Nice Little Quote

Just a little clip from the book I'm reading:

Women fainted at the sight, so it was said, while strong men gasped; but then, women were forever fainting and strong men gasping in the records of that century.

From Pierre Berton's Niagra.

Oh My.

Suddenly George Takei seems to be everywhere. And I love it.

Here's George with Patty Duke (Cathy was unavailable. Someone gave her a hot dog and she lost control.) doing a PSA for Social Security:



And here's George's audition tape for the Spiderman musical!



Seriously, this guy should host SNL.

This Blog is Not Dead

It is simply waiting for me to get my life in order.  Nothing major.  It's just that I have no time these days for anything like long-form writing.  I'll be back.  Or I'll die of frustration.

You Cannot Outsmart Crazy

America's most important political commentator, Jon Stewart, says everything I wanted to say and several wise things I hadn't thought of regarding the tragedy in Arizona.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Arizona Shootings Reaction
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Ye Olde Lunch

My best pal had to go to the dentist today, which she didn't want to do. To cheer her up I decided to take her to lunch to a place where I've not taken her before. We both love a bit of seafood so we sallied forth for the Union Oyster House, also known as Ye Olde Union Oyster House, also known as the oldest restaurant in America.

The building went up sometime in the early 18th century. No one is quite sure when. Its had a number of different occupants. One of the country's first newspapers, the Massachusetts Spy, was published for a while on the second floor (they had to move out of town when the revolution started to get kind of shooty). During the war soldiers of Washington's army would go there to get paid. A few years later a guy named Louis Philippe started living there. He made a living teaching French to young ladies (ooh la la, and all that). Thirty four years later he became the last king of France.

It still looks pretty much like this

In 1826 a couple of guys opened a restaurant there. They built a half circle shaped oyster bar. Sitting where we were, in booth #1, I could look at the old bar and imagine Daniel Webster sitting there as he often did, slamming brandy and downing plate after plate of oysters. Up on the second floor is booth #18, John F. Kennedy's favorite spot.

Today the clientele is a funny mix of seafood and history loving locals and tourists. Depending on the time of day you see mostly tourists as the place is right on the Freedom Trail, halfway between Faneuil Hall and Paul Revere's house. A lot of people make a big show of being annoyed by tourists, but I kind of like them. Yup, we do have an interesting town. Yup, we locals are a colorful lot. So here's to you, Mr. Japanese Guy taking photos of the lobster tank. Enjoy your visit.

And I enjoyed my visit to Ye Olde Union Oyster House. The hostess steered us to our booth gruffly, which is how we old Bostonians prefer it. I was reminded that this was the place that hired the first waitress in American history, Rose Carey, back in the '20s. I briefly wondered if she would on duty today when a nice young lady named Elizibeth came over to take our orders. My best pal ordered fried scrod and fries. What is scrod, you ask, you poor out-of-towner you. It is a hunk of white fish. What sort of white fish? Cod? Haddock? Pollock? None of your damn business, you nosy bastid. And who cares, really? It's fish and it's good.

Me, I had something called New England fish cakes. I have no idea what was in them, but they were really good and really filling. They came with a side of fries and Boston baked beans. Damn but I love a good plate of Boston baked beans. The beans, the molasses, and that little unctuous touch of pork fat that pulls it all together. Oh my.
This was preceded by a lovely bit of cornbread and Union's justifiably famous clam chowder. Thick, creamy, with lots of clams and potatoes, a bowl of that could have made a meal in itself.

This was all washed down with a special Sam Adams ale that you can only get in that one spot, a light brown beauty called “Colonial.” Fortified by a pint of that I was more than ready to take on a regiment of redcoats.

That, my friends, is lunch, Boston style.

We took our time, soaking in the dumpy, history soaked atmosphere. We listened as an oyster shucker explained his art to a group of fascinated tourists. We gazed at a portrait of Ebenezer Hancock, the army's first paymaster. We watched the doomed lobsters waving their banded claws at one another. And we briefly considered dessert. The apple cobbler looked good. So did the Indian pudding and the Boston cream pie. But we had to quit there, full of the bounty of the sea as we were.

A lovely lunch, all in all. So to you locals, don't forget your heritage and get yourself some chowder. And for you visitors, stop by. Don't forget your credit card (it only looks cheap). And don't forget to stop at Ye Olde Gift Shoppe on your way out.

Trivial Hoot Sixteen

Hey there puzzlers. Time for another trivia quiz. It's a Star Trek question, so put on your Academy thinking caps.

Here is a list of six Star Trek episodes.

The Naked Time. Tomorrow is Yesterday. The City on the Edge of Forever. Assignment: Earth. The Lights of Zetar. All Our Yesterdays.

One of these episodes does not belong on this list. Which one is the odd man out, and why?

Once again, the first person to answer correctly wins an ephemeral hoot and entry to our honor roll of Steely-Eyed Missile Men and Women. Have at it my fellow Trekkies.

The Aztecs Had It Right

It's a big consumer orgy, a celebration of life that is also a season of buying lots and lots of stuff. Sure, it's lots of fun (except for the people who work hard to make it happen for all the rest of you), but it is also exhausting and expensive. We do it every year, year after year, and we call it Christmas. And I say it is just too much. Buying ourselves into debt in December, then paying for it all year until the next December, is madness. Which is why I'm advocating a return to a simpler, more American time. I say we should look to Mesoamerica for our authentic traditions and embrace the ways of our Aztec forefathers. Now they knew how to have a consumer orgy/celebration of life.

First of all, they didn't do it annually. They did it only once every 52 years.

The Aztecs knew that the earth would eventually come to an end. Their religion taught that there had been four previous worlds and they had all died. They knew that this one would be destroyed by earthquakes. They knew that this destruction would happen at the end of one of their calendar's 52 year cycles. They just didn't know which cycle it would be. So once every 52 years they would would spend five days getting ready just in case history was ending. They'd get all their stuff, plates and pots and whatnots, break them, and throw them away. They'd clean up, make the house all spick-and-span, douse any fires they had burning, and then climb up on the roof to watch the end of the universe. It was like everybody going off to visit Milliways at the same time.

The priests were also looking to the skies, but they weren't just sight-seeing. They were looking for the Pleiades. When it reached its zenith and continued on they knew that the world had not come to an end and it was time to begin the New Fire ceremony.

First they had to light a fire. This was terribly important because if the fire was not lit the sun would not rise in the morning, having been destroyed forever. Since it was so important they naturally started the fire on some guy's chest. Everyone was pretty nervous as they did their best boy scout imitations, including the guy they were using as a hearth. Once the fire got going everyone would breathe a sigh of relief, then they'd take the fire off the guy and get it good and roaring. The fellow with the burned chest was then cut open and his heart would be removed and thrown into the fire. Let the party begin!

The fire would be carried to a temple in the capital city where it would be used to light specially made torches. Runners would then take the flame to all parts of the empire and it would eventually light every hearth in the land. Imagine the beauty and joy of the ceremony, the New Fire being carried into town, the warmth of the flames, the renewal of life and the connection of every home in country to one another and to the universe.

Then, of course, came the consumer orgy. Since everything had just been broken up and thrown away everybody would need to buy all new stuff. Happy New Fire! Here's a pot. Here's a new obsidian knife. Here's a floor mat. And we've got to pick up a whole new set of household idols.

There would be much rejoicing, especially among the makers and sellers of stuff. And I imagine that everyone was pretty thankful that this wonderful day usually only happened once or twice in a lifetime.

So I say, let's get back to the good old days, the old time religion of the Aztecs. Sure, it had some gruesome bits, but it still beats having to go through Christmas every year.

By the way, what's the Nahuatl word for humbug?

Glenn's Book of Quotes Number Twenty-Four

“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. No put the foundations under them.” – Henry David Thoreau

Dream. Dream wild dreams. Then dare to do the work to follow those dreams to the wild places where they are true.

Intellect and Romance Triumph Over Brute Force and Cynicism

Extreme Awesomeness

It's the Least Wonderful Time of the Year

The holiday season.  Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, Solstice, HumanLight, Kwanzaa, Festivus, Eid al-Adha, Boxing Day, Feast of Stephen, Soyal, Yule, Life Day.  Phooey.  Flummery.  I suppose humbug would be traditional.  In my line of work it means that my time and energy are at their greatest premium.  So this is my annual announcement that you will hear less from me than usual.  I'll try to surface for air from time to time, but don't hold your breath.  Enjoy your holidays.  Bah!

The Day it Rained Whale

Forty years ago today . . . this happened.



This may be the best news story ever broadcast. November 12, 1970, the Oregon Highway Division reasoned that the best way to move a dead whale would be to use dynamite. It went about as well as you might expect.

As the Blogoshere Turns

I really don't like Jar Jar Binks and I've never seen the appeal of cartoons designed to look like Legos, so it's saying something that the Video O' the Week is a Lego cartoon featuring Jar Jar Binks.  It's another great post on Electronic Cerebrectomy.

Fast Paced NBA Action!

It's where amazing happens! No, wait a second . . . I meant to say something dull, like "60 years of honoring great American books." If you're like me you are all a-tingle for the National Book Awards. Or perhaps I'm tingling because I forgot to take my medication this morning. Either way, you want to watch The Totally Hip Book Reviewer break down this year's finalists. No, seriously, you do.

Sherlock Holmes Versus Jack the Ripper!

By no means is Dust and Shadow the first time a Sherlock Holmes pastiche has pitted the great detective against Victorian London's most notorious villain, Jack the Ripper, but it is certainly the best I've read. First time novelist Lyndsay Faye did a wonderful job of writing in the spirit of Arthur Conan Doyle while cranking up the pace for the jaded modern reader.

I am by no means a ripperologist (a rather grim historical specialty), nor would I qualify as a Sherlockian, but I have some familiarity with the crimes and I have read the canonical stories a few times. I'd say that Faye folded Holmes into the Whitechapel case seamlessly, using the proper Watsonian narrative style. And I loved every minute of it.

Which really is something of an accomplishment. We know that when Holmes is trying to prevent the next murder he is doomed to failure, because we know the history. The next crime will take place because it did take place. Yet we are carried along with the adventure, wondering what twist will be put on the facts, what insights Holmes will have into the identity of Jack.

Faye gives us the Watson and Holmes that we know and love. If I have any quibble it is that Holmes seems to show a good deal of sympathy toward the story's principal female character, which is a role usually assigned to Watson; but then she was an impressive woman. The characters, familiar (Lestrade is particularly well drawn) and unfamiliar, are engaging. The setting, often a very important part in these stories, is vivid. The crimes themselves are gruesomely fascinating. Enough of the details are revealed to horrify, but not enough to sicken.

One of the things that makes Jack the Ripper such a good subject for fiction is the fact that the murders will forever remain a mystery. It frees writers to come up with any solution they wish. The solution here works and the ending is satisfying. This is a Guaranteed Good Read for anyone who likes a mystery, especially a Sherlock Holmes mystery.

Invaluable Advice

Very short book review here of a thin volume published in 1965 and written by that eminent expert in proper behavior, Miss Hyacinthe Phypps. I was attracted to the book by the illustrations of that illustrious illustrator, Edward Gorey, but I must say I was was quite taken by the wise advice that Miss Phypps provides for the eponymous subject of the work, The Recently Deflowered Girl. A variety of delicate social situations that a recently deflowered girl might find herself in are described, and the offered wisdom never fails to be sound. What, for example, would you say if you had been deflowered by an elevator operator, a famous crooner, or a Chinese detective? Do you know the proper response if you find that you have been deflowered in a Moroccan palace, on a cross-country bus, or at a séance? Of course you don't. But you would had you read this book. And you would surely have found the drawings by the wonderful Mr. Gorey to be helpful and illuminating. In a time when such advice is sorely needed I am gratified that this volume has been republished.

Be Seeing You

A friend of mine has a disease called retinitis pigmentosa. That means that when he was a kid his vision started to deteriorate. By the time he was a teenager he was “legally blind.” That meant that he would never drive a car and never do the things he had dreamed of doing just a few years before. It also meant that he would continue to lose his sight. Every year it would be just a little bit worse, until his vision would be gone completely. Years would pass, decades would pass, but there would be no light at the end of this tunnel. Only tunnel.

So I'm pretty excited by this news out of Germany that scientists have developed an implant that could give my friend back some of his vision, possibly enough to read. We do, perhaps, live in an age of miracle and wonder.

For the Children

You've probably heard that phrase before. We have to do this, “for the children.” We must ban that, “for the children.” Those who would censor, restrict, or regulate always say it is “for the children.” When my state attorney general, Martha Coakley, helped draft a law to regulate naughtiness on the internet, it was “for the children.” Never mind that it was an unconstitutional infringement of the
First Amendment (a federal judge recently said so when she struck it down). When Tipper Gore got warning labels on CDs, it was “for the children.” When Joe Leiberman tried to regulate computer games, it was “for the children.” Smashing rock 'n roll records, banning pinball, burning Harry Potter books, it's all “for the children.” As Robert Heinlein wrote in “The Man Who Sold the Moon,” “The whole principle is wrong. It's like demanding that grown men live on skim milk because the baby can't have steak.”

One of the earliest moral panic episodes of the past century was the “great comic-book scare.” In his excellent book on the subject, The Ten-Cent Plague, David Hajdu gives us a history of comics in the 1950s, the men and women who made them, and the panicked, duped, self-serving, or just downright venal people who destroyed the industry.

Mr. Hajdu writes a good history of comics, delving into the lives and personalities of their creators as well as their social milieu. At first I thought this might be off of the main point of the book, the censorship of comics. Often in pop-culture histories the writer will take extended sidetracks into parts of the story that are fun to read and write about. While I enjoyed these section of the book I had, in my mind, judged them to be a minor flaw in the narrative structure. But I was wrong. By laying down a solid (and very interesting, especially for a comic book fan like me) foundation describing the writers, artists, publishers, and their work, it put many of the arguments of the anti-comics forces into a context that demonstrated the wrongness of their position.

Some may be surprised to read about what a big issue this was at the time. Public comic book burnings were held all over the country. Local censorship boards sprung up across the map. Congressional hearings on the subject were broadcast on live television. Major newspapers like the Hartford Courant wrote editorials calling for an end to the comics menace. Fredric Wertham's infamous comic-bashing book The Seduction of the Innocent was a bestseller. Publishers and newsstand owners were threatened with prosecution, years before the CBLDF was even imagined. It is a remarkable story.

I'd call this a must-read for any real comics fan and a good read for anyone interested in American history, pop-culture, art, or witch trials.

Trivial Hoot Fifteen

Hoo, it's been a long time since I've been in a question posing mood. We just watched the second episode of Sherlock here and noted that it echoed the canonical Sherlock Holmes story “The Adventure of the Dancing Men” in that Holmes cracked a code. In the original story it was a substitution code with stick figures replacing letters. The question then: what was the first letter that Holmes figured out? This should be elementary for even the most casual Sherlockians.

As always, the first person to give me the correct answer gets an ephemeral hoot and gets his or her name added to our list of Steely-Eyed Missile Men.

St. Lewis of Black

I've read some of the works of evangelical atheists, so I thought I knew what to expect when I was handed Me of Little Faith, a book on religion by avowed atheist Lewis Black. I was wrong.

Not entirely wrong. I expected funny, I got funny. I expected it to be witty, to use humor to cast a harsh light on some of the more ridiculous aspects of organized religion, and I got that. I expected a classic Lewis Black angry rant or two, and I expected the book to be profane and irreverent. Naturally.

I also expected it to take cheap shots at faith. I expected smug arrogance, like I've heard from Bill Mahr. I expected weak straw man (straw God?) arguments like I've read in Christopher Hitchens. I expected to see the inane “how can you believe in a big buddy in the sky” sort of junk that passes for reason I've seen way too often.

I didn't expect thoughtfulness. I didn't expect self-doubt, which is usually lacking in evangelical atheists and their equally fanatical counterparts, religious zealots. I didn't expect respect for people of faith. But that's what I got.

So forgive me Lewis Black. I should have had more faith in you.

Me of Little Faith is a funny, occasionally laugh out loud funny, collection of very short essays, mostly on the subject of religion. Some are clever, some are terrific, some are just a passing thought on paper. It includes a play that Black wrote a few years ago that he admits the critics didn't like, and I'm afraid I'm with the critics. And near the end it includes Black's idea for a new religion. One based on the idea that God, whatever He may be, wants you to laugh.

In that, I think I think I am luckier than the famously disgruntled comedian. I actually believe in that God already. Isn't that funny?

Give a Hoot . . . or Die

I love the shirt they're selling today at Woot.

Woodsy means business. And he's looking at you, punk.