.
Forbade her to breastfeed her newborn child because he claimed her breasts belonged only to him.
Denied her an antique bedpan she wanted so she would not have to crawl to the bathroom each evening.
Forced her to crawl up the steps of his plane when her wheelchair would not fit.
Ate babies and washed them down with liquified puppy brains.

Of particular interest is the fact that none of Ms. Mills' outrageous claims have been substantiated in any way, and she is in the process of attempting to wrench more than £30 million from Macca with the help of Princess Diana's lawyer, Anthony Julius. You can read about the whole sordid affair here.

So when the new season airs in a couple of weeks, change your channels for Sir Paul. Or if you simply must watch, vote repeatedly against Mills and send her one-legged ass a-packin' the first week.

I Want to Tell You

2007-02-20T16:07:00.000-06:00

I almost forgot this year, but thankfully the clock radio played three of his songs on three consecutive mornings this week. I won't bore you with the minutiae of his biography or try to indoctrinate you with his personal philosophy because George wouldn't have liked that very much. Instead, I will simply list some of my favorite facts about the quietest (and youngest) Beatle. He had a great sense of humor and loved laughing at himself most of all, so I hope he would have enjoyed this little post. Here's to you, George.

He loved jelly babies.
He played Monopoly like a fiend.
He had a small cameo in Monty Python's film The Life of Brian.
He was the first rock musician to host a benefit/charity concert (the Concert for Bangladesh in 1971).
He played 26 musical instruments, including the ukulele and the glockenspiel.
He was a vegetarian.
He was only 26 years old when the Beatles officially split.
Frank Sinatra called his song "Something" "the best love song of the last 50 years."
His wife Patty Boyd left him in the early 70s for his good friend Eric Clapton, but the two musicians remained friends.
His actual birthday is February 24th (11:50 p.m.), but he believed it was the 25th for most of his life.
Michael Abram, the man who broke into G. H.'s home in 1999 and stabbed him many times, believed he was possessed by George and on a mission from God to kill him.
He had an extensive collection of Mini Coopers.
He wrote a song for the soundtrack of Porky's Revenge in 1984.
He was a lifelong fan of rocker Carl Perkins and played at his funeral in 1998.

If you want to watch one of the best live concerts of all time and remember Georgey this February, I recommend that you rent/buy Concert for George, the memorial concert performed one year after his death. I don't think it's an overstatement to declare that it is indeed freakin' awesome.

They Were Totally Doing It Together

2007-01-27T23:50:00.000-06:00

Yes, I thought that might capture your attention, you naughty blogfiends. Of course, what I mean is that they were totally writing kick-ass Elizabethan drama at about the same time. What did you think I meant?

For reals, though, my Shakespeare seminar for this semester is entitled "Shakespeare & Marlowe: Friends & Lovers." Thus far we haven't supposed anything untoward about the sexual (mis)adventures of the world's favorite bard and his openly homosexual (and atheist) contemporary Christopher Marlowe, but we do know that they were in London at the same time and shared some of the same hangouts (as brilliantly imagined in Stoppard's Shakespeare in Love). And according to the historical accounts, practically everyone was at least "bi-curious" in those filthy, poop-in-the-streets Renaissance days.

And after all, why is Antonio so sad at the beginning of The Merchant of Venice? Could it be because he cannot officially 'get it on' with his "bosom lover" Bassanio? And who is the mysterious Mr. W. H. of the sonnets? The world may never know.

So whaddya think, blogsters? Was Willy into showtunes and interior design? If not, what's with all the penis jokes and cross-dressing in the plays? If so, was he Chris Marlowe's "bosom lover"? Leave your comment, and the truth will "out"!

Oy! Revival!

2007-01-21T19:04:00.001-06:00

I Sang For the Jews...Again!

Forget all those gloomy plays like I Never Sang For My Father, I Never Saw Another Butterfly, and Edith Stein!
Make way for the newest stage musical sensation ...
I Sang For the Jews...Again!

Join in the mishegas this fall with the long-awaited arrival of Goyem McSchmuck's newest revival of an outdated musical hit I Sang For the Jews . . . Again! It's sure to be a kosher Yiddishkayt simcha and a half! Boytchiks and meydeles alike will revel in the toe-tapping music provided by those state-famous klezmers ...

The Farshluginers!

That's right, fresh from their tour of the upper Midwest part of Iowa, these talented knakers are itchin' to tickle your music bone! And McSchmuck's extravaganza doesn't stop there! You'll kvel when you hear the vocal stylings of ...

The Platzers!

And don't worry; the story is good clean fun and appropriate for ganse mishpochah! A young Yiddish minstrel named Yavel must find his place in the harsh and domineering world of his elders, who want him to become a rabbi and marry Bookzel, the town librarian. But Yavel has other plans. He falls under the spell of Flavva, a wandering gypsy who steals his heart ... and his money! After a whirlwind romance, Yavel must choose to either follow his heart and bridge the cultural gap between his Hasidic village and the gypsy tribe through music or else abandon his newfound love to begin shul. And this moyshe kapoyer kvetches and shvitzes more than any mensch you know when it comes to shul! It's Romeo & Juliet meets Fiddler on the Roof with a bisl of kishef!

Cheer Yavel on as he goes up against the oppressive traditions of the Chutzpah Brotherhood and teaches them all how to be a little less farchadat. You'll be farklempt, you'll be frayleich, and maybe even a little tsetumult, but you'll get a kick out of their shtick!

So run, don't walk to pick up your tickets now! This show is one tsimmes that gets every melamed's hekhsher!

(For a glossary of Yiddish terms used in this playbill, visit www.koshernosh.com/dictiona.htm)

One Birthday to Rule Them All...

2007-01-03T07:41:00.001-06:00

115 years ago today, little John Ronald Reuel Tolkien was born in the wilds of Bloemfontein, South Africa, to Arthur and Mabel Tolkien. When he was still an infant, he was bitten by a tarantula (probably the prototype for Shelob) and would have died had not a quick-thinking servant sucked out the poison immediately. So I suppose we should take time to thank Tolkien's babyhood nurse for her part in keeping little Ronnie alive.

Due to venomous snakes, mischievous monkeys, the Boer War, and various rampant South African diseases, J. R. R.'s mother wisely chose to move little Ronald (as he was called by his friends and family) and his brother Hilary to Birmingham, England. Not long after they arrived, Tolkien's father fell ill with rheumatic fever back in South Africa; he later suffered a hemorrhage and died. Tolkien's mother died of diabetes when he was twelve (after homeschooling both her sons and introducing the all-important fairy stories of Andrew Lang and George MacDonald to her son Ronald), and he and his brother were sent by Mabel's priest, Father Morgan, to live with their Aunt Beatrice at Stirling Road. Tolkien loved his studies at King Edward's School, particularly Old and Middle English, and thus began his lifelong love affair with language.

At sixteen, after he and his brother had been moved yet again by Father Morgan, this time to the home of Mrs. Faulkner in Duchess Road, Tolkien fell hopelessly in love with Edith Bratt, a nineteen-year-old seamstress who also lodged in Mrs. Faulkner's home. Tolkien wanted to marry her after just a few dates, but the Catholic Church mandated that a young man had to be 21 to propose in those days, so Ronald had to wait. The very day that Tolkien turned 21, he ran to Edith and proposed; though Edith was engaged to another young man at the time, she broke off that engagement to become betrothed to J. R. R. Good choice, Edith.

In 1911, the young Tolkien entered Oxford along with several of his old school chums from King Edward's, including Christopher Wiseman and Robert Q. Gilson. There they continued the small, exclusive club known as the T. C. B. S. (formerly the Tea Club and the Barrovian Society) that they had begun as librarians at King Edward's. Tolkien did well at Oxford, and he began to branch out into new languages like Old Norse, German, and Finnish, from which he took a good deal to create Quenya, the language of the high elves of Middle Earth. Tolkien stayed on at Oxford after the outbreak of World War I in 1914 in order to graduate, but soon after graduation, he was commissioned as an officer in the 13th Battalion of the Lancashire Fusiliers. While on leave from his duties with the 13th, Tolkien and Edith Bratt were married on March 22, 1916. Ronald and Edith Tolkien would have four children: John, Michael, Christopher, and Priscilla.

After fighting on the front line in France, including the disastrous Battle of the Somme, Tolkien eventually succumbed to post-traumatic shock syndrome and trench fever and was sent home. Several of his close friends from the T. C. B. S. died in the war, and Tolkien was powerfully affected by it for the rest of his life. After his service in the army, Tolkien began teaching at the University of Leeds and then at Oxford as Professor of Anglo-Saxon in 1925. Over six years later, Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, Warren Lewis (C. S.'s elder brother), Charles Williams, and others began meeting on Tuesdays in a small Oxford pub called the Eagle and Child (known affectionately by its patrons as 'the Bird and Baby'), and so began the group known today as the Inklings. This small group was responsible for a renewed interest in Christianity in Oxford, despite the growing atheism and agnosticism that grew out of the despair and disillusionment following WWI.

But in 1930, while grading a stack of students' essays (I'm still waiting for this type of inspiration to happen to me...), Tolkien turned over one of the pages and scribbled randomly, "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit." Thus began what would eventually be named the most influential work of literature of the 20th century. The Hobbit was first published in 1937 and received a good deal of critical and public success, but the main event wasn't to come until almost 20 years later, when Tolkien finally found a publisher willing to take on his enormous draft of The Lord of the Rings in 1954. The initial print of the first volume, The Fellowship of the Ring, sold out in less than 2 months.

The tremendous success of Tolkien's masterwork made him an almost instant literary celebrity, something almost unheard of in the mid-20th century, and he had some trouble adjusting to public scrutiny. Despite his vast financial success, he continued to live his life in the simple way to which he was accustomed. Sadly, his wife Edith died in 1971, and Tolkien only lived for two more years, passing into the west himself on September 2, 1973 from an infection in his digestive tract.

One of my favorite quotes about Tolkien is a simple statement by Diane Duane: "Because of Tolkien, the universe will forever genuinely contain magic." I guess it is his legacy that thousands of young and old readers are still inspired by the power of this simple man's imagination and probably will be for centuries to come. I often tell my wife, friends, and students that Tolkien will one day be regaled by scholars in much the same way that Shakespeare is today. True, as many Tolkien scholars and biographers point out, Tolkien is still not studied with any seriousness in higher academic curriculums, and most professors in the humanities would laugh at the idea of anyone specializing in Tolkien (whereas specializing in Franz Kafka or James Joyce is a perfectly legitimate choice?), but someday, probably long after I'm dead, Tolkien's epic contribution to literature will at long last be recognized by those who claim to be literary scholars. After all, Shakespeare was considered populist tripe in his day, too.

Works Consulted

Baldwin, Stanley P. J. R. R. Tolkien: His Life and Works. Library of Great Authors Ser. New York: Spark, 2003.

Carpenter, Humphrey. J. R. R. Tolkien: The Authorized Biography. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1977.

For Auld Lang Syne...

2007-01-01T00:31:00.000-06:00

Well, blog-pals, 2006 has passed. On the plus side, Saddam is dead. On the other hand, so are Steve Irwin, James Brown, Peter Boyle, Joseph Barbera, Wilson Pickett, Don Knotts, Billy Preston, Robert Altman, and President Gerald Ford.

Brangelina adopted the entire nation of Haiti and most of Ethiopia in the bargain. Madonna tried to follow suit, but she's not as cute, so Oprah had to help her out.

At long last, JonBenet Ramsey's killer was identified, but he turned out to just be a creepy guy who knew her. Kenneth Lay was found guilty of fraud and conspiracy in the Enron scandal, but he died before he could serve one day in jail.

Megachurch pastors are gaining more media visibility for Christianity, but unfortunately some of them are secretly hiring gay prostitutes and then lying about it. The Democrats gained control of Congress, so at least there is some hope for W. Bush Hill, but unfortunately Hillary is still planning on running for President, so that hope is thin.

YouTube is the new MySpace, and Google is the new AT&T. The Russian government is still poisoning people who disagree with them. Paul McCartney's worthless wife has finally been shown the door, but she's managed to drag his name through the mud in the process.

And we're still at war with Iraq.

Overall, 2006 has been lukewarmy or purgatory-ish at best: not too bad, not too good. There was no unbelievably horrific natural disaster or national tragedy involving terrorism, but neither was there peace on earth and good will toward men. Maybe it's too much to ask for '07 to be an improvement over this year, but then again, hope springs eternal from the bottom of Pandora's famous box, so let's (perhaps naïvely) assume the mantle of cautious optimism as we look to the future. In the words of the brilliant Lord Tennyson...

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Huzzah, Al.

Yule Never Believe This...

2006-12-21T09:45:00.002-06:00

We've all come across the word, sometimes on Christmas cards, sometimes as part of the title of a lame children's Christmas music CD (i.e. "Cool Yule"), sometimes in the lyrics of those most sacred Christmas carols themselves:

"Yuletide carols being sung by a choir, and folks dressed up like Eskimos..."

"Don we now our gay apparel (Fa-La-La-La-La-La-La-La-La); Troll the ancient Yuletide carol..."

"Bring us out a table and spread it with a cloth; bring us out a cheese and of your Yuletide loaf..."

"Rudolph the Wiccan Reindeer had a very Yuletide nose..."

OK, so I may have slightly altered that last one, but the first three are real enough. Have you ever stopped to wonder what that funny little four-letter word that so conveniently rhymes with "cool" actually means? Where does it come from? Why do we still say it? Maybe we should ask this nice lady...

Madam, pray tell us what "Yule" or "Yuletide" is all about.

"Oh my, it's simply the most beautiful and magical of all the pagan celebrations; it's the festival of the Holy Winter Solstice!"

I'm sorry? Don't you mean the celebration of the birth of the Messiah? You know, the King of Israel?

"I don't know much Middle Eastern history, but Yuletide is the sacred time after the woolgathering and spinning where everyone must be given an item of clothing or risk being taken by the Yule Cat. Also, we slaughter a pig and dance around his burning carcass long into the night. Now if yule excuse me, I must attend to my brew...um, I mean...wassail."

What?! 'Yuletide' is some sort of crazy witches' party?! You dance around a burning pig and give each other woolen presents to ward off some evil cat? What about the "Yule Log"? Doesn't that have some sort of Christian symbolism behind it?

"Good Priestess, no! The Yule Log is an offering to the fertility gods and the only way to ensure that our houses are safe from lightning, hailstorms, and unfriendly magic. Now I really must ask you to go; you're going to wake my daemon...I mean...pet iguana."

Oh well, there you have it, folks. I guess everyone's a little bit pagan these days. Have a Happy Yule! May your cattle be fertile and your hearths be free of dark wizardry! But be productive and never lazy, lest you incur the wrath of...

THE YULE CAT!

The Birth of Our Ford and Savior...

2006-12-13T11:33:00.002-06:00

For any of you out there who have read Huxley's Brave New World or practically anything by Karl Marx, this harmless little children's book should send shivers up your spine. It's for real, kiddos; I picked up a copy with speechless incredulity at Our Lady of Barnes & Noble a few days ago, flipping through its propaganda-laden pages unable to laugh or cry.

The premise of this capitalistic pamphlet involves Santa, the greatest of all symbols of American materialism and greed, teaching the merits of the assembly line method of production to Henry Ford, the greatest of all symbols of capitalism's soulless industrialization and dehumanization of the worker, to increase the elves' (the North Pole proletariat) rate of production, enabling them to make more toys even faster! How long until the facts of religion and of history are obliterated completely by harmless children's stories such as these? Who needs Christmas when American consumerism can forge its own legends and meanings for December 25?

Good God, people.

"Knowledge was the highest good, truth the supreme value; all the rest was secondary and subordinate. True, ideas were beginning to change even then. Our Ford himself did a great deal to shift the emphasis from truth and beauty to comfort and happiness. Mass production demanded the shift. Universal happiness keeps the wheels steadily turning; truth and beauty can't." - Mustapha Mond in Brave New World

Jingle All the Way...To Hell!

2006-12-04T11:43:00.003-06:00

Hello, all my good little consum...er...children. It's your favorite Holiday pal, Santa Claus (TM)! I wanted to take a little time out of my VERY busy schedule to address some unfortunate sentiments that some of you naughtier boys and girls have been expressing this Season.

First off, let me congratulate those of you who have noticed that my first name is an anagram for the common moniker of the Prince of Darkness. Very clever. And yes, I also dress in solid red and appear most often in the form of an old man, and I could very possibly be hiding horns and cloven hooves under my hat and boots, respectively. But honestly, does anyone really care about all that? Sure, a few of you have pointed out the similarities, and a few of you have even tried to call attention to the fact that I was originally created to sell Coke (TM) to the kiddies, but even you who rail righteously against me will go out this December and worship me at my various altars: First Church of Wal-Mart, The Targetarian Temple, and Our Lady of Barnes & Noble.

So go ahead and criticize, if you wish, but remember where hypocrites and liars go. Everyone has the right to be checked off my list as "nice," provided that they do as I command and spend the good news this Holiday Sale's-on.

Secondly, a laughable few have written me letters asking for nonsensical things like "an end to war" or "a cure for AIDS" or "blessings on my family" this year. I think you may be a tad confused. Those things aren't really my department; I handle only what I can load in my sack and dump down your chimneys. World peace and good will toward men aren't very lucrative wares for me to peddle since they take time and cooperation and, yes, even self-sacrifice. Oooh, that word always gives me the willies!

Which brings me to my last point. You-Know-Who's name is being systematically removed from many end-of-year proceedings, and a small number of you have been whining about that of late. Well, I've got news for you; it's the 21st century, and you need to adapt and get with the times! Not everybody likes to be reminded of You-Know-Who's depressing life story while they're opening their gifts 'neath the Holiday Tree, and what's bad for business is bad for Santa (TM). So the C-word is hereby effectively banned (except in those places where its inclusion might sell more greeting cards, bumper stickers, and bookmarks). Please use the following Santa Claus (TM) approved terms when greeting one another or when referring to this December/January's festivities:

Acceptable Salutations:

Happy Holidays!
Winter's Greetings!
Season's Greetings!
Welcome to Best Buy, how may I help you?

Approved Titles for Seasonal Get-togethers:

Winter Holiday Party
Yuletide Jamboree
End-of-Year Celebration
20-40% Off Sale

I think that covers it. So, from all of us at the North Pole, Happy Holidays! And remember, keep You-Know-Who's name to yourself this year; we'll all be much jollier for it!

Dead Week Poll

2006-12-01T11:44:00.000-06:00

I need your help, blog-fam. You haven't been particularly vocal of late, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and try to solicit your involvement in a pointless poll.

I am showing a film to my freshmen writing classes next week, and I need some feedback as to which movie should make the screening. The options are posted above. Please vote this weekend! Yeah, right, who am I kidding; nobody reads this stupid page.

Butt Seriously, Folks...

2006-11-25T18:33:00.000-06:00

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- Soreina Buttman

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- Derry Airrari

Are you having trouble laughing this holiday sale's-on? How about your disillusioned friends and relatives? Slip some butt paste in their stocking and watch the hilarity ensue. It may not be the most thoughtful gift, but on the whole, I'd say that Boudreaux's Butt Paste just feels good.

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Dead Man's Party

2006-10-27T18:32:00.000-05:00

Are you throwing a Halloween party? Are you inviting scads of ghouls over to your crypt to make this Halloween a night to dismember? Are you just planning on sitting pathetically alone with a cat and a gallon of cookies n' cream? Well, do I have the movie list for you!

Here are some of my favorites, arranged categorically (special thanks to Wikipedia):

Vampires: Bram Stoker's Dracula (Gary Oldman's finest hour), Dracula (the original 1931 version with Bela Lugosi), The Lost Boys (campy, but low-budget eighties-tastic), From Dusk Till Dawn (Quentin Tarantino does the fanged undead in a cheap whorehouse; fun for all ages!), Nosferatu (silent but intensely creepy classic that features "real" vampyre Max Schreck; for more info but less creep, check out Willem Dafoe's Shadow of the Vampire), Fright Night (this one features Roddy McDowall as a washed up horror film actor, if you can imagine!).

Werewolves: Silver Bullet (based on a pleasantly brief graphic novel by some weird dude from Maine), The Wolf Man (watch Lon Chaney, Jr. transform into a beast without ever tearing his clothing!), An American Werewolf in London (as mentioned in a previous post, I first saw this gem when I was three; imagine the night terrors!), The Howling (contains the longest man-to-wolf transformation scene in cinematic history; seriously, you'll have time to take a bathroom break and make dinner before he's finished), Dog Soldiers (a bunch of obnoxious Scottish military guys get systematically devoured on the moors), Ginger Snaps (angst-ridden teenage hussies get wolfy on their boyfriends and family members).

Ghosts (those who know that they're dead and those who aren't so sure): The Sixth Sense (the scene on the spiral staircase made me wet myself), Poltergeist (a truly disturbing jaunt through corpse-filled suburbia; clowns, TV static, and old trees have never been the same), The Ring (if you watch it, you will die in seven days, and not because of your late fees at Blockbuster!), The Grudge (proves conclusively that nothing is more frightening than a Japanese contortionist who croaks like a frog), The Others (demonstrates the consequences of too much religious education and time spent indoors, as well as why you should never piss off Nicole Kidman), The Blair Witch Project (shaky, nausea-inducing camera shots aside, this movie made tent and sleeping bag sales drop across the country).

Monsters, Ghouls, Zombies, and Other Such Mess-cellany: Frankenstein (the original 1931 version with Boris Karloff), Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (believe it or not, Robert DeNiro will make you cry, and Kenneth Branagh's painted-on abs will make you laugh), The Thing (though it is technically an alien, this hideous parasite makes the things Sigourney Weaver had to fight look like Teletubbies), Dead Alive/aka Braindead (forget The Lord of the Rings; this is the film that proves Peter Jackson's genius; prepare for lawnmowers and overbearing zombie mothers), The Evil Dead Series (let's face it, zombies really aren't very scary, but they are pretty damned funny), Child's Play (this film made my cousin lock all of her dolls in the closet each and every evening for the entire duration of her childhood).

Serial Killers and Other Crazy People: Misery (gave me my irrational fear of old-fashioned typewriters; thanks, Stephen King!), Psycho (the Hitchcock version, of course; rocking chairs and granny wigs will be spoiled for you forever), The Silence of the Lambs (it puts the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose...oooh, now that's going to be stuck in my head), Wolf Creek (this one really bothered me; it's not for the faint of heart or for those with plans to visit Australia in the near future), Se7en (despite its attempt to pass off the number 7 as the letter "V," this is an intellectual thriller that will keep on creepin' long after it's done), AND LAST BUT CERTAINLY NOT LEAST......Halloween (something about the atmosphere of this film is unspeakably creepy; the flickering jack o'lanterns and the rustling fall leaves make Mike Myers somehow unbearably frightening; this film sums up everything wonderfully eerie about the month of October).

Please Do Not Read This Post!

2006-10-19T22:39:00.000-05:00

Just in case anyone is in the neighborhood . . .

Want to See Something Really Scary?

2006-10-13T23:00:00.001-05:00

"Designed to improve social interactions, especially for tens of thousands of people who suffer from a mild form of autism called Asberger's Syndrome, Finan's "Mood Phone'' would light up in a spectrum of color - from warm reds to cool blues - based on the verbal patterns of everyday speech received through the handset. Seen through the corner of the eye, the visual stimulus would help users interpret the mood and inflection communicated through the words and phrases they hear."

It's not enough that they already govern our schedules, driving habits, manners, news and information intake, and pretty much the whole of our external existences. Now they want inside our minds!

For the whole horrific story, click here.

And I Just Can't Wait Until Next Halloween...

2006-10-08T21:49:00.001-05:00

Are you all as excited as I am? I don't know if it's because I will be experiencing my first Hallow's Eve as a homeowner or if it's simply because the weather is cooler up here next to Everycity and Ft. Valuecity, but whatever the reason, I'm frothing at the mouth for October 31st this year. I love Halloween. I hope that doesn't make anyone out there in blogland think I'm a pagan. I'm not. I just absolutely love this supernatural nod to the old beliefs in magic and mysterious creatures that has somehow survived the Enlightenment and its systematic demythologization of everything that can't be proved in a laboratory to exist in the modern era.

I love the fact that thousands of people still dress up as ghouls, monsters, zombies, vampires, werewolves, hobbits, and Power Rangers to ward off and confuse the evil spirits that are said to congregate on the last day of October (even if they don't know that this is why costumes were originally worn on Hallow's Eve). I love taking an evening walk around my neighborhood and seeing the orange glimmer of jack o'lanterns on people's front porches, their eerie grins adding just a touch of the unknown to my boring run-of-the-mill life in suburbia.

Who else loves Halloween out there? Is it still cool to like this holiday? I was raised a Methodist during a time when "Fall Festivals" were unheard of as a safe and wholesome alternative to that most evil practice known as "trick-or-treating." Far from discouraging Halloween frivolity, my father would dress up as Jason (complete with an actual meat clever or machete, mind you; none of that plastic Wal-Mart crap at our house) and hide in various closets around the house until he could leap out and add several more months to my tenure in therapy. My mother would wear a witch wig and long fingernails so she could sit on the front porch and cackle at everyone who loitered in our front lawn. These are the people who let me watch An American Werewolf in London when I was three. I come from odd stock...

Anyway, at the risk of sounding too much like a bumper sticker, blog if you love Halloween. And let me know what I should be this year; right now, it's a toss-up between George Harrison and Victor Frankenstein.

Je Retourne! Je Reviens! Je Rentre!

2006-09-20T17:03:00.001-05:00

I have returned! Sacre bleu, mes amis du blog, eet az beeen a hwile, n'est-ce pas? Sorry about the conspicuous lack of posts, but I have been on an Elba of my own the past couple of months. My Elba isn't an island in the Mediterranean, however; no, my Elba is a great big, energy-sucking classroom full of freshmen dunces...er...writers.

We are nearing the mid-point of the semster now, and I still feel like I have done little to help them be all they could be, but I have resigned myself to the old adage about the "proof" being in the "pudding." There are some days, though, when the "proof" is actually in the bottle of Wild Turkey I'm compelled to swig after an evening of grading their inane papers. "In the vast majority of the large and differing society of the modern age..." one paper starts out. Z'wounds! How does one even begin?!

Anyway, at least next semester promises to be more about literature and less about grading, so I am consoling myself with thoughts of the future. As I stroll along the beaches of my own private Elba (figuratively, of course), I plot my triumphant return to the land of "Caring About What I'm Being Forced to Teach." Oh, won't that be a glorious day! Comment glorieux! Mais dommage, cet jour n'est pas tout pres. C'est la vie, mes amis du blog, c'est la vie.

On the bright side, that most decadent and macabre of holidays, Halloween, is just around the cobweb-draped, bone-strewn corner. Watching scores of blood-soaked films in which innocent people have their bodies maimed and mangled for no reason by some random monstrous beast or homicidal fiend always cheers me up. It really gets me into the spirit for Christmas.

Movin' On Up

2006-08-23T08:22:00.000-05:00

Oh yeah. That's right. You're looking at the blog of a dude with a faculty/staff parking decal. And he paid less than $50 for it. Boo-yah!
That means I can park anywhere the professors park. I'm definitely with the "in" group now. Just like Navin Johnson said in The Jerk, "Be somebody!" Yep, things are going to start happening to me now!

It's the End of the World As We Know It ...

2006-08-11T08:41:00.001-05:00

"And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood; And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth [...]" - Revelation 6:12-13

Scary, isn't it? Sure it is! And that's one of the milder parts of the Book of Revelation! There are many more graphic and disturbing passages that make the one quoted above seem like the warning label on a pack of cigarettes (cf. Rev. 8-9, if you don't believe me).

And the recent developments (or should I say regressions) in the Middle East are also scary, and their terror is increased exponentially by the rhetoric and journalistic methods used by the modern media to "report" them. A CNN poll in July of this year indicated that 61% of Americans were afraid that the violence in the Middle East would expand into WWIII, and it's no wonder! Thanks to that windbag punk Gingrich, half of the news media is peppering their broadcasts with headlines like "On the Verge of World War III?" and "War on Terror Actually a World War." There are scads of websites that claim to have all of the details about the 3rd World War, right down to the key military leaders' names and the proposed outcome of the conflict. You can even read what everyone's favorite 16th-century conman, Nostradamus, has to say about it in a new book available online!

So in the midst of an age of more histrionics than history, how is one to know if the end truly is upon us? I mean, with all the eschatological propaganda being flung at us from both the religious extremists on the far right and the liberal anti-Bushnicks on the far left, to whom are we to turn for answers?

"And as he sat upon the mount of Olives, the disciples came unto him privately, saying, Tell us, when shall these things be? and what shall be the sign of thy coming, and of the end of the world? And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you. For many shall come in my name, saying, I am Christ; and shall deceive many. And ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.

Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away. But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only."

- Matthew 24: 3-6, 35-36

Selah, Jesus, selah and Amen.

A Treasure Island With Chest Hair

2006-08-10T16:43:00.001-05:00

"I wish I could give a balanced review by pointing out the flaws in this book. But I didn't find any. Powers writes in a clean, elegant style that illuminates without slowing down the tale. The story promises marvels and horrors, and delivers them all. You'll love the characters, you'll stay awake all night reading it, and when you finally do sleep, you'll find this story playing through your dreams." — Orson Scott Card

I just finished this indescribably wonderful book not ten minutes ago, and I can still taste the salt spray on my lips and hear the echoes of pistol shots ringing in my ears. I felt like I was reading a grown-up version of Peter Pan that was somehow also intensely realistic and historically accurate. If you care one tiny bit for sea-faring adventures or pirate stories, then this story will quite literally blow you out of the water (pun intended). If you also happen to like tales that involve magic (and who in this Harry Potter generation doesn't?), then I think you'll find this book's excitingly terrifying treatment of that age-old vodun (or voodoo) sorcery far more riveting and intelligently handled than the whiny and increasingly repetitive "adventures" of an awkward young British wizard.

But the book doesn't stop there, no sir. Powers' expert research continually incorporates the real-life pirate history of the Caribbean and its most famous personalities (especially the infamous but charismatic pirate Captain Blackbeard) into the plot in ways that will make your flesh break out in goosebumps!

So grab yourself a bottle of Captain Morgan's rum, drag a patio chair out by the pool, and get ready to hoist anchor and cast off for the greatest adventure of your life! Arrrrhhh!

Happy 197th Birthday, Milord Alfred!

2006-08-05T16:52:00.002-05:00

He was extremely short-sighted, and his eyepiece of choice was most often a monocle. He was terrified of mental illness due to his father George's excessive drinking and resultant epileptic fits. He was a direct descendant of King Edward III. Towards the end of his life, he allowed himself to be recorded by Thomas Edison as he railed against his own verse.

These are just a few snippets from the life of one of England's greatest poets, Alfred, Lord Tennyson. In addition to the well-known but perhaps overly patriotic poems published during his tenure as Poet Laureate of the British Empire, Tennyson wrote some of the most profoundly spiritual (though not overtly Christian) poetry of the Victorian era, despite that historical period's propensity for pooh-poohing such verse as "sentimental" and "fanciful." In Memoriam, Tennyson's elegy to his best friend Arthur Hallam, changed my life and my view of death. If you have not read this beautiful work, you may access it unabridged and free of charge here.

After his appointment by Queen Victoria herself (she was a big fan) in 1850, Tennyson served as Laureate for 42 years. Her Majesty later insisted upon making him a Baron of the Realm, despite Alfred's having declined the offer several times, and this barony made him the first writer to become a British Peer.

And apparently, his sense of fashion was a major influence on John Lennon during the Let It Be photo sessions of '69.

Confessions of a Bibb Leo File

2006-08-02T13:56:00.001-05:00

Dear God, people. Please help me, for I have gone terribly astray. Before I continue with my apologia biblia, let me tell you a tale of wonder and romance; a story that begins with a fleeting glimpse from a passing car and develops into perhaps the greatest discovery since Cortez found all those Aztecs and stole all their money.

Here in Eyrieville, there is a magical place on the downtown square. I first saw this mythic and bewitching spot as I drove mindlessly toward my new home some two or three days after moving all of my earthly possessions in the hottest truck in the Western world, and I was preoccupied by the customary aches and pains that result from repeatedly lifting things that are far too heavy for you for many days and nights. Perhaps this is why I did not fully realize the miracle I had just been permitted to sully with my cursory glance; or perhaps it was the oppressive heat that prevented my immediate and complete worship of the magnificent edifice that stood before me. Whatever the reason, I drove past in an ignorant stupor, and the workaday world kept on spinning in its usual way for some time.

A few days later, my wife and I decided to check out some of the junk/antique shops lining Eyrieville's remarkably lively courthouse square. While strolling back toward the car, I again noticed the strange purple building with the unusual words "Opera House 1901" on its tall facade.

"Hmm," I said, "I think that's supposed to be a used book store."

"Well, you certainly don't need any more books," my wife quickly remarked.

"I know, I know; but maybe I could just duck in and have a look around. These downtown places are never more than one or two rooms with a few musty paperbacks and old library books; it won't take long."

"Oh, alright," she said reluctantly, "but I'm staying in the truck. Leave me the keys."

I carelessly tossed my wife the keys and strolled brashly up to the unassuming doors of the establishment, barely noticing the sign above the door brandishing the name that I would come to love so dearly only minutes later. Upon entering the quiet gloom and blinking the harsh, sunny glare out of my eyes, I stood for a moment in slack-jawed wonder. The room was brimming with books. 10-foot tall shelves towered above me, crammed full to overflowing with many more books than I had expected.

My initial awe subsided somewhat when I noticed that the room also contained DVDs, VHS tapes, CDs and cassettes.

"Oh," I thought foolishly, "this must be it. I'll just glance around and see if I can find the poetry section."

I glanced around and found no poetry, drama, or even general fiction of any kind! What sort of store was this?! All I could find was tons of mystery and an inordinate amount of theology and philosophy. It was then that I saw the small doorway at the end of the row, revealing a room on a lower level that looked to have a few more books in it. When I passed through the doorway and down a ramp into the other room, I was astonished to see that it was even bigger and more jam-packed with books than the last one! Staring agog at the piles and piles of books on art, photography, architecture, science fiction, drama, interior decorating and gardening, I hastily assumed that I had found the rest of the store.

But gentle readers, there were two more doorways leading out of this chamber, and what was more, a staircase led up to another entire floor of books, almost as large as the main level! My breath caught in my throat as my eyes dilated like those of a hungry shark, and my palms began to sweat profusely. I felt like some intrepid British Egyptologist, crawling throuugh chamber after chamber of the massive tomb he's just uncovered at Giza.

I soon discovered that both classic and contemporary fiction was all upstairs along with poetry and literary criticism, but I couldn't find anything on mythology or folklore (a subject that has become my main concern of late), so I went back to the main room to ask for assistance.

"Sure, we have a mythology section," the woman behind the counter said with a chuckle, "but it's kinda hard to find."

"Oh, did I miss it in the adjacent room? I thought I had looked at most of the rows, but there are just so many," I replied with obvious admiration.

"No, no, no," she shook her head, "mythology's in the basement."

"Th...the...the basement?" I stammered.

"Yeah, just go down the stairs behind the counter there, and then go through the first room on your right. Follow that through into the very back corner room, and you'll see the signs for mythology/folklore. You can follow them the rest of the way."

"Uh...um...thanks," I said over my shoulder as I swaggered unsteadily toward the hidden stairway she had indicated. I wept silent tears of joy as I stepped down from the bottom step. The entire space of the room above was duplicated down on this level, and shelves upon shelves of books stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see.

By the time I had found my way back to the truck outside, my wife had called both of her sisters and was on the phone with her mother. I looked down and was surprised to see that I had bought four books. They were in great condition and hadn't cost a fortune.

But now, readers, now I've been to that wonderful store every day this week, and I never leave without buying something. My bookshelves, which had just begun to take on some semblance of order, are once again burgeoning with excess volumes. They're everywhere. There are stacks on the floor...stacks on the nightstand...stacks in the closet; I don't even remember which book I was reading last!

And I've got nothing to do until August 23rd! I know I will keep going back to that beautiful place if someone doesn't stop me! Please, please, someone check me into a clinic or something before it's too late!

British Talking Chimps = Comedy Gold

2006-07-25T16:27:00.000-05:00

Those of you poor souls out there who have not yet sent/received a Monk-E-Mail deserve to hear the gospel and add some monkey-themed frivolity to your pointless existences.

Sure, I know this sounds juvenile and maybe like an easy way to get yourself fired for improper use of technology, but Monk-E-Mails are frickin' hilarious. You can type in whatever you want the four charismatic voices to say (Brits "Simon" and "Elizabeth" are my preferences), or you can actually call a number to record your very own voice for the message!

There are a number of background and clothing choices, and you can even add eyewear and other items to enhance the absurdity of your simian creation. Then you just ship your chimp off to whichever of your unsuspecting friends (or nemeses) you feel deserves him/her most. The chimps have no censors, so go bananas!

To paraphrase Peter Gabriel, Click the Monkey.

Just Call Me Barbossa...

2006-07-18T11:55:00.001-05:00

I have a confession to make, me bloggies. I have become something of a Steve the Pirate of late. I wear my psuedo-pirate hat slightly askew on my long piratey locks of flowing red hair. I find myself calling people things like "love" and "poppet" more and more, and once yesterday I followed up a question to my wife with the word "savvy".

I pilot my B3000 Mazda Pickup as though she were a fine sailing ship (I even rechristened her as The Black Pearl), and I have hung my little Happy Meal stuffed Jack Sparrow toy from the rear-view mirror. I know it won't be long before I order a Jolly Roger decal online and slap that puppy on the tailgate. What has become of me? I suppose I should have seen it coming; several people at my former job told me I had the heart of a pirate. I'm actually not making this up. My boss's supervisor (the Dean of Students at St. Engelbert's University) told me that she could see me as a pirate. Several students made similar observations.

So should I succumb to these apparently inherent, to coin a phrase, "pirateristics" that so many others have picked up on? Or should I strive to retain a sense of human decency and remain a humble student of English literature? Hmm ... may be I can do the both of 'em. Fair winds, me buckos!

For more piratey-type stuff for those of you dogs out there who just can't get enough and want to go on the account, try some of the following links to merry mischief!

Buccaneer Books
On Stranger Tides by Tim Powers
The Letter of Marque by Patrick O'Brian
Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson
Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe
Captain Blood by Rafael Sabatini
The Island by Peter Benchley
Cup of Gold by John Steinbeck
Red Rover by James Fenimore Cooper
The Offshore Pirate by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Pirate Music
The Corsairs
The Seadogs
The Jolly Rogers

Pirate Movies
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl
Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest
Walt Disney's Treasure Island
The Muppets Treasure Island
Captain Blood
Blackbeard the Pirate
Captain Kidd
The Island
Long John Silver
Nate and Hayes

and others...

Salmagundi
International Talk Like a Pirate Day
Historical Information
Definition of Piracy
Billy Bones' Pirate Locker

Summer Reading

2006-07-13T20:43:00.000-05:00

The Poe Shadow
by Matthew Pearl

Release Date: May 23, 2006

"The strange circumstances surrounding the death of Edgar Allan Poe, intriguing to fans and scholars alike, provide the basis for this literary mystery." - Booklist

If you like riveting, rigorously-researched historical fiction as much as I do, you will froth at the mouth over this successor to The Dante Club (which I just finished and also highly recommend). Pearl's credentials just couldn't be more impressive: Bachelor's in English from Harvard, law degree from Yale, teaching positions at both Harvard and Emerson College. And yet his fiction is not egregiously erudite or burdened with unnecessary literary allusions; rather, he weaves a powerful tale out of the very real fabric of 19th-century historical fact with excruciating detail (his descriptions of the homes of Henry W. Longfellow, Oliver W. Holmes and James R. Lowell in The Dante Club come from firsthand observations at these authors' actual residences in Cambridge, Mass., the city Pearl himself calls home).

If you have always been fascinated and somewhat disturbed by the unusual events that cloud literary history's knowledge of Poe's death in 1849 (as I have), then you really shouldn't miss this book; it claims to be the definitive word on what is factually known about those mysterious days in early October 1849, and given the extensive research of Pearl's first novel, I am inclined to believe that claim.

The Fourth Bear
by Jasper Fforde

Release Date: August 3, 2006

"The Gingerbreadman—psychopath, sadist, genius, and killer—is on the loose. But it isn’t Jack Spratt’s case. He and Mary Mary have been demoted to Missing Persons following Jack’s poor judgment involving the poisoning of Mr. Bun the baker. Missing Persons looks like a boring assignment until a chance encounter leads them into the hunt for missing journalist Henrietta “Goldy” Hatchett, star reporter for The Daily Mole. Last to see her alive? The Three Bears, comfortably living out a life of rural solitude in Andersen’s wood." - Book Description, Amazon.com

Although I would have to agree with the assertion made by Publisher's Weekly in their review of this second novel in Fforde's "Nursery Crime" series in that "it lacks the snap of the author's Thursday Next series," I must admit that I found The Big Over Easy to be a quite enjoyable read. The ease with which Fforde creates his tongue-in-cheek world of nursery rhyme characters, all of whom deal with very real and very human problems, never fails to impress those of us who long to write popular fiction ourselves someday. The inclusion of the character of Prometheus as the upstairs boarder in the Spratt household made for some of the best comedic philosophical dialogue I've read since Martin's Picasso at the Lapin Agile and was, in my opinion, a stroke of genius.

Three Days to Never
by Tim Powers

Release Date: August 1, 2006

"Powers (Declare) delivers another top-notch supernatural spy thriller. When Frank Marrity's grandmother dies unexpectedly during 1987's New Age Harmonic Convergence, his 12-year-old daughter, Daphne, steals a videotape from the old woman's Pasadena house that turns out to be a Chaplin film long believed lost. Before Daphne can finish watching the film, its powerful symbolism awakens a latent pyrokinetic ability in her that burns the tape. Frank later discovers letters that prove his grandmother was Albert Einstein's illegitimate daughter. This comes to the attention of a special branch of the Mossad specializing in the Kabbalah as well as a shadowy Gnostic sect interested in a potential weapon discovered by Einstein that he didn't offer to FDR during WWII—a weapon more terrible in its way than the atomic bomb. In typical Powers fashion, his characters' spiritual need to undo past sins or mistakes propels the ingenious plot, which manages to be intricate without becoming convoluted, to its highly satisfying conclusion." - Publisher's Weekly

If you haven't yet discovered the joy of reading Tim Powers, you must run to the nearest bookstore and buy a copy of The Anubis Gates right this very minute. He is quite possibly the greatest living science fiction/fantasy writer (Philip K. Dick thought so), and though he has remained relatively obscure, it is in no way due to any lack of excellence in his work. Another meticulous researcher, Powers created a completely fictional 19th-century poet named William Ashbless who was so realistic, many readers believed him to be an actual contemporary of the likes of Byron and Coleridge! No other author I know could combine a maniacal mutant clown thief from the underworld of Victorian London, a shape-shifting reincarnated version of the Egyptian god Anubis, and Romantic poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge in the same novel and make it work.

The Futurama Is Almost Now

2006-07-09T23:14:00.001-05:00

Futurama returns! Yes, at last the prophetic words displayed almost three years ago at the start of that poignant last episode The Devil's Hands Are Idle Playthings are going to come true; we will indeed see our futuristic friends again on another channel! Benevolent and wise Comedy Central has picked up the lesser known (but far superior) of Matt Groening's two brain-children from the completely vision-less Fox network, and production has already begun on 13 new episodes to be aired in 2008!

Sure, it's still a ways off, but I am certain it will be well worth the wait. Fire up those DVRs, Futurama Fans; the cutting edge in animated comedy is coming back from beyond the grave to beguile and amuse us in ways that The Simpsons only dreamed of. In the words of Hermes Conrad, "Sweet three-toed sloth of Ice Planet Hoth!"

Pirate-riffic!

2006-07-08T12:05:00.001-05:00

Ahoy, me summer movie-goin' hearties! Looks like there finally be somethin' worth droppin' anchor for in these choppy, bland waters! Steer your vessel posthaste toward Pirates of the Carribbean: Dead Man's Chest, and you won't be disappointed. I can't remember the last time I had this much fun at the movies. The story is well-written, the action sequences are innovative and hilarious, Johnny Depp gives his usual best in every frame, and Davy Jones and his crew of CGI-enhanced miscreants of the sea are about the coolest things I've ever seen on screen. Finally, a summer movie that delivers in both the storyline and special effects departments! Kudos to Gore Verbinski for making a really cool adventure film that doesn't bore the crap out of the thinkers in the audience!

If you love pirates (and you know that you do), you will absolutely love this film. I would unquestionably rate this diamond in the rough as the best film of 2006 thus far (yes, even better than Pixar's Cars). If you had told me last year that the two most interesting and refreshingly original films of the upcoming summer were going to be produced by Disney, I would have slapped you right in the face. I don't know, maybe the ol' Mouse has some magic left in him after all.

They Say It's Your Birthday...

2006-07-05T11:45:00.000-05:00

Well, the fireworks flew magnificently last night in honor of the eve of my coming into this world 27 years ago. I must say that I was surprised that the municipal government here in Eyrieville knew about this annual event so soon after my moving here, but someone must be on the ball because the Bibb Leo File celebrations were in full swing all over the city!

I am always touched when these fantastic displays occur (I particularly like the big Washington D. C. gala with the orchestra; and I only visited there once way back when I was nine!), but I am not entirely sure why they always feel compelled to play such a preponderance of patriotic music at these shindigs. I am just as big a fan of J. P. Sousa as the next fellow, but I think in light of the circumstances it might be more apropos to put on some Beatles or Elvis Presley.

"Why the World Didn't Like Superman"

2006-06-30T08:27:00.002-05:00

by Bibb Lane

He flies. He wears bright primary colors. He hurls small islands into space. He cannot tell a lie. He's death on film.

So there we were, minding our own business. We Metropolisians had managed rather well for several years without the Spandex Wonder, and we were starting to feel confident that we didn't need him anymore. Crime was down; we'd had very few catastrophic spacecraft-related accidents; Lex Luthor was reduced to swindling little old ladies out of their money; life was pretty damn good.

Then he came flapping back into town.

I couldn't help but think of those prophetic words spoken so long ago by the wise Gloria Gaynor:

And so you're back
from outer space.
I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face.
I should have changed that stupid lock;
I should have made you leave your key,
if I had known for just one second you'd be back to bother me...

Oh, how right you were, sistah. He's back from his trip to see the asteroid-strewn hole in space where Krypton used to be, but he hasn't found any survivors of his race. Big surprise there. Do we not remember that Krypton exploded? Superman wasn't launched here as a baby because his home planet was going through a particularly nasty economic recession or a potato famine!

So he's really moody and depressed, and he becomes even more so when he discovers that the suddenly hot-and-sexy Lois Lane has moved on and gotten engaged to Cyclops from the X-Men. That hussie just moves around from one superhero's bed to another. Plus, she has a kid now who wheezes through all of his lines so that we are good and surprised when he turns out to be . . . well, I don't want to spoil the big, shocking twist. Of course, it's really more like a lame half-turn than a twist.

And to top it off, he seems to have ripped off every trick in the late Mr. Reeve's book of Superman characteristics. He walks in the same way; he talks in the same way; he's even managed to ape the way Reeve said "Lois" in a commanding yet nerdy nasal tone as Clark Kent. So why did we make this movie, again? I forget.

Maybe it was because of the super-cool, ubiquitous special effects we could cram into every frame. No, I don't think that was it. After all, aside from one mildly entertaining incident involving an improbable space shuttle malfunction (occuring with absurd coincidence just as ol' Supey gets back to town and involving Lois Lane from the get-go), there really isn't much action in this action flick.

The one shining beam of comedy gold in all this mediocre grey is Parker Posey. She is really up there giving it her all as Lex Luthor's chatty sidekick Kitty, and more than once I chuckled at her hilarious facial expressions and classic line delivery. Sadly, Ms. Posey could not hold the weight of this colossal bore on her petite little shoulders.

That's why this reporter came out of the theatre with a droopy posture and a shaky sigh. Superman is apparently forever doomed to be tragically lame at the box office. He'll never have the cool, edgy feel of the gothic Dark Knight, and Spiderman will always be a more identifiable superhero because the audience actually is sometimes afraid for his safety. Let's face it; when you're Superman, all you have to fear is Lex Luthor's inevitable inclusion of Kryptonite in whatever evil scheme he's cooked up. Once you've been punched and kicked a few times at close range and thoroughly humiliated, you'll fly away and regain your strength and somehow overcome your allergic reaction to the green crystal. Then you'll perform some enormous feat of strength and beat the everloving crap out of Luthor and his lackeys. Every time. Where are the high stakes in that tired old scenario?

It appears King Solomon was right: "There's nothing new under the sun." And though Superman may draw his power from the sun, it certainly cannot imbue him with the power of originality.

P.S. - See if you can find the not-so-subtle nod to The Da Vinci Code amongst all of the Christian allusions made in this film; it's blasphemoriffic!

Übermensch

2006-06-28T11:38:00.001-05:00

I don't care what the critics say; I'm excited! I have been a S-Man fanatic for many years. I played the theme from Superman as the recessional at my wedding, for criminy's sake! (And don't you know I went through hell getting that approved by the Wedding Police.)

They say it's a little slow. They say it's got some less-than-stellar supporting performances. They say the special effects aren't all they could be.

I say it's a Superman movie!

Come on, guys. You have to admit that the little boy within all of you is just a little tickled about this one. Tie a towel around your neck and jump off the sofa! Don't let those "Debbie Downers" at Rotten Tomatoes spoil our fun! Peter Travers of The Rolling Stone loved it: "That 'S' on his shirt has a whole new meaning: He's a Soul man."

Who cares what fat ol' Ebert has to say? He was never a child; he never flew around his bedroom in red pajamas. It's time to lock the critic in the subconscious and let the kid in you have a little fun.

I Know You're Out There; I Can Hear You Leaving

2006-06-27T10:10:00.001-05:00

Well? Is anyone there? For the last several posts, I've felt rather like a blind mime performing for an audience of no one. Blogs cannot live without an audience, so this mime might just have to wipe off his make-up and hang up his invisible ladder if he doesn't start getting some comments. I do have other things to do, you know. Jeesh, people.