Labels

Must remember to put labels on my posts.

Two Unrelated Thoughts

1) Even though I've been single for a while, I'm kind of hoping I don't have a girlfriend in the spring so I don't have to see the Sex and the City movie.

2) If you can judge a man by the CVS Pharmacy ExtraCare coupons that are printed at the bottom of his receipt, then I'm a guy who shaves, and is really into over-the-counter painkillers.

The I.R.S.

When I was a senior in high school, I drove over the hill three times a week to take calculus at UCLA. At Yale, I was an economics major, studying with a Nobel Prize winner, while simultaneously taking classes at the grad school. In my lean years as a writer, I worked for an old time Hollywood business manager, paying bills for the widow of Edgar Bergen and painstakingly balancing the books of Irene Dunne to the penny, a solid five years after her death. My claim to fame in sitcom writers rooms used to be doing complex calculations in my head. So when I'm audited by the IRS, my warm welcoming reaction, spirit of fellowship and love of numbers often catches my examiner off guard.

In 2002, I was living in Napa but working in Los Angeles. The fact I was paying an agent ten percent of my income was an anomaly in Vallejo, so something in a computer got tripped, and I was called in for questioning. I brought boxes and stories and all the time in the world. I helpfully double checked the calculations in my head, gently correcting the examiner when he veered off course. The IRS ended up owing me money.

The next year, they brought me in again. The IRS owed me money again.

Supposedly if the IRS audits you two years in a row and doesn't find anything, they can't audit you the next year. Can this be true? In any event, they left me alone until a few months ago. The crazy thing this time is that I'd paid the alternative minimum tax for the year they were asking about; my tax was going to be the same either way. But when I called in to the IRS regional office in Ogden, Utah and explained the situation, they were adamant that the audit had to go through as scheduled. But it won't change anything, I told the agent. You never know, sometimes something comes out a little different, the agent insisted. It can't, I said, it's an alternative minimum, that's the whole point--all my deductions could be disallowed, it wouldn't matter. Let's see what happens, the agent ventured.

Here's what happened: I didn't owe anything. And I'm ready to go double or nothing.

The Millionaire Matchmaker

There's a new show on Bravo about a dating service for rich men. I've checked it out a couple times, and it's pretty watchable. Patti, the matchmaker, isn't content to just set people up, she needs to fundamentally change the flawed millionaires, bringing in teams of experts, as necessary. She's personally offended when these men can't set aside their childish dreams and make a commitment to the first woman Patti haphazardly throws into a meet and greet party. Sometimes Patti adds one of her assistants to the mix at the last minute, in a clear panic move, blurring all boundaries personal and professional to get the requisite six women per millionaire. You never know where love will take root, Patti justifies wildly.

This week's hapless victims were an old rocker with the last name Bodean who wasn't in the BoDeans and an oddly formal man named Julien. Jeff needed to throw away some of his magician style clothes and shave. That's what the emergency stylist Patti brought in had to say, tough love style. Julien had to learn about human interaction in its most basic form, as if for the first time. And it had to happen by his date with Jacqueline.

Patti set Julien up with a relationship coach, his first time in therapy, and the results were impressive. He didn't get the girl but he did approximate a normal conversation, which was progress, and by the end of the episode he'd decided to spend some of his money and move out of his shitty place in Pasadena, the one that had led Patti to exclaim with disgust, upon driving up for their initial meeting, "this isn't a millionaire."

Jeff Bodean had a dream date, showing off his weird life, split uncomfortably between Los Angeles and Santa Rosa. But he didn't call her right away after. And Patti went off on him! It wasn't the clothes or the beard or the schedule--now she knew why he was divorced. It was because he kept pulling this shit. Jeff eyed her angrily, knowing she was right. There was real heat between them. For a brief moment, I thought love might take root.

Verizon Customer Service

This post was supposed to be about Canada, and the title of the post was going to be O, Canada. I'm in Victoria, in British Columbia. The company I work for (Perforce) has an office in Victoria and I've been working long-distance with the people here for the last nine months or so. I've been thinking about making a temporary move here, and today I met with Jason, the guy who runs the Victoria office, and we set a date. June 1. I'll be staying for four to six months to start, and who knows, I may wind up staying longer or even permanently.

So I'm all excited about this, and also pretty nervous. That's what this post was going to be about. I was going to start with my excitement and nervousness, and segue into some pithy stories about my interactions with Canadians. I was going to illustrate the post with a photo I took from my hotel window of the British Columbia capital building, all lit up like a Christmas tree. I took the photo on my cell phone, and it looks pretty good on the tiny cell phone screen.

But then I tried to send the photo to myself, at my email address, so I could post it to Salt in Wound. But it wouldn't send; all I could get was a message that says something like "Photo transmission failed". So I called Verizon customer service, and they were tenacious about trying to fix the problem to the point where it was almost ridiculous. The first woman I talked to had me punch in all sorts of secret codes (hint: if you press "Menu", then "0", and then "000000" you get a scary-looking Service Menu with all sorts of things in it that I don't want to go near). She talked me through that, and that didn't fix the problem, then she talked me through some other things, none of which worked. So then she transferred me to someone else with more expertise than her. After more than half an hour the new guy was still trying to talk me through possible fixes, to the point where I finally said, uh, look, this is great of you and all, but this isn't that important and tomorrow I can just get a SIM card and transfer the picture that way.

Oh - did I mention that they couldn't talk to me on my cell phone while I was trying these fixes, so they called me on the hotel phone at their own expense?

The point is: isn't Verizon customer service great? That's why this post is illustrated with Verizon's logo, and why this post is about them, and not about Canada.

State of the Union

The President is drunk and Dingell is dozing. Anyone else watching?

Answers to Your Pressing Questions

Frank's post reminded me that we do get some interesting search queries, so I'd like to help out a little.
Here goes...

Why put sugar in a wound rather than salt?

Well, I don't know why you'd put salt in a wound in the first place. I wouldn't put sugar in a wound either. I might put maggots in a wound, though.

What clothes should I pack for a 15 day cruise to Hawaii?

Well, this is a tough one. On these cruises, the entire focus of the day is the meals; particularly the dinners (and yes, you 'dress up' for them). You're basically going to be sitting on a boat all day gazing at melting ice sculptures and eating from chocolate fountains and panini stations. Are you sure you really want to do this?

What is the Chinese nail salon joke?

I have no idea.

Is Juno overscripted?

Hotdiggity flippin dog it is!

Should you put salt in wounds?

No. Nor sugar.

What is the salt for wound treatment?

Do not put salt in a wound. Use something else.

Comments of Ellen G. White about salt?

Ellen G. White (1827-1915) was a popular Seventh Day Adventist writer who penned, "Do not eat largely of salt."

And finally one of my own...

Should I buy one of those Amish heaters I saw in People magazine?

No! Don't do it!

Amish miracle heaters

This is a remarkable scam even by the feeble journalistic standards of Parade magazine: Amish-made portable fireplaces without any of the "flames, fumes, smells, ashes, or mess" of a real fireplace. And they're absolutely free if you call within 48 hours!

Needless to say, they are ordinary Chinese-made electric space heaters encased in a wooden box with flame artwork, and they're closer to $400 with shipping. Since thousands of customers will be fleeced by this offer in the weeks ahead, look for increased traffic on the blog as they begin to look for answers.

Knocked Up versus Superbad

I met Judd Apatow in 1997. I'd just written a script that he liked and ultimately helped me set up. The studio didn't meet his terms as a producer, so he ended up backing out of the deal, but he didn't do anything to screw it up for me. He was a class act.

At one point, he gently broached the subject of working on the script together, which I wasn't really into at the time. I was making my living writing for television, which was already way too collaborative for my taste. Judd was the opposite, he was wildly collaborative--he seemed to feed off of other people's creative energy. There was a ping pong table in his office. We never played.

What if I had? Would I be part of the incestuous band of comedy players churning out raunchy movies with heart that are called Judd Apatow movies no matter who made them? Would I be in the privileged position of a Seth Rogen or a Paul Rudd--close enough to Judd to be involved in all his projects, but not so close as to tell him he could cut forty minutes from Knocked Up, that it would come right out, he wouldn't even miss it?

Superbad is part of an evolution of Judd mentoring other people's work, starting with Paul Feig and Freaks and Geeks and continuing with me if I hadn't been in such a fucking hurry to get home. Knocked Up represents an effort to get in touch with his own point of view. Let's go to the scorecard.

Superbad made me laugh more, and I think a lot of that is because the supporting players are funnier. Seth Rogen is great as a lead in Knocked Up. He's even better in a smaller role in Superbad as part of an unbelievably surprising team of cops. David Krumholtz has a creepy cameo. And Christoper Mintz-Plasse is pure pleasure. Knocked Up has Paul Rudd and Leslie Mann in supporting roles, both fine actors who seem like they should be playing leads, it's a little sad that they're not. But that doesn't make them hilarious comic sidekicks.

In Knocked Up, the arguments between the main characters were irrational, never resolved, and then people apologized for no reason. In Superbad, the conflict is clear and poignant. It owes a debt to American Graffiti, a movie I like a lot. The fights are a bit repetitive but at least they're about something.

In Superbad, people are suddenly hit by fists, cars, or things about six too many times. You can't go back to the well that many times, you just can't, anyone on the picket line will tell you. And there's a horrible sequence about "period pants." But Knocked Up has Katherine Heigl, who I saw recently on Grey's Anatomy as I was changing channels and is currently in ads for 27 dresses all over the place. I can now confirm I hate her. Advantage: Superbad.

In Knocked Up, we're supposed to think it's funny when she thinks he's having an affair and it turns out to be a fantasy baseball draft. What could be less like an affair than a fantasy draft, I suppose the thinking went. Here's my thinking: you need twelve hours to get through two leagues, and even then you have to get lucky. There's nothing funny about an interruption. That's more about fantasy baseball, but it's been bugging me.

But maybe Superbad benefits most from the ages of the characters. They're supposed to be acting like idiots. The people in Knocked Up, it's just a little more gross. And there's a sameness to the ensemble. Maybe it's because of Judd's famous loyalty to his troop, but there's no room for someone who doesn't smoke pot from a beer can in a humorous way, there's no place for real difference, no voice of dissent. Maybe Judd needs someone a little more sour in his own life, the sort of person who doesn't want to hang out, someone willing to speak the truths that Martin Starr can not and will not speak.

What I'm trying to say is I'm bored and I'm available for ping pong. It's your serve, Judd.

Chasing That All-Important Youth Vote...

...Obama tries appealing to Juno's fan base.

Laundry Day

Just finished my laundry. I've been on an every-other-week system for years, and it works pretty nicely. For the past 7 years I've lived on the 4th floor of a building with a washer and dryer on the 1st floor. Before that I frequented a Laundromat (Merriam-Webster capitalizes it, not me) named "Suds N Sweat." Yes, that was the name. I'm pleased with the convenience of laundry within the building, though at first I missed the social aspect of the Laundromat. Not that I really ever spoke to anyone, but the possibility existed. Quirky single folk are always meeting up in Laundromats in movies and commercials. It only happened once for me, about 15 years ago: A girl and I recognized each other from high school—she was a year or 2 younger than me. We went out twice—saw Howard's End (all I remember is that a bookcase fell on some dude), and went to the Big Apple Circus. I had to buy everything, and it turned out she was a Republican. Probably should've only gone out once, but, you know, she was good-lookin'.

So, all in all, I prefer my current easy access to laundry. The only negatives:
1) Once in a while I'll schlep down the stairs only to find that one of the residents of the 8 other units in this building is already using the machines.
2) I have to wear pants for the entire hour-and-a-half of the laundry process, lest I creep out a neighbor.

A few months back, however, after a carbon-monoxide scare in our laundry room, our dryer was unplugged. We either had to replace it or revamp the exhaust tubing, and have it OK'd by the fire department. So now I had to wear pants and shoes, and walk a block to the nearest Laundromat. The weekend manager is a friendly, somewhat odd, disheveled fellow in his late 50's I'd guess. It's a small corner place, with 6 or 7 washing machines. Turner Classic Movies is usually on the TV, and the vending machine is woefully understocked except for a solid supply of peanut-butter crackers.

I can't say I talked to the guy much. One time, after a heavily-accented woman left the premises, he told me she'd been in the Olympics. Was going to race the 400 meters, but got injured.
"For Sweden?" I asked.
"She's Finnish," he answered.
"But she didn't finish," I said.
He liked that. He liked it a lot. "If we were doing better here, I'd give ya a free wash for that one," he told me. "But we're barely getting by."

Another time, he was talking to himself, making his shopping list. So as I left, I said, "Good luck with those green tomatoes." He got pensive and said, "I think I'll fry them up with some scrambled eggs and sausage." To which I replied, "That's sounds really good, actually." To that, he smiled, made a quick clucking sound and shot me a combined snap-and-point, kind of a modified Leather Tuscadero.

You'd be surprised how quickly you can become a regular someplace, even showing up only once every couple of weeks. I came by fairly early one Sunday and he greeted me with, "You're normally a late-afternoon guy. Probably didn't go out drinking last night, heh-heh." And though each time I left I told him I'd see him next time, I knew that at some point I'd be lying, because the next wash would be at home.

Soon enough, of course, our dryer was repaired, and I went back to doing laundry in the building. Still, I feel a little guilty. Does he wonder what happened to me? Does he think I'm some fancy condo jerk, too good for the corner laundry?

Or was I just another fistful of quarters.

Wash, dry...goodbye.

A Night at the Movies

Last night Bernie and I went out to the movies. I'm happier watching screeners here, but Bernie sometimes likes to go out, so we left Isa with the babysitter and off we went.

The theatre was fine. The floors had just been mopped, the screen was large and clean, and there was no chewed gum stuck visibly under any seats. The movie started, and then another couple sits right behind us. And they were both drinking sodas.

Yes. I understand that when people go to the movies, they sometimes drink soda. Of course. But this couple had ice in their soda. Not just one of of the couple - both of them. So the whole movie was accompanied by a cacophonous screeching of icebergs grinding together. It was like we were on the Titanic, but on the Titanic it only happened once. This was over and over again.

Some advice: if you want to drink soda in a movie, that's fine. Only ask for it without ice! Or, if you have to have ice, then leave two or three empty rows between yourself and the people in front of you. And if the theatre's full and you have to sit right behind someone, then sit behind people who have ice in their own drinks. Then the whole bunch of you can sit there drinking your sodas and jerking each other off for all I care.

Deluge

Last night, there was a tornado warning for our area. It's been raining a lot, and it will never cease to amaze me how Los Angelenos drive in the rain and flood conditions. My commute becomes quite hazardous on days like these. Part of the road I take is carved out of the side of a sheer cliff. In the rain all sorts of things can happen: mudslides, rocks falling down onto the road, trees falling off the cliffs to the road; or, in some cases below the road and taking the road with them. Maybe some of you remember the house-sized boulder that fell on the boulevard a few years ago. When Frank was here over the summer, he spied a "Save The Rock" poster, with a picture of the giant rock in the middle of the road.
"Were they serious?" he asked.
I had to think for a minute.
"I bet they were," I replied. Of course they would want to save the rock.

Diana Wolozin, meet Cathy Smith

Chauncey

I'm fairly convinced our dog, Chauncey, is even smarter than we give him credit for. I think this is true of all dogs. And it's a brilliant tactic on their part. By maintaining enough of the illusion of inferior intellect, they reap big rewards. Free room, free board, treats, walks, limitless cuddling sessions, and just an all around solid life situation.

Case in point: two nights ago I set out his dinner and cleaned out his water bowl, but in the rush to help with the other baby in the family (the inferior human) I forgot to refill the water bowl and set it out. Now, before you report me to PETA, he'd had water out the whole day, but like any dog of higher intellect he only tolerates bottled water -yes, we give him Arrowhead bottled water- and only considers it viable for about an hour after pouring, whereupon he deems it too contaminated with our house's airborne detritus to be potable. This is much smarter than I, who will sometimes grab a glass of unknown liquid off a table and take a sip just to test if it's old or still "good fer drinkin' and what not." Anyway, an hour or so later Amanda is already in bed, and I am doing the rounds, turning off lights and getting ready to hit the sack myself. There is only one last light to turn off, and it's in the baby's room. When I walk in I see Chauncey perched up on his hind legs on the rocking chair with his snout in the glass of water that Amanda had left on the side table after feeding the baby. He had seen her with that water earlier, I suppose, and registered it in his mind as a target for later. The sight of him in mid-discovery was quite surreal.

Now, if you're not as impressed with this as I, then let me tell you that this is a chair which Chauncey has pretended since the baby's birth to be intimidated by because of it's "scary movey thing that make Chauncey dog no understand!" When Amanda nurses the tyke in that chair he will feign fear and intimidation at trying to hop up and join her. All a ruse, I now see. A ruse to engender sympathy for his new lot in life as the second fiddle. Woe is me, I'm the dumb dog who my owners have thrown aside in favor of this much smarter thing with no fur. This little thing that... isn't potty trained like me, can't do multiple tricks on command, doesn't come when called like I do, can't move from one place to the other under her own power, and won't curl up on the couch by choice and rest her head on her parent's lap. No dice Chauncey. I'm not buying the victim thing here.

Yes, I forgot to set out your water. But as you clearly demonstrated, when not under the watchful eye of the parent bots, you are perfectly capable of handling that task. You just wouldn't want us to know that. Of course, I should mention that Chauncey didn't actually drink the water that was in that glass he had managed climb his way to. He was merely checking it with his snout for optimal freshness. It didn't meet his standards so I poured him a fresh bowl of Arrowhead Mountain Spring Water, which I'm sure was all part of his plan from the beginning.

When is a masseuse not a masseuse?

There are reports Heath Ledger's masseuse wasn't licensed. And the intial story noted she took a massage table out of the closet and set it up near the bed. What sort of masseuse doesn't bring her own table? What could she have been doing there that would have led her to panic and call Mary-Kate Olsen? And how do we know the massage table wasn't set up after the phone call?

Hollywood Almost Anagram

Paul Dano

Dana Plato

order of operations

You've all heard about Heath Ledger. He realized he was the fifth best Bob Dylan and went into a fatal spiral. So what's your first move if you find him clinging to life and time is of the essence? According to Perez Hilton, you call Mary-Kate Olsen:

A masseuse, Diana Wolozin, arrived to give Mr. Ledger a massage at about 2:45 p.m. At 3 p.m., after Mr. Ledger did not emerge from his bedroom, with the door closed, the masseuse called him on his cellphone but got no answer. She saw him laying in bed. She took a massage table out of the closet and began to set it up near his bed. She then went over to him and shook him, but got no response. Using his cellphone, she used a speed-dial button to call Mary-Kate Olsen in California to seek her guidance, knowing Ms. Olsen to be a friend of Mr. Ledger’s. She told Ms. Olsen that Mr. Ledger was unconscious. Ms. Olsen said she would call some private security people she knew in New York, and hung up. Ms. Wolozin again shook Mr. Ledger, called Ms. Olsen a second time, and said she believed the situation was grave and would call 911.

Finding him unconscious would have seemed grave to me. And this timeline makes no sense:

Ms. Wolozin called 911 at 3:26 p.m. to say that Mr. Ledger was not breathing. The call occurred less than 15 minutes since she had first seen him in bed and only a few moments after the first call to Ms. Olsen. The 911 operator urged Ms. Wolozin to try to revive Mr. Ledger, but Ms. Wolozin’s efforts were not successful.

In the end, we're left with a nightmarish vision of celebrity culture gone mad, one where pint sized wee talents command private security forces from across the country equal to those of the city of New York:

Emergency medical workers arrived at 3:33 p.m., at almost exactly the same moment as a private security guard summoned by Ms. Olsen. The medical workers moved his body to the floor and then used a defibrillator and CPR, to no avail. Mr. Ledger was pronounced dead at 3:36 p.m. By that point, two other private security guards summoned by Ms. Olsen had arrived, as had police officers.

So maybe Mary-Kate Olsen isn't such a bad person to call in a crisis after all.

John Bought Jelly

Sorry this is picture of two jars of jelly is blurry. I have an old camera (that would be three years old). I've always liked preserves, my mother used to make her own jellies and applesauces and also can peaches and tomatoes from our garden. An old friend from Pennsylvania sent me a jar of black raspberry jelly that one of her friends made; but Isa and I had finished it. Yesterday John asked if we wanted anything from the store. Some jelly, I told him, but only if it's something good.
John returned with the jar on the left, and I'll list the ingredients:
Grape juice
corn syrup
high fructose corn syrup
pectin
citric acid

Basically, John bought jelly with no fruit in it. Or sugar, the two ingredients I'd asked for.

The second one Isa and I got later tastes much better:
Raspberries
sugar
cane sugar
concentrated lemon juice
fruit pectin

A Salt In Wound Game

Lately when I read new posts (not comments, just posts), I keep the name of the author scrolled off the bottom of the screen. When I finish the post I try to guess who wrote it. Frank, your Gazetteers post was easy, but that's because Bernie loaned me your CD's (which I like very much). Chris, I'd thought John had written your Ringo post.

From this point forward, for a little while at least, I intend to comment on every post, saying who I'd thought wrote it. I'll do this until it becomes so obnoxious that I'm asked to stop, or until I get bored. You're welcome to join me!

The Gazetteers

Over the weekend, the Gazetteers recorded their third album. Our previous release, Landlocked!, was issued by the Salt in Wound "collective". This one features "Trapped Inside a Skill Crane", once performed at John and Bernie's wedding.

Ringo-ing, going, gone!

Apparently Ringo Starr walked off the set of Regis and Kelly due to a dispute over the length of a song he was to perform on the show. Ringo wanted to do the 3 minute version while show producer Gelman insisted on a 2 minute version. This resulted in the best of all solutions... the 0 minute version. I, for one, applaud Gelman's hard line in the sand on this. I think Ringo should be appreciative of any producer willing to subject his studio and TV audience to even two seconds of the discordant screechings of Mr. Starr.

Does anyone else have an aversion to Ringo's decades' long insistence on singing despite having one of the worst recorded voices in the history of music? I mean, "Octopus's Garden" I'll give you that one, but other than that, I'm out. I continue to be amazed that his Beatle fame alone has allowed him to keep grabbing mics anywhere and everywhere he wants and touring around the country. Please, someone enlighten me. I don't want to be hatin' on Ringo too much, but sometimes a drummer should just keep hitting the goatskins. I think... sheepskins? I don't know. I'm a karaoke guy, personally.

They Buried the Lead

When did Omar bin Laden marry Michael Jackson?

strike?

The writers' strike led to an impasse, with management walking out of the negotiations. The DGA stepped in and made a deal, a better one than they would have made without our efforts. That deal has unofficially been offered to the writers. End of story.

But, sadly, for many, it's just the beginning. I'm getting deluged by emails, urging me to hold firm. The DGA set a decent template, they say, but it's just the beginning. Now we need to make a deal that works for us.

I can't tell you how deluded I think this is. At some point in any negotiation, you take the best possible deal. In this case, we have a convenient way of knowing what that deal is. The DGA got it. If it wasn't the best possible deal before, it is now. And we helped set the preconditions that made it happen. That is a real accomplishment.

But the false bravado of those who are acting like now's when we roll up our sleeves and really start to negotiate makes me cringe. It's the battle cry of the impotent.

This is why I'll never write again

Save Your Own Date, You S.O.B.'s

I received a fancy envelope in the mail the other day. The names on the return address seemed to indicate that I had received a wedding invitation. (However, sometimes they use a phantom parents’ address just to throw you off the scent a little.) I ripped it open, risking a paper cut; I am a man of the people, and use my own hands rather than some chichi letter opener.

Inside I found not an invitation, but the increasingly common “save the date” card. A promise, if you will, that I will be invited at some future point, but not just yet, Chester. We can compare this to the wedding announcement, a notification that you were not invited and we had a fantastic time without you. This is, of course, a pathetic ploy to obtain even more gifts. For these situations, I keep on hand return cards with the calligraphy-adorned sentiment “Go fuck yourself.”

But I digress. I don’t understand the Save the Date card. It’s notifying us of the date of a wedding, and usually a location, and often a URL where we can obtain lodging information, historical markers within a 15-mile radius, etc. But isn’t all this the purpose of the invitation itself? To tell us to…save the date?

Oh, I can hear them now: We have out-of-area guests! Out-of-the-country, even. They need extra time to make travel arrangements. We are basing our entire lives around this one day, and we want you to, as well.

The save-the-date card also shows a couple's whimsical side; the invitation itself is often much more austere.

And of course they are fending off myriad other events that might pop up on your overcrowded social calendar, especially on prestige dates. Last year I was asked to save 7/7/07. This year it’s 6/7/08. I’m sure lovey-dovey computer programmers are holding off till 10/10/10.

Perhaps it’s all last-gasp collusion between the stationery industry and the U.S. postal service, as the threat of all-eVite wedding-invitation world looms on the horizon.

As a single man, I do appreciate one aspect of the save-the-date system. It allows me an even greater window for my standard working-backward: If I have to reply by such-and-such date, I’d need to ask a girlfriend to accompany me by a date prior to that. And to be close enough with her to feel comfortable inviting her to a wedding, I’d actually have to meet this woman 6 to 8 weeks before that….This is, of course, assuming I've been invited with a guest, you cheap bastards.

But the fact remains, I am not saving your wedding date until I send back the RSVP card. I reserve the right for something better to come along. Someone I like better than you, or just a more convenient location. So send the official invitation. Make me commit. Isn’t that what marriage is all about?

Uh Oh, Nikki's Tired Again

I'll spare you the effort to click to deadlinehollywooddaily-- THE go-to place for strike information. Here's Nikki's latest:

DHD Update: Back On January 22nd
I’m exhausted. I'm not feeling well. I'm overwhelmed. I need a week away from the emails and the comments and the phone calls and the rumors. Most of all, I just need to rest since I've been going, going, going, since the strike started. I look forward to coming back on January 22nd and finding it settled (?). In the meantime, stay out of crosswalks while I’m gone. And I promise to return refreshed.

And so, at a point where the DGA is in the mix, our news source decides she's tired.

Hey, I've been going going going since the strike started too!
She sounds like those certain mothers who complain how exhausted they are all the time, handing off their kids to others, so they can have 'mommy time.' All the while still thinking they are great mothers, and somehow doing the world a great service.

Clarification for Bernie

You don't know me, but here's how I know Frank. I was a year behind him at college, and greatly admired Frank as music director of the radio station. (A staff meeting comment by him my freshman year, about how “some DJs were still playing the music they listened to in high school” I think had a permanent and very positive effect on my musical tastes.)

I was an early admirer of Wimp Factor Fourteen. WFXIV trivia buffs may not even know that in the summer of 1991, after graduating, I received a postcard at my folks' place in Maryland from drummer/all-around-good-guy- even-if-he-still-has-my-copy-of-Waiting-for-Godot-my,-that’s-ironic Tom Hoffman, inviting me to join the band. I politely declined, citing my A) absolute lack of musical talent save for rudimentary harmonica skills (I once gave a how-to speech in Spanish class on playing harmonica with your nose, and I might still be able to pick out—no pun intended—“Blowin' in the Wind” with that method.) and B) I really felt I owed it to my folks to get some sorta “real job.” I sometimes wonder how my life would’ve gone if I accepted the offer and moved back to Pittsburgh, much like I wonder what would’ve happened if I accepted year-before-me-in-high-school Chris McQuarrie’s suggestion to come to California and write movies.

Still, much like Ron Blair after quitting Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, I continued to go to shows, such as Wimp Factor 14’s bill with Crayon at the Khyber Pass, Philadelphia. And I kept a foot in the Pittsburgh music scene by providing floor space for the Karl Hendricks Trio whenever they were in the greater Hoboken area. (Got a free meal at Maxwell’s when the Trio opened for the Mekons because I was “with the band.”) Befriended Rob Washburn’s friend Jerry, who coincidentally has worked with former co-worker Sal and behind-me-a-year-in-high-school friend Jim. Kept up with Vehicle Flips, attending the farewell show in Park Slope. Missed the WFXIV reunion at Lit Lounge because the girl who just dumped me “assumed I knew about it.” I didn’t. Have kept up with Gazetteers. Attended modern-dance performance involving a girl soon to spurn me, but nevertheless was interested to find out the music was by Rob Christiansen. Became Facebook friends with Yary. Got invited to this blog. Wrote this.

But enough about me. How are you?

Quisp

Quisp wasn't my favorite cereal. I'd say it was middle of the pack. But, for some reason, it was the first thing that popped into my mind when I read John's post on discontinued cereals. From the Quisp web site, I've learned that it was discontinued when I was five. That would make this a pretty early memory, but not an impossible one, since I could still tell you the majority of the kids who were in my kindergarten class. It's more likely that it took a year or two to clear it off the shelves.

It's the Quisp web site that prompted this post. Apparently the cereal is back in production, on a limited basis, carried by small-to-medium grocers from Milwaukee to Buffalo. And it can come to your city, too, if you'll just help spread the word. Just talk to your grocer!

The problem is that this is Quaker Oats we're talking about, owned by Pepsi. They could buy a half-dozen ads for Quisp during the Super Bowl if they felt like it. And if you know your grocer by name, chances are it's too small of a store to rate a Quaker Oats account.

Timeshare Math Problem

In a hypothetical timeshare presentation which she in fact studiously avoided, Bernie is offered an amazing opportunity: to purchase a timeshare in the resort in which she is currently staying. For about forty grand, she can have it all, a week in the sun in paradise, or, she can go elsewhere and trade in her week. She gets this week of paradise every year for 45 years, and she can even rent or sell this week, therefore it has value. There is the small issue of maintenence fees, to the tune of about $800 a week for a well-appointed one bedroom apartment. Luxuries abound at this resort...
(airfare not included)

Scenario number two: Bernie goes on Orbitz and gets the same empty timeshare room at same timeshare resort and airfare for a ridiculously low price.

If anyone wants to take the challenge and explain how timeshares can save you money, I'd love to hear it.

The saddest part about this is they're going up everywhere in this area, mangrove lagoons are being drained and paved for the resorts. The birds have less and less habitat to winter in. These men and women fellow guests (and timeshare presentation victims) with their giant sunburned bellies (John likes to call them all 'pregnant men') only want alcohol, a pool, trinkets, and cheap food. I can provide that for them in Illinois, under a giant dome, which they might learn to like. Maybe in this way we can save the birds.

fourteen years ago today

I was lying in bed, when I felt a blast and saw a series of bright flashes. The bed shook violently, the dresser came crashing down--the oven literally split in two. As a second blast hit, and then another, I became aware of a loud announcement, emanating from the street: "You have violated a protected zone, please evacuate immediately, you have violated a protected zone, please evacuate immediately."

I could only imagine one possible explanation: Belarus or some other rogue (formerly Eastern bloc?) nation had unleashed its entire nuclear arsenal, the whys would have to wait for more contemplative times--if basic communication was ever restored--and then society could begin the tough task of rebuilding brick by brick. But first I had to find my glasses. They'd been thrown across the room, there was broken glass everywhere, the power was out, and I had no idea where my shoes were. As I groped for the glasses, cutting my feet in the dark, I cursed the turbulent times I lived in. I knew I'd said I'd save the political analysis for later, bt this was really fucked up.

I found my glasses and shoes much faster than I deserved to, considering I wasn't keeping my head in a crisis, not even a little. I went out back to the courtyard, where my can-do neighbor was already turning off the gas line. "Some earthquake," he said. Until that moment, the possibility of an earthquake hadn't even occurred to me.

"Yeah, I was here for the earthquake in 1971, and this felt really different," I said lamely, "more violent somehow, more like a bomb," I added as suggestively as possible.

"It was an earthquake," he said confidently. I had never met this man before, even though there were only four units in the building, including my own. But now I knew he could teach me things, this man who knew when threats came from the ground and when they came from the sky. I could be his friend.

So what had I experienced? Well, the flashes of light were power lines going down. The announcement about the protected zone was a car alarm. And Belarus was the first country to pop into my head.

I went for a walk to survey the damage in the neighborhood. Buildings on either side of mine had pancaked, fires were breaking out all over the city. Next door, a little girl stood in front of her apartment building, the second floor sitting uncomfortably inside the first. She looked at me sadly, having about as much luck making sense of this terrible day as I was, then said something that made me never forget her. She said, "my house broke."

Not To Be Confused With Splenda® Brand Sweetener

5,000 years in 11 days? This sort of hyper-efficiency is exactly why China is overtaking us as a global superpower. If only Richard Thompson had more stamina....

I want to strike forever

That's how this inflammatory quote from today's Hollywood Reporter makes me feel:

Meanwhile, studio negotiators must grapple with their own knotty dilemma in deciding when, and how, to resume negotiations with the WGA.

As one management-side source put it, "The tough question is how do you reward the DGA for good behavior and not the WGA for bad behavior?"

It's not enough for them to negotiate with us? Now they're parenting too?

my all-time favorite cereal

My wife and daughter are away in Mexico and I've had three bowls of Cocoa Pebbles so far today. It's a fine cereal but it can't hold a candle to Rice Krinkles, a cereal that was discontinued sometime in my late teens, I think. Both are Post products, seemingly made from similar "molds," but Rice Krinkles lacked the cocoa and had an addictive aftertaste I've grown to suspect in the intervening years was malt. Rice Krinkles are not to be confused with Rice Krispies or Frosted Rice Krispies (or Cocoa Pebbles with Cocoa Krispies), its inferior Kellogg's counterparts. It's like comparing Yodels to Ho-Hos: Yodels win.

A couple years ago, I wrote the Vermont Country Store, asking their vaunted discontinued products division if they could track down a box of Rice Krinkles. Maybe they were being manufactured and distributed in far away places all these years--with the original recipe and racist iconography still intact. I never heard back.

What's your favorite childhood cereal?

What's your favorite discontinued food product?

What's your favorite discontinued childhood cereal?

Asimov Resurrected

An anonymous reader of Salt in Wound sent me this update on the Isaac Asimov Super Quiz situation. She so wished to remain anonymous that she wouldn't even post this as an anonymous comment.

Q: What quiz is returning?

A: Isaac Asimov’s Super Quiz returns to the Times Union comics pages on Monday, Jan. 21.

by M. Monica Bartoszek, Senior editor/operations

We’ve certainly received many very thoughtful letters, calls and e-mails. Until we heard from you, we had no idea that families and co-workers were gathering to do the quiz, and this was a daily ritual. (Co-workers, we hope this is on your lunch break …) We didn’t hear from you when we asked for input in a late fall survey. Our features department made the change about 2 weeks ago after publicly inviting all of our readers in print and online to participate in an online survey. The quiz ranked second to the bottom in reader interest, but obviously the Super Quiz fans didn’t participate in the survey. Only the weekly Saturday soap opera round up ranked lower (and that was eliminated, too). Many of you that I spoke with said they hadn’t seen the survey. (It was on the cover of the Life section several times over several weeks) To bring back the quiz, we will again be trimming Dear Abby and the horoscope column. Several readers suggested we drop the bridge column (which can not be trimmed given its content). We did that in 2007, but that caused an uproar with the bridge players. It’s tough to introduce new comics or any new feature if you can’t lose something (and, no, we’re not able to add more space or pages)...I think an underlying message here is, if you see a Times Union reader survey, take a few minutes to let us know what you value and enjoy reading.

I think the underlying message is that surveys are rarely representative.

One Thing Considered

I’m new here, and I’d like to start with a confession: I don’t listen to public radio. This is somewhat of a shock, because I definitely fit public radio's target demographic—smug weaklings. Close friends have tried to sway me, mentioning fascinating tidbits they've heard on This American Life, and Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, and Studio 360, ad(-free) in