31 July 2008

Slightly odd recipe idea that I may try this weekend:

Apple Pie Glazed Ribs

Pork and apple is one of God's most blessed unions, like beer and pizza, and Bon Jovi and vomit bags. With that in mind comes this experimental recipe, creating a singularly sweet barbeque food that fuses smoked back ribs with the spice and sweetness of apple pie.

First, start by making a small spice blend:

1 Tbsp cinnamon
1/2 Tbsp nutmeg
1 tsp allspice
1/2 tsp ginger
1/4 tsp cloves

This should yield a bit over 2 Tbsp. Mix 1 Tbsp of this spice mix into, I don't know, maybe a 1/4 cup of brown sugar; not too much sugar, just enough to stretch the spice rub across the rack of ribs. Reserve the remaining Tbsp, and rub the sugar/spice rub all across 1 rack of loin back ribs, with the membrane removed.

The next part is traditional; smoke the rack of ribs over apple wood for several hours, then wrap in foil for another hour or two...possibly with a bit of apple cider added to the foil. This varies with different people and different equipment, but the general basic steps are there, cook it low and slow until done, with lots of woodsmoke.

Meanwhile, take a 12oz frozen can of apple juice concentrate, and start heating it up in a sauce pan. Add in the Tbsp of reserved spices, and cook this down until very, very thick, and starting to caramelize a bit.

When the ribs are done, baste the spiced apple "syrup" on liberally and cook over heat until the ribs are more sticky than wet, adding more if necessary. Because the syrup is already been cooked down to basically just apple flavor and sugar, it should form a candy-like crust, but care should be taken not to burn it, as it will burn quickly with all of that sugar. As soon as it is done serve it up, with a bit more of the glaze on the side if you like.

So that's dessert...no main course required! I will advise if it turns out to be worth the effort.
Yes, I did end up having it made. Behold it in all its glory, surrounded by all the junk that inhabits my desk space on a regular basis:

Time for some music from Moughton!

Yes, it's time for British rock bands doing songs from female Motown groups.

First the original:

The Marvellettes - Please Mister Postman

Then the classic remake:

The Beatles - Please Mister Postman

Another original:

Martha and the Vandellas - Heat Wave

And a smoking live cover rendition:

The Who - Heat Wave

I do have to say, the Who was one of the profoundly ugly bands of the British Invasion. I mean, they look like they could win contests for homeliness. But then, most of my favourite bands are somewhat along those lines. I suppose they have to work harder musically. The band Yes certainly won't win any awards along those lines, although Rick Wakeman could probably have been in a shampoo commercial with his long straight blonde hair. Actually, that would have been funny...start with the classic shampoo advertising cliche of cascading long hair falling in slow motion, then pan around to Wakeman's stubbly bearded face. Might not sell product, though. There goes my brilliant marketing idea of the week.

Another good example of the above would be "Ain't Too Proud to Beg", by the Temptations and later the Stones.

To round up this random music-focused blog entry, I rediscovered an old band of my teen years this week, listening to a CD driving to-and-from the hospital, containing both Weezer's eponymous debut album and their second release, Pinkerton. I never cared much for their later stuff, but the first two albums were good stuff...basic garage band rock, with a simple appeal. They are sort of the AC/DC of my generation, a band that churns out simple yet appealing guitar rock, and basically releases the same album every few years. Nothing complex, nothing masterful, but solid. As a beginning guitarist in the mid-90s they were a heavy influence, although now I have a hard time moving back to that model of guitar playing.

28 July 2008

Following The Percussed Pensioner's lead, I am posting a segment of one of my favorite authors. This would be the first chapter of P.G. Wodehouse's Right Ho, Jeeves. It exemplifies the way that Wodehouse uses narration for comic effect. And no worries, its reproduction here in such large measure is not a problem, as the book is old enough for there to be no copyright on it any more, and it is all freely available at Project Gutenberg.

"Jeeves," I said, "may I speak frankly?"

"Certainly, sir."

"What I have to say may wound you."

"Not at all, sir."

"Well, then——"

No—wait. Hold the line a minute. I've gone off the rails.

I don't know if you have had the same experience, but the snag I always come up against when I'm telling a story is this dashed difficult problem of where to begin it. It's a thing you don't want to go wrong over, because one false step and you're sunk. I mean, if you fool about too long at the start, trying to establish atmosphere, as they call it, and all that sort of rot, you fail to grip and the customers walk out on you.

Get off the mark, on the other hand, like a scalded cat, and your public is at a loss. It simply raises its eyebrows, and can't make out what you're talking about.

And in opening my report of the complex case of Gussie Fink-Nottle, Madeline Bassett, my Cousin Angela, my Aunt Dahlia, my Uncle Thomas, young Tuppy Glossop and the cook, Anatole, with the above spot of dialogue, I see that I have made the second of these two floaters.

I shall have to hark back a bit. And taking it for all in all and weighing this against that, I suppose the affair may be said to have had its inception, if inception is the word I want, with that visit of mine to Cannes. If I hadn't gone to Cannes, I shouldn't have met the Bassett or bought that white mess jacket, and Angela wouldn't have met her shark, and Aunt Dahlia wouldn't have played baccarat.

Yes, most decidedly, Cannes was the point d'appui.

Right ho, then. Let me marshal my facts.

I went to Cannes—leaving Jeeves behind, he having intimated that he did not wish to miss Ascot—round about the beginning of June. With me travelled my Aunt Dahlia and her daughter Angela. Tuppy Glossop, Angela's betrothed, was to have been of the party, but at the last moment couldn't get away. Uncle Tom, Aunt Dahlia's husband, remained at home, because he can't stick the South of France at any price.

So there you have the layout—Aunt Dahlia, Cousin Angela and self off to Cannes round about the beginning of June.

All pretty clear so far, what?

We stayed at Cannes about two months, and except for the fact that Aunt Dahlia lost her shirt at baccarat and Angela nearly got inhaled by a shark while aquaplaning, a pleasant time was had by all.

On July the twenty-fifth, looking bronzed and fit, I accompanied aunt and child back to London. At seven p.m. on July the twenty-sixth we alighted at Victoria. And at seven-twenty or thereabouts we parted with mutual expressions of esteem—they to shove off in Aunt Dahlia's car to Brinkley Court, her place in Worcestershire, where they were expecting to entertain Tuppy in a day or two; I to go to the flat, drop my luggage, clean up a bit, and put on the soup and fish preparatory to pushing round to the Drones for a bite of dinner.

And it was while I was at the flat, towelling the torso after a much-needed rinse, that Jeeves, as we chatted of this and that—picking up the threads, as it were—suddenly brought the name of Gussie Fink-Nottle into the conversation.

As I recall it, the dialogue ran something as follows:

SELF: Well, Jeeves, here we are, what?

JEEVES: Yes, sir.

SELF: I mean to say, home again.

JEEVES: Precisely, sir.

SELF: Seems ages since I went away.

JEEVES: Yes, sir.

SELF: Have a good time at Ascot?

JEEVES: Most agreeable, sir.

SELF: Win anything?

JEEVES: Quite a satisfactory sum, thank you, sir.

SELF: Good. Well, Jeeves, what news on the Rialto? Anybody been phoning or calling or anything during my abs.?

JEEVES: Mr. Fink-Nottle, sir, has been a frequent caller.

I stared. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that I gaped.

"Mr. Fink-Nottle?"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't mean Mr. Fink-Nottle?"

"Yes, sir."

"But Mr. Fink-Nottle's not in London?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm blowed."

And I'll tell you why I was blowed. I found it scarcely possible to give credence to his statement. This Fink-Nottle, you see, was one of those freaks you come across from time to time during life's journey who can't stand London. He lived year in and year out, covered with moss, in a remote village down in Lincolnshire, never coming up even for the Eton and Harrow match. And when I asked him once if he didn't find the time hang a bit heavy on his hands, he said, no, because he had a pond in his garden and studied the habits of newts.

I couldn't imagine what could have brought the chap up to the great city. I would have been prepared to bet that as long as the supply of newts didn't give out, nothing could have shifted him from that village of his.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"You got the name correctly? Fink-Nottle?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, it's the most extraordinary thing. It must be five years since he was in London. He makes no secret of the fact that the place gives him the pip. Until now, he has always stayed glued to the country, completely surrounded by newts."


"Newts, Jeeves. Mr. Fink-Nottle has a strong newt complex. You must have heard of newts. Those little sort of lizard things that charge about in ponds."

"Oh, yes, sir. The aquatic members of the family Salamandridae which constitute the genus Molge."

"That's right. Well, Gussie has always been a slave to them. He used to keep them at school."

"I believe young gentlemen frequently do, sir."

"He kept them in his study in a kind of glass-tank arrangement, and pretty niffy the whole thing was, I recall. I suppose one ought to have been able to see what the end would be even then, but you know what boys are. Careless, heedless, busy about our own affairs, we scarcely gave this kink in Gussie's character a thought. We may have exchanged an occasional remark about it taking all sorts to make a world, but nothing more. You can guess the sequel. The trouble spread,"

"Indeed, sir?"

"Absolutely, Jeeves. The craving grew upon him. The newts got him. Arrived at man's estate, he retired to the depths of the country and gave his life up to these dumb chums. I suppose he used to tell himself that he could take them or leave them alone, and then found—too late—that he couldn't."

"It is often the way, sir."

"Too true, Jeeves. At any rate, for the last five years he has been living at this place of his down in Lincolnshire, as confirmed a species-shunning hermit as ever put fresh water in the tank every second day and refused to see a soul. That's why I was so amazed when you told me he had suddenly risen to the surface like this. I still can't believe it. I am inclined to think that there must be some mistake, and that this bird who has been calling here is some different variety of Fink-Nottle. The chap I know wears horn-rimmed spectacles and has a face like a fish. How does that check up with your data?"

"The gentleman who came to the flat wore horn-rimmed spectacles, sir."

"And looked like something on a slab?"

"Possibly there was a certain suggestion of the piscine, sir."

"Then it must be Gussie, I suppose. But what on earth can have brought him up to London?"

"I am in a position to explain that, sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle confided to me his motive in visiting the metropolis. He came because the young lady is here."

"Young lady?"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't mean he's in love?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm dashed. I'm really dashed. I positively am dashed, Jeeves."

And I was too. I mean to say, a joke's a joke, but there are limits.

Then I found my mind turning to another aspect of this rummy affair. Conceding the fact that Gussie Fink-Nottle, against all the ruling of the form book, might have fallen in love, why should he have been haunting my flat like this? No doubt the occasion was one of those when a fellow needs a friend, but I couldn't see what had made him pick on me.

It wasn't as if he and I were in any way bosom. We had seen a lot of each other at one time, of course, but in the last two years I hadn't had so much as a post card from him.

I put all this to Jeeves:

"Odd, his coming to me. Still, if he did, he did. No argument about that. It must have been a nasty jar for the poor perisher when he found I wasn't here."

"No, sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle did not call to see you, sir."

"Pull yourself together, Jeeves. You've just told me that this is what he has been doing, and assiduously, at that."

"It was I with whom he was desirous of establishing communication, sir."

"You? But I didn't know you had ever met him."

"I had not had that pleasure until he called here, sir. But it appears that Mr. Sipperley, a fellow student of whom Mr. Fink-Nottle had been at the university, recommended him to place his affairs in my hands."

The mystery had conked. I saw all. As I dare say you know, Jeeves's reputation as a counsellor has long been established among the cognoscenti, and the first move of any of my little circle on discovering themselves in any form of soup is always to roll round and put the thing up to him. And when he's got A out of a bad spot, A puts B on to him. And then, when he has fixed up B, B sends C along. And so on, if you get my drift, and so forth.

That's how these big consulting practices like Jeeves's grow. Old Sippy, I knew, had been deeply impressed by the man's efforts on his behalf at the time when he was trying to get engaged to Elizabeth Moon, so it was not to be wondered at that he should have advised Gussie to apply. Pure routine, you might say.

"Oh, you're acting for him, are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now I follow. Now I understand. And what is Gussie's trouble?"

"Oddly enough, sir, precisely the same as that of Mr. Sipperley when I was enabled to be of assistance to him. No doubt you recall Mr. Sipperley's predicament, sir. Deeply attached to Miss Moon, he suffered from a rooted diffidence which made it impossible for him to speak."

I nodded.

"I remember. Yes, I recall the Sipperley case. He couldn't bring himself to the scratch. A marked coldness of the feet, was there not? I recollect you saying he was letting—what was it?—letting something do something. Cats entered into it, if I am not mistaken."

"Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would', sir."

"That's right. But how about the cats?"

"Like the poor cat i' the adage, sir."

"Exactly. It beats me how you think up these things. And Gussie, you say, is in the same posish?"

"Yes, sir. Each time he endeavours to formulate a proposal of marriage, his courage fails him."

"And yet, if he wants this female to be his wife, he's got to say so, what? I mean, only civil to mention it."

"Precisely, sir."

I mused.

"Well, I suppose this was inevitable, Jeeves. I wouldn't have thought that this Fink-Nottle would ever have fallen a victim to the divine p, but, if he has, no wonder he finds the going sticky."

"Yes, sir."

"Look at the life he's led."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't suppose he has spoken to a girl for years. What a lesson this is to us, Jeeves, not to shut ourselves up in country houses and stare into glass tanks. You can't be the dominant male if you do that sort of thing. In this life, you can choose between two courses. You can either shut yourself up in a country house and stare into tanks, or you can be a dasher with the sex. You can't do both."

"No, sir."

I mused once more. Gussie and I, as I say, had rather lost touch, but all the same I was exercised about the poor fish, as I am about all my pals, close or distant, who find themselves treading upon Life's banana skins. It seemed to me that he was up against it.

I threw my mind back to the last time I had seen him. About two years ago, it had been. I had looked in at his place while on a motor trip, and he had put me right off my feed by bringing a couple of green things with legs to the luncheon table, crooning over them like a young mother and eventually losing one of them in the salad. That picture, rising before my eyes, didn't give me much confidence in the unfortunate goof's ability to woo and win, I must say. Especially if the girl he had earmarked was one of these tough modern thugs, all lipstick and cool, hard, sardonic eyes, as she probably was.

"Tell me, Jeeves," I said, wishing to know the worst, "what sort of a girl is this girl of Gussie's?"

"I have not met the young lady, sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle speaks highly of her attractions."

"Seemed to like her, did he?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did he mention her name? Perhaps I know her."

"She is a Miss Bassett, sir. Miss Madeline Bassett."


"Yes, sir."

I was deeply intrigued.

"Egad, Jeeves! Fancy that. It's a small world, isn't it, what?"

"The young lady is an acquaintance of yours, sir?"

"I know her well. Your news has relieved my mind, Jeeves. It makes the whole thing begin to seem far more like a practical working proposition."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Absolutely. I confess that until you supplied this information I was feeling profoundly dubious about poor old Gussie's chances of inducing any spinster of any parish to join him in the saunter down the aisle. You will agree with me that he is not everybody's money."

"There may be something in what you say, sir."

"Cleopatra wouldn't have liked him."

"Possibly not, sir."

"And I doubt if he would go any too well with Tallulah Bankhead."

"No, sir."

"But when you tell me that the object of his affections is Miss Bassett, why, then, Jeeves, hope begins to dawn a bit. He's just the sort of chap a girl like Madeline Bassett might scoop in with relish."

This Bassett, I must explain, had been a fellow visitor of ours at Cannes; and as she and Angela had struck up one of those effervescent friendships which girls do strike up, I had seen quite a bit of her. Indeed, in my moodier moments it sometimes seemed to me that I could not move a step without stubbing my toe on the woman.

And what made it all so painful and distressing was that the more we met, the less did I seem able to find to say to her.

You know how it is with some girls. They seem to take the stuffing right out of you. I mean to say, there is something about their personality that paralyses the vocal cords and reduces the contents of the brain to cauliflower. It was like that with this Bassett and me; so much so that I have known occasions when for minutes at a stretch Bertram Wooster might have been observed fumbling with the tie, shuffling the feet, and behaving in all other respects in her presence like the complete dumb brick. When, therefore, she took her departure some two weeks before we did, you may readily imagine that, in Bertram's opinion, it was not a day too soon.

It was not her beauty, mark you, that thus numbed me. She was a pretty enough girl in a droopy, blonde, saucer-eyed way, but not the sort of breath-taker that takes the breath.

No, what caused this disintegration in a usually fairly fluent prattler with the sex was her whole mental attitude. I don't want to wrong anybody, so I won't go so far as to say that she actually wrote poetry, but her conversation, to my mind, was of a nature calculated to excite the liveliest suspicions. Well, I mean to say, when a girl suddenly asks you out of a blue sky if you don't sometimes feel that the stars are God's daisy-chain, you begin to think a bit.

As regards the fusing of her soul and mine, therefore, there was nothing doing. But with Gussie, the posish was entirely different. The thing that had stymied me—viz. that this girl was obviously all loaded down with ideals and sentiment and what not—was quite in order as far as he was concerned.

Gussie had always been one of those dreamy, soulful birds—you can't shut yourself up in the country and live only for newts, if you're not—and I could see no reason why, if he could somehow be induced to get the low, burning words off his chest, he and the Bassett shouldn't hit it off like ham and eggs.

"She's just the type for him," I said.

"I am most gratified to hear it, sir."

"And he's just the type for her. In fine, a good thing and one to be pushed along with the utmost energy. Strain every nerve, Jeeves."

"Very good, sir," replied the honest fellow. "I will attend to the matter at once."

Now up to this point, as you will doubtless agree, what you might call a perfect harmony had prevailed. Friendly gossip between employer and employed, and everything as sweet as a nut. But at this juncture, I regret to say, there was an unpleasant switch. The atmosphere suddenly changed, the storm clouds began to gather, and before we knew where we were, the jarring note had come bounding on the scene. I have known this to happen before in the Wooster home.

The first intimation I had that things were about to hot up was a pained and disapproving cough from the neighbourhood of the carpet. For, during the above exchanges, I should explain, while I, having dried the frame, had been dressing in a leisurely manner, donning here a sock, there a shoe, and gradually climbing into the vest, the shirt, the tie, and the knee-length, Jeeves had been down on the lower level, unpacking my effects.

He now rose, holding a white object. And at the sight of it, I realized that another of our domestic crises had arrived, another of those unfortunate clashes of will between two strong men, and that Bertram, unless he remembered his fighting ancestors and stood up for his rights, was about to be put upon.

I don't know if you were at Cannes this summer. If you were, you will recall that anybody with any pretensions to being the life and soul of the party was accustomed to attend binges at the Casino in the ordinary evening-wear trouserings topped to the north by a white mess-jacket with brass buttons. And ever since I had stepped aboard the Blue Train at Cannes station, I had been wondering on and off how mine would go with Jeeves.

In the matter of evening costume, you see, Jeeves is hidebound and reactionary. I had had trouble with him before about soft-bosomed shirts. And while these mess-jackets had, as I say, been all the rage—tout ce qu'il y a de chic—on the Côte d'Azur, I had never concealed it from myself, even when treading the measure at the Palm Beach Casino in the one I had hastened to buy, that there might be something of an upheaval about it on my return.

I prepared to be firm.

"Yes, Jeeves?" I said. And though my voice was suave, a close observer in a position to watch my eyes would have noticed a steely glint. Nobody has a greater respect for Jeeves's intellect than I have, but this disposition of his to dictate to the hand that fed him had got, I felt, to be checked. This mess-jacket was very near to my heart, and I jolly well intended to fight for it with all the vim of grand old Sieur de Wooster at the Battle of Agincourt.

"Yes, Jeeves?" I said. "Something on your mind, Jeeves?"

"I fear that you inadvertently left Cannes in the possession of a coat belonging to some other gentleman, sir."

I switched on the steely a bit more.

"No, Jeeves," I said, in a level tone, "the object under advisement is mine. I bought it out there."

"You wore it, sir?"

"Every night."

"But surely you are not proposing to wear it in England, sir?"

I saw that we had arrived at the nub.

"Yes, Jeeves."

"But, sir——"

"You were saying, Jeeves?"

"It is quite unsuitable, sir."

"I do not agree with you, Jeeves. I anticipate a great popular success for this jacket. It is my intention to spring it on the public tomorrow at Pongo Twistleton's birthday party, where I confidently expect it to be one long scream from start to finish. No argument, Jeeves. No discussion. Whatever fantastic objection you may have taken to it, I wear this jacket."

"Very good, sir."

He went on with his unpacking. I said no more on the subject. I had won the victory, and we Woosters do not triumph over a beaten foe. Presently, having completed my toilet, I bade the man a cheery farewell and in generous mood suggested that, as I was dining out, why didn't he take the evening off and go to some improving picture or something. Sort of olive branch, if you see what I mean.

He didn't seem to think much of it.

"Thank you, sir, I will remain in."

I surveyed him narrowly.

"Is this dudgeon, Jeeves?"

"No, sir, I am obliged to remain on the premises. Mr. Fink-Nottle informed me he would be calling to see me this evening."

"Oh, Gussie's coming, is he? Well, give him my love."

"Very good, sir."

"Yes, sir."

"And a whisky and soda, and so forth."

"Very good, sir."

"Right ho, Jeeves."

I then set off for the Drones.

At the Drones I ran into Pongo Twistleton, and he talked so much about his forthcoming merry-making of his, of which good reports had already reached me through my correspondents, that it was nearing eleven when I got home again.

And scarcely had I opened the door when I heard voices in the sitting-room, and scarcely had I entered the sitting-room when I found that these proceeded from Jeeves and what appeared at first sight to be the Devil.

A closer scrutiny informed me that it was Gussie Fink-Nottle, dressed as Mephistopheles.

Continued here...

25 July 2008


Gas prices are falling at last!

What do we have to thank for this?

Why, our hard-working Senators, that fearlessly and selflessly hauled the Fat Cat Evil Windfall Profiteers that head up Big Oil companies onto Capitol Hill, to give them a good tongue-lashing. Yes, their courageous tenacity and willingness to go on camera asking "the hard questions" of these fiscally-obese, greediferous oilmongers was what saved the day!

No doubt, the CEOs of Exxon, Shell, BP, Chevron, and Conoco all had a change of heart, thanks to the powerful rebukes laid upon them by our politicians. They probably called up their HR department and said, "Put my paycheck on hold for a while. I want the company to use that money to bring prices down, because Dick Durbin wanted to know how I explained our windfall profits, and I couldn't answer him without being overcome with shame."

Thank you Senators!
[slow, sarcastic clap]

24 July 2008

When comedy starts to depend entirely on catchphrases, it's time to hang it up. I've been watching a couple British comedy shows lately on Netflix; Extras does a good job (particularly in the second season) of horribly maligning catchphrase comedy, while Little Britain is arguably the epitome thereof. I wanted to like Little Britain, I really did. It was recommended by a friend with good taste, it's sodding British to the core, and it's a sketch comedy; all good reasons for me to enjoy it. But strip away the catchphrases, and there is nothing but silly costumes. Take the following catchphrases as examples:

"No but yeah but no but yeah but no but..."

"That'd be a right kerfuffle."




"I'm a LADY!"

"Look into my eyes", etc.

"Computer says 'no'."


"Margeret! Margaret!"

And, what apparently was voted the best catchphrase of all time, for some inexplicable reason:

"I'm the only gay in the village."

I doubt any one of those, on their own, are making you all reel over in painful, medically hazardous bouts of laughter. Have them uttered in virtually every single episode of a show, by a pair of predominantly cross-dressed comics, and it becomes a wildly popular thing. Beats me as to why. Ricky Gervais in the second season of Extras did a wonderful job parodying the catchphrase comedy genre, with his show-within-a-show, When the Whistle Blows, with the horribly annoying "Is he havin' a laugh...is he havin' a laugh? He's havin' a laugh!!!".

I'm not averse to catchphrase comedy, or numb to its effects. Some might call the NBC Office classic "That's what she said" an example of catchphrase comedy, and to some extent it is, but as the show progresses, the laughs are not resulting from the catchphrase itself, but from the increasingly strange contexts in which it is used...culminating in its use (alongside "yesh" and "abso-fruitly") in a legal deposition. One could analyse this further than it warrants by saying that Michael's use of "that's what she said" is a biting criticism of catchphrase comedy itself, since Michael, who tries perpetually to be seen as funny by those around him, is depending on a silly catchphrase joke himself. But the show never depends on a catchphrase, as Little Britain does to the extreme. The Office thrives comedically for the opposite reason; the viewer is never quite sure what weirdness is going to come out of the mouths of Dwight or Michael or Andy, and the shock value is there when they say something absurdly inappropriate. If they were reduced to flat characters focused around a catchphrase or two, the show would have become immensely boring halfway into the first season.

I will admit, I like Blackadder. I will be the first to admit it is a bit thick with catchphrases...from the formulaic "the something-est something since somebody somethinged something" bits, as well as "I have a cunning plan". And other shows seem to sometimes use catchphrases in an ironic way. I realize I should be smitten down by the gods for the pretentious phrasing of that last sentence, but take A Bit of Fry and Laurie, for example. The weird, unexplained, recurring vox pops ("I wouldn't suck it!" in season 1, and "Oh Christ I've left the iron on!" in season 2) are more there for a surreal bit of silly weirdness than to cash in on catchphrase humour, and the recurring characters of Peter and John overuse the word "damn" in diverse and strange ways, not because the lines they repeat are particularly funny on their own. They're not even really catchphrases.

Where was I? But there are classics like Oliver Hardy's "Here's Another Fine Mess You've Gotten Me Into". Even there, the comedy of Laurel and Hardy was entirely independent of the appeal of such a catchphrase; the catchphrase existed just to tie a bit of familiarity and continuity between their different movies and shows. They couldn't walk onto a stage, say that line, and that be the crux of their humour. But for the shallow catchphrase-dependent comedies, that is essentially all they do!

Is he havin' a laugh? Is he havin' a laugh?

...He's havin' a laugh!!!

22 July 2008

Going to try to keep the politicking to a minimum today.

Had the tele on last night, and would you believe the fawning the major network news people are doing over Obama's Excellent Adventure? It was non-stop, apparently with every major journalist at ABC/CBS/NBC/CNN getting on planes, boats, hot air balloons, what-have-you, to try and follow His Grace on a trip overseas. I mean, how are they going to get any shots of adulation and worship from the Germans or French, when He is surrounded constantly by an adulating mass of journalists?

It strikes me as borderline offensive. No one cares when Bush, McCain, or even the heretofore unflappable Senator Clinton take trips to Iraq and Afghanistan. McCain went to Iraq eight times before now, I believe, and I'm unsure how many times he's been to Afghanistan.

But take a lawyer/alderman from Chicago, let Him serve for the grand sum of 143 days in the Senate, put Him on the ground for a few hours in Iraq or Afghanistan, and you will soon witness an adoring press corps fawning over His every suggestion, as the voice of Wisdom and Experience. Boggles the mind.

Limbaugh had a comical analogy for the behavior of the news networks; he called them helicopter parents, like Obama is their well beloved son going off to summer camp, with his doting, well-wishing parents hovering just behind, watching his every move and hoping he succeeds.

21 July 2008

The Kansas City Zoo is having a photo contest, of zoo photography taken by visitors in the last year. Well by crikey, I'm going to have to enter a few shots! I narrowed it down to a large handful that I will print out and submit. Anyone care to vote on these, which ones you like, which ones would be better off not submitted?































16 July 2008

I am reasonably sure the rest of the world has had sufficiently good taste in humor to abstain from making such an apparently not-that-funny joke, but for some reason I find the idea of this so maddeningly funny (I know, beats me as to why, exactly) that I had to have it made, to serve as my coffee drinking vessel at work. The below is a mockup of what the final mug will be:

11 July 2008

I may not be enormously giddy about the prospect of voting for a big-government liberal, but reading this makes me at the least admire his fortitude. Very good reading.

10 July 2008


So last Saturday, we cracked out the stroller and took Master Baby for her first zoo trip. As usual, I make no pretense of having any background in biology, or even the remedial mental skills sufficient to read and remember anything from the signs, so I do not know the scientific or common names of half of these animals. Sue me. We stuck to the Australia exhibit, which is good, since I took far too many pictures as it was.

First up, a monkey. They swapped these guys out for the red pandas, who apparently occupy the outdoor exhibit in winter (assumedly due to their fur).

And beholding the monkey, is yet another little monkey (to say nothing of the shaved ape behind the camera).

The red panda, back indoors.

I call them toucans, you call them hornbills. We can compromise on "funny looking birds".

The binturong was kind enough to raise his head and acknowledge us, his greatest of great fans.

A great lot of kangaroo photos in this blog. Something about the overgrown field, they just looked very photogenic out there!

A pair of kangaroos had been on the opposite side of the pond and decided to move back over with the main group. Here they are on their way, stopping to look back:

One of my favorite shots, the camera managed to catch this one in mid-hop as it galloped/ran/hopped/etc. across the field towards the main group.

A bit fuzzy, but I liked the layout of this shot, with the kangaroo proceeding in towards the group in the background.

A pair of outliers:

Again, looking back at the weird human family:

...and bounding back in to join the group.

Now this was a lucky shot! Loud little bird it was, too.

This fellow reminds me distinctly of my budgerigar, Edmund (later Edwina following a gender confirmation).

The happy seagull family, there as always. Left to right, grousing mother-in-law, combative wife, and hen-pecked husband.

A pic of that earlier noisy bird with headgear in a slightly more modest positioning.

And the profile...

This seagull has rather piercing eyes.

Another weird bird. I'm sounding rather like Karl Pilkington.

One more weird bird.

And lastly a whole collection of weird birds on a stick nest. Weird, innut? [ceasing the Karl Pilkington voice now]

I took a whole bunch of photos of this next kangaroo, who was very sociable and stood right up next to the path.

I'm going to run out of captions.

A moose once bit my sister...

Mind you, moose bites can be pretty nasty...

Last one of this fellow:

Got some of my better pictures of the wallabies this time, which are decidedly NOT social and tend to congregate at the very back of their pen. Note the young one on the left.

Mother and baby here...the baby is quite cute (an old enough marsupial to not look like a cocktail shrimp, thank goodness).

I particularly liked this shot because of the way the trees perfectly wreathed the kangaroo mob.

Closer up from that same angle:

And one more shot before Baby decides to take us home.

On the way out, saying hello to the walking slab of BBQ: