New word: Twothousandoneing, 2001ing

(v.) the object remarked on is reminding the remarker of the movie, "2001: A Space Odyssey," possibly from use of a bone as tool; from a monolithic structure or reference to such; or from use of "duh...dah...Dah....DUH-DUHHHHH" music, or, to a lesser extent, the "Daisy, Daisy" song.

In Defense of Poppery, IX: "Lessons Learned"

Pop example: "Lessons Learned" by Matt & Kim

What redeems it: This is the second time I've defended a piece of music that I actually believe needs no defense at all -- but while "Handlebars" by The Flobots is arguably a serious and potentially disturbing song (it always gives me chills) as well as technically flawless, "Lessons Learned" is just plain fun, and the messy kind.

Like all of Matt & Kim's music, "Lessons Learned" is sung by Matt and features only the instruments played and music created by Matt & Kim, two Brooklynites (transplanted there, like all Brooklynites) who decided to start a band with that DIY small-things-are-important ethic that practically defines Brooklyn these days...or at least defines its artisanal foodie culture.

In concert, Matt plays keyboard and Kim plays drums. On their sophomore album, "Grand," though, their production is much more layered and complex than in their previous work and than in their necessarily stripped-down concerts.

True to their aesthetic and Brooklyny ways, Matt & Kim produced the album in Matt's old bedroom in Vermont.All these details are important to understanding what makes the unfettered enthusiasm and joy of Matt & Kim's music so appealing.

It also contextualizes the All-Girl-Summer-Fun-Band-like "messiness" of their instrument-playing and production, the overextension of Matt's voice and the tendency to put Kim's drum-playing on overdrive. It explains why Matt harmonizing with himself is not quite perfect, and yet all the more electrifying. These are the imperfections and flaws in your hand-blown glass one-of-a-kind artifact from the third-world country you've chosen to patronize -- minus the guilt of buying from the third world, where your artisan earns pennies a day.

These are the marks of a genuine product. Except for housewares sold at Target, you can't find this kind of idiosyncrasy in the corporate world, making it all the more fascinating and charming, here.

So the voices that begin "Lessons Learned," likely Kim's, that don't harmonize quite perfectly, that don't quite hit the notes you think they're probably trying for, in this context, are invigorating rather than off-putting: And Matt & Kim have a knack for being a bit off without putting you off. (They know where to draw the line on being off key, for instance.)

And by the time you reach the chorus, something crazy has happened. They've managed to make a song out of the sounds you'd been hearing as relatively spare, the sum of separate parts.

“And so I stayed up all night
Slept in all day
This is my sound
Thinking ‘bout tomorrow won’t change how I feel today”

Matt & Kim's songs are always manic in exactly the way you'd want a band made up of a keyboard player and drummer to be manic. Add a few more instruments, another voice to the one-singer-at-a-time harmonies in "Lessons Learned" or other songs on "Grand," and it would be overwhelming and oppressively heavy. As it is, Matt and Kim manage in their best songs to invoke the feeling of an impending spring, or the desperate joy of cramming in those last hours of fun in the fall before winter hits.

They’re great songs for driving on the highway with the windows down – great songs for driving to something rather than away from it. This is part of what makes Matt & Kim post-punk rather than plain punk. (The themes they sing about, which are almost relentlessly positive, are another part.)

The genius of "Grand," and in particular of "Lessons Learned," unlike the genius of the barebones approach of their self-titled debut album – which sounded like it had been produced by elves set loose in a factory, with its frenetic and big-open-space/exposed-brick-and-pipe sense of energy – is the use of layering in production.

The songs sound richer than their previous "Yea Yeah" and "It's a Fact," and the build-up to their more lyrically complex choruses is superbly done. Yet the mixing puts all the sound on one level, making each element sound equally important – making it sound, in fact, like a wall of sound, industrial and almost inescapable.

The elves have learned how to use the machines, in other words, and are busy making whatever elves make.

Cookies, probably.

Even destruction and apparent apathy in Matt & Kim songs seems creative: In "Daylight," the singer doesn't pick up the phone because everywhere feels like home; in "I'll Take You Home," he's going to take the blinds down from his window, but only so he can see the light better. Every time they destroy something in true-punk fashion, Matt & Kim create something new and better from it – in true Brooklyn artisan fashion.

They just seem to be determined-to-be-happy people.

This will cause one of two reactions, at least in most New Englanders: longing for the same, or loathing.

For those who loathe happiness, I can't say anything to convince you that this album deserves a shot.

For those who wish they were happy, too, there's Matt & Kim.

The equivalent of 5 kittens

Double Feature Movie Review: Fight Club vs. Battle Royale (Japanese)

Well, this set of movies has been begging for review since the concept of review was invented, or since each of these movies came out -- whichever came last.

Or maybe reviewers willed these movies into being just so they'd have something awesome to review.

Fight Club was listed in all relevant sources and in out-of-my-mouth recitations as "my favorite movie" for several years. That doesn't mean I liked it the first time I saw it.

In fact, it took a thorough knowledge of the worst graphically violent scenes in the movie, and my studiously avoiding watching those scenes (though I did listen with my eyes averted) to get Fight Club to my-fave-movie status. There is an at-best uncomfortable level of violence in this movie.

But that's the point, or part of it, which saves it from being gratuitous, I think.

Of course, anyone can claim that their overly violent film is "about gratuitous violence" and then cram in so much of it that the Saw series looks tame by comparison (though from what I've heard about the Saws, I'm not sure that anything short of a legitimate snuff film involving four kinds of power tools and an entire Equestrian Club could do this). But Fight Club isn't American Psycho (also worth watching in its way if you can stomach Christian Bale, chainsaws and very foul language).

Fight Club is art. And it's exactly the kind of art I love a movie to be: It's art that knows it's art.

Self-referential and self-aware without being self-conscious --that's the genius of putting Brad Pitt in this film, who likely couldn't play self-conscious on the most self-conscious day of his life with an electrified insecurity machine -- Fight Club the movie is in part about film; in part about modern-day masculinity; in part about consumerism; in part about personal demons and the exploration of their exorcism.

David Fincher, my since-Fight-Club favorite director, plays with film. Brad Pitt points out "cigarette burns" that show when the reel is going to change, and they actually do signify the change in the theater, where you're watching the film; this is happening as Edward Norton is speaking directly to the camera and Brad is splicing single cells of porn into campy children's movies.

Cut to the audience watching the cat and dog learn to get along in the animated feature they're watching in the theater -- see their reactions as they see, but don't consciously recognize, the single cell of pornography -- feel the illicit thrill of knowing what those unsuspecting audience members have seen.

But later, realize that you've been in the theater, watching a movie that wasn't a Disney flick, but that also contained a single cell of pornography.

The only difference between you and that audience is that you likely knew what you were in for when you went to see Fight Club; and you get the pleasure of dramatic irony, seeing them upset while you are feeling gratified by being let in on the secret.

Dramatic irony is half the thrill of Fight Club. The second viewing is better than the first.

And I think I'm qualified to say the seventh viewing is better than that.

There's a well-known twist to the ending of Fight Club, but for those who may still not have seen it and are being convinced by my review, I won't spoil it here. (And please don't spoil it in any comments, the two of you reading.)

But the twist is not the greatness of the movie, and if you watch it repeatedly trying to figure out how every jot and tittle align, you'll get bored or frustrated or both, eventually.

Similarly, if you watch it looking for answers, like people who watch The Simpsons to get the moral at the end of the story, you'll be disappointed.

Fight Club, like most art, or at least most postmodern art that works, asks questions and explores them. It doesn't definitively answer them.

In fact, it's just as important to recognize what Fight Club is not about as what it is about. It's not about women; it's not about creating a comprehensive new world order; it's not a solution to capitalism or human malaise or ennui or American over-consumption; it's not actually about fighting. Anyone looking to get boxing tips from this movie will be disappointed. And it's not a morality play.

But playing with morality is a worthwhile pursuit of art, particularly self-aware art that forces the question back on the viewer -- and Fight Club does that very, very well.

*****

Battle Royale, the Japanese version, is the only movie I've ever started and shut off multiple times.

Other movies I typically give about half an hour, and if I have to shut them off, they usually stay off permanently. But in general, particularly thanks to my childhood of Saturday afternoon WTXX horror movies, I finish even the worst of what's put in front of me.

Battle Royale, or the first seven minutes of it, though, just plain freaked me out.

Before the melodrama of the rest of the movie, which I eventually watched with the support of Spencer as fellow viewer, and which is ridiculous, the camera introduces us to an ordinary- looking Japanese young boy in a normal school uniform. He goes home on a typical day. And finds his father hanging from the ceiling by an extension cord, in their apartment.

His father had committed suicide. We don't see the violence of the act or even the body, except for the swinging feet. We do see the boy's reaction: the drop to his knees, hands to his face. This is all tamped further down into chillingly uncanny by the boy's voiceover explaining his father's death.

Cut to a passle of press people crowding around a descending helicopter. The door opens and a frantic anchorwoman, hair flying about her head, takes us up to it. Inside sits a little girl, clutching a stuffed animal, and covered in blood. She smiles broadly, teeth showing.

This was the point where I'd shut off the movie.

Turns out I didn't need to, though; as with the first Scream, the first ten minutes is the only part that could possibly be considered scary. The rest is a melodramatic morality tale -- or would be if a Westerner could understand what the moral was.

The premise is that the world is overcrowded. To deal with this problem, a new game show has developed in which classes of students are chosen to participate in a "battle royale": They're required to fight to the death until only one of them remains. The class chosen is fitted with collars that will cause their heads to explode if they try to leave the island they're on, or if they are in danger zones at certain times of day -- the zones will be announced over loudspeakers, and presumably are meant to herd the remaining kids in toward each other to make the killing easier, though they appear to be randomly selected. The kids have some time to get out of the zones, but that doesn't prevent at least one kid's head from getting exploded.

The special effects in this movie are similar to those used in Shogun when the samurai gets his head cut off: That is, they're practically nonexistent. Spurting blood is theatrical, to match the melodramatic speeches impassioned pre-teens give each other while sacrificing themselves (or a classmate) to the necessities of the game. The movie quickly becomes a parody of itself.

There's nothing wrong with a parody, even one in which a lot of kids get killed. It would probably be more worthwhile, though, if less attention was paid to how the kids die, which is depicted in exhaustive and exhausting detail (I mean, there are so many of them), and more to why they're dying.

The horror seems to be self-evident, or at least the director thinks so, or at least in a such a way that Japanese could understand. It may be a classic horror film. I won't dispute this, because I don't know much about Japanese culture, which in general (and as a person who's lived in China) confuses and alarms me. But to me, the movie leaves the valley of the uncanny far behind with the first glimpse of the "winner" of the competition, clutching her stuffed animal in that helicopter, and enters some other valley. (The "Valley of Interesting Ways To Be Decapitated," perhaps.)

So watch it for the thrill of the macabre in the first ten minutes, and the thrill of camp melodrama thereafter.

And once you've gotten all the nourishment you can from that, there's only one thing left to do when watching a foreign-language film.

Ignore the subtitles and make up your own dialogue.

Local Trivia: Travel Center offering "steak"

Observed: Travel Center of America bilboard stating the local TA offers (and this is an exact quote):

"All you can eat" ribs

Our only consolation is that at least the ribs aren't "ribs."

PSA: American Idol -- worth watching for five minutes last night.

At friends', where I had no jurisdiction over TV station or show, last night, I saw almost an entire episode of American Idol. And about five minutes of the show -- and five minutes in a row, no less -- were brilliant.

Nick Mitchell, aka "Norman Gentle," came on in a discoball shiny shirt singing "And I'm Telling You (You're Gonna Love Me)" to the audience.

He sat on the stairs at first, mocking all melodrama by being just a bit more melodramatic than non-ironic singers, and as he came down off them, he held out the fake poindexter glasses he'd been wearing, probably to look "more sensitive" and said "hold these, okay?" and immediately dropped them onto the stage well out of reach of the crowd.

Hi. Larious.

He sang the song with the full force of irony that a man in a discoball shiny shirt can bring to bear on such a situation. All the judges, even Sarcophagus-Paula (who looked so dead inside I thought she might give Dick Clark a run for his money on cadaverousness [could it be that Ryan Seacrest sucks the life out of people surrounding him, somehow?]) and Simon, who later gave Nick a terrible review, laughed their fool heads off.

Simon did say that he hoped Nick got voted off, and that he thought Nick was terrible.

In my favorite moment of the night, Nick replied "well, it takes one to know one, sassypants," and followed up with several fake karate punches and a high kick in Simon's direction.

And he just went on, ironizing all of America with his Idol-mockery.

If American Idol continues in this vein, first it would have to be relocated to Comedy Central.

Secondly, I would totally watch it.

Vote Nick now, and vote often.

PSA: Humanities to be overrun by the rich, and idiots.

From the NYTimes, today, an article lamenting the plight of the humanities in tough economic times:

As money tightens, the humanities may increasingly return to being what they were at the beginning of the last century, when only a minuscule portion of the population attended college: namely, the province of the wealthy.

That may be unfortunate but inevitable, Mr. Kronman said. The essence of a humanities education — reading the great literary and philosophical works and coming “to grips with the question of what living is for” — may become “a great luxury that many cannot afford.”

Unless, for instance, people who can't afford a humanities degree can still read.

It's the insistence that we all get a piece of paper tallying what we've learned that will be the province of the rich -- but it already is, in the hierarchy of legacy-enabled private universities like Harvard or Yale, so that's nothing new.

The rest of us will keep on judging people by who they are rather than the papers that prove they're worthwhile.

(True, it's a bit more difficult to tell who's worth your time and who's not when they don't all have handy labels affixed to them, but then, that's more or less the work of humanitarians, isn't it? Critical thinking? Caring less about money than other things?? Can I get an 'Amen' here???)

The idea that anyone for whom a humanities degree is financially out of reach can't "come to grips with the question of what living is for" is absurd enough to make me wonder whether it isn't these sorts of opinions that are making humanities obsolete, rather than an economic recession.

PSQ: Will DC have to change its license plates?

A recent vote in the Senate on whether to allow the District of Columbia actual representation in the House of Representatives -- that is, to allow DC residents a representative with voting power -- ended up 62-34 in favor of beginning to debate the issue.

Utah would also be given another vote, likely evening out the Dem-Rep numbers. (DC's representative will be a Democrat, though I'm not sure which district of Utah will get the extra.)

Senator Lieberman, sadly making a lot of sense (since one wishes one could just dislike him wholeheartedly for mis-representing himself, and us), pointed out what I've been pointing out for a few years: that DC's population is larger than that of several states. Lieberman wasn't quoted in the NYTimes article as pointing out that the disenfranchised potential voters of the District are largely poor and black, though there are vague references to "civil rights issues of the past."

If the District is given a voting representative, I suspect that the medieval torture device that is the DC DMV will have quite a time revamping its license plate design, which currently has as its motto "taxation without representation." But it will be more than worth it, to have the people of the District represented in Congress.

Unless you've got to stand in that DMV line to change your plates.

Then it will be a toss-up.

Honey, honey [musical interlude]

Me, explaining why my girl shouldn’t “fill up on sugar” before lunch, especially since she’s sick, re: the candy corn she’s eating: “Those are made entirely of sugar.”

My girl: “They are? No they aren’t.”

Me: “Yes, they are.”

My girl: “I can’t see it.”

Me: “A lot of things have sugar in them that you can’t see. It’s cooked in.”

My girl: “Like pancakes?”

Me: “Yes, pancakes have sugar in them.”

My girl: “Eggs?”

Me: “No, eggs are made of eggs.”

My girl: “You can put your sugar in the eggs.”

Me: “Yes.”

My girl: “Wow, I’m learning a lot today. So far, I’m learning about sugar. Cereal?”

Me: “Mmm hmm.”

My girl: “Oatmeal?”

Me: “Mmm hmm.”

My girl: “Candy…”

Me: “All candy has sugar in it.”

My girl: “Not butterscotch.”

Me: “That has sugar in it.”

My girl: “What about peanuts?”

Me: “Some peanuts have sugar in them if it’s added.”

My girl: “Like these?” [Takes out a packet of honey-roasted peanuts and eats a few.]

Me: “Yes. Save those for after your lunch, too.”

My girl: "Yes, Alicia."

Confessions XXXI

This morning, while cutting an onion, my large knife slipped into my left hand's middle finger.

I almost passed out caring for it in true nineteenth-century heroine form, though I immediately put the finger in my mouth, the cut wasn't very deep (and on the side of my finger rather than the fleshy part), and I barely even looked at it while applying Bacitracin and a neon yellow band-aid.

Despite the embarrassment and insult of being someone who not only failed to properly cut an onion, but then almost went unconscious over it, the worst part of the whole experience is the constant replaying of the scenario in my mind that can hardly be stopped for hours afterward: what I could have done differently, what I was doing when the knife slipped, what it felt like to almost black out -- what an idiot I am in general.

PSA: "Solve your manhood issues immediately"

If any of you, my readers, are men, I'd be happy to forward this email from ercanfrsyl to you.

Though I haven't opened it, my bet is that the entirety of the message is one of the following:

if Freudian, "admit you want to sleep with your Mom;"

if Jungian, "you're a part of a vast system of archetypes and can find value in identifying your archetypal place in the collective unconscious and playing out that role;"

and if general self-help, "be confident! And buy this book!"

Let me know if, having heard these three pep talks, you'd still like to look over the contents of the email.

Local Trivia: "That's how I was raised, and I turned out TV."

Apparently, Fox 61 news did a story on the Journal-Register Company's recent declaration of bankruptcy -- using what I can only hope is old B-roll footage of the Herald and Bristol Press newspapers, which are no longer owned by JRC, and not using any footage, old or new, of The Middletown Press, which is still owned by JRC.

I'm not sure what more a viewer can expect of the station that brought us an expose on "girls kissing girls" thanks, they claimed, to Katy Perry's hit song "I Kissed a Girl," which amounted to not much more than an excuse to show, in multiple speeds, all the video imagery they had of New Haven girls kissing other girls, probably on cameraman request.

But I'm told that my front-page tease photo looked good on camera, and now, having reached that pinnacle of simulacra ("on the newspaper on TV"), I "can't help but wonder" -- if the camera adds ten pounds, does print subtract it, somehow?

The only other example of this I can think of is seeing Carrie Bradshaw on the side of a bus on an episode of SatC, but Sarah Jessica Parker is so skinny as to make it impossible to guess her weight in any form: "No, less than that" is my only possible response to any stab at figuring her poundage.

If any of you have seen a picture of yourself shown on TV, feel free to weigh in, here.

Ha ha.

Local Trivia: Wow. Interesting priorities you've got there.

Overheard at local independent coffee shop, a female server:

"I don't have time to fart."

PSA: The craptacular Internet

Me: “What should I put on the Internet?”

My girl: “I don’t know.”

Me: “It should be something funny.”

My girl, brightening, then trailing off: “Comics! Like the ones…”

Me: “You mean the funny kind? Like in the paper?”

My girl: “Yeah!”

Me: “Would I have to draw it myself?”

My girl: “No.”

Me: “Where would I get it from?”

My girl: “The paper.”

Me: “How would I get it on the computer?”

My girl: “I don’t know...I hate this crap.”

Quantifiable Living: Windsor knot-Loneliness scale (for men)

Emotion: Loneliness (men)

Unit of measure: Windsor knot tying tries

How it works: For men, loneliness can be measured in the number of attempts it takes to tie a successful Windsor knot (aWk) in an average necktie, without help.

This scale may count imagined number of attempts rather than actual attempts, and includes attempts gone awry due to distraction as well as those due to confusion over how to tie a Windsor knot in the first place. It also includes attempts otherwise successful that cause the tie to hang at a socially inappropriate length down a man’s chest (too short or too long).

Examples:

You feel an impulse to work out for three hours at the gym: 4 attempts at Windsor knot (aWk)

Your cat has been missing for a week: 9 aWk

You have one acquaintance in the urban area in which you live and no romantic prospects: 17 aWk

Limits: The aWk quantity is partly a function of time, in that each attempt at tying a Windsor knot will take an average number of seconds; thus, the aWk quantity multiplied by time (i.e. 20 seconds) per attempt should not exceed the amount of time allotted to the activity for which one is dressing up.

If the aWk*seconds-per-attempt measure does exceed the time allotted to the social engagement, this may reveal that the man in question feels incapable of even leaving the house due to loneliness, and so may be a helpful measure – though strictly speaking, this is hyperbole and not scientific. The Windsor-knot-loneliness scale cannot accurately measure this depth of loneliness, which is properly called despair, and loneliness exceeding the scale’s limits should be recorded as “∞” or “infinity.”

Elaborations: For older men for whom tying their own necktie has become such a matter of course that they have difficulty imagining getting it wrong, a reasonably accurate alternate measure is the number of attempts to straighten the tied tie in the mirror before being satisfied that it’s straight.

However, to determine the limit of the scale in this case, due to the great range in amount of time it takes to attempt to straighten a tie (2 seconds – several minutes), attempts to straighten should be multiplied if necessary by the average amount of time it takes to tie a Windsor knot, in order to determine if despair (“∞” or “infinity” on the aWk scale) has been reached.

Bolo ties indicate negligible amounts of loneliness or desire for human female companionship, as with cowboys.

The highest levels of loneliness may be measured in bowtie-tying attempts.

Quantifiable Living: Buttons-Loneliness scale (for women)

Emotion: Loneliness (women)

Units of measure: Unbuttoned back buttons

How it works: For women, loneliness can be measured in the number of back buttons left unbuttoned (bbu) by the absence of another person to help button them.

Though in most cases, real-life formalwear includes few or no buttons at the upper back and back of the neck, for the purpose of the scale, a gown that covers the entire back may be imagined. The number of buttons that would be unreachable to a woman wearing the dress while standing up straight, without contorting her arms, bending over or ripping the dress, indicates how lonely she is.

If a woman cannot reach four back buttons without help, she is indicating that she is twice as lonely as if she could not reach two back buttons.

Examples:

You feel an impulse to eat an entire pint of Chunky Monkey: 6 back buttons unbuttoned (bbu)

Your cat has been missing for a week: 14 bbu

You have one acquaintance in the urban area in which you live and no romantic prospects: 26 bbu

For the purpose of the buttons-loneliness scale, the buttons requiring buttoning are average plastic, smooth, flat, pea-sized buttons.

Limits: The bbu quantity should not exceed the number of pea-sized buttons that could possibly fit edge-to-edge across the mid-back to neck of an average-height woman; see elaborations if a higher indicator of loneliness is desired.

Elaborations: Type of dress may be invoked to assist others’ understanding of loneliness levels, though this is usually also measure of social awkwardness and openness to new experiences and meeting new people, rather than of pure loneliness, and so should be cross-referenced with scales for awkwardness and openness, for mathematical accuracy.

A dress revealing the entire back, or involving no buttons, indicates negligible amounts of loneliness: the revealing dress indicates openness to others, while the non-buttoned covered back indicates satisfaction in being alone.

The highest levels of loneliness may be measured in wedding-dress buttons, since a lonely bride (left at the altar, presumably) would likely be experiencing some of the most acute and focused loneliness available.

These levels of loneliness may be accurately measured using only the buttons-loneliness scale because rules regarding how many buttons may fit down an average-height woman’s back, and also how many buttons are deemed “unreachable,” obviously do not apply to wedding dresses. No other scale needs be applied or cross-referenced, though other relevant scales may be applied if desired. Units of measure for wedding-dress buttons are abbreviated “wdbbu.”

Difficulty of buttoning particular types of buttons – fabric-covered round buttons, for instance, rather than smooth plastic – may also be taken into account, using advanced math and the “difficulty of buttoning” scale.

A woman may also indicate that she feels so lonely she feels she cannot reach even buttons well within the grasp of an uncontorted arm, possibly on her lower back.

This may reveal that she feels incapable of even leaving the house due to loneliness, and so may be a helpful measure – though strictly speaking, this is hyperbole and not scientific. The buttons-loneliness scale cannot accurately measure this depth of loneliness, which is properly called despair, and loneliness exceeding the scale’s limits should be recorded as “∞” or “infinity.”

Local Trivia: Freight train mania

If you're looking to jump a train in central Connecticut, the trainyard in Plainville sends out freight trains that end up at the Berlin train station.

You could park your car there with the help of another train-jumping friend; it's about 20 minutes' drive.

The train ride would be about 40 minutes.

Local Trivia: Plainville criminals are that rare blend of totally stupid and able to drive.

From the newsroom, tales of past Plainville crimes:

A man in Loew's who went around peeing on people.

A drugged up classmate of a sports editor who used his b.b. gun to shoot apple cores at people.

The elderly man who decided to kill his wife, then himself, who stabbed her "until she asked him to stop -- then he said 'okay,' and did."

PSA: Joan Stout

"Get your head effectively cleaned after last night."

Huh.

This could mean so many things, I'm not even sure where to begin.

Apply to Joan if you'd like to know.

PSA: I'm louder like this.

My girl plugs my headphones into the microphone jack in her computer instead of the splitter that allows us both to listen to the movie she's about to watch.

Me: "That's the microphone spot. I won't be able to hear anything."

My girl laughs for ten minutes, and whenever I look over she points to the headphones plugged into the wrong spot.

Me: "I guess I won't be able to watch the movie."

My girl: "I guess not."

Local Trivia: If politicians were menu items

The one I couldn't publish:

Mayor Stewart would be a bowl of nuts.

Local Trivia: Chimp mauls CT woman

A 15-year-old, 200-lb. chimp named Travis mauled the guest of its owner in Connecticut earlier today, and was shot dead by police. The chimp had been featured in Old Navy and Coca-Cola commercials, and was apparently kept legally by its owner.

About this incident, friend Jennifer remarked:

"Too many TV stars keep going [crazy]. They don't think the rules of the ordinary lives of ordinary people apply to them...When they went to shoot him, the chimp promptly shouted 'Do you know who I am?'"

Police only shot the chimp after trying to corner him and retreating multiple times, when the chimp opened the door to the police cruiser and began to climb in.

In a Connecticut twist to an otherwise generic FOX-channel "Animals Gone Wild" incident, the chimp may have been driven crazy by Lyme disease and the medications used to treat it.

In another Connecticut-Gold-Coast twist, the owner also speculated that the chimp may have attacked the owner's friend because she was wearing her hair differently that day.

PSA: TV still turned on

All the channels I normally get are still on-air as analog signals. They are, namely:

FOX 61
Used-to-be-WB 59
NBC 30
PBS 24
CW 20
Univision 18
ABC 8
CBS 3

PSA: Democrats.com in need of new copyeditor

Subj: "Tell Congress we're in favor of single payer heatlh care"

PSA: TV still works

Well, my rabbit-eared television is still spewing forth the same stuff it has been for years, minus West Wing.

D-day for my TV may still be scheduled for tomorrow, though, despite Congress's vote to put off the switch until June 12. Over 500 stations have decided to keep the original switch date.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Don't tell me. Seriously, don't.

I still have not come across any news item or conversation indicating which team won the Superbowl this year.

PSA: Why Oscar movie contenders are always in the inconvenient stage between theaters and DVD

First, I believe that studios release films they believe will be Oscar contenders so that the blackout period between silver screen and widescreen falls over Oscar night.

I believe they do this because they understand the Academy and its vagaries.

The problem is one of primary concern during and memory of the viewing of the movie.

Around Oscar time, Academy members must be thinking "is this an Oscar-worthy movie?" in that last-minute panic of a teenager who hasn't quite finished his homework five minutes before class. I imagine it cuts down on the ability to judge objectively ("I'll write an essay on how the Friday the 13th movies are just like Far From the Madding Crowd!") and makes the faded memories of movies that came out earlier in the year even more distant ("I don't have time to consult my notes -- this one's good enough!").

But having a movie out in the theater during the Oscars is also a problem, in case you have Academy members who are "serious" about their "choice." They might do actual research if given the chance, and see the movie multiple times. If they do so, they might realize that it doesn't hold up to multiple viewings, where another movie might. All the worse if the movie is already out on DVD, away from the glamour and overwhelming nature of the big screen, and available for a thousand viewings including commentary tracks.

So there's the panic factor, which is the whole raison d'etre for timing.

There's also the basic thematic content factor, which is what most people talk about when they talk about "Oscar-worthy" films.

The trick to getting an Oscar, in other words, like the trick to writing a best-selling nonfiction book (Abraham Lincoln + puppies), is more about the scanability of the major themes in hectic once-overs than about the movie itself:

They should make vague gestures toward gravitas -- the Holocaust is often a winner, or, failing that, war in general (though in that order: Schindler's List's "Best Picture" vs. Saving Private Ryan's "Best Director") -- but not say anything that could be intelligently disagreed-with ("war is bad," "the Holocaust was bad," or exceptionally, "the Holocaust was bittersweetly funny and Italian").

Winning themes should appear to be controversial without actually being controversial. (Remember Crash? "Racism is bad"? Cutting edge stuff, there.)

All the better if they feature an actor who's been nominated several times but not won; Hollywood loves an underdog, even one it's created itself.

In other words, Kate Winslet as a nun during the Holocaust, released over Christmas? Gold.

Confessions XXX

I've never been to a strip club or other locale where people take off their clothes for money, but if I were invisible, I would go; I'm fascinated by the whole "scene."

I think the idea of a Brazilian wax is obscene.

I went to the free clinic in New Britain before going to China to have a test for syphilis (required for the visa), and when I answered the woman's question of when I'd last been sexually active ("never"), she told me I probably shouldn't be using the clinic's resources. But if I had to, I would again.

PSA: Friday the 13th, dumplings in numbers

Number of people at the dumpling party: 6

Number of additional people possibly coming: 5

Number of those additional people I assumed were bleeding out in a parking lot somewhere: 1

Number of the potentially bleeding people who were actually napping: 1

Pounds of ground pork used for dumpling mix: 1.97

Pounds of ground pork thrown away thanks to freezer burn and mysterious "Sell by May 20" (year unmarked): 1.47

Cups of Chinese cabbage used for dumpling mix: 5

Number of ingredients I chopped up for dumpling mix: 2

Number of ingredients I minced: 2

Number of packages of A Dong jiaozi wrappers used to wrap these dumplings: 2.7

Number of dumplings consumed last night: ??

Number of dumplings I likely consumed: about 10

Number of dumplings leftover in the pot after everyone was full: 1

Number of dumplings made from leftover mix, wrapped by me at 8 o'clock this morning: 66

Number of those dumplings I pan-friend for brunch: 16

Number of dumplings left after that, for those bad at math: 50

Number of meals I can get out of 50 leftover dumplings: 4-5

PSA: Just a few of the many situations that could conceivably be helped by setting even a small fire.

You're at a cookout.

You're freezing on a snowy mountaintop somewhere and it's getting dark.

You hate the school photos of you from eighth grade.

You've been indicted in some kind of fraud scandal and have been storing all the "evidence" in a large metal drum.

You can't find a parking space at the mall.

PSA: Situations in which it wouldn't be helpful to set something on fire

There's a videotape caught in the VCR.

You're unable to read an email due to server malfunction.

Old Yeller is rabid and you're at the store attempting to purchase a shotgun to take care of it. The cashier is already eyeing you suspiciously.

PSA: Conferencing

Today and tomorrow, I'll be up at Brandeis going to lectures.

If I see anything funny or interesting, I'll blog it. Eventually.

If anyone sees anything I should have an opinion on, comment and I'll form one.

Also, if any of you have been hankering to have an emotion quantified, let me know. I'm a month behind on Quantifiable Living.

PSA: Mullet puts relationship a hair's-breadth from breakup.

Me to PC: "I wouldn't want you to grow a mullet. I mean, a mullet isn't a dealbreaker. I wouldn't break up with you over a mullet -- but I would want to."

Local Trivia: Someone call Al Gore, re: global warming and migratory patterns

Observed: Yesterday, a pair of Canada geese returning to the Farmington River

Today, a robin sighting in Cheshire, CT.

Tomorrow, The Birds.

Local Trivia: Sounds like sitcom dialogue, but makes (marginally) less sense

Overheard, Sunday brunch at Farmington Valley restaurant:

Young woman, trying to get older woman to try something from her plate: "It's just one tiny piece, Eleanor."

Older woman: "I know...just don't ask me to scramble your eggs."

Young woman: "Oh, Eleanor. Some things never change." [Laughter around the table.]

Weapons Prince Certainpersonio would not defend me against, in a confrontation

Guns

Chainsaws

Tanks

Weapons Prince Certainpersonio would defend me against, in a confrontation

Knives

Axes

Hammers

Local Trivia: Midnight OCD-like car-cleaning = double homicide?

Last night, walking around in my crazily warm neighborhood, PC and I noticed the DIY carwash being used by a woman with an SUV, past midnight.

Returning to my apartment, we saw another SUV owner apparently also cleaning the car in his garage.

Both car-cleaners had a certain manic quality I couldn't quite place except as a "well, they live in Plainville" desperation. But if this were a movie or an episode of CSI, well, clearly they would have been cleaning off blood. And we probably would have stumbled across the bodies still in the street.

We didn't, though, so they probably didn't kill anyone.

Unless they also watch movies or CSI and thus know better than to leave the bodies out.

I suppose we'll never really know.

PSA: Things that seem like really good ideas, but aren't.

Tube socks

Three-strikes laws

Rating your friends by place-number ("you're my first-best friend; you're my second-best friend; etc.")

Hitchhiking through Texas

Cutco knives

Selling Cutco knives

Flat tax

Unsolicited Advice, IX

If you're happy and you know it, it's better to avoid clapping your hands, randomly, in public -- no matter what that song says.

PSA: Songs for which breaking the mold really worked out

"God Only Knows" -- The Beach Boys

"Time After Time" -- Cyndy Lauper

PSA: Alternative Bo(CN)C cartoons

Captain Planet and the Planeteers

Disney's Adventures of the Gummi Bears

Inspector Gadget

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Breakfast of (Cartoon Network) Champions

Coconut sticky-rice with gummi bear mix-in, and gummi bear garnish

Frosted-Flake and Peep (Christmas tree and Easter tulip) treats

Milk

3 episodes of Thundercats

1. Consume until almost in a diabetic coma, then crash and sleep for two more hours. At least.

2. Repeat.

CU, this year

I've decided to give myself a one-week hiatus from Continue Unprotected, whenever I feel like taking it, this year.

The first anniversary is supposed to be paper, after all. So I'll write on paper for that week.

Hope you all have enjoyed year 1. Now go watch some Strongbad emails to amuse yourselves.

PSQ: How to celebrate CU?

A. an ice cream cake, a la "Honey I totaled the car"

B. a homemade pizza

C. Some kind of Lego-man vs. Peeps diorama

D. Other

E. I choose to fail

Mix: Superhero

"Superman (It's Not Easy)" -- Five for Fighting
"Eye In The Sky" -- Alan Parsons Project
"I Need A Hero" -- Bonnie Tyler
"Superhuman" -- Chris Brown
"My Superman" -- Santogold
"Supernatural Superserious" -- R.E.M.
"Super Bon Bon" -- Soul Coughing
"Particle Man" -- They Might Be Giants
"Black Heroes" -- Ratatat
"Supervillian Theme" -- Madvillian
"Heroes And Villians" -- The Beach Boys

Local Trivia: Goodwill toward me.

Goodwill haul, 1/31/09:

Beaded belt: $2

Nautica, size 4, dark brown corduroy pants: $3

"Careless Whisper" single record, with vocal and instrumental sides: $1

Cranberries tape: $1

Lionel Richie tape: $1

Lime-green fan: $3

Stereo system, including turntable, dual-cassette player, CD player and one speaker: $8

Burned mp3 mix CD including 32 Bob Marley songs and 164 classic rock hits, found inside stereo system: priceless.

Challenge: One-yeariversary coming

Well, CU has been going, for what that's worth, for two days short of a year now, and I'm opening it up to suggestions from the three people who read it:

What sort of post celebration shall I prepare?

PSA: Vika N. in need of lover, or housecleaner

I've been accidentally forwarded an email from Vika N., who indicates s/he's "waiting to be swept off my feet."

Though I make it a point not to open personal emails that aren't intended for me, in these economically repressed times, I thought I'd pass along the opportunity to my friends.

I'll forward the email to you if you'd like to contact Vika re: your skills as a hooker or maid.

E.T.: Worst. Game. Ever.

I think it's about time I explained about the E.T. room here on CU.

But first, the game: E.T. is cited by many (Internet) sources as the game that singlegamedly caused the downfall of Atari.

It was simply a terrible game. Rushed into production for Christmas during the E.T. craze of '82, the main plot of E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial revolved around finding pieces of the telephone that E.T. could "phone home" with. The main action of the game was falling into deep ditches and attempting, usually unsuccessfully, to get out, by levitating E.T.'s slooooowly up to the top of the ditch and pressing a button at the same instant his body reaches the pinnacle of levitation.

Wikipedia suggests it is a myth that more game cartridges were produced than Atari 2600 consoles that existed at the time, but I choose to believe it.

The remaining and returned E.T. games, 2.5 million of which were unsold (out of 4 million), were crushed into a cemented-over landfill in Alamogordo, N.M. in 1983.

I own a copy of this game.

E.T. Room

Okay, folks. This is "master-plan" level stuff.

If I ever have a mansion, or better yet, some kind of huge old abandoned industrial space, or a normal place with an extra room, my plan is to make one large room into "the E.T. room."

The E.T. room will be a testament and ode to human folly.

It will be a celebration, really.

The Atari 2600 E.T. game, as the inspiration for the E.T. room, will be displayed prominently and permanently on the wall -- though I haven't decided whether other human follies should be like rotating exhibits, or also permanent.

Since shadowboxing is the most ridiculous mode of presentation, the E.T. game will, of course, be shadowboxed.

I haven't decided whether the game should actually be played in the E.T. room (except on its inaugural day, when obviously it should) or generally left as a symbol of the incredible history of incredibly bad inventions, designs and ideas that the E.T. room will partially catalogue.

So even though I'm not in the market for real estate, and even though I'm likely moving sometime in the next several months, here's your chance:

What would you put in the E.T. room?