Trash talk and dead bodies.

I don't want to keep dwelling on things that are different in this alternate universe to which I have moved. But I will. The thing is, it's just close enough to the old life I had that it throws me off. 

Take the trash pickup. Longtime readers of this blog -- all good-looking and tasteful, with powerful intellects and enormous patience -- will recall that in New York, I complained a lot about the free-for-all that was our trash situation. People put everything short of dead humans out for pickup, and maybe they disguised a few of those. You could use any ol' trash receptacle you had handy. And the garbagemen came by on Tuesdays and Fridays, with a "recycling" pickup on Wednesday.

Here, the trash pickup is one day a week: Monday, You don't dare miss it because they won't be back. So people have their stuff out Sunday night, although I haven't seen a pickup here before noon Monday. It's one of those towns where you get two large trash cans when you move in, one for garbage and one for recycling garbage, and everything has to fit inside. The truck comes by and picks up the can and dumps it into the hopper. Another truck comes by later and gets the other can. It cuts manpower by two thirds, and it keeps people from trying to leave a sofa or a piano for pickup. 

Well, they wouldn't try it twice. 

My main problem is that I don't know what the hell day it is. I had tuesday-wednesday-friday tattooed on my consciousness. When a holiday would bump the week forward a day, that was bad enough. Here, around Wednesday I do not know immediately what day it is, because the trashman would not be back for days. I'm a rudderless boat on the sea of time now. 

And I'm scared of my sink.

This is the first time in my life I've lived somewhere with a garbage disposal. The InSinkErator came with the place. I am glad to be able to get rid of most food garbage instantly -- so I'm not stuck with it until next Monday! -- but man, it's scary and loud. 

All I ever heard of these things were what happened when you let utensils fall into them and what HORRIBLE things happened to YOU when you tried to get them out. 

Stone cold killer

I mean, the way this thing goes through a head of celery or a chunk of beef has to give you pause. I could easily see Steve Buscemi's leg sticking out of the sink in a remake of Fargo. 

Wish me luck with the InSinkErator, and that I do not forget what day of the week it is when Monday arrives. Last week the truck dude failed to completely empty my garbage can and it's got some bad juju going on right now. If I miss him tomorrow, I'm going to have to shove all the garbage into the disposal. And I think that may work no better than trying to get Steve Buscemi in there.  

And one married a Wilson!

 

9/11 at 25.

I've shared my thoughts on Patriot Day over the years in this blog. Basically, at this point it's obvious we did not dispatch enough of the sons of bitches in Afghanistan, going by the chaotic withdrawal from that blighted country under President Biden. As Kurt Schlichter wrote yesterday, "If there is one overriding failure in the war on terror, it is that we did not kill enough of the terrorists."

And that's my main thought at this late date. 

I asked a friend of mine, retired now from the New York City Fire Department, if he had any thoughts he would share. He said no; "I just try to forget it." He avoids anything on television that might show the World Trade Center on that day. I told him I understood. I do not know what to do with my anger when I go down that path. 

I saw a question raised online about why Hollywood has not done more by way of movies regarding the War on Terror and the September 11 attacks. I actually don't blame Hollywood for this. In World War II, war movies were popular, because we knew we were fighting nation states, and we would fight them until they suffered complete defeat. We can't do that with multinational death-cult adherents of a 1400-year-old religion. So our frustration and fury are unresolvable. Any film or TV show that takes on these topics will face a huge stumbling block right there. That's why I think the films we have had about the attacks and the war have not been successful. 

It's not because America does not love her heroes. You'd better believe we do.

We are now engaged in a war that began when our country and the West backstabbed the Shah of Iran and Jimmy Carter told France to let the Ayatollah go back to Iran (after the Ayatollah lied about how he had no beef against the USA). The birdies were always going to come home to roost, and they were either going to be vultures carrying nukes or eagles with lesser but highly effective arms. That's where we are in September 2026.

If you know anyone in the American armed forces, please make sure to tell them that we really do care, and we really do appreciate them. And if any more sons of bitches need killing, we trust them to do the job. 

God bless the United States of America. 

The Unknown IMF Mission.

"We have an extremely difficult mission this time, and I want to make sure you understand how dangerous it is before any of you agrees to it."

"Come on, Jim -- the government didn't name this the Possible Missions Force. We know what we signed up to do." 

"Thanks, Barney. All right -- here are the basics. You may have heard that the nation of Lmnopystan has been refining radioactive material in the hope of creating nuclear weapons to threaten Western targets. The Secretary says that we have managed to stop their acquisitions, but our mission is to retrieve their stockpile. Sources tell us that it is hidden in a leaden vault in Fort Stunckenholff.

"Within two days we will be in position. Roland and Cinnamon, your job will be to infiltrate the fort using the false identities of Major General Hrump and his wife, Sheila. The actual Hrump family has been detained in Milan. I will be stationed in a safe house fifteen miles from the fort. When you get the passcodes, you will radio them to me. Then Willy will deliver a truck full of supplies, including Barney."

"Yeah, man, in a box again, I dig it."

"Barney will be able to crack the vault that holds the safe, and Willy, well, he can lift heavy things. You will signal me when the vault is on the truck; I will signal Roland, and you will meet at the gate. Naturally there is a very good chance you will be detected soon after exiting."

"So we make a run for the border?"

"That's the problem, Roland. Look at the map. We will be meeting a ship to take us out of country. Our rondezvous point is here, at Port Snyegrump, five hours away from the fort, on heavily policed highways and through multiple checkpoints. And to make the ship we will have to get to the port in just two hours."

"They'll be all over us. I say it can't be done."

"Well, Willy, that's why I've called in a special operative for this mission, a fast driver with a faster car who can draw off and lose the authorities while you shoot through with the truck. Allow me to introduce the Bandit."

"Hiya, boys. And girl."

"I'm riding back with him."

Have a super new year!

There's mixed feelings about the trailer for the new Superman picture coming next year. I liked it, but I don't much bother with movies anymore. Still, one has to admire the endurance of the titular hero, who turns 87 next year. This is what he was up to 80 years ago.

Never mind the February issue date; this would have been on sale in December 1944. Comic books posted a cover date three months in advance to retain their shelf life, or did until the newsstand business collapsed. 

In 1944, Supes had been around for six years, a hero of radio since 1940 and Fleischer cartoons since 1941. While the big star of Action Comics since its first issue, he was not the only character with a story. Others in issue 81 featured explorer Congo Bill, the Vigilante, and Zatara the Magician. You got a lot for your dime in those days.

While the cover scene wasn't in the issue, it makes me think of what American readers guessed but couldn't know would come along in the "little chap's" year of 1945. The end of the war was hoped for and expected, yes, but the death of the president and the sudden entry of humanity into the atomic age would be shocks. There were fewer than 10,000 television sets in homes in 1945, but that would balloon to six million in five years. The top-grossing movie of 1945 would be The Bells of St. Mary's, if you can believe it. And Superman would meet Batman for the first time -- not in the comics, but on the radio show. (They would not officially meet in the comics until 1952.) 

As this highly bizarre year draws to a close, I wish you a super and happy 2025 -- I can hardly believe we're a quarter of the way into this far-futuristic 21st century! -- and that no one drops any nuclear bombs or anything crazy like that. May our wars stay cold and our economy hot, and peace and happiness and good health be yours. Thanks for stopping by.

Christmas roundup.

The thermometer says it is no degrees outside -- yes, friends, we are at Absolute Zero -- so it's winter! And that means Christmas is coming. It's practically here! 

Today I offer a brief roundup of some memes and candy that have popped up on my radar lately. Sweetness abounds. 

I thought this was hilarious, but I had to explain it to a couple of people. It took me a moment also, to be fair. 

I love this one because I never liked the movie and I hated the book. 

Chico had the Man's number, I think.

Next up, further proof that one day all the memes will join together into one Mega Meme. 

Guess what I found in my local supermarket on Saturday, December 20? That's right -- Valentine's Day Candy!

TV listing from Sunday -- tell me you've never see the special without telling me. 

I think AI is writing them now. 

And that brings us to a visit with longtime friend of this blog: PEEPS

Yes, we've reviewed Peeps and Peep Accessories many times on this page -- even other Christmas-themed Peeps, a decade ago. But we've never seen Gingerbread (or, as the yellow box notes, "Gingerbread FLAVORED") Peeps before. I'm a fan of the plucky little Just Born company of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, but I am cautious. Can these possibly be any good?

Verdict: Yes, if you like marshmallow and you like the flavor of gingerbread and you think they'd work well together. Unbelievably sweet, of course, as the outer flavoring is also sugared, much as so many pumpkin spice treats in the fall include sugar. I think you need it; lightly melted sugar helps other flavorings stick, first of all, and second, sugar has a lovely and underrated texture all its own. But man, this is sweet. 

You might drop one of these dudes in a cup of (mostly unsweetened) cocoa and let him melt; I think that would taste good, although you hate to see a friendly face get the Wicked Witch treatment. 

So there's some hot and cold takes for this last Monday before Christmas. Hope to post tomorrow, but definitely on Christmas Day. 

Librarians eaten.

I hate this stuff.

What they think they're doing: Showing that "different" things aren't scary.

What they're actually doing: Showing that heroic men are idiots.

Here's the deal: Dragons are mythical creatures intended to be scary, even if they are good, as in Chinese mythology. A cuddly dragon is a non-dragon creature of some other kind. That's the point of dragons. 

I'm sick to death of dragons being the good guys. Dragons want to eat us. Dragons are no good for human companionship. Dragons suck. Boo dragons. Leave them alone.

Where did it start? Ogden Nash's "The Tale of Custard the Dragon," about a cowardly dragon (who does in fact eat a human)? Anne McCafferty's Dragonriders of Pern series? Wherever it did, we find now that the world is on its head, that the dragons are always (surprise!) good and the guys who want to take them out bad. Whether it's Dragonslayer, Dragonheart, How to Train Your Dragon, it's hard to find a dragon in fiction that's not the good guy. It's like finding a police office or priest in fiction who is the good guy, especially if he's white and male -- like finding hen's teeth.

It's all part of the crap that gave us Wicked and all the new Disney pictures that root for the bad guy. (As long as the bad guy is, you know, a girl -- Captain Hook and Gaston remain bad.) The ladies are just misunderstood, you know. Men were mean to them, probably. That's why they're bad. 

Or maybe they're just power-hungry crapweasels. I don't care what made the green babe mad in Oz; if she sends a pack of wolves to rip up a little kid, kidnaps her with terrifying flying monkeys, and threatens to slaughter the little girl when the sand runs out of the hourglass, to hell with her. Drop a freaking house on her. SHE'S THE BADDIE. How she got that way is irrelevant; she chose her path. 

As Germán Saucedo wrote recently in First Things:

The clear images of true evil present in the best fairy tales, ballads, myths, and legends offer both a vision of what is to be avoided at all costs, as well as a vision of virtue. As such, the “sympathetic villain” genre is a symptom of a society that disagrees on what is good and what is evil, or that tries to explain evil away as trauma, psychopathy, or pathology. But to identify and avoid evil, we must first learn to recognize the good. The insistence on subverting villains is a sign we have lost confidence in our belief that we can know what heroism looks like, a heroism that displays the good that would oppose their unrighteousness. In a world without any moral certitude or any agreed upon system to define true virtue, what is wickedness anyhow? It would be just a matter of perspective.

In this light, we see that stories like this tell us a lot more about the storyteller than they actually do about good or evil. 

One dragon story that takes a more serious approach to the topic was based on Fred Saberhagen's Swords books, which I discussed here last year. An Armory of Swords features stories by other writers about what happened to various normal people whose lives were touched by the mighty god-forged Swords that were circulating the world. In "Dragon Debt" by Robert E. Vardeman, my favorite story in the collection, a young man comes into possession of Dragonslicer, the Sword of Heroes... and also a small, helpless baby dragon. A moral dilemma ensues in which the stakes are not small. 

The point of dragons is that they're dangerous, and dealing with them requires valor, not tea and cookies. Pretending they are all nice and lovely is just pretending that there is nothing really dangerous in the world, which we know is false. As C.S. Lewis wrote in the essay "On Three Ways of Writing for Children," "Since it is so likely that they will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage. Otherwise you are making their destiny not brighter but darker."

Meanwhile, the librarian type in the meme above are the sort who expect their native goodness to make everyone but the genuinely evil side with them -- and when people don't, they go on TikTok demanding the ruin of their lives. 

I've had it with dragons, but when the one pictured above turns on his bookworm buddies and eats them, I will offer him a mild nod. Not that I want the wicked dragon to win, but smugness and stupidity must be punished if we're to understand why these are bad things. 

I need a montage.

I need a montage. 

It's Saturday, and I have three projects running that have me stressed. Two are copyediting jobs that also light fact-checking (for some values of "light"). Suffice it to say, if an error gets past me, many people among the readers will know it, and I am going to be in huge trouble with the publishers of these books. The third job is short, for a young audience, and is so poorly written that I'm concerned about how to get it to make sense without also making an enemy for life with the author and editor. I am paralyzed with anxiety and annoyance (anxioyance?).

So I need a montage. 

At this point in a movie or TV show, a friend or new acquaintance would enter my life and give me some words of direction or encouragement. As the light of hope and resolve comes back into my eyes, the opening chords of an upbeat pop hit are heard. Then, with the music overlaid loudly, I am shown in various scenes hammering away at the jobs, maybe with a few comical cuts (going for coffee, pencils breaking, Post-its being posted, going for more coffee, pounding the keyboard, looking through enormous books of facts, crawling for more coffee). It looks rough, but after two minutes the music is over and I'm DONE! 

That's the important bit -- being done. The audience doesn't need to go through all that stuff because it's boring and hard, and no one goes to the movies for homework. But without a montage for my life, I have to go through the boring and hard stuff. So I need some serious film editing. 

Well, some people still say that when you're in danger of death, your life passes before your eyes. I certainly hope that the boring parts are edited out -- unless of course that keeps the life-passing-by stage running longer, giving me more time to be rescued. "We thought we'd lost him, but he was rewatching the time he had to edit an encyclopedia of the Eisenhower administration, and that bought us some time!" 

Could be. That was a huge project.

Twisted!

A lot of writers don't plot out their books. They just go with the flow. Whatever feels right at the moment in the story, go with it. 

There's definitely a plus to that kind of thinking -- you never worry if your book is getting bogged down in the dull part, because you can always just throw in a 'splosion or reveal a character thought dead or, as Raymond Chandler said, "When in doubt have a man come through a door with a gun in his hand." Thus the Rule of Cool maintains -- it doesn't have to make sense, it just has to grab the audience. 

But let's look at this more closely, especially at the Chandler quote. Thanks to the invaluable Quote Investigator, we have context for that line: 

In April 1950 Raymond Chandler published an essay titled “The Simple Art of Murder” in a magazine called the “Saturday Review of Literature”, and he reflected on his background as an author in pulp magazines of the 1920s and 1930s. The tales about police officers, journalists, and detectives sometimes lacked realism Chandler said because they occurred during a compressed time-frame and involved an artificially close-knit group of people.

And the Chandler excerpt that contains the famous quote: 

...the demand was for constant action and if you stopped to think you were lost. When in doubt have a man come through a door with a gun in his hand. This could get to be pretty silly but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. A writer who is afraid to over-reach himself is as useless as a general who is afraid to be wrong.

So it's very tempting to throw in a plot twist just to liven things up, catch the reader unaware. It unquestionably generates interest. Unfortunately, it also can generate a huge plot problem. 

Fans of the original Dallas were stunned with the dead Bobby Ewing turned up at the end of season eight, quite alive... But how? When viewers found out the past season had been all a dream, and how it messed with continuity going forward, well, let's say that for the show's sake it was good that the Internet had not been invented yet. Still, the show, which had been in decline, managed to continue on for a total of fourteen seasons, so maybe the cool plot twist worked, even though it never made any sense. 

Personally, I like stories that make sense. Sure, I read a lot of nonsensical stuff, but that's different -- you don't expect sense from wacky comedy. But from crime stories, I think the reader definitely wants reason. Part of the appeal, even for books that are very dark, is that the reader can understand what and why. Throwing in crazy twists that cause the plot to fall apart ultimately annoys the reader. 

And that's the thing -- the reader trusts the writer with his time and interest, and he expects the plot to be coherent even if dislikes how it plays out. Most people would rather hear a song or a concerto that was written and rehearsed, not an open-ended guitar or sax solo that wanders around for half an hour and just ends when the cocaine wears off. 

I do plot my stuff out in advance, but I often find that things don't work as I planned when I get into the meat of the thing. For example, seeing everything play out, I can find that what looked like a secret to the characters in the outline would look completely obvious to the characters when enacted on the stage. Then it's back to the ol' drawing board. 

And this is one writer working on one project. You see movies that seem to have more screenwriters and script doctors than cast members -- how can they not screw up the plot? All those cooks throwing lasagna noodles and herring and chocolate icing into the project? Too many cooks spoil the plot, no question. 

Comedy and shame.

So what does this 1984 film have to do with our current moment?

Eh, I don't know. 

No, seriously, hold on. First, I want to say that I have never seen any of the Police Academy movies, which is strange because when I was a teenager it was exactly the kind of movie that I would have been coerced into seeing, most certainly on video, on some random summer day when none of my friends had any better ideas. But somehow I dodged that bullet. Not to pick on the movie -- some actors and comics I respect were in it -- but I had always heard it was about a lowbrow as you could get. 

Here I am, writing about it all the same. What happened was, I was reading through some cinema history and found out -- which I don't think I knew -- that Alan Ladd's son, Alan Ladd Jr., was a movie producer. He produced Police Academy. Then he won an Oscar as a producer on Braveheart. He also produced The Brady Bunch Movie. Cinema is the weirdest business on earth.

That made me curious enough about the original Police Academy to go to Wikipedia and the entry on the movie. I also discovered that in 2016, Bill Clinton copped to loving the series, saying of his marriage: 

“We rarely disagreed on parenting, although she did believe that I had gone a little over the top when I took a couple days off with Chelsea to watch all six Police Academy movies back-to-back.”

I don't know how I missed this quote in 2016, but it might have gone over my head because I hadn't seen the movies. I just figured they were dumb fun. 

But it was Bill, so I should have known better. 

I knew full well that it was movie law in the early 1980s that every comedy had to have a hooker in it. So of course Bill Clinton would love those movies. In the first picture the Mandatory Hooker commits fellatio from inside a lectern on a man giving a speech before a large crowd. Twice.

And he watched this with his daughter? 

Picturing the heartfelt lesson there: "Remember, sweetheart, this is how a woman gets ahead. And the man she loves, too, come to think of it." 

Do you think those scenes were ever on Bill Clinton's mind when he was doing one of his heartfelt addresses to the American public? 

This was the man who turned the Oval Office into the Oral Office, let us not forget.

Which brings us to the present moment. 

First, I learned that the inspiration for the film came from an actual event in San Francisco, where a motley crew of academy cadets were trying and failing to secure a film site. Producer Paul Maslansky was told that the police academy had to accept all applicants, however ludicrous, and keep them until they quit or officially washed out. And that made me think of the current lawlessness in San Francisco and the desperation of our cities to get anyone to join the police force after so many experienced cops quit or retired during the Defund Police nonsense of recent memory. 

Also in San Francisco, although not as mayor until 1996, was Willie Brown, without whose help and guidance none of us would have ever heard the name Kamala Harris. And indeed, Ms. Harris seemed to take the role of Mandatory Hooker in this little comedy, using her wiles to advance her career as a prosecutor in the state of California. Ferocious ambition and courtesan skills are an odd but not unheard of combination. But even Willie thinks she's out of her depth. I say she's in so far over her head she'll need a bathysphere to speak at the convention next month. 

Anyway, there it is -- sex, politicians, hookers, poor parenting choices, bad police recruiting, and comedy. Many people have been saying that the 80's movie that we should be scared of seeing in real life is The Terminator, with all the AI stuff around. But it actually turned out to be Police Academy. 

Fluff lies bleeding.

I haven't seen all the Toy Story movies, but if they wanted to do a real horror show, they should make one from the vantage of dog toys. 

Izzy does enjoy ripping the fluff out of toys. If it's got a squeaker, he's going to get it out -- and then the squeaker must be carefully removed from his mouth, or he will keep munching it until it stops making noise. Die, squeaky heart! He might swallow it, which would be bad.

We really don't want the dog to swallow the squeaker, but it's instinct. He's a retriever by breeding and nature, so his job is to go get the duck and, if the duck still shows signs of life, to break or chomp its neck and put it out of its misery. Since I'm not a hunter, he only gets to do this to his toys. And do it he does. 

He's not as bad as his late uncle, Nipper, the legendary destroyer of toys. Nipper was once known as the Alexander the Great of dogs by tackling his personal Gordian Knot the same way Alexander did his -- direct action and ruthless efficiency.  

Tralfaz was less of a menace to toys. He would destroy them, but just incidentally because he was so big and strong. A few he did not wreck; he was a bit attached to a crunchy Mickey Mouse toy that he would groom, licking and pawing it. Gotta clean up Mickey's act. We had to keep Mickey away from Nipper or he would rip up his brother's favorite toy. 

Izzy has the Nipper instincts, and most toys don't last long around him unless he doesn't like them. Still, I would hate to see what would happen to Woody and Buzz if Izzy got hold of them. It would make the weird neighbor kid's bedroom of toy horrors in the first picture look like a day at the beach. 

Living the dream.

The American Dream has become one of the most misunderstood parts of the American Mythos, nearly always represented as selfish, soured, a nightmare hiding beneath a shiny gloss.  

The term dates back to 1900 and is described aptly by Webster's as "an American social ideal that stresses egalitarianism and especially material prosperity." So let's have a look at what the dream is really all about. 

1. Prosperity 

Often the American Dream is stated as "Work hard and you'll get rich," but that's twisting it, either to benefit those who sucker you or those who know that riches are rare and so disappointment will follow. 

Prosperity, on the other hand, is nothing more than a good living, a fair reward for one's work. Since so many people who came to the United States came from places that still had a feudal mindset, in which the efforts of the many only really meant prosperity for the few, this was and is a big deal. Even today, in places where slavery and serfdom are supposedly banished, people still can't achieve prosperity from their own labor because they live in crooked kleptocracies, low-trust societies that are all about theft, bribery, and using the law to steal from everyone. Corruption is the only means to rise from poverty.

We're supposed to be a nation ruled by laws, not men, and this is why. No one ever gets a fair shake when the law is merely a tool for those in power -- which is quite what many people in America are trying to do today.

2. Freedom

Prosperity means freedom from the tyranny of need. Noted French jerk Jean-Jacques Rousseau famously wrote, "Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains."

Oh, really? 

"Okay, baby, you're free! Here you go!" [chucks baby on lawn]

The chains to which all people are born are nature and necessity; only a baby born able to walk and eat grass and survive naked could be free as Rousseau demands. I never met a baby human yet who fit that description. 

But the American Dream promises a chance to not have to live under the shadow of terrible need, of hunger and exposure lurking daily outside the window. This is a far cry from promising mansions and yachts to everyone, but to my family who came over here from Europe, it was a huge improvement. They never expected Uncle Sugar to provide them with ease and comfort, just protection from lawbreakers and a chance to earn a fair wage. That was plenty to keep the wolf well away from the door. 

3. The Wealth Trap

The other proposed downside to the American Dream is meant to be the awful people who achieve it. Well, there we have to concede a point, if by those who achieve it we mean only the very wealthy, not the prosperous middle class. And yes, and they say on Instapundit, we currently have the worst ruling class in our history. Noblesse oblige is not considered their obligation for honor and generosity, but rather their responsibility to order the rest of us around. 

The rich are not usually concerned with the little people. We get in their way of them focusing on the ones they really hate -- the richer people. The guy a little farther up the hill who looks down on them. 

And if you are one of these moneyed mooks, you have a lot of incentive to hate everyone. People are always looking to separate you from your dough; you have no peace. For the type who holds the keys to the kingdom -- say, a repulsive, horrible creep who produces movies -- it must seem natural to demand humiliating services from those hoping you will unlock the door to fame and fortune.

And even if the rich can avoid all these temptations of pride, lust, envy, and so on, there's something about avarice that takes on its own life -- the hunger grows with the eating. 

Notice how well all these descriptions jibe with those in America's entertainment industry, the source of much disparagement of the middle class and the American Dream. They like to make the American Dream look bad, in their own actions and in their media, then take it out on the rest of us. It's America's fault! 

4. The Dream Is Good

The American Dream is still good, still right, and not to be disparaged because it sometimes fails, or because we fail it. It is not a promise, far less a guarantee. It is aspirational. It ought not to consume us, but encourage us. It ought not to be the whole aim of society, but a society that is rightly ordered makes it possible. It is still a dream wherein a people with no tribe more important than being Americans can look one another in the eye; where, as Joseph says in the series Jesus of Nazareth, "A man who's skillful in his work will stand before kings." 

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.  

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.) 

Whole lotta love?

How well we remember the words of the Impressive Clergyman on that grand and popular topic, marriage:

Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder today. Mawage, that bwessed awangment, that dweam wifin a dweam... And wuv, tru wuv, will fowow you foweva... So tweasure your wuv.

But what is true love, anyway? 

I ask because the question has been lingering in the air since the push began for same-sex marriage throughout the West. Years ago Canadian genius Mark Steyn predicted that this would lead to successful pushes for marriages among multiple partners, as once you start redefining that holy state, there's no natural stopping point. That no argument for same-sex marriage could not also be made also for bigamy, incest, and other such things.

I expected Steyn was right, but the push in the United States for bigamy has kind of stalled. Sure, there's been some desensitization going on -- favorable press for its practitioners ("thruples" and the like), stupid shows like Sister Wives on the Freak Channel TLC -- but it just doesn't seem to be catching on. I think it's more of an issue in Steyn's other home of England, where more of the hordes spilling over the border are Muslims. And the reason that's a big issue is that families with a dad and thirteen moms can apply for vast welfare benefits. Dad is, after all, unlikely to make enough money to pay for his brood of thirty-four children on his own, so the British taxpayer must step in.  

At least that's the state of play these days, and I wonder if bigamy will really be the bridge too far, or at least the bridge too far for now. After all, science fiction writers like Robert Heinlein had predicted future states with marriages among multitudes decades ago. Then again, the more Heinlein I read in my youth, the more I got to think that he'd want any kind of future that would assure him a constant supply of broads for his boudoir. 

On the other hand, long before Heinlein, science fiction writer Jules Verne had something to say about bigamy, although not in one of his futuristic novels. Around the World in Eighty Days is a great book, fast-paced and fun. We in America tend to forget that what made the improbable wager of Phileas Fogg possible when the book saw print in 1872 was the completion of many great railroads -- including the completion in the United States of the Transcontinental Railroad just three years earlier. Because of that, Fogg was able to board a train in San Francisco and cross the continent (with some adventures along the way) to New York City in a week.

The reason I bring up that particular book is a scene that's always stuck with me, when Fogg and his French manservant Passepartout arrive in Utah. Following a short note on the polygamous rules among the Mormons of the time, our heroes pop into Salt Lake City to take in the sights: 

Passepartout could not behold without a certain fright these women, charged, in groups, with conferring happiness on a single Mormon. His common sense pitied, above all, the husband. It seemed to him a terrible thing to have to guide so many wives at once across the vicissitudes of life, and to conduct them, as it were, in a body to the Mormon paradise with the prospect of seeing them in the company of the glorious Smith, who doubtless was the chief ornament of that delightful place, to all eternity. He felt decidedly repelled from such a vocation, and he imagined—perhaps he was mistaken—that the fair ones of Salt Lake City cast rather alarming glances on his person.

Surprising that a Frenchman would be so frightened of the idea of multiple ladies at his beck and call? But Passepartout, like Sancho Panza, is a most levelheaded sidekick, and aware of the many possible downsides of a family with that many wives. 

Then, this:

At four the party found themselves again at the station, took their places in the train, and the whistle sounded for starting. Just at the moment, however, that the locomotive wheels began to move, cries of “Stop! stop!” were heard.

Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one. The gentleman who uttered the cries was evidently a belated Mormon. He was breathless with running. Happily for him, the station had neither gates nor barriers. He rushed along the track, jumped on the rear platform of the train, and fell, exhausted, into one of the seats.

Passepartout, who had been anxiously watching this amateur gymnast, approached him with lively interest, and learned that he had taken flight after an unpleasant domestic scene.

When the Mormon had recovered his breath, Passepartout ventured to ask him politely how many wives he had; for, from the manner in which he had decamped, it might be thought that he had twenty at least.

“One, sir,” replied the Mormon, raising his arms heavenward—“one, and that was enough!”

Ah, mawage! A dweam wifin a dweam. 

Willy Wrongka.

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I hate Willy Wonka. I don't know why others like him so much. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory scared the hell out of me as child when we read it in second grade, and the Gene Wilder movie was even worse.

That new Wonka movie that came out last year seemed to make a pretty good bit of money ﹘ $511 million worldwide against a $125 million budget, according to Wikipedia, And yet Kellogg's went with O.G. Wonka on its Froot Loops tie-in. 

Why? Did Timothee make a separate deal with General Mills? 

Poor Post -- stuck with the Johnny Depp Wonka.

My wife thinks I'm nuts for disliking the Gene Wilder movie, but she didn't grow up being told she was a spoiled brat all the time. I was certain that if Wonka lured me into and trapped me in his awful factory, I'd wind up squirrel food, or drowned in chocolate, or turned into a giant cantaloupe, or suffer some other bizarre and cruel fate. And my parents would figure I had it coming. Well, he was a spoiled brat.

Nothing against Wilder, mind you, who did a great job in the movie, and most assuredly has had a great post-life career as Wonka in the wide world of memes. For example:

Wonka has gotten far removed in many ways from Dahl's conception, I guess. And yet, while I have heard word-banning idiots want to alter his text so they can continue to milk it for dough without offending anyone (except, I guess, oversensitive kids like I was), I suppose the books will be with us for some time. 

Author Roald Dahl made a fortune writing children's books, but I think he despised children. However, I think he despised adults more. He killed enough of them in his stories for grown-ups (although "Lamb to the Slaughter" seems to be the only one of those anyone reads anymore) and I suppose he killed a few of them IRL as a fighter pilot in the war. He won three Edgar Awards for his mystery stories, and hosted a show called Tales of the Unexpected, which ran in the US in syndication. It was an anthology show that featured adaptations of adult mystery and crime stories by him and other writers like Robert Bloch and Saki.  

A couple of years before he died, Kingsley Amis wrote his Memoirs, which in addition to telling his own story devoted chapters to various people including other writers. It was an excellent job of dumping a chamber pot over the heads of his fellows as he headed for the final curtain, very much in Amis style. Roald Dahl gets his own chapter--he had died in 1990, a year before Memoirs came out. 

Amis describes the fabulously wealthy Dahl descending in a helicopter at a Tom Stoppard house party in Iver. This was the 1970s, when Dahl's kids' books were at their hottest and he flush with Hollywood cash. It was the only time Amis recalls meeting the man. 

     "What you want to do," he said, "is write a children's book. That's where the money is today, believe me." ("Today," as I said, was quite some time back.)
     "I wouldn't know how to set about it."
     "Do you know what my advance was on my last one?" When he found I did not, in fact had no idea, he told me. It certainly sounded like a large sum. 
     "I couldn't do it," I told him again. "I don't think I enjoyed children's books much when I was a child myself. I've got no feeling for that kind of thing."
     "Never mind, the little bastards'd swallow it."
     Many times in these pages I have put in people's mouths approximations to what they said, what they might well have said, what they said at another time, and a few almost-outright inventions, but that last remark is verbatim.    

Seems like a long way from Dahl to Froot Loops, but frankly, I have found most British authors of the twentieth century to be rather Froot Loops in various ways. So maybe not such a stretch.

About town.

Just a couple of holiday-related visions for you on this Monday morning, to give you the oomph to get through the next three days. You're welcome!

 

Bat Tree

In the dark of the morning I was walking golden Izzy, America's Sweetheart, and while he was sniffing about I did similarly with photons, which is to say I looked up into the tree with the headlamp on my forehead. There was this small Batman-themed bag, about ten feet off the ground, just hanging there like a hornet's nest. I was and am mystified by it. It looks too small to be a kid's schoolbag, too childlike to be a mom's miscellanea bag, too difficult to operate to be a Halloween candy bag, too landlubbery to be a sailor's ditty bag. What could it be? What's in it? I'll bet Catwoman is involved. She probably stole it from Bruce and got stuck up in the tree.  

Barbie vs. Minions

It's time for the gingerbread house kits again, and of course even they have to be branded now with pop culture-themed crap. I suspect there might be a Star Wars (TM) Death Star gingerbread house out there somewhere. My wife and I will have more than enough cookies around without gingerbread, but out of curiosity I asked which of these would appeal to her. She loves the Minions, but she was a Barbie girl throughout childhood, and has even made it a point to give Barbie dolls to girls whose moms were reluctant to introduce their daughters to the world of everyone's favorite toy blonde. To my surprise, though, she liked the Minions kit better. She just thinks they are a hoot.  

Early to Decor

Friday was probably the last day we'll have in the sixties for four months, so a few people around here took advantage and did their outdoor decoration. I've never seen so many people decorate for Christmas before Thanksgiving. Maybe they have in the past, but they didn't turn the lights on so I couldn't see them. 

Gator? Later

On the topic of seasonal inappropriateness: I knew exactly what this was from a ways off -- an alligator-shaped pool float. The property on which he reposed has no swimming pool. I can only suppose the wind carried him to this resting spot. People, take care of your gators and your gators will take care of you. Didn't we all learn that in first grade? 

Meanwhile, Back at the Wire

Remember this?

Two days after I put in the call, the power company got back to me. I was wrong, people! (Yes, it is possible!) This is a phone line, not a power line. Not that that makes it okay for the wire to dangle down to head level. So now I have to call the phone company. The adventure continues, and you can bet I'll milk a blog entry out of it keep you informed of further developments.  

AI yi yi yi yi.

Movie plots are strange, sad beasts. 

When films were more formulaic, they were sad because they were predictable. Like: Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back. Murder is discovered and clues are unearthed to solve the mystery. Bad boy meets good girl and reforms. Party sets out and overcomes deadly obstacles to achieve goal. 

Then the plots got tortured to upend the expectations of the viewers. The cop is bad! The father is bad! The mother is bad! The bum is good! And eventually you'd know that the cop was the bad guy and the useless bum the good guy within five minutes, because the upended expectation was the new norm.

Then they got mangled because filmmakers were so in love with visuals that they threw the plot into the toilet and flushed and plunged until it went away. "We need a volcano to erupt here!" "Everyone should fall out the twelfth-story window and punch on the way down and survive!" "Wouldn't it be awesome if the moon exploded?" 

If that isn't enough, test audiences were brought in to torture the plot some more. Don't let the couple break up! Don't kill the boy! Don't kill the dog! Don't let the bad guy get away! Don't let baby Ashton strangle himself to death in the womb! (Hey, I didn't say the test audiences were all wrong.)

But why screw these things up on our own, when we can get technology to do it for us? 

If you look at startups these days, it's all AI, all the time. But I was still surprised when a friend pointed out a company called StoryFit, a Texas-based (do I have to say Austin?) company that aims to take your script and use artificial intelligence to make it awesome. 

"StoryFit's AI technology platform helps you understand the true value of your story and how to best reach your audience."

"StoryFit brings together insightful perspectives, industry expertise, and content analytics from our team of thought leaders to help you stay ahead of the curve in the ever-evolving world of storytelling."

"Learn how StoryFit champions creatives by helping them uncover white spaces for creative development, understand story elements that make their content special, and position their stories in the best places to succeed. By measuring thousands of story elements across thousands of stories, StoryFit expands creativity into new dimensions."

“We created 100s of proprietary models to measure 100,000+ story components matched against millions of audience data points to create the best possible opportunity for success.”

So, this is kind of depressing. 

First off, stories are human things if they're any good. Who needs artificial intelligence monkeying around with human storytelling? If we can't think up decent stories on our own (and, Hollywood aside, I think we still can), then can we even enjoy good stories anymore? Are we eager to kick experience and inspiration to the curb in exchange for machine learning?

In some golden age science fiction worlds, people were freed from drudgery by Science! and allowed to devote themselves to arts and other creative endeavors. So now the computers have to take that away too? Aren't professional writers already panicking enough about losing their jobs to AI? Yes, the stuff produced by computers is lousy so far, but thanks to companies like StoryFit it's going to get better. Will it matter that the Writers' Guild settled its strike if the writers will be erased anyway?

It’s depressing, therefore, because it reminds us how much our popular culture sucks, how much intellectual space we're giving over to computers, and how quickly we're racing to make our species obsolete. 

The people at StoryFit seem nice enough, but I really can't wish them well. If we can't tell good stories without computer aid, we ought to stop entirely. If we're that creatively bankrupt, we're done. 

Bad movie saints.

Movies often are appealing because we find characters with whom we can identify. Sometimes they are not the main characters, who are handsome or powerful or gorgeous or resourceful or in incredible shape or witty or really have a lot going for them. I mean the second bananas, or maybe third or even further back in the bunch. Sure, they're Hollywood characters, so they're probably still not awful to look at, but they're not the star, are they? (Although the star could be someone like noted Italian-American homunculus Joe Pesci, so who can say?) One thing, though, is that precious few characters in the movies would ever be considered for sainthood.

The Church often calls upon us, especially at Confirmation, to identify with a saint, someone of extraordinary virtue with whom we may still find some fellowship. We hope this will inspire us to seek out virtue ourselves, such as the Seven Cardinal Virtues (prudence, justice, temperance, and courage plus the three theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity), as well as the 12 Fruits of the Holy Spirit. 

Well, movie characters with whom we identify are not always going to have those virtues, or maybe any at all in a generous supply. And yet we can learn from them, even if they would make lousy saints. Plus, they always wind up helping the good guys. So allow me to present a few Lousy Movie Saints for your consideration. Devotions not encouraged.   

St. Cleo McDowell of the Rival Hamburger
Patron of Small Business Owners
Known for: Dedication, hard work, directness,
paternal love
A real David-vs.-Goliath story, with a man who
appreciates royalty

St. Samir Nagheenanajar the Long-Suffering
Patron of Victims of Office Machinery
Known for: Intelligence, love of justice
Appreciates how the Evil One uses things against us;
not afraid to fight 

[see also: St. Female Temp, Patroness of Mondays]

St. Mona Lisa Vito the Handy
Patroness of Classic Car Mechanics
Known for: Mental endurance, intelligence, fortitude, courage
Sees the beauty in others that others do not -- like a broken-down
Thunderbird covered in dents and rust

St. Jack Butler the Unemployed
Patron of Stay-at-Home Dads
Known for: Prudence, chastity, paternal love
A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do -- even if it means
resisting the gorgeous Ann Jillian

St. Mongo of Rock Ridge
Patron of Big Galoots 
Known for: Strength, humility
Maybe not the sharpest hammer in the icebox,
but shows how a little love and candy (and dynamite)
can turn a sinner away from bad

So there's a starter set. As I say, they're all lacking in attributes one would expect to see among the holy, but they all help out our heroes, so there's definitely a lot to like here. And definitely a lot with which to identify. 

We've got a Godzilla for sale.

Thinkin' about Godzilla. 

I don't believe I've ever seen a full Godzilla movie. By the time I came along they had gotten pretty silly. The original 1954 Toho movie was pretty damn dark -- Godzilla's ruin of Tokyo would have revived some horrible memories for audiences who had lived through the real thing, with Allied firebombing less than ten years earlier. The Operation Meetinghouse bombing of March 9 through 10, 1945, "is the single most destructive bombing raid in human history," according to Dr. Wikipedia. And yet people packed the theaters in Tokyo to see Godzilla (or, as he was known then, Gojira) destroy the city all over again. 

I've written before how seeing the destruction of midtown Manhattan in The Avengers in 2012 was hardly entertaining to me, having been in midtown on September 11 while my wife was downtown. I wondered about all the non-player characters in all the buildings who were getting obliterated or crippled for life. Previous superhero movies had been all about preventing horrific damage to innocents; this one felt like it was reveling in it, and less than 11 years after the terrorist attacks. 

But no one else seemed to be bothered, so I guess I'm just a little delicate little lotus flower, too good for this world. I haven't bothered with any other superhero movies since the first Guardians of the Galaxy. Don't even mention the word Transformers to me.  

For high-body-count entertainment, though, Godzilla is king of the destroyers. When the children of the original Japanese audiences got older, Toho found that they loved Godzilla, and so movies got geared to younger viewers and it showed. Sure, cities and irreplaceable landmarks and presumably thousands of people got killed, but it was fun! There was even a promotion to design a robot for 1973's Godzilla vs, Megalon. The winning entry was Jet Jaguar! And you can't blame the kid who won for the name, because Jet Jaguar was the name the studio gave the robot. 

Come on, people now, smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another right now

I've never even seen the entire Mystery Science Theater episode that covered that picture. 

Some of my friends were big fans of the Godzilla and Godzilla-adjacent movies, which typically ran on ABC's famous 4:30 Movie, films for post-school kids cut in half and run over two days. ABC seemed to program for boys -- it would always be kaiju movies or the Planet of the Apes or low-budget horror films or the 1966 Batman movie or the like. I don't think I had the patience for movies in those days. I could sit through hours of TV, don't get me wrong, but in 30-minute segments, please. 

These days ol' Lizard Eye is back and bigger than ever. (A friend of mine in college always wanted to make a Godzilla movie where the Big G would go up against a bunch of hillbillies who called him "ol' Lizard Eye.") I'm told that in the new films from Legendary Pictures, the good humans want to find a way to coexist with all the giant monsters. Seems like a pretty tall order to me. Every time one of the damn things sneezes, a billion dollars of infrastructure goes up in flames. This is why we can't have nice things! 

I will say this for Godzilla -- he inspired a pretty great song by Blue Öyster Cult. With a riff reminiscent of Godzilla's scream, a thumping drum footstep, and verse hammered out in iambic tetrameter, it's irresistible. 

I just don't find fun in death and destruction. But there will always be those who love the Big G, and good for them. Just don't get stepped on.