What if James Bond had been a cowboy instead of a spy?

Well, for starters, he would have a country twang. Every use of "Bond, James Bond" would be preceded by a hearty "Howdy, Ma'am." Rather than reporting to the good folks at MI-6, he'd be comparing notes with the head wrangler at the Lazy M Ranch. He would take his whiskey shaken not stirred. All of his cavorting and intrigue would take place on cattle drives and in saloons. It'd be fun.

Last night Lawrence had yet another werewolf invasion. We survived it splendidly this time, although a few out-of-towners ended up in the hospital with minor contusions. How was it, you may ask, that we managed to defend ourselves successfully against an assault by such dangerous creatures? Well ever since the infamous raid of 1863, in which William Quantrill and his men burned the city to the ground, people here have been a bit anxious about guarding our borders. Determined that such an attack should never again occur without warning, our forefathers went and hired themselves a town crier. This tradition has continued through the years and is still in practice today. In essence, this elected individual is the caretaker of the city. He or she volunteers to live in a tent outside the city limits and alert everyone when there is an imminent threat. It's a system that served us well last night—when the town crier came riding into town on his Vespa, shouting over a bullhorn about a coming werewolf attack, we had just enough time to fortify our homes and cast a smattering of protective voodoo incantations. Then a massive thunderstorm rolled in, and out of the storm came werewolves. It was an impressive sight. Each werewolf was at least seven feet tall, and there were at least three hundred of them, running in formation like some sort of crazed football team.

They Did, They Did

The last weekend of October, I flew to Philadelphia for a close friend's wedding. Everything went well until Hester Prynne announced that she was pregnant with Reverend Dimmesdale's baby. Oh man, was that awkward. Seriously, though, the ceremony itself went smoothly and the bride was beautiful. There was an open bar at the reception, and the flower girls performed some traditional Irish dances. Oh, and there was a swan sculpted from potato salad, which I thought was neat. All in all a lovely event.

Maybe you'd like to know what kind of bra I wore with my dress? Well you see, the bridesmaid dresses were sleek and fitted (with spaghetti straps and a fairly low back), so it was a bit of a challenge to find something that provided support without being too obvious. (In my opinion, if your bra is showing at all, you might as well be wearing it over your clothing like that woman from Splash.) Originally, I was planning to wear one of those Nu-bra things with the self-adhesive cups, but I didn't like the way it looked under the dress. And besides, I was worried it would come unstuck during a critical part of the ceremony and slingshot across the room, perhaps landing on a statue of the Blessed Mother. That would have been bad. In the end, I opted for the standard strapless bra and left it at that.

—One stick of doom

The Deer Hunter was the feelgood movie of 1978.

Yes, and if you buy that one, you might just believe the advertising hype concerning The Fog, and how it's a breathtaking thriller that you simply must see. Such a claim is comical, because really, this is the sort of film you shouldn't watch unless you have been strapped to a theater chair—your eyelids pried open like Alex de Large—and the poison gas mechanism stored in your false tooth will not deploy.

In other words, it's pretty bad.

Well, The Onion does horoscopes, so I thought I'd give it a go. If you like this new feature, I may do it again. If you hate it, I will probably do it again anyway. You should know that it's not that I don't value your opinion. Of course I do. After all we've been through together, how could I not? I love you like (please choose the appropriate category): a brother/a sister/a grandmother/a best friend/my lesbian lover/Benicio del Toro/suede boots/Moons Over My Hammy. But seriously, if I have fun writing these horoscopes, then I'm likely to do more in the future. There's not much you can do about it.

Think the art of oratory is dead? Watch professional wrestling sometime.

I confess it, I have a weakness for this stuff. The theatricality of it all, the absurd costumes, the painstakingly choreographed pseudo-violence. It's like an action movie, compressed into the space of a few minutes: there is a hero, and a villain, and sometimes a love interest. Most important, there is always a story. Sometimes this story is told through a narrator (the announcer), but most often it is conveyed through dialog. The two wrestlers confront one another, one typically hurling accusations at the other in order to win the audience's allegiance. Even when all they are doing is offering descriptions of what they intend to do to one another, the one we want to win is always the one with the most colorful action plan. Instead of saying, "I'm going to defeat you by employing wrestling moves X and Y," the wrestlers are more likely to say something like, "I'm going to rip your head off, scoop out your brain, attach a vinyl strap to each ear, and give it to my kid to use for trick-or-treating." See what I mean? The second one is much more compelling. This is the guy you want to win.

A few nights ago, I was sick with a nasty cold. I had no energy to speak of, so there were really only two options available to me: I could either lie in bed like some kind of Edith Wharton-style invalid, or I could cuddle up on the sofa with some blankets and watch television. So as not to feel more pathetic than necessary, I chose the latter. I flipped around awhile, but nothing much interested me until I hit AMC and saw the opening credits of Animal House. This has always been one of my favorite movies, so I made sure my orange juice was within reach and settled in to watch it.

Well, we've reached that blessed time of year, the time of Mother Nature's annual hazing ritual, in which I have difficulty concentrating on even the most mundane things due to constant sneezing. Yes, I have allergies. Nasty ones. Ever since my freshman year in college, they have acted up from late August through early October, and during that period I am like a little bird feathering its nest with Kleenex. There must be a box in every room, and there is always a trash can nearby that is virtually overflowing with the unsightly origami of used tissues. The same is true of my handbag and the pockets of my jeans. Let me tell you, when allergy season rolls around, I am a pretty, pretty girl. Also, my sneezes are of such a volume and timbre that they sound more like coughs, so it probably seems to everyone around me that I have consumption. At times I worry that my violent sneezes have somehow damaged my organs. They practically register on the Richter scale, after all. Perhaps these olfactory seizures have shaken loose some grey matter, causing my brain tissue to leak out, little by little. Could it be that I have lost some critical brain functions or memories? Maybe I went sky-diving one time, and I just don't remember it. Or maybe I have lost my ability to whistle. Nah, I'm fairly certain I couldn't do that to begin with. All I can say with any certainty is that I don't feel like I have forgotten anything. And did I mention that my eyes are itchy? As I discovered last winter, I'm ridiculously allergic to angora, so now whenever my eyes get senstive and teary, I can't help but picture an invisible man dangling an invisible rabbit in front of my eyes. A rabbit with fangs.

As I was taking a bath the other night, I started thinking about superheroes and how they are really archetypal figures in our culture, born of the same thirst for salvation and meaning that brings a lot of people to religion. I mean, it's kind of true, isn't it? Whether people choose to acknowledge it or not, lionization and celebration of superheroes is just a less direct form of worship. After all, superheroes do model value systems for us. It's more than just escapism; their lifestyles and behaviors reflect the deepest desires of our souls. And as I lathered my hair with body soap by accident, some specific similarities sprang to mind. So for your edification and enjoyment, here's a quick run-down of what religions roughly correlate to which superhero (at least according to my warped, scattered, and largely witless worldview).

My friend and I were having lunch yesterday, and at some point he jokingly asked me if I'd be willing to kill an acquaintance of his for $1,000. A thousand dollars? I repeated, laughing. I don't think so. With something like murder, I explained, there's a whole spectrum of things to take into consideration. For one, I'd have to do tons of research, determine an appropriate method, and then carry off the deed itself without getting caught or implicating him. Not easy. Likely not cheap, either. Also, there's my personal squeamishness and my distate for violence, both of which would take a hefty sum of cash to overcome. A thousand dollars, indeed. I scoffed at the suggestion.

The Rolling Stones are on tour again. Can you believe it? These notorious bad boys are well into their 60s, and yet they are embarking on another cash-infused circuit around the country. Once again, Mick Jagger will strut around a stage, his lips still puffy from those childhood bee stings, and regale the audience with "Jumpin' Jack Flash" for the one hundred millionth time. Their musical inspiration may have languished somewhat in recent decades, but their unflagging stamina and determination defies all logic. There is only one conclusion to draw:

They are the Undead.

The Skeleton Key is a new horror film starring Kate Hudson, John Hurt, and Gena Rowlands. This is your standard haunted house film, implausibly set in New Orleans, where we all know nothing scary has ever happened. I mean, why couldn't they have set the story against the backdrop of someplace truly ethereal, someplace rich with the influence of blended cultures and imbued with centuries-old mythologies of ghosts, voodoo, and vampires? Someplace like Detroit, maybe. But New Orleans? Please. Give us a little credit here.

Saturday afternoon, Nick and I were feeling pretty bored. It was hot outside, and our usual industrious spirit (haha) had gone the way of the parachute pant. This is how we ended up anchored to the sofa for hours on end, watching John Carpenter's Body Bags on television.

We'd never heard of this movie, but how could we not give it a chance? After all, we're talking about John Carpenter, the man who brought us the Halloween films, Escape from L.A., Big Trouble in Little China, and—my personal favorite—They Live. This is a man with vision. True, it may be the sort of vision you'd have if you drank a bottle of Jagermeister and visited the Mutter Museum, but it's vision, nonetheless.

Come on. Really. Are we seriously talking about this? Are we seriously having a nationwide spasm of moral indignation because a game known for its extreme violence and gritty content has a secret sex scene embedded somewhere within it? (Thanks to the media, millions of American kids now know about this feature, and most of them probably wouldn't have discovered it on their own. Congratulations, Hillary!) Speaking of which, doesn't Hillary Clinton have any real issues to tackle, like, say, poverty or something? I'd call her gesture quixotic, but that implies a certain nobility of purpose, and I'm pretty sure there's no nobility whatsoever driving this pandering effort to garner votes from more conservative types. Has she even stopped to think about what this sort of crusade will mean for the youth vote, which would otherwise be more likely than any other age group to lean her way in a presidential bid? I used to like Hillary Clinton a lot. I used to defend her when people made nasty remarks about her behavior while first lady. But now I'm just disappointed, because her desire to be seen espousing 'family values' has seemingly triumphed over her personal ethics. This moral posturing does not make her worse than other politicians, I know. It just means that she belongs in their ranks more than I ever realized before. Alas and alack.

Come one, come all, to the extravaganza of evil! Behold the tableau of terror, the pageant of panic, the sordid spectacle of screams! Witness the excesses of bloodthirsty historians! Murder is their profession, mayhem their hobby! Children admitted free!

Here's what's been on my mind lately.

Item 1. The new high-backed chairs in my coffee shop are kind of freaking me out. They are made from a blue velvety material and they have tall, wide backs that face the door. Every time I look up, I expect them to slowly swivel around to reveal a couple of grinning corpses or something. It's spooky. I don't like them.

I'm one of the multitudes who have grown increasingly disenchanted with the Batman franchise. About the time Chris O'Donnell and Alicia Silverstone hit the set, I lost all hope for its redemption. But then the previews for Batman Begins came out and, in spite of myself, I was intrigued. So last week, on a dark and stormy night, Nick and I made our way to the theater and plunked down our eight and a half bucks. We were not disappointed. Forget the original Batman campfest. Forget the increasingly painful sequels. The new Batman is dark, like the graphic novels, and really, really good.

Several years ago, I met a certain individual at a New Year's party hosted by one of my friends. We'll call this individual "Joe." Joe seemed intellectual and nice, but there was no particular reason why I should remember him (he wasn't one of my drunken crushes or anything), so once I got home from the party, I pretty much forgot about him. Since then, however, I have been troubled by a peculiar and unsettling phenomenon, the cosmic ramifications of which are too great to even fathom.

Joe is everywhere.

It should come as no surprise to any of my readers that on my last visit to the video store, I picked up the two titles with the strangest cover art I could find. This is one of my favorite methods for movie selection, although sometimes I prefer to just close my eyes and grab something random from the cult section. But the cover art method is how I ended up watching A Tale of Two Sisters, a South Korean horror film, and Acne, a black and white film about teenagers who mutate because of the oil leakage in their drinking water. I could not have found a trippier couple of films.

So I was in the convenience store the other day, getting my requisite Friday night Twizzlers, when I saw a cardboard display by the door featuring some items of particular interest. The top shelf of the display featured a small poster with a pen-and-ink rendering of Darth Vader and a small inset of the Emperor, just for fun. The quality of it was highly suspect—like fan art gone horribly wrong—and it reminded me of when I was 15 and won that Budweiser bar mirror from the carnival. But below the poster were the real objets d'art: a row of child-sized plastic guns with "Space Weapon" emblazoned across the packages. The font was designed to mimic that sweeping, sci-fi text we're all accustomed to seeing from George Lucas's scrappy little film franchise. It's clever—when you glance at the logo, your gestalt mechanism kicks in and instantly translates it as Star Wars. But it's not Star Wars at all. It's Space Weapon. And it's not some cheap replica toy that's intended to resemble some particular weapon in the movie—it's a cheap replica that epitomizes non-specific science fiction concepts and features a little button that you depress to make a chirpy weapon sound. Cheeeep-cheep cheeeep-cheep cheeeep cheep! Space Weapon is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

As such, I can't help but love it.

I have compiled your itineraries. Your summer activities will likely include:

1. Reading at least 20 super-easy picture books so you can qualify for the Book-It pizza party without much effort
2. Basting yourself in coconut oil and climbing into the kiln
3. Barbecuing ill-tempered penguins
4. Applying temporary skull-and-crossbones tattoos to eyelids
5. Playing kid-friendly, non-grave-robbing version of Ghosts in the Graveyard
6. Purchasing self-adhesive prosthetic six-pack for a day at the near-sighted nudist beach
7. Drinking enough beer to fill that huge can outside the Coors brewery
8. Drunken Red Rover
9. Drunken lawn darts
10. Drunken tug-of-war with Uncle Fred's toupee (hippie braids will also work)
11. Sending blood-inked love letters to Johnny Knoxville
12. Playing Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, which entails throwing youngest brother in pit of lava and fashioning a robotic suit for him to wear
13. Family vacation to see the World's Largest Prairie Dog, followed by Carhenge

Sweet fancy Moses, the aliens are attacking! There's a spaceship hovering over Lawrence, and I've got a pretty good idea that those are laser beams shooting out of the side of it. Even as I watch the town hall get incinerated, I can't help noticing that the lasers look a little bit like disco lights. How sad, that disco may be the last thing I ever think about. I have to think about something else real fast—something cooler—so that my last thought will be a good one! Let's see...um...Morrissey! I love Morrissey. My last thought will be of Morrissey! Or Miller's Crossing, maybe. That's a great, great movie with Gabriel Byrne and Steve Buscemi who was funny as the serial killer in that one movie, Con-Air, or whatever. No! Con-Air can't be my last thought! Crap, Karen, think of something else! Man, those little Jetsons cars shooting out of the spaceship look cool. I can almost see what the aliens look like through the bubble glass at the top. Let me just climb atop this pile of rubble that used to be my house so I can get a better view. Yeah, that's better. Oh, they look just like the guys in Flash Gordon, with the bald heads, fu manchus, and crazy high collars! Who would have thought, after all the cinematic mutations aliens have gone through since the invention of sci-fi, and they turn out to look just like the guys in Flash Gordon! Maybe if I wave at them, they'll think I'm one of them and come down to rescue me. I'd have to wing it from there, of course, and they probably don't know English, but still, it's a start. Oh wait, though, that'd make me an alien collaborator! I can't do that, I can't betray my whole race for the sake of my personal safety. That's just not cool. But then maybe it's all a mistake in the first place. Maybe they are accidentally attacking the wrong planet, or they just need someone to explain to them that Earthlings aren't so bad once you get to know them. Okay, so I'm waving at them now. Not that panicky, stranded-on-a-desert-island-kind waving, but the kind that looks friendly and casual, like "heya neighbor, mind if I come over and borrow some plutonium?" Looks like one of those little Jetson ships is coming this way. Oh my lord they're firing at me they're firing that narrow gun thing! No wait, that was just the windshield wipers cleaning off some bird scat. Whew, that's a relief. I can't believe I'm still alive. I can't believe the grocery store near my house has just been destroyed. Funny, there's a crate of milk sitting there totally untouched in the middle of the rubble. I think when they pick me up I'll do some recon work under the guise of collaboration. I hope they're at least reasonably pleasant to me and not the sort of aliens that are into the probe thing. Wow, I can't believe it took me this long to think about that, but it's too late to back out because the ship is landing right next to me. Ok, the Flash Gordon guy is getting out and walking stiffly over toward me. I wonder if these guys even have joints. And I bet when they speak they have robotic-sounding voices and don't use contractions. Is he smiling? Maybe where they come from, smiling is like frowning. He greets me by slapping my shoulder hard and then hands me a manual. He then begins pointing at various knobs and deely-bobbers inside the little Jetson ship, looking at me periodically as if assessing my reaction. I'm doing my best to look enthusiastic, but this is really, really weird. Suddenly, it's clear to me. He's a used spaceship salesman. This is sooo cool, but I wonder what they use for currency. I'm holding out some money from my wallet, but the salesman only looks puzzled. He shakes his head and gestures at my watch (a cheap digital with rubber straps). I hand it to him without thinking and he hands me the keys. After a couple of false starts, the ship kicks into gear and lifts into the air. And now I'm reeling around, doing donuts in the air over the ruins of Lawrence. This baby is hella responsive. Talk about a sweet ride!

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(Don't bother checking your teetering stack of literary tomes—the above was ripped from an old blog and recycled here.)

Last Thursday, the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) proposed a change to its existing regulations in order to better enforce a law that bans "obtrusive" advertising in space. Spokespersons for the FAA declared that oversized billboards set in low Earth orbit could keep astronomers from doing their jobs.

So everyone's all excited about the release of Star Wars, Episode III: Assault on the Myth. And just as with the previous two, we're seeing all sorts of cringe-inducing commercials that exploit our instinctive, nostalgic loyalty to the franchise. Against my will, I find myself amused by the M & M parody of the famous Darth Vader strangulation scene. (Nooo! They're using my own childhood against me!) But really, there are plenty more of these ads that are not even funny at all, that in fact have the effect of filling you with unbearable regret. With these commercials, it doesn't so much feel like shameless advertising as it does like the characters themselves have fallen on hard times. When I see Chewbacca in the recording studio, for example, I have the unpleasant sense that he's only agreed to do this because his five little furball kids are going hungry. I don't want to think of Chewbacca as a father struggling to feed his family; this makes me sad, and there are enough real life things to be sad about.

Yes, folks, it's the return of Lukesploitation.

Every time I go to a Mr. Goodcents—about once a month, usually—I get to hear what is currently falling under the rubric of classic rock. That's the thing about Mr. Goodcents. They play classic rock. And it's not just this particular sub franchise, either, because I worked at a Subway store one long-ago summer and they played classic rock, too. Anyone who attempted to change the official station was promptly chewed out by the mullet-sporting manager, the same manager who often quizzed me on the artists and song titles until I knew them by heart. It was the same songs over and over again, beginning with Journey and ending with more Journey. The only selections I ever liked on the lineup were by Pink Floyd, although they always played "Money," the one song of theirs I can't tolerate.

Rarely have I been so excited to see a film, then so disappointed to hear the reviews of it (both professional and anecdotal), then so delighted with the film itself. This is exactly the progression I experienced with Shaun of the Dead, and I have to say I'm baffled that people don't like this film. Sure, it's darker than I expected, but it's phenomenally funny, original, and just messed up enough to haunt you a bit—in a good way—mostly. Directed by Edgar Wright, Shaun of the Dead seems to be just as much about everyday trials and minutiae as it is about an epidemic of dead people who eat the living. It's like Monty Python combined with George Romero combined with The Office. (Incidentally, the film also features Lucy Davis, known to fans of The Office as receptionist Dawn Tinsley.)

The film opens with a montage of mundane city scenes, showing people standing in line, riding on the bus, and generally looking like zombies already. This sets the stage for our introduction to 29-year-old Shaun, who works as an assistant manager in an electronics store and is mercilessly ridiculed by his teenaged coworkers. He means well but just can't get his life together. He keeps forgetting to visit his mother, and his girlfriend Liz breaks up with him because he takes her to the same pub every night, even on their 3-year anniversary. Shaun needs something to jolt him out of his rut. And when you think about it, what better motivator could there be than a worldwide zombie apocalypse?

Man, there's a lot of construction downtown. Oh, the right lane is closed ahead; it's a good thing I'm in the left lane. I wonder what that van is going to do. I don't think he's seen the signs yet, even though they're bright orange and the size of Sherman tanks. Oh, you don't say—he's cutting me off, because he just now noticed his lane was ending. That's a surprise. Wait, what's this? He stopped! Halfway into my lane he stopped. Look, Mr. Van, there's no point pulling your vehicle halfway into my lane and then stopping. Just go! For the love of all that is holy, just go. I couldn't get past you anyway. It's not like I can use a shrink ray on my car and just speed around you. Believe me, if I could turn my car into a Hot Wheels car I totally would (because that would be awesome), but I can't, so you should just go. What happened, anyway? Why would you start to cut me off and then stop halfway? Did your rudeness fail you? Did you suddenly have an attack of human decency? Not only am I being cut off, but now you're waiting there, blocking me, and asking for my blessing to go ahead. Well you know what? No blessing for you. You can just go about your day without a blessing. In fact, I'm going to give this blessing to that construction guy instead of you. Look at that, I just blessed the construction guy and you're still sitting there with your head craned around, waiting for me to wave you ahead. Well you can wait all day because I'm not going to. My philosophy is this: if you're going to be rude, you should do it with as much enthusiasm as possible. You should give your rudeness the full force of your personality. I mean, if it's your destiny to be a schmuck, then you should be the best schmuck you can be, right? I can at least respect that. At least you're being true to yourself. But this mealy-mouthed halfway thing is craven and shameful, and I feel nothing but disdain for you. Do you hear that? Nothing but disdain. Now move along and get your Astro out of my way.

So last night Nick and I watched Carnival of Souls, one of my favorite movies of all time. As usual, I was properly spooked (it may be low budget, but it's artfully creepy), and Nick had taken on his usual role of Mystery Science Theater film critic, which is what he does when we watch horror films. This is to keep me from getting too absorbed in the movie (sometimes I have a problem separating fantasty from reality—I know this surprises you). And although this little comedy routine is ostensibly for my benefit, it's clear to me that he just doesn't want me keeping him awake all night going "What's that? Did you hear that? Something's wrong—go check the kitchen. Oh my god, Jason Voorhees was here!" at which point he'll have to explain to me that what I'm looking at is a plastic pasta strainer, not a hockey mask. It's all kind of a fun diversion, but Nick doesn't seem to agree. Sometimes he's gone when I'm watching the movie, and then he has to deal with the repercussions anyway. The night I watched Ringu, I didn't sleep at all. I couldn't even turn the lights off I was so scared. I just sat there in bed with my Gameboy and a desk lamp on, turning toward the door every few seconds to make sure the girl with the Andie MacDowell hair wasn't shambling out of the television.

I'll admit it; movies have a bit too much power over me.

Now that the discovery of extrasolar planets has been verified (planets outside our solar system), many scientists have shifted their focus to determining whether any of these planets have conditions appropriate for Earth-like life. Already we have MOST (Microvariability and Oscillations in Stars), a Canadian spacecraft that observes and records how much stars dim when their planets pass by them. It's like our own little private investigator, the Magnum P.I. of the skies. Of course, if any of these planets show promise they will undergo even greater scrutiny. I predict that MOST will discover:

The other day, I was in a taxi with an MGM executive who just happened to leave behind a piece of paper. Curious, I took a look at it and was astonished by what I read. For your edification, I have reprinted it verbatim.

I checked CNN's site this morning, and there—just above the latest helping of Michael Jackson schadenfreude—was a video clip of Kelsey Grammer falling off the stage at some performance. 'Hmm,' I said to myself, 'this is news?' Of course it is! Because if there's anything we Americans love, it's watching people fall down. Deep down, we're a nation of six-year-old kids. How else to explain The Three Stooges? How else to explain America's Funniest Home Videos? How else to explain Jim Carrey, Mary Catherine Gallagher, and Gerald Ford? We love it when people fall down. We eat it up. But the pratfalls of people like Kelsey Grammer also appeal to our more sophisticated sense of irony because they form such a sharp contrast to his prim-n-proper persona. It'd be like if you saw Sir Ian McKellen blowing bubbles in his milk.

Nick got me the DVD of Blade: Trinity for my birthday because he knew how much I loved the original. So Saturday night, we sat down with some popcorn and Entenmann's donuts and settled in for some serious camp. Here's a not-so-quick rundown.

This was intended to accompany the Wednesday blog, but I didn't get around to posting it. I love the new food pyramid!

No one knows who built the original food pyramid. The method of its construction is likewise a mystery, one which has occupied historians and conspiracy theorists alike for years. At the time of its appearance, you see, the American civilization simply didn't have the technology to create something so complex. Some see this enigma as evidence that an alien super race inhabited America at the time I was a child and has now moved on to build food pyramids on other inhabited planets. I've never been able to embrace this view. Sure, the pyramid is unbelievably cryptic and unduplicatable, but I'm of the opinion that certain highly advanced individuals on our own planet were responsible for its existence. I prefer to see it as evidence of our own greatness.

Out of the night, when the full moon is bright
Comes a horseman known as Zorro.
This bold renegade carves a "Z" with his blade:
A "Z" that stands for Zorro.
Zorro...the fox so cunning and free
Zorro...who makes the sign of the "Z."

I was mightily amused to read this morning that the young damsel in distress who claimed to have found a finger in her bowl of Wendy's chili has been arrested. Aside from the shameful schadenfreude that inevitably accompanies reading of the misfortunes of others, I was struck by the peculiarities of the episode and its similarity to the tale of Medea and the daughters of Pelias. At any rate, it would seem that the young finder of said finger has quite a checkered, litigious past, and investigators are examining the possibility that she planted the finger in the chili of her own accord. Zounds! I'm chortling in my leather chair just thinking of such diabolical cleverness. At least, this is the reigning theory, which was arrived at after an extensive inquiry into the digitude of the Wendy's employees. The inquiry went something like this:

Q. Hello, there. Is this thing on? Hello, employees of the Wendy's corporation. Is anyone in any of our franchises perhaps missing a finger?

Ladies and gentlmen of the school board, I am here today to tell you how imperative it is that we place more emphasis on teaching The Epic of Gilgamesh in our schools. Yes, it's mentioned peripherally on occasion, but the text is treated with a dismissiveness that is downright offensive to me. The Epic of Gilgamesh should be taught as historical fact, not as "literature" or, even worse, "mythology." This is a sad era, indeed, when teachers can stand before a classroom full of kids and say that The Epic of Gilgamesh

So I guess Elvis would have celebrated his 70th birthday last Saturday. He was born in 1935, and were he still alive, his appearance would now be approximately how he was portrayed in . Over the weekend, a whole onslaught of fans descended on Graceland for the occasion (or just outside, since they weren't permitted on the grounds). They sangs songs and cut a 'Happy Birthday' cake, which the celebrant couldn't enjoy because he was dead.

News item #1: After a night of dreadful insomnia, Nick and I have concluded that our bed is all used up. My theory is that there is a given number of sleeps per bed—about 1,000 probably—and we have exceeded that number. I asked the employees at Bed, Bath & Beyond about purchasing a replacement pack for our bed, but they didn't seem to know what I was talking about. Poseurs.

For the past few weeks, Nick has been growing his facial hair into a goatee (or, as our friend calls it, a van Dyke). I've been monitoring him carefully just in case any sinister behavior crops up.

Have you noticed that facial hair is out of vogue in politics? A clean-shaven chin is de rigueur these days, whichever side of the aisle you happen to be seated on. Bush has no facial hair, Kerry is sans beard, and then there is the glabrous Dick Cheney, whose smooth jowls put baby bottoms everywhere to shame. What of Al Gore, you ask? Well, keep in mind that it was only after the 2000 election that Albert grew that Grizzly Adams wilderness beard. Is this anti-hirsutist attitude predicated on a perception that facial hair somehow represents untrustworthiness? Does a small grouping of whiskers give people the impression that something unpleasant is being covered up? Let's examine this for a moment.