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April 29, 2005
The Bad Review Revue
A Lot Like Love: "To call A Lot Like Love 'dead in the water' is an insult to water." -- Roger Ebert, CHICAGO SUN-TIMES
The Amityville Horror: "How dare anyone put this piece of crap in front of me? How dare anyone put it in front of you?" -- Stephanie Zacharek, SALON.COM
xXx - State of the Union: "So primitive, it must have been written in lizard blood on animal skin." -- Stephen Hunter, WASHINGTON POST
Cursed: "The best thing that can be said about Cursed is that it's scarier than Teen Wolf Too." -- Nicholas Schager, SLANT MAGAZINE
King's Ransom: "Dumber than the worst UPN sitcom." -- Elizabeth Weitzman, NEW YORK DAILY NEWS
The Jacket: "The characters are so flat and the dialogue so dull you expect it to be one of those movies whose existence is justified by a big final twist. But it's three days after the screening, and still no twist. Maybe it's coming in the mail?" -- Kyle Smith, NEW YORK POST
April 28, 2005
Matt Haughey invented a new Internet rule. I did not know we could do that. I assumed that new Internet rules had be approved by the W3 foundation or Al Gore or the Gnomes of Zürich or something, but apparently you can just make 'em up. INF0RMED.
So here's my new rule: no activist judges can read this site. The thought of activist judges, scourge of democracy, getting any enjoyment from my weblog is just too much for me to bear, so I'm putting my foot down. This may seem harsh, but, then again, it's not like I'm the one waging a war against people of faith.
It occurs to me, though, that my rule is a bit harder to enforce than Matt's. After all, when he finds someone in violation of his edict he just stops reading their site, whereas I have to find a way to prevent activist judges from reading mine. I guess I could check host names and block anyone who is using Unamerican Online as an ISP. Or I put something in place that looks at a visitor's referer and blocks them they came from leftwingjustice.com, legislatefromthebench.com, or gaymarriagelovingjudges.net -- that should prevent activist judges from coming here and chuckling knowingly at my charming witticisms.
Oh, but -- you know what? I put a referral filter in place, activist judges will probably just bookmark my site or type defectiveyeti.com directly into their location bar. That's exactly the sort of thing they would, goddamnit. OOO THOSE ACTIVIST JUDGES MAKE ME SO ANGRY!!!
April 27, 2005
I want to drive a phenomenal amount of traffic to my site, but I don't want to go through the bother of writing something funny or clever or thought provoking. So maybe I'll try my hand at spawning a blogmeme instead.
These are my URL ABCs:
Note: This may only be an interesting exercise with Firefox or Mozilla, both of which offer autosuggestions in descending order of last accessed (the sorting algorithm may also take the frequency of access into account as well). I don't know what IE does. If it just cough up URLS in alphabetic order -- and, after a little experimentation with my rarely used copy of IE, I think this might be the case -- then picking the first one off the top doesn't really reveal much about you.
Update: I just realized that my spam filter -- which automatically blocks comments that contain > 20 hyperlinks -- has been preventing people from posting their ABCs in the comments. Sorry about that -- the filter has been temporarily disabled.
April 26, 2005
News ... on the march!
Syrian Troops Say Farewell to LebanonHahaha. Yeah I bet that shindig was a hoot. Like a retirement party for a coworker that no one liked.
I can see the Syrians opening their "We'll Miss You!" greeting card and feigning delight at the enclosed $50 Applebees gift certificate, while Lebanonese duck in, grab plates of Safeway chocolate raspberry sheet cake, and start sidling toward the exit.
Hero Of The Year
The Hero of the Year has been announced! Read all about it at The Morning News.
April 25, 2005
Occasionally large, heavy objects fall on both my wife and our remote control, simultaneously turning on the TV and immobilizing The Queen, leaving her no choice but to watch some of the worst television programs ever aired. Or so she would have me believe when I wander into the living room and find her riveted to The Swan or American Idol. When she notices me she'll sort of start guiltily and exclaim "I was trying to find Nova! And I completely accidentally came across this! And then I ... I, uh ... uh ..." and then she trails off and her eyes drift back to Extreme Nanny Makeover Swap III.
I think the low point came when I caught her watching Colonial House, a reality show on PBS. Yes, you heard me right: PBS has reality shows. But they're public television, so they have to be all educational and dignified and shit, right? So instead challenging contestants to eat centipede feces or whatever, they do the sixth-grade play "The First Thanksgiving" writ large. In the case of Colonial House they stuck all a bunch of people in a remote community and made them pretend like they were living in 1628, which they did with remarkable verisimilitude except, possibly, when (1) one of the indentured servant announced that he was gay and the whole community pelted him with accolades for his bravery instead of cobble, and (2) one of the colonists walked a few miles to the nearest modern town for a cheeseburger and beer (really).
"It's a bunch of people dressed in itchy clothes and pretending like they live in ye olde olden tymes?" I asked, when The Queen explained the premise to me. "Good lord, you're watching a televised LARP!" I continued to mock her for several more seconds, until it dawned on me that, of the two people in the room, only one was geeky enough to know what "LARP" stands for. (And, let's me honest: when PBS holds Seattle auditions for Gamma World House, the guy at the front of the line in the mutated badger costume will be me.)
But there's one terrible, terrible reality show that The Queen doesn't even try to hide her addiction to. She enjoys it so much that she gets excited about it days in advance. On Sunday afternoon we'll be in the middle of a discussion about whether cauliflower should be refrigerated, and she'll suddenly gasp and say "My trashy show is on in three days!" "Trashy show" are her words, not mine. Although they are also mine now, since last Wednesday I was conscripted into watching the show with her.
Yes, dear readers: I watched America's Next Top Model.
The Queen has been trying to get me to watch it for ages, and I caved when she upped the ante by adding yet another "really" to her description; as in "You should watch it: it's really, really, really, really bad." (Curiously, this advertising technique always seems to work for me.)
I figured, what the hell: even if the show sucks, at least I'll get to look at hot girls for an hour, right? Bzzzzzzt, wrong. First, it looks they cast the show by going to a local high school and herding the drill team into a van. Second -- how do I put this diplomatically? -- I like curves, and these girls are about as curvy as a yardstick. Regardless of who wins, America's Next Top Model will have to visit the Old Country Buffet every day for a month before I'll ever steal furtive glances at her in the Old Navy catalog.
Thirdly -- and this is what makes the show entertaining, or so The Queen assures me -- you get the distinct impression that none of these ladies are exactly mathletes, if you catch my drift. One of the reoccurring features of the show is that the host, Tyra Banks, sends the contestants cryptic little notes hinting at the next event they'll be asked to participate in. They are like the puzzles that the Riddler is always sending, except, instead of solving the enigma and charging off to apprehend the villain, imagine Batman and Robin reading the riddle and then just sort of staring off into the middle-distance for a while, befuddled, before wandering off to touch-up their roots.
Yep, it was an atrocity, all right. Some of the more cringeworth moments:
Q: See? Awful, huh?Pffft. I'll so totally be not asking her who got kicked off. Not when I can just search Google and find out for myself.
April 20, 2005
German Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, the Vatican theologian who was elected Pope Benedict XVI, intervened in the 2004 US election campaign ordering bishops to deny communion to abortion rights supporters including presidential candidate John Kerry. In a June 2004 letter to US bishops enunciating principles of worthiness for communion recipients, Ratzinger specified that strong and open supporters of abortion should be denied the Catholic sacrament, for being guilty of a "grave sin" ...Hmm. You have to wonder what Ratzinger received in return for this favor. I mean, let's look at the facts:
Of course Rove may have helped just to stay in practice for 2006.
April 19, 2005
The Twelve Man / Thirteen Man Problem
If you enjoy Sam Loyd, you may also want to check out my post Sam Loyd's Trick Mules. - MB
Every few years the "twelve man / thirteen man" puzzle makes its way around the Internet. And every time I see it I am baffled.
If you don't know what I'm talking about, click here. That's an animated gif, so keep watching until things move. When the image first appears, count how many men there are. Then, after the top halves swap, count them again. The first time you should count twelve; the second, thirteen.
I've long suspected that I could figure out the trick if I really applied myself but, slacker that I am, consistently given up after a minute or so.
Well, I came across the "twelve man / thirteen man" illusion yet again today. But this time there was an accompanying image by Matthew Sturges, one that colors the men and shows both their start and end positions. I took his image, added numbers, and finally think I can see what's going on here.
There's two reasons this is so hard to wrap your mind around, I've concluded. The first is that the drawings look unrefined, which both disguises the fact that the solution is very subtle, and gives the viewer few key features to use as reference. About the only clearly identifiable body parts are heads, torsos, arms, legs, crotches, and feet. Note that their hands are all hidden behind their backs -- crafty, that.
The second reason this illusion tends to defy analysis, I think, is because there is no "smoking gun" solution to it, something you can point to and say "Aha! Here's where the 13th man comes from." That's because the thirteenth man comes from all twelve of the others.
Look at the start configuration and note that there are twelve of each body part: twelve heads, twelve torsos, twelves pairs of legs, etc. Now look at the end configuration and note that there are thirteen of each body part. That makes it seem as if a thirteenth person has somehow materialized.
But now narrow your focus. Instead of looking at the whole pictures, just pick a single body part. Pick a man in the first picture, look to see where your chosen body part is, and then look to see where it ends up in the end configuration. Now repeat this for all twelve of the men. In all cases -- and this is the key point, kids -- one of the twelve instances of a body part in the first picture is bisected and used twice in the second.
For example, let's look at faces. Man #1's face in the first picture is below the divider, so it remains with man #1 in the second picture; man #2's face (along with the rest of his head) goes to man #9; man #3's face goes to man #10. So far so good. Now look at man #4. His face is split in half, with the top half going to man #11, and the bottom remaining with man #4. In other words, the single face owned by man #4 in the start configuration is now two faces in the end configuration; in other other words, where there were twelve faces there are now thirteen.
Pick another body part, do it again, and again you'll see that one of the body parts in the first picture is split and used as two in the second.
Here's the breakdown:
So in the second picture we get a new head of hair, a new face, a new pair of arms, a new torso, a new crotch, a new pair of legs, and a new pair of feet -- all of which adds up to an entire new person. But these parts are distributed amongst thirteen different composites. Thus, you can't point to any one person in the second images and say "he's the new one."
[There used to be a few more paragraphs here describing which men in the first picture contributed what to whom in the second, but Jon's illustration, in the update below, neatly summarizes everything.]
If you're still not getting it, take a look at this simplified version of the illusion, where I magically turn five lines into six:
The "twelve man / thirteen man problem" operates on exactly the same principle, although it's cleverly convoluted to make it seem like there's more going on. Notice, for instance, that, on the average, the men in the second picture are shorter than the men in the first, as is the case with the lines above.
Incidentally, this is a variation on Sam Loyd's famous "Get Off The Earth" puzzle, which you can read more about here.
Update: Good gravy, I can't believe I'm got to spill yet more virtual ink on this. But I did say I wanted this to be the definitive page on the subject, so here we go.
Some folks in the comments and claiming that the 12-13 Man Problem is waaaaay more straightforward than I am making it out to be. "Look," they say, "you have 12 men in the first picture. You split them into 24 halves and recombine 22 of those halves into 11 people. Then -- and this is the entire trick -- you point to the remaining two halves and claim they are full people. 11 + 2 = 13 men. In the final configuration, the two 'half men' are #1 and #13, each of which gives up a half and doesn't get one back."
They people making this argument are absolutely right: that's how the trick works in principle, and I said as much in giving the illustration of lines. But they are ignoring the key element that makes the 12-13 Man Problem different from the line example. If you bisect a line you can truthfully call each of the resultant halves a "line," but if you cut a person in half you can't claim that you haven't really done anything because each of the two halves is a person itself. (Believe me, when I used this line the police were not impressed ...)
The 12-13 Man Problem is so baffling because each of the final thirteen men looks like a full person, even the two "half-men." And it's not just #1 and #13 that are involved: if you were to take the missing half of #1 and the missing half of #13 and put them together, one of your men in the final configuration would consist of nothing more than a scalp on a pair of feet.
No, all the men are altered. And luckily for me, Jon over at Corporate Superhero has created an image that shows how:
In his words: "Basically, the puzzle works by cutting each person in two, taking a small slice of them (1/12 of their height) and passes it over to the right until after 12 people you end up with a whole extra person. Then the creator mixed up the order of the people so that you couldn't see what he did."
Thank you, Jon -- your picture is worth several thousand of my words.
April 17, 2005
Good Luck With That
The Queen overhears a conversation between two 50-ish women at the bus stop:
Woman 1: The next time I marry, it's gonna be to a Christian.
April 15, 2005
Marketplace Music And The Next Weekend Debate
Who picks the music on Marketplace? I listen to two radio stations: the independent and kick-ass KEXP, and our local NPR affiliate. Curiously, I often hear the same bands on each: Death Cab For Cutie, Franz Ferdinand, Yo La Tango, Stereophonic. KEXP plays this stuff 'round the clock, but I also here it wedged between stories on NPR's otherwise staid Marketplace, and I often find myself wondering "who decides to follow up a story about the AARP's position on social security with a clip from The Get Up Kids?"
I went to the Marketplace Homepage to send them an inquiring email, but discovered that I didn't have to: they are so proud of their tuneage that "LIKE THE MUSIC ON MARKETPLACE?" is the very first question they tackle in their Special Features section. A link takes you to Jane's Music Blog, featuring "notes from the show's director on what gets played and why, who is that band you heard on yesterday's show, and ... the connection between that story on global politics and the Massive Attack song that followed it."
Though the blog isn't updated very regularly, the "About Jane" on its side told me that the songs are selected by one Jane Lindholm, Marketplace producer, world traveller, and -- apparently -- fan of the Sneaker Pimps.
When does "next weekend" start? A friend and I were speaking on a Sunday, and made some vague plans to get together on the next weekend. The following day I wrote him an email and officially proposed that we get together "next weekend."
"Sorry, " he replied. "I'll be out of town next weekend."
"Wha-?" said I. "We just discussed this yesterday, and you said next weekend worked fine."
"I said this weekend worked fine."
"No, I distinctly remember you saying 'next weekend'."
"Well, I did say 'next weekend', but that was on a Sunday," he explained. "Now it's Monday, so yesterday's 'next weekend' is today's 'this weekend,' and 'next weekend' is the weekend after. Didn't you know that's how it worked?"
I did not know that's how it worked.
I always thought that "this weekend" referred to the weekend you were either in or chronologically closest to, and "next weekend" referred to the weekend that followed it. So on a Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday morning, "this weekend" meant the previous weekend (as in, "I had a good time this weekend") and "next weekend" meant the upcoming weekend; from 12:01 pm Wednesday to 11:59 pm Sunday, "this weekend" meant the upcoming weekend (or the one you were currently in) and "next weekend" meant the one thereafter.
I thought I'd get a majority opinion on this, so I posted the following to an online forum I frequent:
"This" weekend vs. "next" weekend debateAs it turned out, there was no debate: every person said "a week from tomorrow" for the first and "12 days" for the second. Answer to the bonus question: A second after midnight on Monday morning.
The best clarification offered was "'This weekend' always means 'this week's end'; 'next weekend' always means 'next week's end'." But it looks like I'm not entirely alone in my confusion. Over on this page, a number of folks say that "this weekend" v. "next weekend" isn't as cut-and-dried as some people make it seem. And as one person points out, the confusion isn't limited to time. How many times have you been giving directions to your spouse or partner while on the road, and resorted to the cumbersome locution "not-at-this-light-but-the-next-light" when telling him where to turn, knowing that just saying "next light" might result in a wrong turn and a subsequent argument about semantics?
April 14, 2005
We bought some refrigerator magnets for The Squirrelly. They required batteries. I'm not kidding.
Modern parenting is often dumb.
Update: Okay, I have to grudgingly admit that this Fridge Farm Magnetic Animal Set is kinda cool. The batteries go into a big barn that has a rectangular area in the middle of it; the other magnets are animal halves. So if you put a sheep's forequarters and a pig's hindquarters into the barn, for example, it will play a song about how you made a "Sheeppig."
It's like a training kit for future genetic engineers. Maybe if The Squirrelly plays with this enough, he will someday figure out how to splice together cows, tomatoes, mustard seeds and pickles, and invent the holy grail of the fast-food industry: the pre-condimentimized burger. Hell, if he can figure out how to work some potato and cola bean genes in there, he might make an animal that can produce an entire Wendy's combo meal. Then he winds up a bajillionaire and The Queen and I ride the gravy train into retirement. Or, at the very least, he pays us back the fifteen bucks we paid for these stupid magnets.
April 13, 2005
Movies: Sin City
I like comic book movies, even when I don't particularly care for the comic books they are based on. Hellboy, Blade, The Crow -- even The X-Men is an example of a film I enjoyed way more than the source material.
I've read a couple of the Sin City trade paperbacks, and found them largely uninteresting. The characters, action, and dialogue all seemed lifted from Mickey Spillane novels and back issues of The Punisher. Plus, I'm no fan of Miller's art -- where others see a distinctive style, I see a guy who can't draw a straight line. And if I wanted my story in black & white, I'd just read a novel.
But black & white motion pictures I like. And as I said, I'll go see pretty much any comic book movie, regardless of my opinion of the book. So I caught of late show of Sin City last Friday. Based on the trailer my expectations for the film were moderately high, and they were exceeded by a considerable amount.
Sin City contains three stories which, while distinct, share a few overlapping characters, settings, and elements. They are told in a noir style that's so hyperbolic as to border on parody: all the women are buxom, all the men can take a bullet and shrug it off as a flesh wound, all the villains have a distinct look and a distinct method for dispatching their victims. Bruce Willis stars in the first chapter, and essentially reprises his world-weary tough-guy role from Pulp Fiction and Unbreakable. (That's a good thing -- he's really good at that role*.) His portrayal of a good cop beaten down by the unrelenting corruption of his force sets the stage for all the subsequent tales, each of which features a few of Basin City's rare noble citizens struggling for justice in a town where everyday life is akin to that of a maximum security prison.
Frank Miller is cited as the film's co-director (he's even given top billing over Robert Rodriguez) and his presence is noticeable. The movie has just the right amount of "comic book physics" -- cars go over hills and catch 10 seconds of air, strongmen shatter wooden doors with a single punch -- but still feels tethered, if just barely, to the real world. That the scenes look just like something out of a graphic novel is not my subjective opinion -- check out these side-by-side comparisons of panels from the books and stills from the movie and marvel at the exactitude. It's as if the Sin City graphic novels were the storyboards for the film.
And, in fact, I think that's why I didn't like them. I went back and reread The Big Fat Kill after seeing the movie, and it doesn't seem like a finished product; it seemed like the rough draft for something great. And that something great is now showing at a theater near you.
* So good at this role that I has me thinking the unthinkable: Bruce Willis as Batman in The Dark Knight Returns. Somebody make it quick, before I come to my senses.
April 12, 2005
Out of curiosity I dug around in my gmail Spam folder a bit and found three legitimate messages squirrelled away in there. I labelled them "Not Spam," but since then gmail has been all pissy, like, "well well, look who's the expert on Bayesian filtering. Maybe you'd just like to sort your own email, Mr. I'm-better-at-identifying-spam-than-100,000-servers." So now all "Sma|lCap c0mpany in the right sect0r" announcements go right to my Inbox. I'm not sure what to do now. Maybe if I sent gmail some flowers and an "I'm Sorry" e-card?
Also! remember how I was whining about all the comment spam this site receives? Problem solved. I installed MTModerate [info] over a week ago, and nary a single comment spam has slipped by yet. NARY I SAY! So far it's been 100% effective in completely blocking comment spam, which is pretty great but, if I had my druthers, it would just strip the URLs out of the submissions and leave the comment text, since most of them say things like "wow great blog keep up the good work" and, frankly, my ego always appreciated the boost.
April 11, 2005
Sweet Betsy From PikeI'm not one to overly romanticize the past -- I like living in a world with more flavors of ice cream than strains of smallpox -- but I think we can all agree that the tradition of every county having their own pants should be revived immediately.
That would be so awesome. Just image: me at a party, chillin' with my homies, some young punk in low-riding jeans pimp-rolls over and gets all up in my grill, saying, "yo, what up wit the tan khakis, grampa?" And then I'm all like "best be steppin' -- King County pants repraZENTS!"
Tricks of The Trade on NPR. Maybe.
If you (1) have submitted a Trick of the Trade that I've used (a) either in the original article or (b) on the Tricks Of The Trade website and (2) live in Seattle (or thereabouts) and (3) are interested in being interviewed for a NPR radio piece, please drop me a line.
If you (1) only meet the latter two conditions above and (2a) have a great trick that you haven't got around to sending me but (2b) would like to do so now, here is the submit form. Please put "Seattle" in the Occupation field (e.g., "[Seattle] Skydiving Instructor"), and be sure to include your email address.
Weasel Warning: (1) assuming this actually happens (not assured) I'll (2) only be able to interview three or four folks, but (3) that will not prevent me from using any good tricks I get sent from people hoping to be one of them, because (4) I am an opportunistic bastard.
April 08, 2005
For Whom The Bell No Longer Tolls
The Squirrelly's teeth have extruded or protruded or whatevertruded, so he's feeling a hundred jillion times better* than he was last week, and is once again as delightful to have in your company as a case of Pilsner. And he's already putting the new choppers to use. This morning he became mesmerized by my wedding band, and after struggling to take it off my hand for a few seconds he suddenly bit my finger just below the ring. No harm done, but if his first words are "my preccccious" I think we're going to be concerned.
The teething discomfort must have ended sometime Tuesday night, because Wednesday morning I took The Squirrelly out of his crib, put him on the changing table, and then -- on the spur of the moment, and despite the fact that he hadn't smiled at anything in four days -- put his pants on my head. Unexpectedly, he totally cracked up. I didn't know that 13 month-olds had a good enough grasp of the absurd to recognize that "pants on head = laff riot," but maybe The Squirrelly is an early bloomer in the appreciation of comedic genius. At any rate, the kid has been a fount of grins and giggles ever since.
But there is one bit of bad news here in the Baldwin household. I regret to announce that while the rest of the Laugh & Learn Learning Home works fine, the doorbell -- previously mentioned here -- has gone to the great playroom in the sky. Its demise was sudden, but I'll never forget its final words:
"Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding- "How true. How true that is.
But grieve not for the Laugh & Learn Learning Home doorbell. It's purpose in this world was to be pushed, and The Squirrely helped it achieve that goal several hundred times per minute. It had a good life, rich in both dings and dongs.
Rest in peace, Laugh & Learn Learning Home doorbell. Now that you're gone, we certainly will.
* Exaggerated for humorous effect.
April 07, 2005
Wearing That Cross Must Have Been Uncomfortable
Me and The Queen chit-chat after work:
The Queen: Have you heard the Pope speak?
Judge for yourself.
April 06, 2005
Books: Oracle Night
Note: This review is part of the Booklist 2005 Project.
I hailed Cloud Atlas as "the best book I've read in years." For a week, at least. Then, seven days later, I finished Oracle Night by Paul Auster, and that novel usurped the "best book" title. I'd never heard of Auster before, but after mentioning my admiration for the novel to some friends, they replied knowingly that he's one of the best in the business. I'll have to read a few more tomes by the guy to determine if I agree with that assessment, but I was certainly taken with the the way Night was written.
The story is set in 1982, with protagonist Sidney Orr recovering from a near-fatal illness. An author by trade, Orr has been unable to muster the energy or inspiration to write during his recuperation. But his muse returns in force after Orr wanders into a paper store and purchases a mysterious blue notebook. Here the focus of Night shifts to the story-within-the-story, as it devotes several dozen pages to describing the narrative that Orr is jotting in his notebook. From this point on the novel switches back and forth between Orr's reality and the fiction he is penning (and sometimes even to stories within Orr's story), and curious parallels between the two begin to emerge. That an author's work would mirror his own life is of course unsurprising, but the stories that Orr writes in his blue notebook are not only reflective of his past, but, in some cases, also eerily predictive of his future. In fact, soon after he resumes his craft, Orr's life becomes as convoluted and intriguing as that of the characters he's created.
Oracle Night is written in first-person, as if in a journal or a letter to a friend, with Orr relating the tale several decades after the events occur. This informal tone makes the book feel unusually intimate. Though the story is rife with odd coincidences and forces that appear to be borderline supernatural, we understand that Orr is providing us with an honest -- albeit subjective -- account of the events, and that he has no more insight into the strange occurrences than the reader does. Perhaps this is why I enjoyed the unresolved ambiguities in Night, whereas I criticized Cloud Atlas for same. Night is like a ghost story told to you by a friend -- you don't know whether to believe every element of the tale, you only know that he believes them all. And this aspect adds yet another layer to a book that already has more levels than a parking garage.
One thing I disliked: the book is infested with copious footnotes, some of which run for several pages. I guess they were intended to further the illusion that Orr was providing us with as full an account as possible, but they only served to pull me away from the main story and send me off on tangents. And I didn't have the willpower to simply not read them. Aside from that, though, I thought Oracle Night was fantastic, and I look forward to reading more by Auster. If his other novels are as good as this, I'm sure I too will be raving about him in the near future.
April 05, 2005
Google Maps Satellite
Google has integrated satellite photos into their map service. Click the link in upper right-hand corner.
And I'm the only one who finds this a little unnerving?
April 04, 2005
You know what would be really funny? If someone made a comedy movie and the bad guy character was named Richard and everyone called him Richard throughout the whole movie but then at the end when the good guys wins he (the good guy) said "See you later -- Dick!" and the bad guy looked all steamed because in addition to being a legitimate nickname for people named Richard "dick" is also a euphemism for male genitalia. If anyone uses this be sure to credit me.
The Bad Review Revue
Hey wait -- wasn't I going to do a B.R.R. on Friday? Why, I believe I was. Well, better late ...
Hide And Seek: "A unique paroxysm of rancid idiocy. " -- Jessica Winter, VILLIAGE VOICE
Elektra: "Lacks thrills, narrative, emotion, believability, character development, and, frankly, watchability. " -- Aaron Hillis, PREMIERE
Miss Congeniality 2: "Must be seen to be believed, though I'm not suggesting you actually see it. " -- Joe Morgenstern, WALL STREET JOURNAL
The Ring Two: "Goes wrong in less than two minutes, which may be a world record for sequels to decent movies. " -- Lawrence Toppman, CHARLOTTE OBSERVER
Son Of The Mask: "This groaner makes 1994's The Mask look like something you'd study in a film graduate course at NYU." -- Mike Clark, USA TODAY
The Wedding date: "Imagine, if you dare, the outtakes from all those merely bad romantic comedies. Now further imagine that these discarded bits, the stuff that failed to make even the failures, found their way out of the waste bin and into a splicing machine and onto a projector. Do that and you're inching toward a full appreciation of this particular barrel, and the bottom it so brazenly scrapes." -- Rick Groen, THE GLOBE AND MAIL
April 01, 2005
Updates to this blog might be kind of sporadic from now on because I just found out that I'm the pope. I don't really know much about Catholicism, but always figured that popes were elected, or picked by a council, or the next in line just became magically popey when the old one died (like on Buffy The Vampire Slayer). Wrong on all accounts -- apparently my name was selected in a random drawing. I filled out a contest card at a "24 Fitness Gym" a few years ago for a chance to win a trip to Hawaii, but I didn't really read the fine print and was unaware that fourth prize was the papacy.
So anyway, I'll be starting a new job on Monday. It seems like a pretty good gig: I get to run a small country, and I get to tell millions of people what to do, and I get a discount at the Vatican commissary. I have to pay for my own work uniform, though, and that kind of sucks. I have no idea where to buy one of them hats.
Down In The Mouth
Remember that moment, twenty minutes into The Phantom Menace, when you got that sickening feeling as you realized that the rest of this story was not only going to suck, but it was going to be so bad that it would retroactively ruin all the enjoyable stuff that had come before it?
I think that's pretty much how The Squirrelly is feeling about life these days.
Up until now the world has treated him pretty well: he played with toys all day, took naps whenever he chose, saw breasts on a regular basis, and had the freedom to poop in his pants without any fear of social stigma. Livin' the dream, that kid. But the last couple weeks have been rough. First there was the aforementioned Avery Flu, although, of all the Baldwins, he was the most unscathed. (I, for instance, was both throwing up and thrown up upon.) But right after that he got a runny nose, and then a cough, and last night he had a fever of 102. And through it all he's been teething, which has really been making him unhappy. Question: what's the point of feeling pain when you're teething? To discourage you from growing more teeth? Four million years of evolution and this is the best you can come up with, Darwin?
Anyhow, every once in a while The Squirrelly gives his mother and I the hairy eyeball, clearly resentful of the massive bait-and-switch the world has pulled on him. And all I can do is shrug and say "at least you don't have to pay fucking' taxes."
Fortunately, we're able to keep his teething discomfort at bay through the miracle of Infant's Advil, which we administer to him through a small plastic syringe. It's sugary, fruit-favored goop, and The Squirrelly loves the taste of it -- when he sees us pick up the box his eyes totally light up. Ah yes, I'm so glad we're teaching our child that sweet, numbing relief from the pain of the world comes from a drug in a syringe.