It's up, and it's good!

As I promised the other day, the book has landed! Now available on Amazon Kindle, McMann and Wife is live!

What's it about? It's about 300 pages. No, you want to know what the story is about. Here you go:

It’s April 1959, and McMann has landed in Southern California, in the bustling town of Dovlin. With his wife, his apartment, and his steady job as a night watchman, it seems like he’s left behind his former life. But he still works as a private investigator on the side, and that’s how the trouble starts.

A family is looking for its missing teenage daughter, and the mother calls McMann for help. The girl does not seem to fit the picture of a runaway—she has a quiet home life and does well in school. As he investigates further, more questions arise. These questions begin to point to a conspiracy within the town—one in which his missing person doesn’t even rate as a pawn.

Or is McMann just becoming paranoid?

In a world of high hopes but atomic fears, a land of dreams and nightmares, McMann will have to think fast to find his missing person—or he might just go missing as well.

This is the sequel to McMann and Duck: Private Investigators, but it isn't necessary to read book 1 if you're only interested in this one. 

Thanks for your kind patience in reading through this post, and I sure hope you'll also have the patience to read through the book. My usual policy stands: I can't refund your money if you buy the book and don't like it, but I will write you a personal apology if you read the whole thing and are disappointed. Let me know. And if you love it, let everyone know! 

Alarming situation.

You all think I'm a pretty sharp-witted character, a man with a keen wit and perspective glance, one who could never do something so stupid it would stand out like a neon sign blinking STUPID in humongous lettering over his head. Well, you're wrong. Yesterday was one for the books. 

Actually the story started in February. You may recall that when we returned home from a short trip, I found the fire alarms in the house beeping. There was no fire; it was likely a malfunction caused by ceiling dust. But I didn't know that until I had removed all but one hard-wired sensor, the next-to-last one, in a storage room, that being the cause of the false alarm. 

One of the things I had done while running around the house like a lunatic was pull the alarm sensor by the furnace out of the ceiling. This is a sensor attached by wires to a small battery block that sits under the Sheetrock; it's not wired to anything else. It's not part of the system that came with the house. It's part of the burglar/fire alarm system we had installed. Back in February, having removed it and determined it was not part of the beeping problem while rushing through the house, I put it aside, not back in the ceiling. Then I forgot about it. That was mistake number one. 

Mistake number two came on Saturday. I was downstairs when I noticed the thing was still lying around. I thought I ought to put it in the ceiling, but was afraid that I might accidentally set it off. The alarm is a tremendous and terrifying sound. So I figured I would do it when the house was empty of other bipeds and quadrupeds. I put the thing back down, but not where it had been -- I left it right on top of the furnace. Mistake number two. 

Saturday had been stuffy and warm, but the temperature dropped overnight. Sunday morning I alone was awake. I wanted to take a shower, but it was pretty chilly. So I turned the thermostat over from A/C to Heat. Mistake number three. 

I'm sure you can see where this is going.

We have a shower downstairs, which I decided to use instead of the upstairs one, lest I make noise and wake up my wife. Oh, no, we certainly wouldn't want to make noise and wake anyone up.

I had the water running and was partly stripped down when the alarm went off in Armageddon mode. The furnace had come on, and the heat had tripped the alarm sensors that I had left sitting on the furnace like some Nobel Laureate. The dog freaked out and so did I. Half naked, I emerged from the bathroom and punched in the code to stop the ringing, then hustled downstairs to move the alarm sensor. I knew what had happened immediately. Too bad I had not foreseen that possibility the day before. 

I got upstairs in time to see my phone ringing on the charger. The alarm company was checking in to make sure we were not perishing in an inferno. I thanked the nice lady on the phone, explained it was a false alarm caused by my negligence and there was no fire. She thanked me and reset the system. 

Don't go away, because it gets worse. 

With the alarm company satisfied and the possibility of another alarm subdued, I returned to the shower. Mistake number four, if you're still keeping tabs. I stripped off, got in the shower, began to soap up -- and the dog started barking his head off. I didn't hear the alarm so -- 

Oh no.

Naked, soapy, trailing slime down the hall like a slug, I looked out the peephole in the front door to see the fireman standing there. It was not the whole squad with a hook and ladder, just one officer from the volunteer company who lives nearby. I considered ignoring the door, but realized that the next thing that came through it might be an ax. So I opened the door, hiding my nekkid self as best as I could, soap and water dripping all over, the dog pushing past to ram into and open the storm door (I managed to get him by the collar). I apologized sincerely, saying it had been a false alarm and was no need to panic. He could see I was in showerly distress, assured me it was okay, and left. 

"What an idiot." -- Fireman

Oddly enough, it was the dog barking at the man at the door that woke my wife up, not the alarm. 

I did get my shower completed as fast as humanly possible, and I did wipe up the water in the hall. And I did indeed admit that this had all been caused by one of the stupidest things I have ever done sober. 

My wife just laughed it off. She thought it was funny. I guess if there's a lesson here, it might be that if you live with me, you'd better have a good sense of humor. 

Cover reveal!

 Okay, I don't want to give away too much here, but the cover of the new book is here!

I always feel like Navin Johnson when the new phone book arrives. Of course, I hope no one starts shooting. We'll revisit this soon, when the cover copy is ready and the damn thing is available, but here you go! And as you might guess, it's the sequel to McMann and Duck. and it takes place in 1959.  

As Mark Twain said when he first saw the cover of Huckleberry Finn, "I'm so verklempt I could just plotz!" 

Maybe that was Saul Bellow. Although why he'd be plotzing at Huckleberry Finn, I cannot say. 

First time lucky: home repair edition.

It has been my experience as a homeowner that the first time something goes wrong, and I have no idea how to fix it, I do a little research, get the tools and parts, and blam! Fixed. But every subsequent time the exact same situation comes up, something goes horribly wrong. 

I guess the worst case to date was when a valve needed replacing on the water heater. The first time I did the job was on a rainy Sunday afternoon, scared to death that I would blow the house up. Easy Peasy. The second time I did it, the new valve didn't fix the problem, which got worse, and I had to call a plumber. Who did exactly what I did and it worked and has continued to work. 

It doesn't make any sense, but then, beginner's luck never did (except as a means to gull some sucker into losing his paycheck gambling; "You're so lucky! Come on, you got a streak going!"). 

It happened again this past weekend, with a leaking kitchen sink. There's no washer, just this pricey Delta insert, which I procured. Last time, the job was a breeze. This time? Got multiple parts removed only to find that the last piece, the bonnet nut, was completely stuck. Liquid Wrench could loosen it -- maybe. But it was now six o'clock on Sunday evening and dinner had to be cooked, and it was better not to maybe break everything. So, back all the pieces went for now. 

All exploded diagrams look like this to me. 

Not that I'm always first-time lucky. This past winter I noticed that the storm door's latch was not latching adequately when shut. This is a problem because we live on a very windy hill. If the door does not shut properly, it can be blown open and BANG into the light fixture aside it. 

It took me THREE TRIES to get new hardware for the door. I would have replaced the door entirely, but they don't make that model anymore. I was very lucky even to find, on the ground, the sticker with the door's serial number so that I could get the right handle. The sticker had fallen off at some point and it was miracle I found it. So, with all hope gone, I assembled the new hardware, and it fit. But guess what? The latch still doesn't snap shut well. If it's really breezy I have to use the deadbolt. 

My wife says our next place should be in a condo where all repairs are covered by the homeowners' association fees. I think I'd rather live in a zoo at this point. Come see the captive middle-aged man! In a simulated natural environment. And they handle all the food and repairs. Genius! 

The S is for Solomon.

Today's topic is: How Captain Marvel was ruined, phase three. By Captain Marvel I mean the one that comes into being when Billy Batson says the magic word Shazam, not the various Captains Marvel that Marvel Comics has coughed up over the years. (That was phase two.)

Captain Marvel's ruination, phase one, was when DC Comics sued Fawcett, claiming that Cap was a rip-off of Superman, and won in 1951. DC later got hold of the Fawcett characters but sat on them for years. Eventually they started publishing new stories featuring the man called by his foes the Big Red Cheese. 

But today I want to discuss how the character was ruined by DC after I stopped being a regular reader of comic books. It ties into to other issues in our so-called culture, trust me. 

First, as you may be aware, the word Shazam is an initialism. It stands for the fabled personalities from whom Captain Marvel gets his superpowers: 

Solomon (wisdom)

Hercules (strength)

Atlas (stamina)

Zeus (sheer all-around power)

Achilles (courage)

Mercury (speed)

We have here a mashup of Greek and Roman names (like Hercules and Mercury rather than the Greek Herakles and Hermes), but that's forgivable. If all Roman names had been used (like Jupiter instead of Zeus) it would have been Shajam, and that sounds pretty bad. But the one figure that is not from myth, Solomon, is Biblical and historical. He really doesn't go with the others. Athena (in Roman, Minerva) would have been a mythical choice for wisdom. But that would have involved an icky girl, and then the magic word would be Ahazam or Mhazam, and those are pretty bad. 

The problem with Captain Marvel is that, while supposedly having the wisdom of Solomon, he's been turned into a dumbbell. 

This all started in the late 1980s, when DC was doing major reboots to its legacy characters. Prior to this point, Billy and Captain Marvel were two distinct characters -- they shared knowledge (when Billy turned into Captain Marvel, Cap knew what was going on), but they referred to each other as separate people even in their thoughts. Not that Billy was not a clever and resourceful boy; he could often accomplish things that big, conspicuous Marvel could not. It was hard to tell where one began and the other ended sometimes, except that Marvel had the attributes of the seven legendary personas, and Billy did not. 

Veteran writer Roy Thomas and his wife Dann decided it would be better if Billy's mind remained in Captain Marvel's body when the magic transformation happened. The problem is, Billy then cannot have the wisdom of Solomon; he only has his own mental capacity. Ditto, to a lesser degree, the courage of Achilles. Ever since, writers of less talent and respect for source material have treated Captain Marvel like a dopey child -- especially in the recent live-action and animated movies. He's essentially a preteen boy in the body of a superpowered man. 

This does not say much for the value of his supposed wisdom. Wisdom is thought of as an attribute or gift, sometimes gotten through hard experience, and distinct from intelligence. Intelligence helps you do math or learn languages; wisdom helps you know why these are good things and what the best means to deploy intellect and other gifts is. In the role-playing game Dungeons and Dragons, Intelligence and Wisdom have always been separate characteristics, and characters who score high in one or the other will pursue different paths.

In the Catholic faith, wisdom is thought of as one of the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit. (The others are understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, and fear of God.) In fact, Solomon's own wisdom is definitely recorded as a gift of God. In 1 Kings 5:3, God promises to give King Solomon whatever he asks for. Solomon says: 

You have shown great kindness to your servant, David my father, because he walked before you with fidelity, justice, and an upright heart; and you have continued this great kindness toward him today, giving him a son to sit upon his throne. Now, LORD, my God, you have made me, your servant, king to succeed David my father; but I am a mere youth, not knowing at all how to act—I, your servant, among the people you have chosen, a people so vast that it cannot be numbered or counted. Give your servant, therefore, a listening heart to judge your people and to distinguish between good and evil. For who is able to give judgment for this vast people of yours?

God is pleased by this response, which shows Solomon is pretty wise already. God tells him: 

Because you asked for this—you did not ask for a long life for yourself, nor for riches, nor for the life of your enemies—but you asked for discernment to know what is right—I now do as you request. I give you a heart so wise and discerning that there has never been anyone like you until now, nor after you will there be anyone to equal you.

Does that sound like it would result in the mind of a preteen boy? 

That's not the Captain Marvel we had, but that's the Captain Marvel we got now. Much like a lot of things-- newspapers, Congress, universities -- he looks like the same as he once did but is dumber than he used to be.

🗱🗱🗱

Side note: Don't feel too bad for Athena/Minerva. Billy Batson has a sister, Mary Batson, and she was given the power to use the Shazam word to become Mary Marvel. But she does not get her powers from the same personas. At least, when she made her debut in 1942, her powers came from: 

Selena (grace)

Hippolyta (strength)

Ariadne (skill)

Zephyrus (fleetness)

Aurora (beauty)

Minerva (wisdom)

They've changed a little over the years, but M still stands for Minerva, so there's that. For all purposes, she was considered pretty much the girl version from the beginning -- almost but not quite as powerful as Cap himself, regardless of where the powers came from. 

Where the action is.

I recently learned about an interesting section of the brain, one that gets a lot of use for a lot of people, maybe especially us Mets fans. I did not know that there was a part of the brain specifically devoted to dealing with this common issue. I am, of course, referring to the vomiting center. 

The Encyclopedia Britannica says that "Vomiting is believed to be controlled by two distinct brain centres—the vomiting centre and the chemoreceptor trigger zone—both located in the medulla oblongata."

It's a happening place.

That medulla oblongata is like the O'Hare Airport of embarrassing bodily functions, including sneezing and coughing. Since it handles digestion as well, I will assume it has a farting center or the like. It definitely has its own vomiting center, which is the gate of this airport we're looking at today. 

I guess I always thought that vomiting just kind of happened. The stomach and the senses could take care of business, and the brain's only concern was to butt out and get the body to a toilet, stat. But no, the brain's got to be in the thick of things no matter what.  

So how does this thing work to make for emesis? (Emesis is a pleasant way to say an act of vomiting.) The medulla oblongata contains that cool-sounding chemoreceptor trigger zone, and when the CTZ gets word from the blood that the stomach ought to remove its contents quickly, it telegraphs the nearby vomiting center. "Hey, VC, we got a problem," it says, and before the vomiting center can get any details it's already sending the EVAC notice to the glands and muscles involved in hurling. The vomiting center does not screw around. It takes its job seriously. 

Okay, that explains throwing up from food poisoning, drunkenness, chemotherapy, and opiates, among other things. But what about when there's no actual poison in the system? you wonder. What if you're seasick? 

That's actually a good question, and I'm glad I thought of it. The Merck Manual tells us that "The exact pathophysiology is undefined, but motion sickness occurs only when the 8th cranial nerve and cerebellar vestibular tracts are intact; those lacking a functional vestibulo-cochlear system are immune to motion sickness. Movement via any form of transportation, including ship, motor vehicle, train, plane, spacecraft, and playground or amusement park rides can cause excessive vestibular stimulation." 

So excessive vestibular stimulation is somehow involved, although how it causes the vomiting center to light up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center is a matter of debate. Its efficiency is, however, undeniable, especially at the fairgrounds when your child comes off the Spindizzy Heavemaster ride and lets the stew of corndog and chocolate ice cream fly on your new Jumpmans. 

The human brain is an absolutely amazing biological construction, but sometimes it seems like it's being controlled by a moron. Like a high-tech cutting-edge experimental jet being controlled by a chimpanzee using an Etch-a-Sketch. And that's not even considering the stupid things we do on purpose. On that topic I could blog every day for a year.  

Racism and MSG.

I’m not sure why the late Anthony Bourdain is regarded as such a hero. He was an opinionated loudmouth, for one thing, yet the people who hate Trump for that loved Bourdain for it. He always seemed pissed off. Like we'd all failed to meet his precious standards.

Tony was satisfied to buy whatever protein was cheap, sear it in a hot pan, baste it with a lot of butter, and then serve it up, presuming that the customers didn’t care and would never know the difference. He was smugly dismissive: Everything and everybody was expendable. I was right there with him and angrily dismissed him. This wasn’t a near miss, this was a story of roads diverged. My anger was further fueled by what I found to be his pretentious demeanor. One expression of that was he no longer went by Tony. He was now only Anthony—Anthony Bourdain.

That quote comes from chef Peter Hoffman, who came up in the business with Bourdain. In his book What's Good? A Memoir in Fourteen Ingredients, Hoffman spares no horses in lambasting the man in his youth, as above, but does express sorrow that they never reconciled later in life, when they saw eye-to-eye on a lot of issues.  

I never watched Bourdain on TV (I prefer Andrew Zimmern if I want to see a guy travel the world and eat bugs), but I get the feeling he was often talking through his hat. For example, he went on a rant during his 2016 show about MSG: 

Bourdain, who traveled the world and showcased an extraordinary diversity of cultures and cuisines, was more explicit. “I think (MSG) is good stuff,” he said in a 2016 episode of “Parts Unknown” filmed in China. “I don’t react to it – nobody does. It’s a lie.”

“You know what causes Chinese restaurant syndrome?” he added as he walked through the streets of Sichuan. “Racism.”

Thanks for adding to the paranoia in the world, Tony.  

As far back as 1971, a study in Biochemical Medicine stated that "The signs and symptoms following the ingestion of monosodium glutamate (MSG) were found strikingly similar to those induced by acetylcholine (ACh). The effects of anticholinergic and cholinesterase (ChE) inhibitor support the hypothesis that Chinese restaurant syndrome is a 'transient acetylcholinosis'." 

And what does ACh do to you? According to the CDC, "Excess acetylcholine produces a predictable cholinergic syndrome consisting of copious respiratory and oral secretions, diarrhea and vomiting, sweating, altered mental status, autonomic instability, and generalized weakness that can progress to paralysis and respiratory arrest." 

I guess Drs. Ghadimi, Kumar, and Abaci of the Department of Pediatrics, Methodist Hospital of Brooklyn, who did the Biochemical Medicine study, were all Chinese-hating racists. Probably the CDC too.  

It's racist because only Asians use MSG.

I remember the eighties, when the fear of MSG was a real thing, and everyone or her cousin got sick after getting takeout from the Chinese place. Was it overblown? Almost certainly, but no more than the current health scares that show up every week. My theory is that fear of bisphenol A will be racist next, because so many things made in China contain it. 

Worries about MSG were not just from people seething with racism and making themselves sick; there were legitimate studies done and results indicated there was cause for concern. In 1986, the FDA said that MSG was "generally recognized as safe" but noted that some people seemed to be sensitive to it. In 2012 they backtracked, saying that studies did not find any consistency among people who reported sensitivity, which would seem to contradict the 1971 findings. Who knows? In 2025 they may find something in support of MSG sensitivity again, and then I guess the FDA will be racist. 

My ear doctor notes that monosodium means sodium. Sodium can cause a flareup of Meniere's syndrome, so it's a concern in his practice. Considering that we're all eating too much sodium, does that make us racist for wanting to cut down? He cautions that Chinese takeout is known for having high sodium content; he even singles out P.F. Chang's frozen dinners. And indeed, Chang's Chicken Fried Rice Bowl (a lunch-size portion) contains 1,040 milligrams of sodium -- almost half the 2,300 mg or less of the daily intake recommended by the health pushers. Eating Well magazine notes that too much salt can cause headaches, nausea, dizziness, and vomiting -- which sounds like a lot of the so-called Chinese Restaurant Syndrome symptoms. Maybe it was not the Chinese in the Chinese food that was causing the problem for all those racists; it was the overload of sodium. I think it's a plausible explanation anyway. 

The damage is done, though. Hating on MSG is racist. In his book Damn Good Chinese Food, chef Chris Cheung writes, 

My friend, the late great Anthony Bourdain, called racism on this and I have to agree with him. I have professionally cooked Japanese food, Thai food, and American food, and MSG was used in all of these kitchens, but I have only ever seen the request, “please, no MSG” when cooking at a Chinese restaurant. I feel the message they are trying to send is that Chinese people are trying to make you sick through their food. 

Feelings aren't facts, Mr. Cheung. When the MSG scare began, the only Asian cuisine most Americans were only familiar with was Chinese food; Japanese food was almost entirely confined to the West Coast. Otherwise, Japanese and Thais would have gotten blamed too. Would that make you feel better? If you really want to find a hotbed of anti-Asian hate, I suggest you focus on Ivy League university admissions offices.

Racism is stupid, vile, ignorant, and lazy. You know what else is? Slapping the "racist" label on things because they annoy you, without knowing anything about why things are the way they are. Our main cultural problem is probably ignorance, and the overweening pride that makes it impenetrable. 

Recipe for disaster.

Springtime seems like a much better season to start eating healthy than New Year's. Spring produce is arriving in the stores. The weather is warming, the sun is shining, the days are longer, all bringing thoughts of outdoor activities and beach bods. 

What happens at New Year's? You make a desultory resolution in the dark and cold, surrounded by leftover cookies and candy from Christmas. Yeah, that's got a chance of working.

Of course, just because it's spring doesn't mean the food is going to be awesome. 

I found a recipe in a spring-themed store handout that caught my eye, and I couldn't wait to try it. It was for marinated London broil served with a strawberry-rhubarb salsa. Unfortunately I did have to wait to try it, as there was no rhubarb available for a few weeks yet. 

There were a few things about this recipe I dug. For one, the salsa reminded me of the orange salsa I make with chicken, a recipe that's been a winner in the family for decades. Several of the same ingredients. And strawberries and rhubarb are just made for each other. Who doesn't like strawberry-rhubarb pie? Communists, that's who. 

Furthermore, I was enticed by the marinade recipe and method recommended. London broil can easily be tough as a catcher's mitt, but this was a method I had not tried, pan-seared in cast-iron and finished in the broiler. 

The recipe was a lot of work, including pounding the hell out of the steak and marinating it for a day, blanching the rhubarb, chopping up a dozen things, but I figured in the time and made it for Sunday dinner. It made a lovely presentation. Then we dined. 

The salsa tasted like a lot of nothing with a little strawberry, and the London broil was tough enough to use for a catcher's mitt. 

Where did I go wrong? It's unclear. It may be that I left the meat in the broiler half a minute too long, and that was enough to ruin it. Or maybe it wasn't the time of spring to get the really good rhubarb, the stuff that doesn't taste like sour grass. Possibly the fault was not mine; I've worked on recipe text in books and magazines for decades, and I can tell you that sometimes space requirements lead to leaving out a few tips and tricks, things that might make the difference for the home cook, things the professional recipe writer might not think are important but are. It happens. 

Finally, it's an often-lamented problem with healthy eating that produce is always a little uneven, as are other fresh ingredients lauded by the health pushers. But Doritos? Twinkies? Fig Newtons? They are exactly the same every time. It's hard to argue with success.