Son of Godawful? Mostly.
Let’s get one thing straight right from the start. The villain of The Da Vinci Code is NOT albino, dammit. He’s leucistic. Look at his eyes — they’re blue, not pink. Trust me on this. So you albino rights groups can chill out right now.
(Edited to add: okay, according to Karen, I effed up on this one. Turns out albinism is a complex condition with more than one possible genetic basis. Some folks with this condition have red eyes, but many have light blue eyes. My bad. I’m sympathetic to the albinos, by the way. It’s stupid — no, worse than that, it’s lazy writing — to use color as code for evil. So stop it, Hollywood, stop it right now!)
But you’re not here for a biology lecture, are you? You want the dish on The DVC. It’s below the cut.
Brilliant
Crooks and Liars has the video.
Anyone who studies humor, who is interested in the question, What makes a joke work? should watch this animated short. Robert Smigel and Matt O’Brien take a simple sight gag and run it through increasingly absurd variations. Same idea as The Aristocrats, but without the reliance on pornographic/potty humor (not that I object to potty humor). No, this short works thanks to (A) the clever use of surprise, and (B) an understanding of the symbolic value of its images. Watch it, and you’ll understand what I mean by (B).
I don’t want to ruin it for you.
D.
The single best work of fiction in the last 25 years
. . . is Toni Morrison’s Beloved.
From the New York Times:
Early this year, the Book Review’s editor, Sam Tanenhaus, sent out a short letter to a couple of hundred prominent writers, critics, editors and other literary sages, asking them to please identify “the single best work of American fiction published in the last 25 years.” [Read A. O. Scott’s essay. See a list of the judges.] Following are the results.
I find it a little mortifying that I own only one of these (Updike’s Rabbit series, of which I could tolerate only the first two or three pages). I made it through half of A Confederacy of Dunces — ultimately, I grew tired of the protagonist. I’ve been tempted by Roth’s The Plot Against America. As an alternate history, it rubs shoulders with SF.
I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised; I’m a genre guy. SF, fantasy, humor, hardboiled float my boat, while ‘serious’ fiction usually puts me to sleep.
Question: will any of you vouch for any one of these books? (Linked above.)
D.
Thank heavens he takes after his mom
I’ve started and stopped this four times now. Kate’s right — I am off my game.
It cheers me to think that my son is better than I am. He lacks the depressive streak. He also lacks the self-esteem problem . . . for good or ill. Low self-esteem is a tremendous motivator. I often wonder how folks with high self-esteem manage to accomplish anything in life. Don’t they wake up and lie there in bed all day long, delighted with themselves?
Below the cut: Proof that my son is better than I am.
A cold, cold Fitzmas Eve
At the moment, Fitzmas Eve carries a damp chill, an overcast sky, and the promise of sleet, not snow. From the Wayne Madsen Report this morning (but see below* regarding Madsen’s credibility):
Yes, Virginia, there is a Fitzmas
With apologies to The New York Sun.
Dear Walnut—I am 8 years old.
Some of my wingnut friends say there will be no Fitzmas this year.
Some even say there is no Fitz!
Papa says, ‘If you see it in Balls and Walnuts, it’s so.’
Please tell me the truth, will there be a Fitzmas?
It’s not that I don’t love you, but . . .
I love double negatives more. Anyway, I’m a Demented Guestblogger today. If you want to see a case of shameless auto-blogwhoring, or self-pimping, or (if you hate neologisms) self-promotion, check it out.
For now, treat this as an open thread. Questions, anyone?
D.
Thirteen crushes
Funny, how some of them still own a piece of me.
1. T. I’m two months shy of my third birthday. She’s an older woman, maybe four or five, a head taller than me, and she won’t let me stand on top of that hill. Damn it! The game’s called King of the Hill, not Queen of the Hill! No matter how many times I try to fight my way to the top of the hill, T pushes me down again and again.
This establishes my lifetime attraction to doms.
2. S. I hope you’re still reading my blog, S, cuz this bit is about you. Remember how I chased you around in kindergarten, trying to steal kisses? Kinda scary to think what would happen to me now, behaving like that. Expulsion for sexual harrassment, no doubt. Back then, I spent countless hours (okay . . . minutes) in that gulag known as The Kitchen, Mrs. Bisetti’s time-out zone, but it did no good. The next day, I was back at it again.
3. Shirley Temple. Yes, there was a time in my life when I dug giggly, chubby-cheeked blondes. Imagine my consternation when I found out she was as old as my mom.
4. Elizabeth Montgomery. Okay, Liz Montgomery I knew had to be as old as my mom, but she was just so cute in Bewitched. One day, I was home with a fever, and I decided Liz was the gal for me. That crush lasted all of a day. It broke with the fever.
5. G. On to more age-appropriate interests. G held my fascination all through first grade. I’ve quite forgotten why.
6. B. What can you say about a ten-year-old girl with boobs? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. Yet extremely slow to realize why I loved playing touch football with her.
7. T. Towards the end of 7th grade, T’s friend told me, “She likes you. She thinks you’re cute.” Then she dragged me out of the library, where T waited on the steps. T wouldn’t look me in the face. She was trying very hard to explain my appeal to another friend of hers: “He’s cute!” Then she noticed me standing there and ran off.
I thought about her all summer. I’d never noticed her before, but that didn’t matter — she liked me! She thought I was cute! Those were two very potent aphrodisiacs, and indeed, they seemed like perfect (and sufficient) prerequisites. At long last, I would have a girlfriend.
Beginning of 8th grade, I learned that T had moved down to Rosemead. I never saw her again, but it took me two years to get her out of my head. Not that there weren’t others vying for head space . . .
8. L. Cute li’l thing and fellow brainiac. We danced the slow dances together in 7th and 8th grade. By 9th grade, she had developed an interest in older boys. She would still flirt with me, but that was the limit. Unless I suddenly developed facial hair and my wallet sprouted a driver’s license, I wasn’t in the running. No way, no how.
After I broke up with GFv1.0 (#11), I wrote L a letter. She wrote me back, telling me about her ambitious and soon-to-be-wealthy her fiance. I recall the phrase, “I know where to butter MY bread.” I never wrote her again.
9. L. We could never manage to be interested in each other at the same time, dammit. Certainly one of my most beautiful crushes. (Candace Bergen, circa 1975: my most beautiful crush.) Eventually she married young, and the marriage ended in disaster. But before she divorced that creep, I met up with her again. I hadn’t seen her since 9th grade. She told me, “Don’t ever get married,” but it was the depth of her pain that touched me — and made me fall in love with her, if only for that instant. She has a permanent bit of my cerebral real estate.
10. S. In 10th grade, I relocated to Alhambra High School. One of the first girls I noticed was S. Mornings, she volunteered in the school library. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her hair. It was amazing! A year later, I confided this in J, AKA GFv1.0, who laughed at me. “You idiot. That was a perm!“
Nevertheless, S served to distract me from my growing interest in J.
11. J. She sat behind me in 10th grade biology and entertained me with a seemingly endless supply of snark on the other kids in class. If Smart Bitches had been around back then, J would have been a founding member. For my part, I did her dissections for her, and I suspect I was pretty funny back then, too. It took me a whole year to realize I’d fallen in love with her, can you imagine? A whole year. And when it hit, it hit like a semi.
This was the girl I would marry. We’d raise a family and grow old together. I couldn’t imagine a future without her in it.
Things flew apart in our second and third year together, largely thanks to me. But even as I was busy sabotaging the relationship, I was still talking marriage. “You know,” she said about six months before the break-up, “you keep assuming I want to marry you.”
Yeah, I took a lot of things for granted. Which was the problem, really.
12. C. Towards the end of my second year at Berkeley, I met C — aw, Carmela, okay? God knows I’ve talked about her enough. We took German together. One evening, our class went as a group to a German restaurant in downtown San Francisco, and Carmela wore ruby slippers. Ruby slippers! How can a guy not fall for a girl who owns a pair of ruby slippers? But what really hooked me on Carmela was her schtick. One day after class, we sat together on a patch of lawn near Wheeler Auditorium, and we started riffing off each other. It was . . . oh God this is trite . . . it was magical. Somehow, we had launched into a mutual standup comedy routine, unplanned, unscripted.
Carmela had a gold necklace of the number 13, a gift from her grandmother, a Northern Italian witch whose workbook the villagers burned after her death. Carmela had a recurring dream of herself in ancient Greece. As Carmela got older, the girl in her dreams aged, too. When I knew Carmela, the dream girl had recently married, and her husband had left her to fight in a far-off war. The girl remained behind, like Penelope, biding her time, waiting for her husband’s return.
Sometimes, I wonder if he ever came home.
13. Karen. Long-timers here know the whole story (here, here, and here) of our courtship, but I thought I’d add one detail. After my friend Stan and I crashed Karen’s apartment two or three times, I called him one night. “What do you think?” I said. “Does she love me yet? Why is this taking so long? Gaaaaaaaaaah!“
I don’t recall being particularly coherent. I do recall Stan’s exasperation. He must have felt like he’d created a monster.
Funny thing is, I don’t think I was in love with her at that point. Fascinated by her, yes. Wanted to be around her, learn everything about her, be a part of her life.
I guess that’s love. As I’ve posted previously, I have a problem with the word.
D.
Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!
Drop a note in the comments, yatta yatta.
or
as we yids say
yatata yatata
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
Don’t get on Trish’s bad side.
The Red Queen has some reading to do.
Ms. Bizarre thinks twice about a piercing. (I think she should have told her husband, “I will if you will.”)
Sapphire Writer gives us her 13 favorite first scenes. (Better late than never, eh, Sapph?)
Kate’s never happy when it rains.
If Sting is the King of Pain, Darla is the Queen of Spam.
Thursdays suck.