Mutton-headed princesses.

I've worked on a few books for young readers over the years, most of which are targeted toward girls. Publishers will tell you that they barely bother with books for boys above grammar school age because boys don't read for fun. So they neglect boys' books and the spiral continues. 

I mention this because I don't want someone to think I'm just picking on fictional princesses today. No doubt there'd be plenty of fictional princes to pick on too, if boys were reading, and if boys were encouraged to believe in themselves beyond all reason the way girls are. 

That's the rub, right there. In almost every girls' book these days, there comes a time when the girl hero (we don't call them heroines anymore because that's a diminutive), who has been shoved aside by her oppressors, has a chance to sound off and show everyone how wrong they are. She doesn't have to know anything, as long as she believes in herself. Of course, the young lady's brilliance and goodness and courage dazzles everyone, and the bad guys are eschewed while the princess is tiara-cized. 

you go girl

We call this the Greta move, after Greta Thunberg, who may not be aware that the only reason she was able to tell off the UN when she was a child was because she was doing the bidding of the very adults she was telling off. But that's a longer, larger, more lousy story. 

What really bothers me, though, is that as bright as the young princess is, she can't be any smarter than the writer, and that's a problem. I remember one book where the princess discovers how poor the peasantry in town is, and resolves to fix this by looting the royal treasury and throwing gold out to everyone higgledy piggledy. 

No one in the book is smart enough to explain the concept of devaluation, how if you give every peasant five pounds of gold, two gold coins will no longer be enough to buy a fine horse. Sure, the princessdom will look nicer, with everyone making gold utensils and things, but the value of gold will plummet. Whatever's left in the treasury will lose value as well. Of course, brigands from elsewhere will be happy to come rob from the easy-pickin' peasants and take the loot back home where gold still has value. 

These things are simple economics, not hard to understand, but they are not as obvious as knowing that if you let go of an object it will drop. Many things in life are like that. If you're in a sealed room and you turn off the light, why does it get dark? The room is sealed; where did the light go? Guess what: It won't stay bright just because you think it should and really want it to. Neither will the peasants be prosperous because you give away the store.

Sadly, the princesses in these books are also a model for political figures who cannot understand why people stay poor when you print so much money for them. 

It makes me sad, it truly does, that the basics of economics are not taught in schools, or at least not taught well enough to act as a counter to this kind of magical thinking. Prosperity is difficult. Poverty is easy. How people get through high school without understanding even that is beyond me.

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.  

Aisle be passing by.

I would like to thank Gloriam Marketing, a Catholic PR firm, for the following chart.

A better explanation of Catholicsthenics I have not seen. It would apply, of course to any Christian church that has kneeling, and to a lesser degree to anyplace humans congregate that involves the dreaded aisles. 

Getting past seated people is no fun in movie theaters, which is why people often like to sit on the end of a row (as in Mass as well). It is better to be put upon than to be embarrassed as the put-uponer. This is complicated by people carrying enormous buckets of popcorn and a soda large enough to hydrate a derby winner, either of which may be worn by the put-uponee if things go sideways (literally). At least that's one peril one hopes to not see in church. Church can have its entertainment value, but please -- no snacking. 

Aisle passings are even worse at live theater or sporting events. The immediacy of the performance makes everything more dramatic. You don't want a view of some guy's butt as he passes by to cause you to miss Hamlet stabbing Polonius (oops, spoiler!) or a thrilling game-tying steal of home plate. You can't get those moments back. 

The worst has to be the airplane, though. Crammed into a seat not on the aisle -- perhaps at the window or, God love you, the center -- you had better be able to contain your bodily fluids for the length of the trip. Otherwise I promise the aisle seat will be occupied by a large human who does not want to get up to let people in or out and will definitely make that opinion known. With almost zero headroom, you couldn't even leap over him. It makes for a travel experience packed with grumbling, recriminations, and discomfort. 

I usually think of people who enjoyed the COVID lockdowns as being kind of loony, but when I think of aisles, it makes more sense. 

Anyway, I showed the illustration above to my wife, and she thought it would be great to incorporate such workout techniques into Mass officially. She thought the choir could start with something cheery for stretching and warmups, then sing a dirge at the end for cooldowns. You'd shower after church rather than before. I think I'll mention it to the Cardinal; like me, he could stand to take off a few pounds.  

Sprung.

As I noted, and you know if you're in this hemisphere along with most of the population, spring has arrived. And that means hope! Dreams! Young love! And WORK WORK WORK.

Yesterday I was in the giant houseware store, which I'll call Loam Depot because I was buying mulch and rocks. Rocks! When you're a kid you think rocks just happen. They're not something you buy. They're all over. Why spend money on rocks? Why torture the poor suspension (yours and the car's) with a load of rocks? And why buy mulch when you can mow over leaves and make it?

I know, I know. I don't care why. It just is. Spring comes and my un-mulched areas look like crap. As for the rocks, like most people in the 'burbs whose mailbox is on the devil's strip twixt sidewalk and road, I am not content to just let the mailbox post stand in dirt. But I am not so foolish as to think something planted in primo dog zone would survive. Once one dog hits the spot they all want to, and there's no plant alive that can withstand that kind of barrage. Some people cover the ground at the base of the post with bricks or mulch, and some use decorative pebbles, like moi. I use red ones. They match the mulch. 

My dad was a great one for landscaping, and he absolutely 100% did not pass that love down to me. I envy people like him, people who love gardening and tending the lawn and all the other things that make the property look dandy. They get exercise and fresh air and have more to show to the world for the effort than sweaty gym clothes. I like growing individual plants, but nothing more than I can grow in a pot, and that includes grape tomatoes and bell peppers. I cannot stand the idea of turning a large plot of earth, shoving in seeds, then fighting off deer and rabbits and bugs all summer. Unless I can develop a plant that produces Krugerrands, I think I'm just not going to maintain the motivation necessary. 

Today, though, is one of those days I have to buckle down and get some things done. Putting down some tick-murdering poison along the border of the property, for example -- one of the ways we keep the dog tickless. Killing weeds in walkways and other places plants don't belong. Washing the cars -- I feel confident that the big freeze is done, and there's no point in have a vehicle that looks like a pretzel. 

I guess that shows just how close to nature I am, that my spring endeavors are all about cars and poison. Oh, and I got the grill going yesterday, so that's propane for burning meat. I'm a one-man Anti-UN Environmental Programme. And for that, at least, I am proud. 

As I look back on today's blog entry, I realize I've covered this ground in years gone by. And that's what spring is -- covering the same old ground, year after year. With mulch.

Anatomy of a rock album.

 

The formula of stupid ideas.

I have wondered if there is some means to get an idea of how many stupid ideas we have. I think there must be a finite number. Perhaps if we had a formula to find that number we might be better able to prevent them, or at least cope with their effects. 

Some definitions are in order here. By stupid ideas, I am referring to bad ideas for actions that may be put into effect. "I am cold, so I will leap into the sun" is stupid, but impossible. "I am cold, so I will start a fire in the kitchen" is stupid, but possible. The latter would count toward the total, the former not.

The universe may be infinite, or infinite for our practical purposes, but human intelligence can only grasp so much. Therefore we may assume it has an upper limit to its generative capability, which we will call i. The total number of humans to have ever existed to the present moment we will indicate by the symbol h. We will further want the number of dumb ideas generatable by i over the course of the average lifespan (g). That gives us the base formula of:

(i x g) x h = theoretical total of dumb ideas 

But wait! Perhaps we want to remove all the redundant ideas -- like, instead of counting each incidence of "I'm going to wrestle that polar bear" as 1, we just count every incidence of that exact idea as a single idea, allowing for similar but not identical permutations of it. I propose that for this purpose we use the amended formula thusly:

(i x g) x h - dittos = theoretical total of unique dumb ideas 

Now, if it wasn't obvious before, it will be clear that I am talking through my hat. I can barely make my checkbook balance. So while it might be a nice idea to get a grip on our total number of possible bad ideas, I have no idea how to do that. Plus, in practice, human ingenuity toward bad ideas may actually be infinite.

I'm kind of sorry I started this whole process. Just add this blog entry to the pile of bad ideas and proceed with your day.   

Heels at a wake.

I predicted that this might be a bad year for funerals, and indeed, I was obliged to attend one last week. In a way it was a happy occasion, in that the deceased had once been estranged from his family, but by his passing was sorely missed by all. A wake with a prayer service was scheduled, and I got there just in time for the prayer service, which was standing room only. 

Then the weird thing happened. I bring all this up because I found it very odd and slightly entertaining. 

As the service concluded, I made my way to the front to bid farewell to our friend and to offer condolences to the family. I happened to notice some black flecks on the ground as I waited -- black flecks that stood out against the beige carpet -- black flecks that followed my path to the front. 

Had I stepped in some foul substance on my way in? How embarrassing! Time for a quick goodbye and exit. 

Except on my way, I saw something sticking out from my pants cuff. The very thing that was leaving the trail. 

The heel of my left shoe had chosen this sacred and solemn occasion to disintegrate completely. 

I ripped the heel off and continued. As I ducked down the steps to the funeral home, the heel from the right shoe, not to be outdone, emerged from beneath my shoe. I paused, ripped that off too, and proceeded to the car posthaste. 

Now, this is an odd thing to have happened. This was a pair of well-made Ecco shoes that were in apparently fine condition when I left the house, shoes that were comfortable and buffed up nicely. But note too that these shoes had been in my possession for well over fifteen years -- I can't actually remember when I bought them. Since I've been working at home for more than nine years now, they have not gotten as much use as they once did. But meanwhile the rubber was slowly rotting away until bam! In the presence of death, they themselves gave up the ghost. 

Funerals and weddings have a way of disclosing unfortunate couture situations at the last minute. The suit you like no longer fits (damn you, Doritos!). The tie you intended to wear has a coffee stain you missed. The cuff links no longer sit together in the box; one has gone roaming. Anything can happen. I would not have minded discovering the shoe issue at home; I have other dress shoes. I did mind the heels sitting under my feet through the event like a sooty time bomb.

I've had heels detach from shoes before. I've even had the entire sole with heel detach from cheap uppers in my young days. But I've never had a heel just disintegrate. Had the dog gotten to them and chewed at the heels? No, it would have been plain to see. Nope, this was just a case of rubber deterioration, I suppose. Even silicone lasts only 20 years. 

Well, that's the way the heel bounces. 

For the men whose funerals I've attended recently: May their souls rest in peace. 

As for my shoes, well, may their soles rest in peace. 

Springshots.

Ah, spring! What joy! How well the great poet Chaucer put it: 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, 

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, 

And bathed every veyne in swich licóur 

Of which vertú engendred is the flour; 

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth 

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne...

Yeah, dude. Righteous.

You gotta love spring, if only because winter sucks so much. Yeah, the bugs are back, and some of the birds make a lot of noise, and some of the neighbors make a lot of noise, but it's okay. Why, I saw a pileated woodpecker the other day, not twenty feet away! Almost fainted with excitement. 

The bird was camera-shy, alas, but I offer these simple pictures of spring in her splendor. 

Okay, so this doesn't look like much. But when I see long, dead grass strands under my deck, I know what it means...

Construction time for the Robins again. 

The blooms look so wonderful that I hope we don't get snow in May again this year. Kills flowers dead.

The dogwood's already losing its petals. Lazy, that's what I call it. Well, let sleeping dogwoods lie. 

The maples are finally unfurling their leaves. Baby steps, maples. 

This tree always looks great. Except the year we got a late blizzard and it had so many leaves up already that the weight tore down several limbs. But it bounced back after a decade or so. Can't kill this guy.

And finally, daffodils. Maybe my favorite flower.
You forget the bulb is there and suddenly: Bing! I'm back!

The sunlight colors always look like hope. 

Sike?

Honestly, I wonder what kids are thinking. I didn't know what they were thinking when I was one, to be frank, so you can imagine how bad I am at it now. 

Today's complaint concerns the abuse of an interjection that my generation made great, a tagline so profound and so much fun that it arose from nowhere and became universal in no time. 

Of course, I am referring to

PSYCH! 

It seems that youngsters, who literally know nothing, are rendering the word as "Sike!" Which is inscrutably dumb. If they aren't doing this as some parody of Gen X, which Occam suggests is not the case, then they are making a silly mistake. 

Psych! as an exclamation, of course, is something one says as to indicate that the other has been fooled, gulled, pranked, or otherwise tricked -- from the expression psych out. I think Webster's errs in listing as synonyms for psych (out) words like terrorize, frighten, and discourage. Psych out was and is a less serious term in common use, at worst meant to intimidate or distract an opponent, not drive him into the fetal position. 

Obviously this term comes from psychology, "from scientific Latin psychologia 'the study of the mind and behavior,' derived from Greek psychē 'soul, mind' and Greek -logia 'science, study,'" according to Webster. Pretty common terms, especially in this over-analyzed era, no? Been around in English since at least 1749. And yet the youth of the country has to make up some strange spelling for psych?  

If only there'd been a popular TV show, one that lasted, say, eight seasons, using the term as a title; perhaps a show featuring a fake psychic, a member of Gen X; a show titled after the term that would have the double meaning of psychic and psyching out (since the hero is a fake). Perhaps the show's theme song might even use the expression "psych you out". 

Maybe then, kids today might remember how to spell the word. Oh, who knows. Probably not. 

Tax Day, Fredcoin, and You!!!!

Today is the income tax deadline in the United States. Talk about rending unto Caesar -- the whole process leaves you feeling pretty rended. 

Of course, you know what the answer to all your tax problems is: Fredcoin! Not just the only cryptocurrency with the imprimatur of Fred himself, but also the only cryptocurrency with a secret toy surprise!*

Before or on tax day, the teeming hordes of Fredcoin customers always come to me with questions. "Fred!" they say, "we have questions!" And I say, "My friends, I have answers!" But since we're up against the deadline for filing income tax, I figured I'd better give you an FAQ list rather than trying to help each of you individually. Plus, I hate to see a grown man cry. 

FREDCOIN AND TAXES: FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

1. Is Fredcoin considered a tax shelter?

Yes, and by that I mean, no. If you leave your cash invested in Fredcoin, then yes, you don't have to worry about paying taxes. If you should foolishly want to reconvert your Fredcoin to worthless U.S. currency, then consider your shelter as firm as Dorothy's Kansas farmhouse.  

2. Which IRS form do I need to file to lay out my Fredcoin investments? 

You need to file a Schedule FRD, form 8712-P, with a side of pickled beets. 

3. Are my vast Fredcoin profits taxable income?  

Yes, I certainly believe they would be. 

4. Can I buy Fredcoin if I live in Austin?

I'm sorry, this is a "Fredcoin and Texas" question; that's a different FAQ.

5. Is Fredcoin a form of money laundering?

No, no, of course not! Now, it's possible that some unscrupulous characters might slip some ill-gotten gains into their purchase of Fredcoin -- how would I know? And it's possible that they might convert their Fredcoin back into some crummy U.S. currency, minus a large fee, to claim it was all Fredcoin profits and totally legit. Ha! Ha! What a funny little totally fake scenario. No, we never talk about money laundering here at Fredcoin. We much prefer to call it money fortification.  

6. Why is Fredcoin the best cryptocurrency out there, bar none, hands down, hands none, bar down?

You have to ask? Look at it! No other currency of any kind has Fred on it. And I think that says it all. 

🪙🪙🪙🪙

*Secret toy surprise offer may not apply. See side of box for details. Do not use Fredcoin internally. Some patients reported that Fredcoin caused dizziness, nausea, and elongated nostril hairs. Fredcoin is a registered trademark of Fredcoin Inc. LLC LLP MNOP. All Rights reserved. Lefts are up for grabs.   

Dogs in the comic books.

Throughout the history of American comic books, dogs have played an interesting but not dominating role. There have been a number of famous canine characters who appeared first in comics, and others who appeared elsewhere and made their way into comics. But considering the enormous popularity of dogs as pets in our history, they actually seem underrepresented. 

Note here that I'm not referring to funny-animal type dogs, like Snoopy or Pluto or Droopy or Huckleberry Hound or even Underdog. I'm thinking here of action hero dogs. And no, Scooby-Doo does not count. Jonny Quest's dog Bandit is close, but he's not a headlining character, I'm afraid. The same goes for Snowy and Dogmatix. 

Lassie, however, was not just a star of film and television; the world's favorite collie starred in comic book adventures by Dell from 1950 to 1962; then Western picked up the series until 1969. And I am not kidding about being the favorite of the world, or at least what we used to call Christendom -- those comics were also published in Canada, Brazil, the UK, Australia, Scandinavia, Germany, and so on. Rin-Tin-Tin didn't have as long a run in comics, but his adventures appeared in most of the same markets and Lebanon as well, according to the Grand Comics Database. 

Less down-to-earth dogs were featured in comics, of course, and we've covered a couple of the most famous ones on this blog. Krypto, Superman's super pet dog, was unleashed (ha!) on the American public in a March 1955 issue, and Batman got a part-time dog helper named Ace a few months later. Older than both of those characters by three years is Rex the Wonder Dog, a heroic white shepherd who was so smart and whose adventures became so fantastical that in more recent years has been said to have superpowers, and be a superhero in his own right.

When Marvel comics decided to have a dog character, it was of course Lockjaw, a monstrous teleporting bulldog, as part of the Inhumans, because we can't just have friendly pets when Jack Kirby is involved.

But speaking of Marvel, I'm proud to report that the inspiration for this post today is my own dog Izzy, America's Sweetheart. Yes, I was amazed to discover that before he lived with us, he was actually a friend of the Fantastic Four's Human Torch, appearing in an issue of Strange Tales in 1965.

Therefore, as I own Izzy, I am the official agent of a Marvel character. If Disney wants to go ahead and ruin the Fantas -- that is, make a new Fantastic Four movie, they will need to pay us a small fee -- perhaps two or three million dollars -- for the rights. 

🐕💰🐶💸🦮🤑

Okay, maybe it's just possible that Izzy did not appear in the actual comic book. I say that based on the fact that his head is not as big as a human's, as shown above, and in 1965 he was not born yet -- and would not be for 56 years. The actual panel from the story, courtesy of the entertaining Comics Archaeology site, is here: 

But if Disney would like to send us a bushel of money anyway, I'm sure we can accommodate them. Come on, Mouse House! Look at my dog! He's cuter than anything you've coughed up in at least twenty years and has universal appeal. (Oops -- maybe I should not have mentioned Universal.) 

A little travelin' music, Sammy!

It's an odd fact of life that sometimes funerals come in bunches. In 2015 I went to so many that my suits were getting tired of being dragged out of the closet. Then, 2016 was quiet. But this year is not starting off well. It's not like I live in the Villages or work for a funeral home, but I fear there may be a more funerals in my near future. I hope not my own. 

One common feature of the two funerals I have attended thus far in 2024 is the bagpipes. Now, in both cases, the deceased was of Irish descent, straight up the potato tree. Prominent Catholics, too. Also, they were affiliated with either the Ancient Order or the police or firemen, and those fellows always keep the pipes close at hand for such occasions. 

I have nothing against the bagpipes, as long as I'm not standing directly in front of them. But I'd rather not have them played when my time comes. I'm only a fraction Irish personally, a fraction that would balloon up considerably on St. Patrick's Day of course, but no one in my family ever got all weepy over "Danny Boy" or anything. So I think I'm not deserving of the bagpipe treatment. 

No, there are other instruments that I think would be better suited for my funeral. If I don't get them written down in my will, please remember these and instruct the funeral home and church accordingly. Any of them will do. 

1) Slide Whistle

Putting the fun in funeral comes the slide whistle, and the cheaper the better. Bonus money for the musicians if they can do a long "beeeeewooooop" sound as the coffin is lowered. 

2) Kazoo

Similar to #1, but as anyone can play the kazoo, they will be distributed to the crowd. Imagine a whole bunch of mourners on the sidewalk outside the church playing "Amazing Grace" on the kazoo. It would be appropriate for my level of sanctity. 

3) String Quartet Marching Band

To reenact the Woody Allen Cello in a Marching Band moment from Take the Money and Run, but with a standing-bass player as well. Cheer up the bereaved!

4) Mouth Harp

You know, the goinkitty goink thing you put in your mouth to bang along with the tune and wreck your bridgework. It's not that loud, so for ceremonial purposes we might have to find someone who plays an electric mouth harp. Hey, I might be the proximate cause of someone inventing a musical instrument! The electrical mouth harp. It'd be like Dylan at Newport, only dumb. 

5) Ukulele

This only applies if we go with the Hawaiian Shirt Themed funeral, which would require me surviving my wife. I recently gave her a gift -- I put my ugly Hawaiian shirt into the charity clothes drive. She'd never put up with a Hawaiian Shirt funeral unless she was already dead, and even then I'm not certain. 

6) Sjøfløyte

I'm actually more Scandinavian than I am Irish, so it would be more appropriate to play something from the frozen north like the sjøfløyte. What is that, you wonder? It's a Norwegian version of the recorder. Everyone makes fun of learning the recorder in school -- Why didn't they teach me how to fill out a tax return instead? Wah wah wah! (Like third graders could grasp tax law. Adults can't.) But no one would make fun of the sjøfløyte. They wouldn't be able to even pronounce it. The word looks like the sound of a stifled sneeze. I'm sure the instrument is more melodious. 

7) Big White Piano

Why? Well, I like the piano all right. The main thing is, Elton John famously hates white pianos. That'd keep him from trying to muscle in and do a Fred-themed version of "Candle in the Wind." There's only room for one star at my funeral, Reg, and that's going to be me. 

8) Flugelhorn 

No particular reason except I think flugelhorn players need the work.

9) Boardwalk Hall Auditorium Organ

Okay, maybe you won't be able to get the grieving millions to agree to a small musical accompaniment. In that case, rent the Midmer-Losh organ in Atlantic City's Boardwalk Hall, the world's largest pipe organ. This thing is so huge that they don't even know for sure how many pipes it has -- somewhere around 33,113, but no one knows for certain. The stops on the organ rate their own Wikipedia page, which I never will. Just see if they'll lend it out for the day. Probably not a lot of call for it. Maybe get a discounted rate.  

10) Saxophone 

"But Fred! You hate the sax! You say it sounds like a flatulent duck!" That's true, and the only reason the saxophone is on this list is if "Yakkity Sax" is played. The coffin must be carried in a complex path at running speed to the graveyard, while the mourners chase after it, and dropped in the hole. Somewhere up there, Benny Hill would be smiling.

Super eclipse!

Today, of course, is the total eclipse of the sun in the United States and elsewhere in this hemisphere, the first one here since 2017. Where I am in New York we won't get the whole magilla, but it will be a nearly total eclipse, hitting around 3:30 this afternoon. 

Meanwhile, at the Super Museum in Metropolis, Illinois, Superman has made preparations. 

 

It seems kind of silly for the one guy who could always look straight at the sun to wear eclipse glasses, especially since they could compromise his secret identity. (Clark Kent -- shhh.) However, it's possible there is a villainous plan by the evil Eclipso, a DC Comics villain since 1963.

Eclipso is a scary evil dude, with a variety of superpowers, but in his early stories he was mostly a menace to ordinary people. He was the alter ego of the magically cursed solar scientist Bruce Gordon; in the event of an eclipse, Eclipso would arise from Gordon and wreak havoc. In more recent years Eclipso has become a worldbeater, a menace to millions, capable of taking on DC's mightiest heroes. So maybe Superman's eclipse specs are part of a plan to save us from Eclipso today.

Elsewhere in the funny pages, others have also had a bad time with eclipses. 

Let it be noted that Charlie Brown is not the only hard-luck character in Peanuts.

The other Goldilocks.

One of the joys of ambling through used-book stores, back when such things existed, was the fortuitous find of books long out of print, forgotten perhaps but still worth reading. I discovered quite a few authors that way in my younger days. 

Most of those stores are gone now, but at least we still have Project Gutenberg, which is quickly becoming the repository of the literary past. In Bradbury's classic Fahrenheit 451, there is a group dedicated to committing books to memory so that civilization can be restored when the dystopic government falls. Project Gutenberg is certainly doing its bit to help. 

Looking through old books is quite educational. For example, I happened to discover the story of Goldilocks in an old kids' book on Gutenberg while looking for something else. 

What's that, Fred? You don't know the story of Goldilocks, the food thief, vandal, and squatter?      

No, not that Goldilocks; the other one. 

Her, I know.

This other Goldilocks is a princess! Her story can be found in two books on Gutenberg: The Blue Fairy Book edited by Andrew Lang (1889) and Fairy Tales (vol. 1) by M. F. Lansing (1907). She is called either Pretty Goldilocks or Fair Goldilocks; she is a princess and has no need of raiding bears' houses. The only thing she has in common with the more famous O.G. is the color of her hair. 

Royal Goldy, the Hot Tomato

This Goldy is such a stunner ("the prettiest creature in the world") that a foreign king sends a massive retinue to her place, with a pile of loot that Musk and Bezos would envy, to ask for her hand in marriage. She says no thanks, and politely returns the presents, only keeping a box of pins (either because she liked them or to show the king that she appreciated the gesture, depending on your story source). The king is miserable at this rejection. One of his courtiers, a fellow named Charming, says that he thinks he could have gotten Goldilocks to come back with him. So you know what comes next. The king says Go get her, then! No, these are medieval types; the king, feeling mocked, orders Charming to be locked in the tower and starved to death. 

Of course, all-around good guy Charming had not intended to mock the king; he is hurt by this injustice. The king later has a change of heart and speaks with Charming, who explains that he meant he could bring back Goldilocks for the king. Oy! After seeing to Charming's needs, the king wants to send the boy off with a bunch of court suck-ups to get the girl for him. Charming says nay nay -- just a horse and the king's letters to the girl will suffice. 

On his way to see the princess, Charming has some minor adventures that demonstrate his kind heart (you can read them yourself; trust me, he's a nice kid), and word gets to Goldilocks that he's a great guy and one fine figure of a man, too. Nevertheless, Goldy gives him some quests. He must find a ring that she lost in the river a month ago, kill a murderous giant, and fetch a potion from the terrible Gloomy Cavern. Easy-peasy! Fortunately, Charming has a dog named Frisk (or maybe Frolic) who talks to him, and the help of the animals he was kind to on his journeys, so it all works out.    

Satisfied, Goldilocks agrees to go to the king's city and marry the guy, although she says Charming and she could have stayed at her place and she would have married him. Of course, Charming is an honorable man of his word, and would not backstab the king that way. 

The king marries Goldilocks and does what you'd expect -- get jealous and have Charming arrested and thrown in the tower to starve to death. You might think that we're dealing with one of the more soft-headed variety of fairy-tale kings. All this chucking people into towers to starve -- where does that get you in the end? You think the mournful cries of the victim will warn everyone that the king will tolerate no disobedience, but it just brings the mood of the place down. 

It all works out, of course. The king accidentally poisons himself with the potion from the Gloomy Cavern, Goldy sets Charming free and marries him, and Frolic (or Frisk) lives with them happily ever after. 

This is such an interesting story, where kindness is rewarded and duplicity (and stupidity) are punished, and a nice cautionary tale about the problems of absolute monarchy. It doesn't really have the homespun charm of our better-known porridge stealer, and it's got some noble quest/bad monarch/talking animal stuff that could be added to and taken from other fairy tales like so many software plugins. But it's pretty good, and the fact that the princess proposes to and saves the hero is different, so it definitely does have its merits. 

Like I said, you never know what you might find when you start poking around old books. There's all kinds of gold in there.