The political winds

There was a New York State Senate election yesterday in a mostly-rural district along the eastern edge of Lake Ontario and the St. Lawrence River, an area where 300 inches of snowfall in a year is not unusual. Republicans hold an 8-5 registration advantage here and have held this seat for nearly 100 years. Polls taken over the weekend showed the race too close to call, but the Democratic candidate, Paul Aubertine, won easily. This all but guarantees the Democrats will wrest control of the State Senate this fall for the first time in generations.

Mr. Universe

Question from my fifth grade son's math book:

When Arnold Schwarzenegger was named Mr. Universe, he had a chest measurement of 56 ⁷/₈ inches and a waist measurement of 32 ¹/₄ inches. How much larger was his chest than his waist?

(Next to the answer, in the smallest possible writing, he wrote "why do we care?")

Hello, New Jersey!

Well, Jack's bittersweet tale of a love that never was has been linked by nj.com, endearing him to the locals, who are rooting him on with comments and tributes such as, "What a wuss" and "stop wasting time and space on this crap."

First of all, the concern about "column inches" seems to be misplaced. But more importantly, a further investigation of nj.com reveals a disturbing reality. I'm sure people who live there are sick of the Sopranos references. But the stark truth is that New Jersey is a land of too many laws. I don't know about the rest of you, but I can't risk living in a state where this is illegal:

MEDFORD, N.J. -- An 18-year-old Sherwood Drive man was arrested Sunday afternoon on charges of disturbing the peace for allegedly firing a homemade potato gun into the air, according to the Burlington County Times.

The man reportedly was firing potatoes into a lake near where he lives. He was processed and released to await a municipal court hearing.

Oscars (I know, I know, it's such a cliche blogging topic the day after... so shoot me)

Please. I mean, come on. I love wonderful stories about taking clandestine photos of quirky girls on subways, but we must do our duty here and at least give some nod to the Oscars. And by nod, I mean shit. Whether it be good shit or bad shit, there's shit to be discussed.

My few thoughts are:

• The Coen Brothers. Joel, please, just a tiny smile. That's all. If Frances can do it, you can too. Don't make her do all the heavy "appreciation" lifting. He looked like he was getting an honorable mention at the Mansfield Ohio Film Festival (if there were such a film festival... which there is not) I'm all for being composed and understated, but a slight grin and perhaps even a brief acknowledgment of the others in the category -directors who actually might have been thrilled if they'd won- would've gone a long way. He did thank the town for letting them play in their corner of the sandbox which is better than nothing I suppose. I just think they could've smiled at the other kids in the sandbox and waved, maybe offered one of their buckets and a small shovel as a token of their gratitude.

• Bruce Vilanch was listed as a writer yet again. He is a lifer. I am very curious to know what his specific contributions were last night. What "patter" was he responsible for?

• Favorite bits of the night - Jon Stewart returning to the podium after Glen Hansard's very humble acceptance speech for best song and saying, "That guy is arrogant." AND the updating of a tired awards show bit... the old "somebody left their car parked in the red zone" bit. Giving it new life with the Travolta jumbo jet angle was brilliant I thought. Now it must die forever.

• Jon Stewart calling back Marketa Irglova, the female half of the best song duo, to give her thank you's was a classy move. If he wasn't married, it would have gotten him some serious Irglova tail that night.

• Montages. I don't know. They just weren't good this year. Some years they can be pretty compelling, but this year... bleh. And it doesn't make them any more palatable by making fun of how bad they can be (as Stewart did with the binoculars montage) It just sort of adds more salt in the already salty wound. Acknowledgments to SaltInWound.com for that last thought.

• If you are 98 you can talk as long as you like. Hollywood, America, and the world be damned. Keep going Mr. Boyle, you've earned it. And if it gets uncomfortable for the sitters, even better I say. Make 'em squirm. Heidi Klum should be forced to endure such an ego "cleansing" every year. Why was she even there? At least Seal had a song nominated one year.

Subway connections

(The artist is Adrian Tomine).

Curse You, Patrick Moberg

I was intrigued by the tale of Patrick Moberg. He was the wonderboy who created a website a few months back to find the "girl of his dreams" who he'd spotted on the New York subway. And, by gum, he found her! The Internet was all a-buzz—as it is wont to do—and the happy couple even appeared on Good Morning America. Moberg was a flavor of the minute, and the story was forgotten as quickly as it appeared.

But not forgotten by everyone. Young master Moberg may not have considered a sinister consequence of his seemingly innocent romantic quest: Providing entirely too much hope to we legions of pathetic guys who stare at women on public transportation. The following true story takes place a mere two days after I watched the infamous GMA appearance in a Houston hotel room.


With Moberg on my mind, I am on the PATH train platform at Newark Penn Station on Sunday night, returning from a trip. I see a pretty girl. A plain pretty girl. My "type." I think, I'll get on the same train car as her.

And I do. She sits in the corner. Should I sit near her? No, I'll stand, with my suitcase, a safe distance away.

She starts reading a magazine. The image—the girl, the hair, the posture, the magazine—is extremely appealing to me. I decide to clandestinely document it on my cellphone camera.

I figure I should take a close-up too. For good measure.

Hmmm. I calculate the odds. There's about a 10% chance she'll transfer at Journal Square to a Hoboken train. If she does, maybe I'll talk to her. If it's the New Yorker, definitely. But doesn't quite look like the New Yorker. Could be a fashion magazine.

Journal Square. She gets off the train. I get off the train. There's a waiting-at-the-end-of-the-line Hoboken-bound train across the platform. But there's not an obvious car straight across for both of us to enter. I take a chance and choose first. She doesn't follow me. I'm sad.

"Joaquin," calls one of the friendly employees from the Spa Diner, where I am a regular. I don't know his name. I explain that there was a "mujer bonita" on the "otra tren." But where she is now, I don't know. I am a little "triste."

I get off the train in Hoboken, go up the first flight of stairs, approach the exit, and—wait, I recognize that jacket, that bag, those black tights, that longish-dirty-blonde hair that is the trademark of 1/3 of the women I am attracted to. She exits first. She takes the steps to ground level TWO STEPS AT A TIME. Wild.

Is she walking home? No, she's headed to the taxi line. I planned to walk but, now I must also take a taxi. I bid "buenos noches" to my diner friend, who must begin his shift.

Now I am standing behind her in the taxi line.

I am nervous.

First cab pulls up. "Fourth and Madison," she says. This cabbie refuses: Most cabs take three passengers, but the first determines which section of town they will drive to.

So if a cab accepts her and still has room for me, WE WILL RIDE TOGETHER. Fourth and Madison being one block south, two blocks west of me. And since I won't be asking for the same exact intersection, it won't TOTALLY seem like I'm stalking her. It's what they would call a "happy coincidence."

That’s how it goes down. I am SHARING A BACK SEAT WITH HER.

She buckles up. Backseat buckling is for wusses but I do it. I buckle up. But will I buckle down, or buckle under?

As we drive into the Hoboken night, I think, "Man, it's fucking creepy that I have two photos of this girl on my phone."

And then I think, I should say something.

There's a third passenger, in the front seat. A woman. I am not attracted to her.

I think, how can I talk to one without talking to everyone? What would Moberg do?

Maybe we'll drop off Front-Seaty first.

No.

We're headed to my street first.

Fuck.

I haven't said anything.

Maybe I'll say something as I get out.

But I don't.

Fuck.

Not even "goodnight."

I am angry at myself.

I am triste.

Later I post one of those pathetic "missed connection" messages on craigslist.
But there is no reply.
No reply at all, as Genesis once sang.
This is the time of no reply, said Nick Drake.

And the wind cries Moberg.

Grand Gestures

I have been fascinated by the hand gestures of politicians for a long time. You can really tell a great deal about a person through the manner in which they use their hands to get a point across. The pictures above demonstrate four very different people using four different types of hand gestures. I chose these specific gestures because they are the definitive gestures of each person in my opinion.

BILL CLINTON

Bill's patented "modified finger point" -created by bending the index finger back towards yourself and around the thumb to "soften" the blow of a direct point- became so synonymous with him that every impressionist on earth (myself included) incorporated it into his impersonation. As to my interpretation of what this particular gesture says about Clinton, I believe it shows that he is calculating, practiced, shrewd, and a bit disingenuous. The gesture is a very cognizant choice because it does not come automatically. The direct finger point is the more involuntary gesture, and it's the one Clinton used in his most "raw" moments as president, including the infamous, "I did not have sexual relations with that woman" comment. When the polished politician is overtaken by anger and frustration, that finger straightens out, and the thumb braces rigidly against the remaining three fingers. Really, if you make the gesture right now, you'll notice that you're only one thumb tuck away from forming a perfect fist for punching someone's lights out.

GEORGE BUSH

George uses this "barely modified direct finger point" quite often. Usually it follows in exact rhythmic meter with whatever bad bill or policy initiative he is "urging" congress to pass. His hand with the finger pointing will fall with each word he is saying "I... urge... the congress... to pass... this... bill." It doesn't take a rocket scientist or a body language expert (of which I am obviously both) to assess the transparent message behind George's gesture. It's an unambiguous, "Do what I say to do. Period." So even though it doesn't really call for too much analyzation, I will provide my personality trait assessment for the sake of continuity in this exercise. I think this ubiquitous gesture in Bush's very limited arsenal shows that he is rudimentary, petulant, privileged, cocksure, and myopic. Also, by its very nature, it shows that he has no self awareness or concern about being self aware. After all, what studied and self aware politician would use such an overtly aggressive gesture when trying to win people over? Too easy, I know, but again... continuity.

HILLARY CLINTON

Hillary's "all fingers and the thumb on board" open hand gesture is one I've seen her use quite a bit during her stump speeches. It has a certain Roman Senator air about it. I think she uses it as a gesture of inclusion and to convey a complete understanding of whatever topic she's discussing, but in some ways I think it can create a sense of separation from the audience at times. All the fingers and the thumb are united to form a wall between the crowd and herself. It's not aggressive or confrontational, just a bit controlled and prepared. I think it reveals that HIllary is uncomfortable with spontaneity, has a steady and measured approach to problems, and is very smart. Unlike certain gestures which can be repeated a number of times in a debate or speech, this gesture can border on robotic. It has that "Lost In Space" robot feel after a while.

BARACK OBAMA

Obama's minutely altered version of the George Bush "modified finger point" actually proves that slight adjustments to a gesture can alter the connotation. The difference between Obama's gesture and Bush's is the subtle bending of the index finger and angling of it away from the audience. Whereas Bush's index finger climbs up over the thumb and cranes down upon the audience like a vulture peering over the edge of a cliff, Obama's gesture merely seems to be emphasizing his point. The gesture conveys to me that he is affable, non-confrontational, thoughtful, relaxed, and confident.

Now, who do you think I'm supporting in this election? Yeah, talk about transparent. I'd love to hear others' views on the various gestures.

The Firness Center

There's too much ice and not enough snow, so I decided to join the gym at Micaela's employer. Curiously, it overlooks our house. I can lean forward right now and make out the vague shape of a treadmiller in the topmost window in the distance. Someday this might come in handy, somehow.

The guy in charge of issuing ID cards and parking passes is a bit of a legendary character: good-natured but befuddled, difficult to locate and unable to type. I can vouch for all of these traits. He was excited that my name was "easy to spell". Alas, it was downhill from there. I especially like the comma, which transcends the ordinary typographical error. I just hope it lets me in.

The Ball Pit

Who in the world ever came up with the ball pit? Hundreds of hollow plastic, multi-colored balls that fill a plastic lined "pool". Remember the ball pits at Chuck E Cheese? With food and God only knows what else in them. Yick. I think they are still a major attraction at IKEA where you let your kids get lost in the ballroom while you get lost in the store. People even have videos on You Tube of their children working their way through a ball pit. A little known statistic is that 4 out of 5 basements in the greater Cleveland area have their own ball pits (inflatable kiddie pool with balls).

I don't get it one bit. I detest these things- specifically the public ones. I never understood as a kid why on earth you wanted to go get stuck like a pig in mud in the ball pit. Or worse, go horizontal in the ball pit and get buried alive, like quicksand. It is a weird weird way of entertaining kids and there is not enough Purell or Lysol in the world to convince me that they are good clean fun. But man, let me tell you - as much as I dread a ball pit the little people LOVE it. I mean MORE THAN ELMO kind of love it.

Today I took my 2 year old to a "play center" for his weekly playgroup. (translation: mom's weekly social outing with other moms who really had lives before this whole kid thing) On the way there, I thought "Please don't let this place have a gross ball pit" I grabbed an extra packet of hand sanitizer wipes, said one last Hail Mary and in we went. Before I even signed the waiver (which legally clears them of any and every possible thing the ball pit is responsible for) I could hear it. I didn't even turn around and knew exactly where the damn thing was - the south east corner. Ball pit Feng Shui probably says to place the pit there to bring more happy children through the doors of one's overpriced play world. So as I walked in I thought, "Let's head for the farthest corner away from the pit . I am not even looking over there. Maybe he won't see it, or will get distracted by the insanely well equipped children's kitchen." Ha. My offspring bee-lined for the ball pit. Couldn't get all 35 inches of himself into that thing fast enough. Laughed. Giggled. He honestly wouldn't have been happier in a vat of Chocolate Milk.

All I could do was smile back and offer up a little prayer that he didn't contract MRSA or lose a sock. He had a great time and a 45 minute bath this evening.

Poop!

Yesterday, as I was driving, I happily slowed down for a procession of about six horses, walking single file in an orderly line, as far to the side of the road as possible. I have never seen a line of cyclists do this. I've written here and here about my war with cyclists. But up until now, a shot has never been fired. That might be changing.

The puppy is generating a tremendous amount of poop. We don't wrap it up in store bought bags here in Topanga. We return it to the earth, like our antiquated septic systems. My way of disposing of it involves flinging it over the fence, towards Old Topanga Canyon Road. It's not a gentle slope, about a fifty foot drop, there's little margin for error. So far I have succeeded in hitting the sweet spot between the fence and the road, poop clinging precariously to cliff, but it's just a matter of time before I fling one too far. Hundreds of cyclists ride by each week. If anything ever happens, I'm going on record right now that it was an accident.

Diverticulitis

It's the diagnosis I got yesterday, but I've been having the same abdominal pain on and off for about seven years. When it first happened, I was living in Northern California and went to see a doctor who specialized in treating pilots and all things aviation related. He prescribed Prevacid, describing it as a miracle drug. I could only imagine it helped his pilots "hold it" on long flights. It did nothing for me.

Years later, I saw a highly recommended gastroenterologist at Cedar-Sinai. He raved about how, on certain islands, the natives crap five or six times a day, their bodies are loaded with bacteria but they're FINE. He gave me no tests and sent me on my way.

Every once in a while, I would go on antibiotics for some unrelated reason, and my stomach would clear up. Other than that, I was in some degree of pain. Smoking marijuana would alleviate a lot of the symptoms, but how long could I tolerate the side effects of enhanced creativity and a general sense of well being?

Last week I had what I now realize was an acute attack. Sunday, Bernie finally convinced me to get it checked out. So I drove on over to the Old Actors Home.

The Motion Picture & Television Fund Hospital in Woodland Hills is an amazing place. I can drop in with my Writers Guild card anytime and pay ten dollars to see a doctor (it's a generous plan and one reason I wasn't so exited about the recent strike).

My regular doctor wasn't there yesterday, but I got the guy on call in about ten minutes. He had an odd, somewhat ghoulish bedside manner and an intellectual curiosity I've found to be rare in doctors. He asked all the right questions, then shared his suspicions. He said one of the causes of diverticulitis is a childhood diet high on processed foods and low on fiber. Here was my childhood diet:

Cheerios (Rice Krinkles came later)

Hamburgers (cheese came later)

Macaroni and Cheese (preceding the cheese on hamburgers by a good few years)

The doctor said the short term treatment is antibiotics. When I told him how antibiotics have helped me in the past, he practically jumped out of his chair with excitement. "Fascinating!" he boomed. He ordered up some tests right away. But then his mood darkened.

In rare cases, surgery is required, he warned, when there's an abscess that won't go away. He leaned forward, fully engaged, as if ready to spring--the same position he would soon take to check my prostate. "It's a messy surgery," the doctor began eagerly, "as is any operation involving the bowels..."

Down the hall, in radiology, I was completely unprepared for what happened next. It was a CAT scan, preceded by a barium enema, administered by a man who was terrified I was going to shit on the table.

"You're going to feel like you have to go to the bathroom," he said, as he blew up a balloon in my ass. "You can't do it."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I said, panicked. "I'm here for my stomach, it's not good, it's bad, this is crazy. I can't make any promises."

"You can't do it."

"Does it happen sometimes? Here on the table?"

"It happens."

Well, I held it like a pilot on Prevacid. The doctor got the results, and it confirmed his hypothesis. I have diverticulitis (but not the dreaded abscesses). I got the meds from the pharmacy on site, and I was out of the hospital within a couple hours of my arrival. The fact that all this happened on the same day is amazing to me.

A final note: While I was getting my blood taken, I asked the technician about the big new building. Bernie and I had been wondering what it was while it was being built. He said it's a gym with an indoor pool, for the residents and employees. And it was paid for by Jodie Foster. Has anyone heard anything about this? As far as I know, she hasn't sought a bit of publicity.

Home Remodeling Ethics

Okay, so there is a situation that has arisen between two neighbors of mine that live across the street. No, it's not about dog poop this time. The family living in the house across the street is in the middle of adding a second story to their house. They've got two boys just entering their teens, so it makes sense that they'd need to add some room to their moderately sized single story to accommodate the boys. It's actually only half a second story since they are building the new addition solely on the eastern half of their home, leaving the remainder of their house in its single story state.

Now, the issue is that the neighbor on the east side of the house is very unhappy about the addition because once the sun hits its zenith, from there on out until it sets, she's getting screwed on natural light. The new addition towers over her and casts a shadow onto her skylights and windows. The mother living in the remodeled house feels bad, and the neighbor is apparently airing her displeasure with other neighbors. She was informed of the remodel beforehand, but I don't think she knew the extent to which this would impact her.

My question is... whose side do you fall on? What are the ramifications here? The addition has full permits from the city, so it's not like there are legal grounds to stand on from what I can see. However, doesn't the impacted neighbor have a certain reasonable expectation of being able to enjoy the same overall natural lighting and view the house afforded when she bought it?

The Last Sandwich

"I've got bad news for you," said the guy behind the counter. "We're out of sun-dried tomatoes." And after a quick pause: "Wait, never mind, you don't get sun-dried tomatoes. Of course I get it wrong on the last time."

The last time? His sentence didn't make sense to me, but I didn't give it much thought as I fetched an orange juice from the refrigerated case.

My prosciutto-and-mutz sandwich was ready, and I took the $7.50 out of my pocket. I like to bring exact change, but I don't like to seem anal, so I always pretend that it’s a happy coincidence to have the precise amount on me.

"So thanks for your business over the years…."

Thanks for my business? The last time? He must've seen the confusion on my face. "You didn't know? Yeah, we're done. The lease was up, the rent kept going up, we couldn't do it anymore."

And so that's the end for Piccininni's Salumeria, the Italian deli at the quiet corner of 6th and Park in Hoboken. It's an all-too-common story in this town, but when you're a regular, it hits particularly hard. With the caveat that clearly it's infinitely harder on the out-of-business shopkeeper than on the guy who needs to find a new place to buy a sandwich.

As a creature of habit and as a person who doesn't cook, I'm a regular at a number of food establishments. Of course, there are different levels of being a regular. In some places I've developed friendships that transcend commerce. A couple of places count on me for amusing holiday cards. At the diner I only know the night crew, and I speak broken Spanish with them. And then there's a place or two where it's just the standard relationship: They recognize me, and they know what I order. (And they usually remember it doesn't involve sun-dried tomatoes.)

Such was the case with Piccininni's. I knew that the guy behind the counter was the son of the owner. I assume the last name is Piccininni but I don’t know for sure, and they don’t know my name either. But they made a real good sandwich. Fresh mozzarella cheese, known as "mutz," is one of the things Hoboken is famous for, in addition to being the birthplace of Frank Sinatra, baseball, the zipper, and Mallomars. I moved here in 1994 and my then-roommate Joe introduced me to perhaps the perfect use of the cheese, the prosciutto-and-mutz sandwich. In those years we lived closest to a deli called Luca Brasi's, so that's where we scored our sandwiches.

In 2000 I moved 5 blocks north and 5 blocks west, a little too far to make Luca Brasi's the regular stop. I now lived directly across the street from Hoboken's most famous Italian deli, Fiore's. In the Sopranos episode where Furio made mozzarella, the close-up hands were really from Fiore's. And though the food there is excellent, and I did enjoy rubbing elbows with Danny Aiello one December 24, Fiore's did not become my regular prosciutto-and-mutz place. The line was always way too long (it's just a sandwich, people!) and a comprehensive study by the Newark Star-Ledger claimed that Piccininni's actually made the better Hoboken mozzarella. Most important were the hours of operation. The delis tend to close before I get home from work, so weekend lunches are my only opportunity to go. Saturday lunch is booked. (Creature of habit, remember?) As for Sunday: Fiore's is closed, Piccinini's wasn’t.

So that became my tradition over the past eight years. I'd go order a sandwich. Getting ever so slightly more health-conscious over time, the accompanying beverage switched from a bottle of Coke to a can of Coke to a bottle of orange juice. I'd bring something to read in case there was a line, but it was never too long. I was a little jealous of the rapport that many customers had with the guys behind the counter—they'd speak Italian and laugh heartily—but I'd remind myself that there were other places where I was the preferred regular.

In the colder weather, I'd go home and eat in front of the TV. On nice days, I'd go sit on a bench in Church Square Park, one block from Piccininni's, and read the paper while I ate. Few things made me happier.

And now it's gone. I had my last Piccininni's sandwich today, and I'm not sure what I'll do next week. Slink back to Luca Brasi's? Or maybe Lisa's Deli up on 9th. And begin the slow process of becoming a regular all over again.

Not Picking Up Your Dog's Poop

It's 2008, right? I mean, I know that's not what it is according to certain other calendars (5768 according to the Jewish calendar) but generally we would all agree that we are in the 21st century. So why is it in this modern time that some of my neighbors haven't gotten the memo that leaving your dog's business on another person's lawn is not just an infraction of city municipal codes, it's just plain rude?

Amanda and I have tried to understand what type of person does this, and it still hasn't quite come into focus yet. I wouldn't put them in the same category as serial killers, yet they do -on some level- display similar sociopathic tendencies. The complete lack of regard for their fellow man and the absence of empathy or any notion of responsibility or guilt would seem to indicate that these people are fucked up. I mean, when you really think about it, how different is it from the offending neighbor himself just coming up and leaving a human "gift" on your lawn?

So after months of waking up and taking our own dog out to do his morning ritual only to find another dog's presents gracing our lawn, I finally decided to put up a sign. An admittedly cliched act, BUT I did go out of my way to be positive and encouraging rather than blowing a gasket. In fact, I even included Eco-friendly poop bags on the sign and encouraged passersby to use one if they needed to. Guess what was awaiting me the next morning only five feet from the sign? Yep. Another pile of crap. I'm equal parts pissed off and intrigued by whoever is doing this, and I've considered pointing a hidden video camera out my window at night to catch them in the act. But then what would I do? Confront them like the "Dateline: To Catch A Predator" host does? Greeting them with a DVD of their offense in my hand and a stern lecture? Hardly.

Any suggestions?

How do they do it?

You're very lucky if you create one hit television show. But for David Kohan and Max Mutchnick, the ideas just keep on flowing. The creators of Will and Grace have sold a new show to ABC, loosely based on their relationship, about the friendship and working partnership of a straight man and his gay best friend. From variety.com:

"The untitled laffer is not related to Kohan and Mutchnick's comedy pilot last year at CBS; that show also revolved around the friendship and working partnership between a straight man and his gay best friend."

The Secret

My employer recently opened a Wellness Center. (Considering my employer is the state Department of Health, this is arguably several decades behind the curve). There have been a series of lunchtime discussions and activities related to dieting, stress relief, aging gracefully, tai chi, and the like. None of this caught my attention until I saw a listing for The Secret: Come see what the excitement is all about!

In case you're not in on The Secret, it is the most audacious of our contemporary cultural snake-oil pitches, a book that promises absolutely everything effortlessly, cloaked in a Da Vinci Code-style conspiracy theory. This is the path to success THEY don't want you to know about!

It has something to do with your brain waves interacting with everyone else's brain waves so as to bring you whatever it is you wish for. Lots of jargon from both classical and quantum physics are thrown about haphazardly, along with quotes from "Ph.D."s and "M.D."s. Need money, health, love? Just tune your mental frequencies.

Seeing a chance to play my own very small version of Clarence Darrow or John E. Jones III, I decided to attend. In truth, I'm not that argumentative by nature. Ever since taking on the entire first grade in a debate over the existence of Santa Claus - and losing - I've known there is no effective counterargument to "it's magic". But I work for a scientific institution. We prosecute quacks and faith healers, not hire them.

In addition to myself, there were eight people at the discussion. All were women, and all but one older. Several declared themselves devoted fans of the book, others merely curious. One woman who seemed somewhat confused said that she was just trying to find the exercise room she had heard about. Not the same as a Wellness Center, not at all.

The fans of the book told stories about how The Secret had helped them personally. One said she was trying to launch a business selling handmade handbags, and The Secret was bringing her steady contacts and potential customers. Another said The Secret had reduced the amount of junk mail and bills, while increasing her personal mail and gifts. Yet another talked about how she no longer worried about finding a parking space, because all she had to do was visualize an empty one.

This was even weirder than I expected, but I held my tongue until my turn came around. I introduced myself as a skeptic, though as soon as this word left my mouth it sounded horribly wimpy, as if all I needed was just a bit more evidence. My plan was to focus on just one point relevant both to public health and to my own expertise: cancer. I said I thought it was dangerous to be promoting the idea that positive thinking was an adequate substitute for medical prevention and treatment, particularly considering where we worked.

"Well, that's one way of interpreting the book," replied the discussion leader, the one with the special parking powers, "but the book doesn't say that exactly. Have you even read it?"

I had foreseen this technicality, so I took a calculated risk. Flipping through the book, it took me about fifteen seconds to find the section on how The Secret meant not needing to see your doctor again. It helped that the book is thin and the type is large. I said that the chances of spontaneous remission of untreated terminal cancer were on the order of one in a million.

"Ah, but they aren't zero, are they?"

I conceded that they were not. If you like those odds, I'll give them to you. You can't argue with magic.

For one person, the author, The Secret has worked pretty much as planned. It was number one on the best seller lists for months, and even now, a year later, it's #4 at Amazon.com.

SiW Birthday List?

You know, some of us know each other very well and many of us have never met... maybe it would be a nice idea for us each to post our birth dates, so that when our birthday comes we can wish each other a happy birthday? It might be sweet!

If you want it done right...

Think Progress has a nice catch from an NPR interview, in which Attorney General Mukasey acts as if the current debate about waterboarding is academic:

OK, let’s assume that the president wants, despite a finding of illegality under law, to have waterboarding done, who is it precisely that he’s going to get to do it? He would virtually have to do it himself.

Is this meant to put us at ease? We're talking about a President who delighted in blowing up frogs as a kid. That's not something you grow out of, it's a gaping character defect. If the law ever actually required this President to roll up his sleeves and get in the game himself, I have little doubt he'd attack the task of torture with all the gusto he usually reserves for Texas brush.

Foldables

Isa and I were working on her science lab, from her 4th grade text book. It was to measure the mass of an apple (I broke down and bought a kitchen scale) and then wait a few days, and weigh them again, ostensibly measuring the mass of the water which had evaporated. Fair enough. The instructions detailed that she was to fold a piece of paper in half, lengthwise, and label the two columns "Fresh" and "Dried". It was then I noticed the logo Foldables™ next to the Two Column Chart™. I peeked through the book, and sure enough, various permutations of the piece of folded paper were each emblazoned with the logo Foldables™.
That's right, folding a piece of paper as part of an educational assignment is trademarked.

Valentine's Day Dilemma

Here's my Valentine's day dilemma. Please tell me what you think.

I've been on three dates with a woman whom I'm at least moderately interested in. There's nothing going on between us - it could wind up being a friendship or something else. Any of those are fine; I'm looking for something serious and am fine going slow. I've asked her out to a few things and she's asked me out to a few too. I do have the sense that she might be involved with someone but the subject hasn't come up yet and it's not something I feel the need to approach just yet.

A band I love is playing on Thursday night. I'd like to ask her to go. But Thursday is Valentine's day, and things are not at a point where I would be looking to ask her out just because it's Valentine's day. So do I mention Valentine's day in the invitation or just ignore it? The only thing I'm concerned about here is that she forgets it's Valentines day, says yes, and then realizes it and feels trapped into it. So what to do?

Wow. Just read this back and am amazed at how wimpy it sounds. For you married people, maybe it'll remind you of neurotic it can be to be single and make you oh-so-much-more grateful for your marriages.

Oh. When I asked John if this was appropriate to post here, he said yes, but said make it entertaining. I'm not sure if this was entertaining enough. So here's my unrelated favorite kid's joke:

Q: What did the fish say when he swam into a wall?

A: Dam!

Review: Raiders of the Lost Ark

Since the next film is coming out, I netflixed this one for Isa, because she hadn't seen it.
"Can we watch Indiana Jones?" she asked me.
Score one point for the entity that changed this movie's name. In case you didn't know, it is now Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark, which I think is blasphemy.
Well, that may be how you feel about learning, as I did, that the film has been digitally re-mastered as well.
The music has been redone. The sound, the erasing of the shadow of glass between Indy and the cobra, everything.
Sure, the technical aspects of the finished product are amazing. But this was a cheesy action-adventure made in 1981 about the Nazi era, itself stylistically referencing forties movies. The movie I watched last night looked like it could have been made yesterday, but with the actual celluloid struggle erased, we have no context left to place this film in. So many layers of pastiche have been erased, one thinks, what is this film now?
For example, the animation scene of the plane flying from San Francisco to Nepal has been replaced by something that looks straight out of a power point presentation. At least the original one was using forties technology, and certainly was supposed to mimic WW II movies of planes crossing the Pacific.
And so on.
I don't think I've seen the film in at least twenty years, so I was reminded of the lack of any other women in the film, besides our dear Marion. The Spielbergian plot device to get her into the beautiful white dress was simple: "Put it on," the French bad guy commands. Then later, she is given another white, silky number that she has been commanded to wear.
Maybe this can still fly as a film with the "eighties-ness" gutted from it.
Regardless, I'll never forget the countless hours slaving away at the Atari video game. That's about as eighties as it gets.

strike meeting

It was surprisingly low key, even though this was a relative victory for the writers. The final meeting in 1988 was much more boisterous, and that was in the face of a clear loss. And I can't help thinking it's because of the attitude of our leadership.

There wasn't a sign pointing upstairs saying "WGA VIPs"--as there was at the Convention Center at the start of the strike--but these guys still seem determined to somehow place themselves above the membership. It's petty and it's irritating.

After we'd all gathered in the Shrine Auditorium, the negotiating committee took the stage, to a nice round of applause. This was when the pressure began to make every ovation a standing ovation.

I noticed five empty seats at the front of the stage. They've given themselves a separate entrance, I said to the writer next to me. He didn't hear me. They've given themselves a separate entrance, I hissed. They've engineered their own ovation!

The writer had a sudden moment of recognition. What I said had the ring of truth. Would he ever again be a true union man? But I like to think I better prepared him for what happened next.

WGA President Pat Verrone, negotiating committee chairman John Bowman, chief negotiator David Young, and a couple "WGA VIPs" entered, to another standing ovation. In the course of the evening, they introduced each other in every possible permutation (five factorial?). Signs outside told us no food or beverages were allowed inside the auditorium but everyone on stage had been provided with a bottle of water. John Bowman had three.

After the applause died down, David Young explained the terms of the deal, addressing us as "brothers and sisters." When Shield creator Shawn Ryan arrived late and took his rightful place on the stage and another member of the committee stood to greet him with a special handshake, I could have sworn they expected to hear some clapping, but for some reason that's where we decided to draw the line.

their least popular stamp

In Topanga, a typical trip to the post office consists of waiting in line, listening to this sort of exchange:



Customer: How much to send this package to Portland?

Person behind counter: When do you need it to get there?

(several minutes later, they have agreed on a class of postage that balances the need for the package to get there with the consideration of cost)

Person behind counter: Do you need any stamps?

Customer: I probably should.

Person behind counter: Would you like to see the book?

Customer: Of course!

(they laugh together)

(later, the customer has settled on something)

Person behind counter: How will you be paying?

(the customer takes out an atm card; the postal clerk seems impressed)

Person behind counter: Would you like to get cash back?

Notice how the postal clerk drives the exchange, not merely catering to the customer's whims, but even suggesting new ones. But this morning, when I went in to buy stamps, something new happened.

Me: I need stamps.

Person behind counter: Would you like to see the book?

Me: No, just give me your least popular stamp.

Person behind counter: Our least popular?

Me: Whatever you need to get rid of.

The postal clerk's actions were swift and decisive, like a vegetarian finally tearing into meat after all these years. She pulled open a drawer, reached in and pulled out a sheet from a plentiful supply. Then she said the two words every American dreads to hear. Here's what the post office says about its least popular stamp:

Calling attention to the essential obligation, shared by all eligible U.S. citizens, the USPS releases a commemorative stamp featuring 12 diverse jury members.

I Get Off on Christopher Street

I ride a PATH train underneath the Hudson River to get from my home in New Jersey to the sinister island of Manhattan, where I am employed. I detrain at the Christopher Street station and walk to my SoHo offices. In the evenings I reverse the route. (I assume most of you are familiar with going places and returning, so I won't get any more specific about the process.)

And thus, I headed home tonight. Not to be a working-stiff cliché, but I was very happy to be done with a long, tiring week. Had been popping Airborne tablets all day in a vain hope to ward off whatever illness has felled a variety of friends and colleagues up and down the eastern seaboard. I couldn't get home soon enough.

Was about to cross Hudson Street, a half block from the train station, when a rubbery-faced older guy said hello to me. It was a very friendly hello, so I figured I must know this man. But who was he? A several-times-removed cousin? A freelance illustrator I've worked with? My tax guy's part-time helper during the busy season? I hoped his identity would be cleared up shortly; we were halfway across the intersection.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

"Uh....across the river," I replied. My spider-sense was tingling.

"Oh, thought you might be local, was going to invite you back to my place."

"Uh...no....I'm too beat," I said, and scurried down the steps to the train platform.

I'm too beat?!? This is my reply to being propositioned by an old queen? Wow, I guess I really don't like to hurt people's feelings. Why, I could've gone with:

• "I'm not gay, but thanks just the same, good fellow. Best wishes for your cruising."

• "You know what, friend? Even if I was gay? I wouldn't be interested in a dried-up, quarter-century-my-senior old husk like you. No, I fashion myself more the Emile Hirsch type."

• Puzzled expression, disappointed shake of head, exit stage left.

There were really any number of more accurate replies. But no, I tend to avoid confrontation whenever humanly possible. Heaven forbid he feel rejected as a sexual entity. And I certainly don't want to come across as pooh-poohing his lifestyle. So if Quentin Crisp here wanders off into the West Village night thinking, "Darn my luck, had this been a Tuesday rather than a Friday, I'd be making sweet love with that devilishly handsome boy-toy," well, then, that's OK with me.

I guess I could use the 9th Street station. The walk is about the same.

strike

Yesterday was hopefully the last day of WGA picketing, a mass march at Disney. As soon as I reached the line a stranger asked if I would sign his picket sign. "It's for my kid when he grows up. So he knows that I did something." I signed, but also silently hoped that he would someday accomplish something more than walking in a circle for days on end.

I hated the picketing but others seemed to love it. For many was just a mobile writers' room, with all the laughs and none of the work. And always followed by a delightful lunch. I especially had problems with the strike captains. Every TV show in production chose a strike captain, so at least those were actual working writers. Yes, working writers who agreed to to be Strike Captains, capitalized to emphasize the authority therein. I think most were disappointed the position didn't come with handcuffs and license to kill. But the other strike captains were worse. They were volunteers. Yesterday I passed the strike captain who was always at Radford Studios, where I did most of my picketing. I overheard him telling someone, "I think I'm still going to be yelling, 'Car coming!' for weeks to come." Yes, that's what he did. As we walked back in forth in front of the Radford gate he would alert us that a car was turning in, because without that notice we would all surely walk directly in front of the car, get smashed by the heavy tires, tangled in the undercarriage, and within a week or so there would no writers left. Fucking idiot.

Even so, as cynical as I am. I will probably look back on this period with at least some fondness. If we achieve anything near what we hoped for in our negotiations then it will have all been worth it. Otherwise it was just a pain in the ass. Well, perhaps it wasn't all bad. It was nice to run into a few old friends. I probably should have had them sign my picket sign.

A friend of mine wrote this

His name is Michael Kaplan, and he wrote it for a friend of his who was trying to learn a 3D animation program.

tastes and preferences

Emptywheel is my favorite political blogger. Her name is Marcy Wheeler, she used to be a comp lit professor, and she specializes in close reading of text from trials, Congressional hearings, and redacted documents. I started reading her a few years ago, around the time Judy Miller emerged from jail, bony, girlish and incongruously triumphant.

Marcy gained a large following live blogging the Libby trial, and has since expanded into a dizzying array of subjects, including the scandals at the Justice Department. Yesterday, she was live blogging Attorney General Michael Mukasey's oversight hearing before the House Judiciary Committee. This exchange jumped out at me:

Schiff: You've said that if you were being waterboarded you would consider torture. Does it depend on who is being tortured?

MM: It would seem like torture to me. I would not use my own tastes and preferences.

I haven't seen this quote confirmed in the news, but Marcy's live blogging is usually pretty accurate, and the Attorney General is known for his love of Orwell. He even has a portrait of him in his office. People are starting to wonder why.

Hill Street Blues versus Kung Fu

I'm honestly torn.

Lipstick Jungle versus Hill Street Blues

Hill Street Blues wins. I just want to show this isn't completely rigged.

Cashmere Mafia versus Lipstick Jungle

Lipstick Jungle wins, and I'm not just saying that because I have a horse in this race. I honestly don't have that much to do with how the show turns out. My job is to add a little comedy around the margins, and it can only support so much.

But mainly I'm thinking there are over three hundred thousand google hits off of this title, and there's no reason we shouldn't capitalize.

The Week in Fourth Grade

As I go through Isa's fourth grade textbooks, I spot things that bother me. I understand the need for simplification, but at the expense of fact? Or am I being too picky?
Here's a lab to do at home from the science book:

Cut up an apple and measure and record the mass of the fresh apple slices.

I don't know about you, but I have nothing to measure mass in my kitchen.

Here's one from the art book:

Portraits of Gabriele Munter show the artist as a sweet, dainty woman. In fact, this artist was an important figure in the world of art. She played a large role in the rise of an art movement.


Wow, I guess we're going up against that old-fashioned portrait portrayal, aren't we? Because now they are giving us facts.

Finally, this little tidbit from once more, the science book.

An estuary is a place where fresh water and salt water meet, such as a river meeting an ocean. The amount of salt in the water changes many times a day, so only a few types of organisms can live in an estuary.


Who wrote this? Exxon? A 'lifestyle community' developer that needs to get rid of these pesky estuaries so he can put in a golf course? The No Child Left Behind Committee?

UPDATE: The next section has a cloud seeding section, and says that silver iodide is OK. I feel ill.