Slowly Going Bald

This is worth a look.

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1. The Sis writes reviews, too. I'm sure I've mentioned that before, but if not, well, there you go.

2. I'm surprised it took an entire day for someone to leave an angry comment on my Stick It review. The commenter takes issue with my statements that gymnastics isn't really a sport, though their only defense seems to be that its inclusion in the Olympincs makes it a sport. The Olympics also has syncronized swimming, and curling, not to mention the biathlon. When's the last time you and your buddies went to the park for a fun afternoon of cross-country skiiing and marksmanship tests? I'm just saying, an event's inclusion in the Olympics doesn't automatically mean it's a sport. I refer in my review to gymnastics as an athletic competetion of "grace and supreme skill," which is true. I couldn't do it. But it's still not a sport.

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I didn't want to mention it in the review, since it would seem somehow unprofessional, but I think the lead girl in this movie is smokin' hot. Okay. Now that that's out there:

Clickety-click.

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Brick

Lucky Number Slevin

Friends With Money

"Patton Oswalt: No Reason to Complain"

[link goes to PopMatters.com]

Hard Candy

Kinky Boots

"Dave Attell's Insomniac Tour"

[link goes to PopMatters.com]

The Sentinel

Stick It

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An occasional sounding board wherein I'll hopefully shed a little light on popular movies with unsettling premises or stories.

Dave

I was folding laundry and watching Dave last night when it hit me like never before that this is a comedy about a coup d'etat, a lighthearted romp about replacing the president and dismantling the system of checks and balances to consolidate the power into one man. Kevin Kline stars as Dave, who's hired to stand in for President Bill Mitchell (also Kline), who's in a coma after suffering a stroke while having sex with one of his secretaries, played by a young and energetic Laura Linney.

The First Lady is played by Sigourney Weaver, who eventually discovers Dave is a fake and has no problem with it. She even winds up coming back to him at the end, after her husband dies, though why she thinks she can make it work with a guy who looks exactly like her adulterous former spouse is beyond me.

The film is set in the 1990s, but Dave doesn't do a single thing regarding foreign policy. I understand that this is an alternate reality where presidents play with puppies and no one seems to want to nuke each other, but still, it's a little farfetched to think that Dave could assume the duties of the Oval Office and not have to deal with a single terrorist action or rogue Soviet satellite (the film came out in 1993).

Anyway, it's still a cute, harmless movie, and I find myself unable to change the channel whenever he balances the budget at a Cabinet meeting to save that pesky old homeless shelter, though maybe it's just the sight of a president who can do high-school-level multiplication that's so compelling.

Verdict: Enjoyable, but so idealistic it makes Aaron Sorkin look like Stephen Gaghan.

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Wolverine singing show tunes!

Al Pacino phones it in again!

And I make an appropriate basketball reference!

You know you're going to read it:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

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The return of the Dawson:

Clickety-click.

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I've been in the bathroom, and have actually made some new discoveries.

The Spitter

This guy fascinates me. While standing before the urinal, he'll lean forward slightly and spit into the porcelain, never pausing his flow. Why does he spit? Is he the kind of guy that spits all the time regardless of surrounding or circumstance, and was going to spit anyway, so he decided to do it in the urinal while he's peeing? Or is it some Pavlovian thing, where he started spitting while peeing a long time ago and now couldn't break the habit if he tried? Or does he just like the challenge of the thing, trying to lean and spit without making a mess? Weird.

The Bather

This is the guy who uses the office restroom for all-encompassing general hygiene. You'll almost never see him at a urinal because he's at the long row of sinks brushing his teeth or changing shirts. This is unacceptable.

The Zorro

This is the guy who stands at the urinal with one hand uiding the stream and the other hand clenched in a fist and planted firmly on his waist, as if he's been transported into a swashbuckler epic from the '40s. Not quite as confident as the Freehander, but more arrogant, as if peeing in a urinal is a task worthy of superheroes. Sometimes he whistles.

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I made my peace with NASCAR a while ago. Sure, it's a non-sport that appeals to drunkards, illiterates, high school dropouts, wife beaters, and guys who still use words like "queerbait," but whatever. Might as well let them have it, you know? The only way someone will learn to do better is by messing up on their own, so I figured if we just give these hicks enough time, they'll realize that driving really fast in a circle isn't quite as engaging as, say, a book, or a movie, or a conversation about politics that doesn't involve the phrase "These colors don't run."

But in light of recent events, I've had to rethink my position. I know gas will never be as cheap as it once was; a growing number of consumers for a dwindling supply of product pretty much guarantees that this story will end soon, and not without a mess. But at least it was back down in the $2.60 range for a while, which was nice. But I filled up last week at $2.99 a gallon, and four days later that same station's price had risen to $3.09; a 10-cent hike in less than a week. It's around $3.11 now, and things are even worse on the other side of the hill, where I work. I passed stations on my way to the office today that were around $3.17 a gallon. That's brutal.

So here's my request: Until we find a way to inject some stability into gas prices, maybe we should stop spending so much on gas so you can drive in circles and compete for a stupid check and trophy sponsored by the last legal addictive drugs. (Not that I don't appreciate the irony of a beer company sponsoring a car race, but I don't think your typical NASCAR spectator is able to get the joke.) As soon as gas hits $100 a barrel and we're plunged into a Thunderdome kind of lifestyle, maybe then you boys can have your cars back. But until then, it seems pretty wasteful.

Okay, that's all. Any NASCAR fans who didn't understand any of the words in these paragraphs should contact their guardians and/or parole officers, who can show you how to leave an angry comment berating me for my education, lack of patriotism, and foolish belief that we can achieve great things as a people. Till then, enjoy today's remarkably applicable Quote of the Day.

"Dan, I understand your position and I don't necessarily disagree with it. But this is a sports network. Our sponsors expect us to project an image of good health and clean living."

"I'll think about that next time I'm reporting how the Miller Genuine Draft car did in the Winston Cup."

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Cartoon Network's Adult Swim programming block has been showing old episodes of "Saved by the Bell." It's a departure for an animated network to show live action programming, especially such a crappy show, but after thinking about it for a minute, it makes perfect sense.

My generation has more than a few things to apologize for, like emo, but we've also been partially involved with humor's slow turn from genuine comedy to self-aware pseudo-irony. Everyone my age saw every episode of "Saved by the Bell" growing up; it was unavoidable. And no one likes the show, but everyone "likes" it. It's an awful, unfunny show, but it's such a part of the culture of our youth that references to Zack Morris' brick phone are still perfectly understandable and acceptable.

This is why it makes sense for Adult Swim to air a few episodes of the show. Most of their programming aims for my demographic with absurd characters, and it usually works. And what better way to bring in more falsely jaded twentysomethings than by rerunning the crappy show they grew up with and already love to mock?

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The guy working barback at NoBar on Saturday night was definitely an actor. I recognized him, but I couldn't remember from where, since Corona isn't the best memory-jogger. He isn't a major name, but still, he's an actor. I almost asked him what he's been in, but the thought of an actor reduced to slinging drinks in North Hollywood is so stereotypically sad that, rather than be mildly flattered that some random schmuck recognized him, he'd probably be even more depressed at his state in life since my question would only comfirm to him that, yes, he's a recognizable actor who's been forced to serve drinks to make ends meet, and that could have plunged him into an understandably bad existential crisis, and I don't want to be responsible for some guy's suicide.

But he's definitely an actor.

"Come out with me."

"Where?"

"El Perro Fumando."

"The Smoking Dog."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"If you wear something blue, you get two dollars off a giant blue margarita."

"You know, I make a pretty good living. I can actually afford to wear what I want and pay full price."

"I'm not promoting the economic upside as much as I am the opportunity to drink something giant and blue."

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Michael Douglas, everyone's favorite Action Grandpa, back on the big screen:

Clickety-click.

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There's more info here, but basically, you should know that more than a few of these apply to me. ButterKrust, Mi Tierra, using the exit ramp to gain speed, the whole nine. All the list needs is a reference to El Raton.

Just a reminder to Keep San Antonio Lame. If you don't like it, lump it.

You Know You're From San Antonio When:

You lost your virginity at Mission Drive-In.

You know exactly how to get to the Ghost Tracks from anywhere in town. [true]

You think pro-choice means flour or corn tortillas.

You've never been to the Alamo.

You think a health drink is a margarita without salt.

You think being able to read the Taco Cabana menu makes you bilingual.

You used to live in a neighborhood you wouldn't even drive through now.

There has been a road crew on your street since before the Alamodome was built.

You remember when Crossroads Mall used to be called Wonderland.

You've been to Midget Mansion and the Fat Farm.

You know all about the Dancing Diablo and the Donkey Lady bridge.

You know that Wheatley and Brackenridge is the same school.

You remember the Captain Gus show.

Your subwoofer has twice the value of your car.

You have three rodeo outfits but never have been on a horse.

You are an expert with the brake pedal, but you have no idea what a blinker is.

Your idea of culture is wearing a Hard Rock T-shirt.

You think the last supper was at Mi Tierra.

You do your grocery shopping at a flea market.

You think local politicians are crooks, but you still do not vote.

You care if San Antonio is in the national spotlight.

A formal occasion is getting a glass with your longneck.

You believe tacos, barbecue, tequila, and beer are the four basic food groups.

You think wearing bows in your hair will get you a husband.

Your white mother learned how to make tamales & menudo from your neighbors.

You know the real definition of Fiesta is 'stay home if at all possible.'

You have ordered Mexican food at a Chinese restaurant.

You had breakfast tacos at Taco Cabana on Christmas morning.

You remember the Joske's Christmas display.

You remember when JC Penney's had a restaurant.

You remember hamburgers from Whopper Burger.

Your elementary school field trip was to the ButterKrust Bakery.

You complain about how cold it is when the temperature dips below 70.

Your cholesterol is over 300.

You had a birthday party at Kiddie Park.

You have had nightmares about the giant cowboy boots in front of North Star Mall.

You own an album by, have seen or are even aware of any of the following bands: 'Moxy', 'Legs Diamond', 'Trapeze', 'Garfield' and especially 'Ozz Knozz' or 'Heyoka.'

You know what people are talking about when they refer to the 'hey-she-b.'

Your idea of a tropical vacation getaway is Port Aransas.

You get defensive when your friends from Austin talk about the great show they saw last night.

You party with your cousin more than twice a week.

You call any convenience store 'icehouse.'

You have only seen snow once in your life and it was twenty years ago.

You think a flash-flood warning means 'go drive through a low water crossing.'

You think the exit ramp is your own personal lauch pad.

You get annoyed when tourists ask for 'fa-jite-as.'

You couldn't care less about the Rodeo but never miss the Cowboy Breakfast.

You know the location of both the Hanging Tree and the Hollow Tree.

You don't have to look at the menu when you order at Bill Miller.

You have never, ever called this city 'San Antone.'

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• The bunnies are back, and they're having a rough day.

• You know what? I hate him, too. The comic strips are great, and feature actual dialogue from the show. (And here's a good video.)

• Bruce Willis is a force of nature.

• Nothing like a little history to really bring out the fun in paying $3 per gallon at the pump.

• The Raiders GIF is surprisingly compelling.

• Let's all download some concerts. Free Son Volt. Free Neko Case. Go there now.

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Because you know you need the news:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

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The latest DVD review for PopMatters:

The Insomniac Tour.

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I've written here on more than one occasion about the various pitfalls I seem to encounter whenever I use a public restroom, particularly the one at my office. But I realize that many of you (or half of you, anyway) might still be in the dark about a few things. It's with that in mind that I present these brief but hopefully informative psychological sketches of men and the way they handle their business.

The Leaner

This is the guy that can't stand on his own power, as if the act of urinating is also somehow draining him of essential life forces. He will usually rest against the wall by placing his free hand against the area above the urinal, or if he's really tired, lay his entire forearm against the wall and rest his head against it as he urinates. I don't know what happened to this guy psychologically in his youth to make peeing such an exhausting act.

The Groaner

This guy has his own category, though it should be noted that Groaners and Leaners often overlap. But the Groaner has a unique way of dealing with urination, namely, to gently moan as he lets flow. This is almost always disturbing, since the last thing anyone wants while they're peeing is for the guy next to him to start vocalizing. He has the ability to stand on his own, but sometimes the groaning at taking what feels like the world's longest pee is enough to sap his strength, thus turning a Groaner into a Leaner.

The Freehander

This is the major leagues of independent urination. One of my bosses does this, and it's a staggering display of confidence. The Freehander stands before the urinal and pees without using his hands, often turning back and forth slightly in a move known as the "Cincinnati Hosedown." His feet apart, and his hands on his waist (or backward on his hips, like Forrest Gump), the Freehander does his business with cool ease. Not recommended unless you're drunk and/or Jack Nicholson.

The Singer

This is the rarest kind of public pisser, but also the hands-down weirdest. The Singer will, either to get things started or just to pass the time, whistle or sing or hum while doing his business. You'd be tempted to think that such behavior would be a display of stratospheric confidence that would elevate the perpetrator into the Freehander level. But the Groaner Corollary applies: Any talking is bad talking when you've got your piece out. After all, this is a public/office bathroom, not a camping trip. Bad call, Singer.

The Hider

The Hider stands there and urinates quietly, but can be startled like a deer in the headlights if a nearby urinal becomes occupied. This usually only happens in the most confined bathrooms, where only two urinals are mounted on the wall, elevating the risk of having someone come up to you while you're trying to pee, which is really annoying, I mean if we weren't in a bathroom I'd kick the guy right in the throat, can't he see that my pants are undone and I really don't feel like doing any kind of social interaction? The Hider will often seek out a bathroom he knows to be rarely trafficked just to revel in its peace and tranquility.

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A milestone of sorts. The 50th review:

Clickety-click.

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I started using ClustrMaps at the end of last month, and the results have been startling.

Here's a closer look:

Seriously, Brazil? And Europe? And most of the Pacific Rim? I had no idea. Plus, South Africa. Honestly, I'm speechless. I had no idea this many people stumbled across my blog by Googling "balding + insecurity" and clicking "I"m Feeling Lucky."

Also, all apologies to Mr. Peterson, my 9th-grade geography teacher, but I'd appreciate it if someone could tell me what that little dot way out in the Atlantic is. Unless it's a guy on a raft using a wireless connection.

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Tip #136: Start unfastening your belt in the hallway outside the bathroom. It also helps to mutter, "It's coming, it's coming," as you do so.

Tip #7: Answer questions/comments with Elton John lyrics.

Example:

"My mom just went back in for more chemo."

"Well, I guess that's why they call it the blues."

"You know, sometimes it's worth it, taking all the pies in the face. Sometimes you come through it feeling good."

"Yes."

"And how was your day?"

"Sometimes you just stand there, hip-deep in pie."

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Capitalizing words for emphasis makes you look like a moron.

Can it be done ironically, for humor? Absolutely, though even then, it should be done sparingly, if at all. But too many people think it's okay to capitalize words, or type in boldface or italics, in order to highlight certain words or phrases in an attempt to get their point across. It's not. No two ways about it. Because otherwise you END UP with sentences that look like this. And doesn't that look stupid? If you read something written in such a clearly cumbersome manner, would you say to yourself, "Wow, this person must really know what they're talking about, since SO MUCH of what they WROTE is in BIG LETTERS. I completely trust their political/social/artistic opinions." Or would you say, "Wow, this person looks like they need some kind of home health care. Is it maybe just a child masquerading online as an adult? Impossible to tell." You're likely to choose the latter, unless you're the kind of simpleton who likes big letters and think they look pretty, in which case you probably haven't read most of this.

Anyway, I know you're all busy. I just wanted to offer a little tip. Thanks.

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Costco was disturbingly crowded. I think that this is what every family in the area does for fun on the weekends, especially if they have children with the manners of retarded monkeys. They pile their broods into the van and head to Costco, where they can let their little demon spawn run rampant amid shelves of box wine and 3-lb. boxes of Cheese Nips. My roommate and I just wanted some toilet paper to last a year, not a carnival crowd with kids everywhere.

After we left, my roommate and I stood in the parking lot for half an hour and took turns kicking each other in the nuts to ensure our mutual infertility.

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Dear blonde girl who works at the ArcLight box office,

I will buy you a house. Or a car. Or the entire state of California. Just putting that out there.

Okay then.

Anyway:

Clickety-click.

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Okay. I'm pretty close to giving up.

The Historian Emeritus proved to be remarkably prescient when, at the start of the second season of "Lost," he expressed doubts as to whether the show could maintain its peak performance. The first season was amazing, but being kind of stubborn and hopeful in these situations, I said that the second season would surely be as good, and maybe even better, since some shows really find their footing and take off in their second seasons.

But I was dead wrong.

Look, I'm all for Bernard wanting to get his interracial swerve on, but last night's episode was another pointless one-off with no connection to the rest of the season. Also, why would Eko and Charlie build a church on the beach, where storms or boars or psychically manifested polar bears could knock it down? Just have it in the hatch. There are plenty of rooms, just borrow one for an hour. No problem. Plus, watching Libby laugh at Hurley's jokes in the ending montage was a little unsettling, since she's totally scamming him for the cash. She's nuts, Hurley. Let her go. And then there's Jack and Kate getting all grindy in that booby-trap net, rubbing around in what could be one the show's thinnest metaphors yet.

Worst of all, there are only three real episodes left, and the show doesn't return till May. Be sure and check this site to see when the show is a repeat or a new episode. There's precious little time for this season to pull out the nose-dive into medicrity its been enjoying most of the year, but it night surprise me yet. Like I said, I'm hopeful.

"Passover's about the telling of a great story to people who've never heard it before. It's usually children, but Gentiles will do."

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Make it a trifecta: Check out this week's trade round-up.

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Not too bad, but it makes sense when you realize the director also did a few episodes of "Sex and the City," which was a ridiculously overrated show. Anyway:

Clickety-click.

But wait! There is, sadly, more.

The latest PopMatters review: A Patton Oswalt DVD that you should really all pick up.

"My grandfather invented the clipboard."

"Did he?"

"Well, he didn't invent it, but he always used to complain that he didn't have a portable writing surface."

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I walked into the bathroom, striding past the sinks and ready to head for the urinal, and that's when it all fell apart.

I just had to pee, so I was heading for the trusty wall unit, which is when the urinal flushed and Andy stepped back from it. He was too close to it for me to move in, too, and was in fact tightening his belt and looking down at his pants as he staggered forward and toward me, looking more than a little like a drunk, with his sweater still hiked up a bit, revealing a dingy white undershirt. Granted, zipping up while walking away is not uncommon, but still, you need to watch where you're going.

I quickly ran through my options: (1) I could do some kind of box-step zigzag and head for the second urinal, which is inexplicably mounted at least a foot lower than the other one, as if we get a lot of 7-year-olds in here on business. But, as much as I enjoy peeing in the little urinal and pretending I'm a giant of frightening proportions, it's a risky proposition, having to do with angles and arcs and all kinds of physics I barely learned in 11th grade and have long since forgotten. (2) I could take a step back and allow Andy to buckle up and pass, freeing up the man-sized urinal for my use. However, this would be awkward with anyone, and I didn't want to say word one to Andy for fear of getting drawn into an endless conversation, which would entail eventually killing him and hiding the body somewhere in the building, and this is already a busy week for me, so I didn't think I would have the energy. (3) I could continue walking straight ahead and enter one of the stalls and sit there and do my business, cowering in a psychological cul-de-sac of neuroses and self-loathing. Since it was the path of least resistance, and I still really had to let flow, this is the option I chose.

All this happened in less than a second.

[Also, in case you were wondering, my knowledge of urinal etiquette was recently included here. Read up.]

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Actual transcript of IM conversation between me and a female coworker, who has just discovered a rather egregious typo in a review from a typically horrible writer:

Female Coworker: He's invented a new profession: physiatrist.

Me: Sounds professional.

Me: Physiatry is hard.

Female Coworker: Not as hard as analrapy.

"What kind of punch was it?"

"It was a right hook ... with a bit of a jab."

"A jabbing right hook?"

"That's right, Casey."

"And he threw it with his left hand?"

"This fighter's got remarkable skills, Casey, he's not to be trifled with."

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Parking meters.

The cinematic oeuvre of Brett Ratner.

People who really (i.e., unironically) like Steely Dan.

People who think Texas is awesome just because it's Texas.

People who think Texas sucks just because it's Texas.

Not getting free bread or something at a restaurant while you wait.

The fact that it's already 2006 and there seems to be no progression on the hoverboard front.

People who think Crash is deep.

People who think Brokeback is awesome just because it's about dudes.

The fact that my stupid college keeps calling and asking for an alumni donation, when I'll already be paying off student loans until my 40s.

People who talk in the movie theater.

People who talk in the movie theater.

People who talk in the movie theater.

The elderly. Mainly when they drive, though really, I'm hard-pressed to find a use for them in most any situation.

Rob Schneider.

The fact that no one seems to understand that correlation does not equal causation.

Knowing that it's probably all downhill from here.

The fact that B.J. Novak is only 26 and already an established writer-producer. Makes me feel like I haven't done anything (which I really haven't, so I guess it's not his fault, but still).

Nickelback.

The fact that you can't get decent queso west of San Antonio.

Girls who talk about their cats. Although really, any girl with more than one cat is a red flag.

Ted Nugent.

People who think Finding Forrester is in any way good, or about good writing.

The fact that "Yes, Dear" is still on the air. Actually, the fact that CBS still exists as a network.

The fact that every great TV show either is canceled too soon or slides inevitably into crap.

"We'll bring you the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, and because we've got soccer highlights, the sheer pointlessness of a zero-zero tie."

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Forget the couch-jumping, the marriage arranged by publicists, the questionable preganancy, the crappy first sequel, and the fact that Tom Cruise's stardom has been overshadowed for the past two years by his increasingly public dedication to an undergound cult masquerading as religion so it can exploit a tax write-off.

This is still an awesome trailer. Writer-director J.J. Abrams could be doing something really good here. I am beyond hopeful: I am expectant.

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THR ran a story the other day about the disappointing first-weekend box office reults for Slither, which happens to be a pretty enjoyable horror-comedy. Sadly, Cinematical soon linked to the story like it was the gospel, going so far as to call the article "rather excellent," which is a cataclysmically retarded way to look at it. The article was far from excellent, and actually played right into the stupid numbers game the studios run, focusing on cash over content.

For starters, the THR piece proclaimed the death of Slither after the film had been in theaters for five days. Five. It took less than a week to be pronounced a failure. In this era of publicity onslaughts leading up to an opening weekend, followed by deafening silence shortly thereafter (does anybody remember V for Vendetta?), Universal couldn't even muster up a convincing ad campaign for the film (not the first time they failed at marketing, either). Not to mention that Slither opened against Ice Age: The Inevitable Sequel, which made an unholy $68 million its opening weekend. Nothing else performed well that frame, so to write off Slither as a failure just because a bunch of stupid families took their braindead kids to see a crappy cartoon is missing the big picture: Namely, box office often has little correlation with film quality.

It just sucks when yet another reporter writes the money story the studios want, instead of actually putting their mind into the story and looking for the big picture.

"Orlando Rojas."

"I don't know who that is."

"Orlando Rojas, the pitcher."

"Oh, Orlando Rojas, the pitcher!"

"Yes."

"I don't know who that is."

"He's pitching this afternoon."

"Orlando Rojas?"

"Yes."

"I don't know who that is."

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Just when I thought I was running out reasons to love cable, it gives me My Best Friend Is a Vampire, a spectacularly crappy movie from 1988 about a high schooler who's turned into a vampire by an older woman. The young vampire in question is Robert Sean Leonard, only 19 years old and still a year or so away from overacting his heart out in the solid but overrated Dead Poets' Society. The scientist chasing him? David Warner, the go-to Brit for B-movies since the dawn of time. Robert Sean Leonard can still go out in the sun and everything; all he has to do is buy sunglasses, so he seems to have gotten an okay deal. The friendly older vampire who shows young Rob the ropes? Rene Auberjonois, the extremely poor man's Jean Reno. And Warner's sidekick? None other than one of the Bobs. Plus, it takes place in Houston, which is such a random place to set a movie, let alone a crappy '80s horror spoof.

It aired back-to-back with Real Genius. I almost called in sick.

"I know we promised you soccer highlights, so let me just tell you that Columbus beat Miami one-nothing, Dallas beat San Jose one-nothing, Chicago beat Colorado one-nothing, and New England beat Kansas City 2-1 in an offensive slugfest. A modest proposal: Make the nets bigger."

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Stupid Josh Hartnett.

Clickety-click.

"Can we be men for a second?"

"Okay, but just for a second."

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I found this incorrect headline on Google News:

I figured that maybe the Seattle Post-Intelligencer would fix the problem on their own site, but no such luck.

The Antonio Banderas suckfest Take the Lead is loosely based on Mad Hot Ballroom, which isn't even mentioned in the review, but is certainly what made whoever slotted the story think it was okay to use a partial headline reference to a movie not being reviewed. It's dumb on so many levels. To the P-I: Copy editors are pretty inexpensive. Hire one.

"Hey, I apologize for nothing! No, that's not true. I apologize for some things. A few things. Several things. I apologize for about half the things."

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I got home from work after 9 p.m., but decided to catch the last 40 minutes of "Lost" anyway, since the show has long since regressed past the point where you need to actually watch every minute of an episode to get the full effect of the story. And within 30 seconds, I sadly called the Dave-centered revelation, since I've seen Fight Club and A Beautiful Mind and the "Normal Again" episode, not to mention that it was pretty much the most natural twist you could want.

The first season of "Lost" was extremely well-plotted. A friend of mine recently nailed it when she said that throughout the first season's arc, each individual episode was driven by a journey: Somebody was always going across the island to get a radio or a briefcase or dynamite from a pirate ship or whatever. But this season, everyone just seems to be sitting around, not doing much.

Plus, it's beyond disappointing that there are only four episodes left and it looks as of now that the Henry Gale thing will be bigger than it should have been. Henry should be the doorway to the finale, not the destination.

P.S. It would have been funnier if Hurley had recognized Libby because she was a porn star. At least that would have been different from the truth, which turned out to be pretty predictable. And she's definitely chasing him for the money.

"Do you know what I do when I feel I'm about to lose it a little? I buy a lamp."

"Well, lady, you must have one well-lit apartment, because you turned a corner somewhere."

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That time of the week: The Pajiba trade round-up.

"Hell, they now say, is a state of being, and not the fiery pit of torment depicted in books and paintings, to say nothing of the Sisters who used to beat me at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow Elementary School."

"They beat you?"

"Well, they yelled at me a lot."

"Why?"

"So I wouldn't go to hell, Jeremy!"

"Doesn't sound like you were taught by the world's happiest nuns..."

"This is huge."

"I guess the 'Perpetual Sorrow' should have been a giveaway."

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On a side note, Ron Howard is much shorter in person.

Anyway:

Clickety-click.

"I gotta tell you, at this point the length of this conversation is way out of proportion to my interest in it."

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The following is an excerpt from an e-mail my father sent me while on a business trip:

I am writing from Vegas. It is about 3:15 Monday afternoon. I'm on your time. ... I'm on the 26th floor and I look out my window and I'm staring at that big pyramid. ...

I see mountains and in the distance snow on some of them.

This is the weirdest place.

Only my father could make an e-mail from a Las Vegas hotel room sound like a letter penned by a solider on a Civil War battlefield, bemoaning his alien surroundings and pining for his homeland.

I love ya, pop. Mom's taping "Lost" for you. Get home safe. And kill those Confederate bastards.

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Dining at Taco Cabana late one night in the summer of 2000, my friend and I got drawn into a conversation with a homeless man on the patio. I don't remember why we were talking to him; probably because he knew he had a captive audience, since it's hard to simultaneously eat a breakfast taco and edge uneasily away from a crazy person. He had on a striped Wendy's polo shirt, the kind their employees wear, and a dirty beard. He said his name was Lee, and he was of the Baha'i faith. Since I had not yet moved to California, I thought he was making his religion up, but it turns out they're a real group. They've even adopted a stretch of the 101 out near Ventura County, and that's a pretty nice piece of road.

Lee told us that pretty much everything we saw was and/or could be God, like the pitcher of water on the counter or a nearby shrub. He said he didn't want to swear in front of "the lady," by which he meant my sister, but then he he promptly turned to face the street and flipped off several passing cars, shouting "Your mama!" at the traffic.

No idea what happened to him. He's probably dead now.

[This has been today's edition of True Stories With Real And Depressing Conclusions.]

"It's a vicious circle."

"Yep. Just keeps going around and around."

"Never stops."

"That's what makes it vicious."

"And a circle."

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Can I just say: Finally.

Basically, I'm going to pretend that most of the second season of Lost never happened, like the Matrix sequels or the Bush administration. Last week's "Lockdown" episode featured movement on the Henry Gale plot (I never trusted that guy), some slight progression with the love-hate-animal-attraction between Jack and Sawyer, and even a reappearance from Libby the Trashy Tail Section Girl, who has got to know that Hurley's rich back in the States, since no sane woman would tease any man with the strip-down wardrobe show Libby gave Hurley in the hatch back in the day.

It was the first good episode in weeks, not least because it dealt with Locke, one of the three genuinely rounded characters in the bunch. Locke's flashback also had an actual bearing on the current island situation, something the writers forgot about with the stupid Charlie-can-see-ghosts and the-island-gave-Jin-magically-restored-sperm plot lines. You know Locke's heart was gonna get broken about 45 minutes in, but that didn't make it hurt any less. Killer. Great stuff.

They've only got five more episodes this season to turn things around, and I think they can do it. Pull J.J. Abrams off postproduction and publicity for Mission: Impossible 3, since that thing's gonna be huge regardless. Let him write and produce one of the few good shows on network TV. The show needs him.

Also, in the interest of turning you, dear reader, into an all-around better person, I'm inaugurating the Quote of the Day. It won't always happen, but when it does, be prepared to change for the better. And now:

"Hello."

"AHH!"

"Why'd you scream?"

"I meant to say hi."

"What happened?"

"I misspoke."

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Last year, while working for that unnamed but definitely horrible academic publishing company in Thousand Oaks, Crazy F***ing Denise pioneered the April Fool's plans around the office. It was a Friday, and she, being the heart and soul of the misnamed Fun Committee, engineered the hijinks: We were all to call in sick, or claim to have car trouble, or say we had the clap, or something that would allow us to come in late. Then we'd all meet at Starbucks that morning, and slip into the building while the managers were in their daily briefing. Then they'd come out and see us all waiting there to surprise them and, I don't know, we'd all have a good laugh and life would be peachy up on Walton's Mountain and our nipples would squirt sunshine and we'd all be bestest friends.

So, the managers came out, and wowee, they were surprised. Of course, CFD had actually cleared the "prank" with the department head, Kim, so it wasn't as much a practical joke as a poorly choreographed elementary school skit, somewhere on par with a plan that any 8-year-old could devise. And Shaunna, this idiot woman whose job title I can't remember now, took the whole thing up a notch on the hilarity scale by rearranging staplers and crap on people's desks while we were gone.

Man, I was so close to punching Shaunna in the mouth when I quit that place. If she'd been a man, I would've killed her outright, but since she was just a mannish woman, I had to settle for hating her.

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