Just because I think they're funny, here are a couple of videos for your viewing enjoyment. There's one for the Star Wars fans out there, and another for those of you who love all things Walken. Happy holidays! Now you can't say I never gave you anything.

Thank you, dear Committee members. Thank you for alerting us that Matt Damon is this year's sexiest man alive. I can never decide for myself, so every year I find myself eagerly awaiting your opinion on the subject. No really. Your insights are a beacon of light in an increasingly dreary world.

Okay, okay, okay . . . let me just set the snarkiness aside for a moment. The thing is, I don't actually have a problem with Matt Damon per se (aren't you impressed by my use of Latin?), but why does it always seem to be the same three guys cycling in and out of the winner slot? Matt Damon. George Clooney. Brad Pitt. Matt Damon. George Clooney. Brad Pitt. Matt Damon. George Clooney. And...Mark Ruffalo? Ha! Just kidding. It's Brad Pitt again.

Boring.

Have I ever told you how much I loved the show Deadwood? It was beautiful and gritty and Shakespearean, and I miss the characters terribly now that they're gone. Except, of course, for George Hearst . . . vile, disgusting George Hearst, who killed the gentle Mr. Ellsworth and chopped off Al's finger (truth be told, I was more indignant about the latter). Unfortunately, George Hearst got out of the eponymous town unscathed, with the exception of a very minor bullet wound. I gotta tell you, this turn of events really chapped my hide. I understand that the writers had to work within the constraints of history, but . . . the man was pure evil. I would have preferred that they simply abandoned historical fact and gave the viewers what we wanted for the finale: sweet, sweet revenge. I've already imagined several alternatives to this ending, and here are a few of them.

I don't know about you, but I can't watch television for more than five minutes without seeing a Spangles commercial. These ads always have a folksy, low-production kind of quality to them, as if they want you to believe that all the actors are local. They all feature a particular product, like the Western burger or the breakfast pita, and the promotion involves some sort of cutesy, themed scenario, like little kids dressed up in cowboy hats. Some of the commercials feature 50s-style songs that are disgustingly singable and tend to stick with you, like a wad of chewing gum on the underside of your brain ("M-m-m-mudslide!"). And the commercials are everywhere, infiltrating the membranes of our culture like some sort of virus. What's the reason for this juggernaut of kitsch and unpleasantness? Well, after copious research and a good deal of creative problem solving, I have arrived at an explanation. It is not, however, for the faint of heart, so I'd suggest that anyone prone to fainting be seated immediately. Ready? Okay, here it is: the invention and mass-promotion of the Spangles franchise is one of the preliminary stages in an imminent alien invasion.

p>

Superman! Superman Superman Superman! Needless to say, I awaited the opening of this film with tremendous excitement. I was so excited, in fact, that I went to see it at its very first showing, even though Nick was unable to see it with me. I saw it again two days later (Nick was with me this time). And a week after that, I saw it in 3D at an IMAX theatre. Truth be told, I could watch it a dozen more times--in a row even, with my eyelids pried open Clockwork Orange-style--and I'd never ever ever be tired of it. Up till now my personal record for number of times viewing a film in the theatre has been 7 (The Matrix). With Supes, I may actually surpass that record. Thanks to this film, you see, I have ascended to the apex of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I have now reached that sweet spot of self-actualization.

I see that ad for The Lake House, and all I can think about is that hideous chunky turtleneck Keanu Reeves is wearing. I want to look away, but I can't. I'm obsessed with it, so I just sit there and watch with the sort of grim fascination usually reserved for slasher films and presidential elections, and when at last the sweater appears—in all its hateful glory—I feel my blood run cold. That sweater is anathema to me. It's appalling, and I can't even say exactly why.

Bob Davis Interviews Three Applicants for the Human Resources Job

Bob Davis: Hi, I'm Bob Davis, the vice-president in charge of Human Resources for Polaris Inc. I hope you don't mind the group interview format, but we have a lot of promising applicants and this is the best way for me to get a sense of who you are and whether you'd be suited for the position of Human Resources supervisor. So, I'd like you all to tell me a bit about yourselves and your previous employment experiences. Tell me why you believe you are qualified for this position.

The Grand Inquisitor: Ahem. Well, I spear-headed the Inquisition program for several years, and that taught me a lot about conflict resolution and how to deal constructively with difficult employees. I was also responsible for incorporating some fun, teambuilding exercises into the workplace. An interrogation session can be a great icebreaker for employees who don't know each other very well.

Part I: My Olympic Delusions

When I was little, I had dreams of being both an Olympic commentator and a competitor. I'm not exactly sure how I planned to reconcile those two occupations ... I must have thought I could just climb down from the press box area, suit up, and get in line on the track between Kenya and Brazil. And when I was done, I could comment on my own stellar performance. Perfect set-up, right? Naturally, I wouldn't be a bit biased, and after winning the gold medal I would say nothing but nice things about the people who won silver and bronze.

I prepared extensively for both of these occupations. Or at least as extensively as could be expected from a kid with ADHD.

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.

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.

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).

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!

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.

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.

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.

p>Saturday night I saw Inigo Montoya in person at the Crafton-Preyer Theatre on the KU campus. As it turns out, Mandy Patinkin—actor, singer, and all-around theater junkie—attended KU in the early 70s. He was invited back this weekend to speak about his life and work, in an event known as "A Conversation with Mandy Patinkin." It took place in a smaller theater, meaning that the discussion was more intimate and really did feel like a conversation. I was sitting on the mezzanine level, and I could see his nose hairs. They were quite well trimmed.

Thank you, writers of The Shield. Before this week I'd never seen your show, but they don't allow us to change the station on the televisions at the gym anymore so this Monday I got to enjoy an entire episode. The story was modestly engaging, and I was excited to see Glenn Close has found meaningful work again. The story was this: two rival gangs in Los Angeles were immersed in a war that new police chief Glenn Close was determined to stop. She ordered the cops under her command to put pressure wherever they could in order to find out information about why the war was occurring. As the cops got to the heart of the issue, they discovered that the war was over a woman who had left the gang leader on one side for a banger on the other side. 'Well what do you know about that,' I said. 'Just like the Trojan War.' Of course, I thought this was merely an amusing coincidence until near the end of the episode, when the Helen character announced that one of the leaders of the gang had been tied to the back of a truck and dragged around the block several times. 'Ah yes,' I thought. 'There's no question now. This is The Iliad, and that guy getting dragged around the block was supposed to be Hector.'

For a while now, I've been seeing lots of red plaid pants, black sweaters with safety pins, and mass-produced handbags with the Sex Pistols logo emblazoned on them. I hate to say it, but punkness has become trendy. Suddenly, everyone is a fan of the Ramones and the Clash. Black Flag bumper stickers have re-emerged with a vengeance, and everyone can sing at least one line from "God Save the Queen" (although it's usually the titular line). So how come no one seems interested in new punk music? There are a number of groups around who feature punk elements: the Donnas, Green Day, the Ataris, Mars Volta, etc. (Sorry, kids, I don't count Mediocre Charlotte—they're a bit overproduced for my taste.) And for every one I can think of, there are thousands I don't know about, floating around in local clubs and cranking out great energetic music without commercial acclaim. In my book, even Wesley Willis could fall into this category. But no one seems interested in these guys as ambassadors of punk. Maybe it's because they don't really know or care what punk is about.

Wonder Woman of Paradise Island would like to announce her betrothal to Boba Fett of Concord Dawn. The bride-to-be is the daughter of Queen Hippolyta of Paradise Island. She is scheduled to graduate with honors in May 2005 from the University of Kansas with a bachelor's degree in Political Science. Wonder Woman will be attending law school at Columbia University, New York, NY, in the fall of 2005. She is a member of the KU Honors Program, the KU Handbell Choir, Greek Club, Archaeology Club, Kickboxers for Hera, and Alpha Alpha Alpha. Her plans for the future include becoming a district attorney (she is an avid fan of Law and Order), having two or more children, and fighting crime in a bathing suit.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the movie, American Psycho. Just last Monday, my friend and I saw a gentleman in downtown KC who was the embodiment of Patrick Bateman, vice president. He didn't just resemble him; he was him. He wore a long wool coat over designer business attire, and he was wearing headphones. Remember Christian Bale at the beginning of the film, walking purposefully through his office listening to "I'm Walkin' on Sunshine"? It was just like that. You could just tell this guy lives a life of profound self-delusion.

Hi there, Man and Woman ahead of me in line at the grocery store. I notice that you have two shopping carts full of soda—all in 2-liter bottles. There are so many of them piled in there that they keep falling out. Are you planning to go into business? Am I going to see you two downtown tomorrow, peddling your wares from a street corner? I'm just asking because it's going to take the cashier until the end of time to scan your merchandise, and I have a few things I'd like to take care of before then.

My friend Dangermike from grad school just did me the honor of linking to my site on his blog, so I thought I'd do the same for him. Here it is. Try it out—you'll like it. His blog contains all sorts of sardonic commentaries on life, the universe, and that jackass at work who is sick but won't go home, even though he's coughing incessantly and getting phlegm all over your keyboard.

I have pink hair now. Why pink, you ask? Mine is not to reason why; mine is but to do and blow-dry.

Karen Is Tired of Ganking

Stop it! Undead people of the Horde, just stop it! How is it even fun for you to materialize out of nowhere and kill players who are forty levels below you? You don't get any experience points. You don't get to loot our bodies. All you get is the sick satisfaction of knowing that you're interfering with our enjoyment of the very game you love so much. What gives? It is seriously un-sportsmanlike, and it makes me furious. Nick says that ganking is kind of like hazing, except that it goes on forever. Not looking forward to that. I've been playing for a few weeks now, and I've built up a decent character. But I'm switching to a different server and starting over because I'm tired of getting attacked while I'm minding my own business trying to complete a quest. I've got my hands full with the NPCs as it is. As if the firebolts from the baby dragon whelps and the relentless pecking of the dire condors weren't enough, we get undead meanies springing from thin air and ganking us, too? Not cool. Oh, and check it out. Sometimes high-level players do something called 'corpse camping,' which means they wait around by your corpse for you to resurrect so they can kill you again. That's real mature, guys. You are bad people, all of you.

Hi there. Ordinarily I wouldn't take up your time with this kind of thing, but I have a fantastic idea that I think would be a financial windfall for everyone involved. No, it's not some crazy pyramid scheme involving the sale of herbal supplements or sunflower seed casings that are supposed to purify your chakras or something. Perish the thought. What I have in mind is much more practical and doesn't require turning all your friends against you. Still interested? That's what I thought.

The notorious bunny show has been canceled! After Secretary of Education Margaret Spellings lambasted an episode of "Postcards from Buster" (a show about an animated bunny) and demanded that PBS refund the money used to make the show, PBS quickly dropped the episode. They dropped it before Spellings had even finished her sentence. A PBS spokesperson, however, claimed that the Education Department's statements had nothing to do with their decision not to air the show. She said that the decision was due to a realization that homosexuality was a sensitive issue that parents should address with their children in their own time.

I'm addicted to Kirby and the Amazing Mirror, which I've been playing on my GameBoy for a month now. Kirby is this little pink marshmallow of a guy who has to travel through these portals and defeat a series of nasty bosses.

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.

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.

This link is a trap!

Last Friday I heard a report on NPR about electronics chain Best Buy and their new customer profiling practices. I understand this has been reported on Slashdot, too. For those who haven't heard the story, the deal is this: Best Buy has just implemented a sort of triage system that determines which customers are worth the employees' time and which are not. They staff is trained to recognize certain types of customers and allot their attentions accordingly.

Man, I'm irritated right now.

You there, in all of those gay-marriage amendment states (those of you who voted "NO" are exempt), you are no longer allowed to watch Will & Grace, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, The L Word, or Queer as Folk, and you are also not allowed to talk about how much fun your gay hairdresser is.

It all started because I'm planning to dress as Leela from Futurama for Halloween this year. I have been scouring Google Images for pictures, looking for examples of Leela's wardrobe. So far, I've pulled together the basic outfit—white tank top, black pants—and I've even made my own arm band thing out of gray/blue felt and Velcro. The hardest part will be figuring out how to fashion Leela's trademark single eyeball into something that will fit on my head and look right, but that will also be transparent enough for me to see through. But don't worry about it. I'm a smart girl, and I'm sure I'll figure it out.

In the process of doing this research, however, I uncovered more naughty pictures of our dear Leela than I could ever have imagined. These are mostly amateur drawings of Leela in sexy lingerie, in a variety of Barbarella-style outfits, or just plain-old buck naked. There is also a startling amount of fan fiction, detailing exactly what it is that Leela and Fry do behind closed spaceship doors (hint: it's not spot-cleaning the computer panels). I guess this shouldn't surprise me, but it does. The sheer volume of it, anyway.

It's official. They'll make a Broadway musical about anything. I have recently learned that The Last Starfighter—that campy, outrageously bad 1984 film—has been converted to a musical and will debut on Broadway within the next few months. It's a shame Robert Preston is dead, because he's the only one of the original cast who actually could have reprised his role from the original.

As I've mentioned before, Nick and I recently went to Colorado. What I didn't mention was that we stayed in a hotel with one of those Nintendo things in the room. We scanned the menu listing the available games, and when we made it through the list, the menu continued into the adult films. For a lark, we checked out the titles and laughed at their ridiculous pictures. But after the catalog of 50 or so films had gone by and we went back to the games, a gnawing realization began to insinuate itself on my brain. Every single one of these films—whether about chesty cheerleaders, naughty nurses, or buxom beekeepers—was targeted toward white heterosexual men. What's up with that? Notice to hotel chains everywhere, not everyone in this country is a white heterosexual man. Perhaps you've never realized this? Once in a great while someone who is of another gender, race, or orientation may happen to wander into your hotel. They may be feeling lonely and seeking out a few creature comforts. But instead of solace, they will be faced with adult media that in no way represents their culture or interests. It's a travesty, is what it is.

1. Bottled water at Lollapalooza
2. Frogs
3. Health care
4. Gravity
5. Siamese fighting fish
6. College
7. College textbooks
8. Hair pieces
9. Slinkys
10. Youth
11. Beauty
12. The Brothers Karamazov
13. String theory
14. String cheese
15. Buns of steel
16. Our sense of dignity
17. Language
18. Profanity
19. Conspiracy theories
20. Jungian archetypes
21. Hot Wheels
22. The iconic cult status of Kerouac
23. Transmogrification
24. Transsubstantiation
25. Tintinnabulation
26. Advice at the Oracle of Delphi
27. Portraits of the Queen
28. Radiohead
29. Igneous rocks
30. Schlemiel, schlimazel, Hassenpfeffer Incorporated
31. Kinetic energy
32. Our souls

Bob Costas is like the funny guy who hangs around your living room getting barbecue potato chip crumbs in all the little crevices of your sofa, and he never leaves because his wife is divorcing him and he doesn't want to go home, but it's okay because he makes you laugh and he points out all the absurd things that are occurring around him and on the television, and you have to love the way he narrates the Olympics because he's always got a slight smirk around the edges of his mouth, and it's almost like someone doing a comical impression of a sports commentator rather than an actual commentator, and he's so sweetly dorky that you think if you were set up on a blind date with him you'd have a great time eating eggs at the diner and laughing, but at the end of the night he'd try to kiss you and you'd kind of duck to avoid it and there'd be an awkward silence, after which you'd tell him that you really like him as a friend, even like a brother, but that you just don't think you're ready for a relationship so soon after your last break-up, so then you'd let him hang out in your living room as long as he wanted, getting potato chip crumbs in everything, because when it comes down to it he's just a little boy with too much pomade who just happens to be smart and preternaturally knowledgeable about sports, and after three or four months of this, you'd probably fall in love with him anyway, because if love is about anything, it's about laughter, and no one does laughter like Bob Costas.

I was watching the women's gymnastics portion of the Olympics a few nights ago, and it occurred to me that something hinky was going on. One of the commentators was being more than a little condescending toward the athletes—he kept saying things like "the cute-meter is broken now" and "aw . . . did you see that little grin?"

Yes, Mr. Olympic Commentator with your waxy pompadour, these girls are young. But have you noticed that they're also world-class athletes? Gymnastics at the Olympic level is a bit more competitive than at the annual "Tap and Tumbling" recital in Goatwater Falls, U.S.A. Even more troubling is the fact that most of your comments were made about the physically diminutive Chinese team. With the Australian team, there was talk of poise, flexibility, and execution. Then the Chinese step into the ring and suddenly it's all about how the girls should get 10 points for their smiles alone. Aren't they adorable? This little girl's goal is to win two gold medals. Isn't that cute?

Well, it's finally happened. The National Geographic channel has started pandering to the lowest common denominator. Lately, if you watch any program on NGC, the tone of the narration resembles the crazed rhetoric of late-night police chase shows. The libretto for National Geographic's "World's Most Dangerous Jobs" goes something like this: "But little did these firefighters know that they were in the gravest danger, for death was just over the ridge, waiting to envelop them. The fire blazed savagely up the south side of the mountain, engulfing with raging fury everything in its path. Who could escape its murderous rampage? When we return, find out who will survive the inferno."

Check out my brand-spanking new 404 page! Now, in glorious Technicolor! With croutons!

I was at a department store a few days ago, when a prominent display of handbags caught my eye. They were little vinyl purses and wallets in a variety of bubble gum colors, but the thing that was most inexplicable was the large patch that was sewn onto each one. The one I saw first said simply: "Mrs. Bloom." I was perplexed. The words were in a strange, loopy, curlicued writing, and I was reminded of the penmanship exhibited by the sort of little girls who dot their i's and j's with little hearts. My first thought was, "oh, they must be referring to that character from Ulysses." That's how far removed I am from the real world. In fact, Leopold Bloom was probably the furthest thing from the true explanation that I could have ever come up with. The famous Bloom whose name was emblazoned across the handbag was, of course, the lovely (and oddly feminine) Orlando Bloom. I deduced this by scanning the names on the other bags—Mrs. Depp; Mrs. Timberlake; Mrs. Pitt; and Mrs. Kutcher. I noticed there was no Ms. anything.

This really is too depressing to speculate about, but I'm going to do it anyway.

So I was listening to the radio the other day, having a moderately pleasant drive home from work and thinking of buying my first pair of cowboy boots, when I heard the commercial. "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by hunger . . ." it began. I was struck dumb. This can't be, I thought. I'm hearing things. And then it went on, but instead of stanzas about draft lines and the madness of war, I heard paeans to the fine foods offered by Wendy's restaurants. That's right, apparently a Frosty is the way to cure all your existential ills. Road rage overtook me, and I practically swerved into a four-wheeler. Steam poured from my ears just like in the cartoons. Someone had taken the poem "Howl," Allen Ginsberg's radical protest piece, and turned it into a commercial for a single hamburger with cheese.

(growl)

I recently discovered that the gym equipment I exhaust myself on daily is much older than I could have imagined. In 1815, a group called the Prison Discipline Society began to meet in England. Their mission was to develop the sort of devices and punishments that would inspire dread in the populace at-large, and thus deter potential criminals from committing dastardly deeds.

Here is a brief guide for those who wish to become hip in a hurry. Follow these guidelines, and you will attain a degree of hipness you never thought possible. Your friends will beg you to reveal your secrets, but keep in mind that a truly hip person never acknowledges having put forth any effort toward anything.

Rule # 1. Drop the names of philosophers into your daily conversations to show how smart you are. Nietzsche should be pronounced "Nitch" whenever possible. Avoid mentioning philosophers with more difficult names like Kierkegaard and Schopenhauer, who never said anything worthwhile anyway. The premise of existentialism is that there is no such thing as human nature or essence, so make sure to turn this into a fervent argument for moral relativism. You will garner the respect of everyone who hears you, even in passing.

Guess what? I've received a late entry for the slash fiction contest, and I hope you're all proud of your lazy selves, because it's crappy. But it's the only one, so I'm posting it. Maybe next time you'll consider participating in one of my contests so that I'm not forced to post this kind of trash. (Full disclosure: I'm not actually this mean. A friend of mine wrote the following piece because I coerced him into it. He's been a very good sport about all of this, and I thank him.)

Rating: R
Pairings: Sydney Carton/Charles Darnay
Category: First-time, Romance, Drama, Dominance
Summary: It is a far, far better thing Sydney does than he has ever done before.

For those who don't know what slash fiction is, imagine this:

Captain Kirk looks deep into Mr. Spock's eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. With a shudder, he realizes that all those alien women he had been with were, and could only ever be, a distraction from his true passion, from the forbidden love he had not allowed himself to believe in. Now that he has acknowledged them, though, Kirk is frightened by the intensity of his feelings. He finds himself trembling, his confidence shaken. "What do you think, Mr. Spock?" he whispers. "Should we recall the away team? Is that the logical thing to do?" As if guessing his thoughts, Spock raises a delicate eyebrow at him. "Not just yet, Captain." Kirk begins to breathe more heavily—he is racked with longing, delirious with the thought of what would happen if he succumbed to the spell of those steely, Vulcan eyes. He swoons. As he feels Spock's sinewy arms lifting him off the floor of the bridge, he wonders: can a Vulcan truly love?

Okay, so you got that?

Put simply, slash fiction is Web erotica based around characters and events from books, films, and television shows. The primary characters are almost always men, and each story is preceded by a list of character pairings, such as Kirk/Spock or Scotty/Sulu (hence the "slash"). Slash fiction stories serve as an homage to the original work, as well as a chanelling point for silliness and fantasy.

They are fabulously entertaining.

A few weeks ago, I lost my handheld Tetris game. This was one of those cheap little jobbies you can purchase for 20 bucks at Wal-Mart, but it was as dear to me as if I had mortgaged my house to pay for it. Alas, how swiftly things can change. No sooner had I become intoxicated with its digital ambrosia, than the cup was dashed from my lips.

I left the device at the gym by mistake. When I came back it had disappeared—gone from my life like a fickle lover. I couldn't catch my breath. I felt helpless. My fingers were twitching, aching for the tactility of those smooth gray buttons.

A tenuous thread is all that separates possession from loss.

Where I work, we often see press releases from companies interested in getting our medical journal to publish information about them. Most of these are ads featuring a new type of designer oxygen machine or an anti-gravity defibrillator, but once in a while, we know we're in for something really special. The title of the most recent press release was, "Lips: The New Must-Have Accessory for Every Season."

Boba is a mysterious bounty hunter with his own dress code. He has been an intern at The New York Times for six months, and he says the best part of the job is the people. Normally good-natured and agreeable, he can become petulant if asked to write headlines.

I have a long history of dreaming about celebrities, beginning with the dream in which Marlon Brando, dressed as Sky Ma

I have a long history of dreaming about celebrities, beginning with the dream in which Marlon Brando, dressed as Sky Masterson from the movie Guys and Dolls, asked if he could hang out with my family. (He didn't have one of his own, you see.) My family in the dream turned out to be David Tomlinson and Angela Lansbury, who appeared together in Bednobs and Broomsticks, one of my favorite childhood films.

Why do automakers keep branding their vehicles with these ludicrous names? Some of them sound grandiose, but when reduced to their basic etymological form, mean nothing. Some of them clearly mean nothing to begin with. The most ambitious names are the ones that bug me most—they seem to have been haphazardly lifted from the pages of a seventh-grade social studies book. For starters, there's the Aztek, which seems to be strategically misspelled so as to prevent the descendants of this once-great empire from coalescing into a mighty guerrilla force and burning down the manufacturing plant. I bet this gas-guzzling monstrosity isn't quite what they had in mind back in Tenochtitlan. As a bonus, the Aztek looks like a Honda CRV that has been hooked up to a helium pump for too long. Then there's the fearsome Rubicon, which is a new and alarming flavor of SUV. The name is promising—it's both a historical and mythological allusion—but the problem is that the Rubicon was actually a river (dividing Gaul from Italy). The idiom being referenced is "crossing the Rubicon," which is what Julius Caesar did when he decided to invade Italy. See the conflict? The actual Rubicon is something that needs to be crossed, rather than something that does the actual crossing. It's confusing, but the manufacturers don't care about that. They're already working on their next fuel-inefficient masterpiece.

There's no point in denying it anymore. ER is a soap opera. I've been watching it on and off for the past few years, and I've always liked the rare combination of intelligence, human interest, and cool medical procedures (back in the day, I used to watch the Surgery Channel). Recently, though, the ER overlords have been raising the stakes. The melodrama keeps escalating, getting more and more out of control, so that pretty soon they'll have nowhere left to go. From that great moment when Dr. Romano got his arm amputated by a helicopter blade (I was watching this at the gym, and an entire row of runners tripped on their respective treadmills when it happened—beautiful), ER seems to have become less a serious medical drama and more a theater of the absurd. Ionesco himself couldn't have been prouder of the way the show is turning out, although he might have suggested turning Dr. Dave into a rhinoceros.

During a lengthy bout with the flu this winter, I found myself watching a lot of television. This led me to the unsettling discovery that there are entirely too many psychics cashing in on their alleged abilities. I don't have a problem with the idea of psychics in general—after all, most of us use an embarrassingly small portion of our brains, and it just makes sense that there's some extrasensory stuff left over from the era when we had to fend off three saber tooth tigers before breakfast every day. But these people on my television—these John Edwardses and James Van Praaghs—are just so pompous and silly. "I'm sensing that someone here recently lost a relative whose name began with a J. And I'm also sensing that this person liked cheese enchiladas? Is that right? Does this sound familiar to anyone?" Yeah, maybe you're sensing the cooking show on the set next door, John.

Maybe this will help....