Pip's Pensees

84. On the top five personal belongings given to me

2008-11-10T13:23:00.002-06:00

1950s Dodgers baseball card collection: From my father-in-law, gifted ca. 1997. Ever the loyal fan, my father-in-law preserved only the cards of his beloved Dodgers (including Jackie Robinson, Duke Snider, Roy Campanella and Anderson, Ind. hero Carl Erskine); the rest his mother threw out. I can imagine him dutifully segregating his heroic Dodgers from those loathesome Mickey Mantles, Whitey Fords and Yogi Berras. My own father never really collected baseball cards, so I doubly appreciate God's providence and my father-in-law's kindness in granting my longing for having such irreplaceable cards from before I was born to add to my own humble collection.

Miami University sweatshirt: From Nicole Buck, wife's sorority sister, gifted ca. 1994. My wife had such sweet, kind and wonderful sorority sisters. For some strange reason, they actually liked me. At a beautiful fall afternoon football game in Oxford, we were all cheering in the stands and I complimented Nicole on her read Champion sweatshirt with MIAMI UNIVERSITY written in white block letters across the front. It was the quintessential college sweatshirt, which had the added bonus of being already broken in (a look that people actually pay extra for these days). My memory all these years is that Nicole gave it to me, though, after reconnecting recently on Facebook, she tells me that we actually traded sweatshirts. I can't remember which one I gave her, but I'm sure I got the better end of the deal. I wore it just yesterday.

F. Scott Fitzgerald coffee mug: From Deb Rogers, former work colleague, gifted ca. 1998. Deb was the senior art director at an ad agency where I first worked after college. She knew I loved Fitzgerand and brought in this mug one day. It's tan ceramic with a little black caricature of the writer on it. It's been my coffee mug ever since. When we actually use our Williams-Sonoma china for breakfast, my Fitzgerald mug is the one element that is allowed to stay at a table of otherwise matching cups and saucers.

Arial photograph of Miami University football game, ca. early 1960s: From Mr. Sutherland, father of wife's college housemate, gifted ca. 1995. My wife lived with five wonderful girls our last two years in college, and I came to know their equally wonderful parents. One, Mr. Sutherland, had also attended Miami and knew of my love for the school. One day, he gave me this black and white 8-by-10 photograph of the old football stadium, which at the time was the second-oldest college football stadium in the country (next to Yale's, I believe). The overhead view shows the band on the field forming the word HELLO (halftime shows were a little more modest in the '60s, apparently), along with a few adjacent residence halls near where I lived freshman year.

Joe DiMaggio model four-fingered baseball glove, ca. 1940s: From my dad, gifted ca. 1990s. My dad was always more of a football guy; growing up in the Chicago suburbs in the '50s, who can blame him? (From 1946-1962, the period of my dad's school-age youth, the Cubs never had a winning record.) But he always supported me in my baseball flights of fancy and never discriminated against me for not being a tough football jock. All the same, we never had a lineal sports link -- until I found his old baseball glove. I don't even think he remembered using it, but it was worn and old enough to conceal the signature inscription -- Joe DiMaggio -- which was embossed in black on the dark-brown leather. I restrung the little webbing patch and played catch with it. As an added bonus, it was in the same box as my dad's cousin's similar-vintage first-baseman's mitt.

83. On quantifying the Angry Left

2008-09-15T15:58:00.004-05:00

Yuval Levin over at NRO's The Corner blog posted an interesting observation about CQ's "Bush Era Scores." I used the Presidential Support and Party Unity scores to come up with another score -- "Angry Left" rating (the difference between pres support and unity) -- to give us the most sectarian anti-Bushites in the Senate:

Senator	Pres Supp	Unity	AngryLeft
Brown	24	97	73
Cardin	32	94	62
Menendez	34	93	59
Whitehouse	39	97	58
Lautenberg	41	98	57
Klobuchar	37	93	56
Obama	40	96	56
Tester	35	86	51
Casey	42	93	51
Boxer	47	98	51

Obama is seventh.

82. On world opinion

2008-09-11T09:47:00.003-05:00

If "those abroad" complain about America's intrusiveness in other countries' business, how is it that they are meddling in our presidential race? They've been falling all over themselves telling us whom we should vote for. (When was the last time anyone took a poll in the United States about who we wanted to be president of Germany?)

If the same world who thinks that America was responsible for 9/11 wants Barack Obama to win the presidency, I think we know whom to vote for. Can anyone explain why we concern ourselves with the political recommendations of the shrill, jealous and willfully ignorant hypocrites in Europe and other places around the world?

81. On WFB

2008-03-06T12:57:00.002-06:00

I usually take the news of a famous personage's death with all the interest of seeing a penny on the sidewalk. But when I read that William F. Buckley, Jr. had died last Wednesday, I was moved to reflection, reminiscence and gratitude. Buckley seems to me to have led an ideal sort of human life: He was committed to the Lord, his wife and family and his country, among many, many other things.

No doubt, my interest in Buckley stemmed from a personal encounter. When I was a freshman in college, I had the unique pleasure and honor of meeting Mr. Buckley in a small reception prior to his speaking engagement on campus. A handful of the college Republicans were invited to the intimate little get-together, which took place in the darkly and warmly furnished living room of one of the college's oldest residence halls. We sat around Buckley, who held court as if he were at home talking with his grandchildren. It was one of those times in life in which one feels a bit guilty for an experience that one feels unprepared for, undeserving of, or too much of a neophyte for. But the memory is indelible: As he got up to leave for his speech, I shook his hand and he told _me_ how much of a pleasure it was to meet _me_, and -- I'll never forget this, silly as it sounds -- his eye twinkled. Here I was, an unserious if earnest freshman with long hair and wrinkled khakis who had read exactly zero of Buckley's books in their entirety. In that brief meeting with Buckley, I experienced a bit of what Fitzgerald had Nick Carraway say of Gatsby:

"He smiled understandingly-much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced--or seemed to face--the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself."

After that, Buckley became a kind of model for me. I wanted to imitate him like a boy who emulates his favorite baseball player's batting stance (a few of us later created an alternative college newspaper, which we of course named "The Miami Review"). After being disillusioned with heroes of my youth, who failed to be real or enduring role models, I saw Buckley's intellectualism, pursuits and ideals as worthy of my attention. He was a flawless man, and yet, among mortals, he was someone to be emulated: Erudite, witty, someone with "a talent for friendship," intellectual in all the best senses of the word, and a bon vivant, someone who enjoyed so much of this earthly life and yet was completely ready to leave it, knowing that, as much joy, fulfillment and glory as this material existence can offer, it's only the beginning of the story.

Rethinking what we need to examine

2007-11-08T22:48:00.000-06:00

In the wake of yesterday's tragedy in Finland, in which a deranged and politically motivated high-school student shot seven and killed seven classmates and a teacher, the headlines predictably are "Finland's gun laws to be examined after killings." The thing that I can't understand is why it's always the inanimate gun that needs to be controlled by a law and not the psycho behind it. Somewhere near the end of these inverted paragraphs of news reports is the not-insignificant detail that "Auvinen also posted a rambling manifesto online, describing himself as a 'social darwinist' and 'storm spirit.' Why doesn't anyone ever bother checking out whether laws regarding 'social darwinist' lunatics need to be examined after killings?

Outlawing only things that no one does

2007-08-14T23:57:00.000-05:00

The WSJ's Best of the Web today carried a funny bit on a couple of pot-heads who want to get rid of some laws because people break them. James Taranto, editor of BotW, summarized their position:

If you pass a law against something that people do, you thereby turn people into criminals. Also, laws that are broken are much more expensive to enforce than laws that aren't broken. Why not outlaw only things that no one does?

According to The Wall Street Journal, many states seem to be doing just that:

The Humane Society of the United States last year mailed more than 50,000 people an urgent message, underlined and in bold type: "Such horrific cruelty must stop and stop now!"

The cruelty in question was Internet hunting, which the animal-rights group described as the "sick and depraved" sport of shooting live game with a gun controlled remotely over the Web. Responding to the Humane Society's call, 33 states have outlawed Internet hunting since 2005, and a bill to ban it nationally has been introduced in Congress.

But nobody actually hunts animals over the Internet.

Finally, something that explains those hilariously non-sequitur "I love animals ... and I vote!" bumper stickers!

Double-switch nightmare

2007-04-25T17:17:00.000-05:00

Had an interesting conclusion to the Cardinal game last night. I did pretty well, until the patented TLR double-switch. Well, he fooled everyone in the press box. Gooch and Babyface came into the game in the top half of the ninth inning. The initial ruling in the press box was that Thompson was batting ninth, Gooch 3rd. But with the pitcher's spot due up 5th in the 9th, the Cardinal PR people figured that it must've been a true double switch, and that Gooch was batting 9th. So I then switched them in the scoring app. Because the scoreboard and press box were all under the impression that it was that way (they noted that the ump -- a former AL guy unaccustomed to as many double-switches -- failed to signal it) . Anyway, it was confusing to all -- including my supervisor, who happened to be my support person for the game last night -- that Wilson would PH for Taguchi. I assured him that that's what the scoreboard and the PR people had. Then the game ended, and all heck broke loose. TLR's postgame interview comes over the press-box sound system -- the first question is something about the lineup. TLR says that he kinda messed up and actually had Thompson batting 9th! So I inform my support guy, and he gets understandably irate, since I had subbed for a sub, a no-no in our app. To make matters worse, he's thinking that I just absentmindedly screwed up. Anyway, yada yada yada, he fixed it for me, and I think ultimately understood my predicament. I talked about it with the Cards' PR guys, who said that usually, if there's confusion, they call down to the dugout. But, with the blowout, they didn't want any part of what might await them on the other end of the line.

Baseball synesthesia

2007-04-19T15:38:00.000-05:00

It was a wild one in SF last night, with a lot of crazy plays, including an error on the catcher trying to pick off a runner at first base and culminating in Albert Pujols being thrown out trying to steal home in the 12th. I was feeling sorry for whoever was datacasting the game, hoping it wasn't a rookie like me.

As Hank mentioned, when you get into this, you start watching games differently, and you think to yourself, how would I code that? You start seeing plays in code, like people who are able to taste shapes or hear numbers.

Going the distance

2007-04-17T21:34:00.000-05:00

In my second solo game for MLB Advanced Media, I went the distance. With Earl Paylor (there's a baseball name, if I ever heard one) as my batterymate (read: support person), I made it through a couple dicey spots, namely the two-base error on Wilson on the second batter of the game (welcome to the show, kid!) and Chris Duffy's FC in the 6th (score it FC3/G.3X3(352);B-2). It feels good to get one under my belt and rids the bad taste in my mouth after my botched job in Game 2. Confidence-builder for next Tuesday.

During the 7th-inning stretch, I stood and gazed out on the fans below. An older lady was turned around checking out the press box, I guess, and I caught her eye. After the game resumed -- Albert was batting -- she turned around again and started saying something toward me. I figured she was talking to someone in the second row of the press box, so I turned back to see who it was. No one there. So I leaned out and said, "pardon me?" She said, "Who are you?" Never was such a simple question so confusing. I stalled for a second and replied, "Uh, my name's Matt ... Philip." She must not have heard the first name, so she repeated "Philip, okay!" The whole interaction cost me a pitch, and I had to ask the AP guy what I missed (ball two to Albert). After the inning, I turned to Derrick Goold and asked whether interaction with fans from the press box was verboten. He didn't think so but said fans sometimes want to know why we're sitting there. I told him I should've told her my name was Derrick Goold. He said she would've thrown something at me. Funny guy.

One-car diaries: Hazardous conditions ahead

2007-02-14T16:05:00.000-06:00

Yes, I actually rode my bike on my commute to work this morning. The main roads -- Brentwood Blvd. and 18th Street -- were mostly clear and simply had a bunch of slush in them. But the side roads and sidewalks were hazardous enough that I took it easy en route to the Brentwood station and missed my regular 8:24 train. Oddly enough, though I was a few minutes behind -- 8:28 -- I espied my train just as I approached the station. As I boarded the 8:34, the conductor mentioned something in broken ebonics over the intercom that the Metrolink was behind schedule because of some kind of single track something or other. Evidently, the bike ride wasn't the most dangerous part of my commute, as a coworker later informed me:

today on the way to the airport we heard a loud crack and then the lights flickered and then the train stopped. apparently there was ice on the top track and when we hit it the rear train jumped off the tracks. they had to use 1 rail for both ways and we had to get on a replacement train. so that's why they kept stopping to let the cars change tracks. so all of us got escorted out of the one car and into the replacement train. we got to walk on the tracks. i made my flight by 3 minutes. it was very very close and a bit scary to be in the middle of nowhere in a broken metro train -- after rock road before umsl. our driver tried to fix it too. i think we were going to separate from the derailed car and all get in the front car but he couldn't get that arm think to go back up to the top rail. it was pretty messed up

no one screamed on the train. one lady says something like this happens everytime it snows. children would have been terrified. i thought a bomb went off. it was LOUD, like the back car just blew up. i think it was like an electrical shock, like lightning crashing.

That would explain it, all right. Perhaps on snowy days, I should keep my bike helmet on while I'm on the Metro.

7-Point Review: Casino Royale

2007-01-10T00:17:00.000-06:00

What happened to the high-stakes game of baccarat? Texas Hold'em in a Bond movie? The whole scene looked like it could've been filmed on a riverboat in the Midwestern US, and the movie titled "Casino Queen." Do they even have casinos in Montenegro? Do they play Texas Hold'em? Why even call the movie Casino Royale, if it's not set in France?

Oddly enough, the workers at the Bahamanian resort and in the poker game in Montenegro all seem to have American accents.

The shortcomings aside, Casino Royale was the best 007 film I've ever seen in the theatre. Not that it had much competition.

Craig is is the best James Bond since Connery. He's requisitely vain, but not fussy, like Brosnan.

Bond fans finally got a good torture scene, but it had so many one-liners that the audience laughed through most of it. Not really the correct tone for a torture scene, in which Bond is supposed to pass out on the edge of death (this is important, since the next scene, he's supposed to have been unsconscious for three days).

The film is justly getting criticized for the Italian travelogue slowdown at the end. It should've and could've been tighter, as in the book, and Eva Green allowed more acting leeway to display the inner turmoil that her character was supposed to be struggling with. As a result, her suicide is anticlimax (and doesn't really come off as a suicide at all).

It's time for Bond "period" films of the Cold War.

One-car diaries, Day 17

2006-12-05T21:04:00.000-06:00

I'm starting to feel like that guy on the Metrolink's bus-tail ads. You know, the snappily-dressed young professional leaping in the air, briefcase in hand. Nevermind the snappily-dressed or the briefcase (gosh, how long has it been since I carried a briefcase to work?) -- the idea is that I'm enjoying it.

A coworker who left town to get married in Hawaii lent me his November and December monthly passes, and let me tell you, that's the way to go. Just slide on by those silly ticket dispensers and right into the train.

One-car diaries, Day 3

2006-11-10T15:28:00.000-06:00

On Wednesdays, I have Prayer Group meeting at 6:30pm. Normally, this meets at my house, but occasionally a woman who lives in South City, near the border of Shrewsbury, hosts. Tonight is just such a case, and so, since her house is within a half-mile of the Shrewsbury terminus, I decided that I'll simply take the Metrolink after work straight to Shrewsbury.

When making travel decisions like this, though, one must always account for other concerns, such as what to do with the bike. Sometimes, it helps to work backward. Since I was planning to get a ride from the Shrewsbury stop to Prayer Group from one of the group members, and then a ride home later, I had no need for the bike. And if I did ride the bike, what would I do with it in Shrewsbury? What if my pickup didn't have a car big enough for my bike? But I couldn't very well ride my bike to the Metrolink stop in Brentwood in the a.m., since I wouldn't have any way of getting it later in the evening. So I asked my wife to drive me to the Brentwood station this morning.

Still not familiar with the schedule, I figured that I'd catch the train shortly after 8:30am. Indeed, as I walk-ran down the path on the west side of the tracks at the Brentwood stop, I heard the electricity kick up on the tracks and knew the train was coming, and that I needed to make a quick ticket purchase. As I neared the ticket-validation machine, though, I had the sinking memory that this stop had only one ticket dispenser machine, and it was up the hill on the other side of the tracks. I could only stand and curse as the train pulled up alongside me, a train I could not board. I must confess that I had the fleeting thought of free-boarding but again my mind traced back to another memory which I will relate another time. I had no idea how costly an error this would be.

A work colleague who lives downtown had extended a standing offer to pick me up from Union Station anytime I don't ride my bike, so this situation necessitated a call. As I waited 10 minutes for the next train, I reached into my pocket to grab my cell and call him. Only my pocket was empty. I tried to figure out how to resolve this. Ah, I could call my wife and ask her to call my colleague. But I need my phone for that. Right. The helpless feeking settled in as I boarded the 8:44 train numbly.

I had a few minutes to open up my laptop and do some offline work. Soon, we were nearing Union Station, but the conductor came on the speaker with some distressing news: "This train will terminate at Grand Station. Repeating ..." Grand Station? Nooo! Can't you keep going just one more? Along with the other confused and dejected riders, I reluctantly stepped off at Grand and paced until the next train arrived five minutes later. I instinctively boarded, only to hear the same rebuke: "This train is out of service..." You must be kidding me. All right, my fault for not getting a timetable. I stood and watched the slow-passing freight trains on the other tracks haul coal through the forsaken entrails of midtown... Without my phone, which doubles as my watch, I was completely unaware of the time, which, although passing tediously slowly on the platform, seemed like it was lingering on well into the morning. I had no idea what time I would finally arrive at the office, since neither the Grand nor Union Station stops had clocks -- no clocks on a train route, for Pete's sake!

I finally reached Union Station and ascended to a pleasant, warm day above. But I still didn't know the time, and was anxious during my 10-minute walk to the office. The office building's door-buzzer didn't help: The clock on it said 3:48. Bah. I finally got to my desk and read the time on my computer: 9:28am. Not the most efficient commute this morning.

Lessons learned

Drawbacks: Not every train goes the distance.
Benefits: If it's a nice day, the walk is enjoyable.
Need to improve: Never forget your cell phone; always have enough Metro tickets on hand so as to not miss a train on account of having to buy one. Print out a timetable for handy reference.

One-Car Diaries, Day 2

2006-11-08T00:07:00.000-06:00

After a morning commute that left me doubting how long this trial would last, the return trip was much more successful -- about as efficient as could be expected, actually. In an effort to get home a bit early, I left the office at 5:06pm. It was already fairly dark, and at that time of day, traffic along the downtown streets is heavy. On a bike, one already feels vulnerable, but downtown St. Louis drivers around 18th street are incredible jackasses, speeding on streets with 30-mph limit and routinely and badly running red lights. I almost reflexively look both ways and pause before crossing intersections, even when I have a green for several seconds. Indeed, I was getting ready to start across Market Street at Union Station when a car flew through a red. My helmet wouldn't have helped there.

As I rolled up to the Union Station station and hopped off my bike, I noticed the 5:12 Shrewsbury/44 train -- my train -- down below. I clumsily validated a ticket as two apparent tourists were negotiating the ticket machines and asked me the best way to get to Laclede's Landing. Since I was in a hurry, I didn't ask "why would you want to go there?" but instead told them that the train was better than the bus. I started to hump my bike down the stairs and they asked whether they should get a one-ride fare -- sure, guys. Sorry, hate to fall short on the Midwestern hospitality, but I wasn't about to wait another 10 minutes for the next Shrewsbury train. I follwed the last of the riders onto the train, but the conductor barked at me to get off and re-enter in the back of the car, since I had a bike.

It doesn't take long to realize that cyclists don't exactly get the red carpet on Metrolink. The attitude is more like, "well, if they pay, we'll take 'em, but we don't have to like it." Most notable is the lack of any decent storage place on the trains. The only place they'll let you put your bike is at the back of the car, so that half of your bike is lodged down in a stairwell -- not exactly the best spot if you have any interest in keeping your bike in decent shape. Plus, the designated area is only big enough for one bike, so multiple cyclists have a problem. The 5:12 train was pretty well patronized, so I jumped into a seat and pulled my bicycle alongside me. It was in the aisle but butted up against my seat, so there was plenty of passing room. That didn't stop a large black Metro cop from gruffly demanding that I "never do it again."

Fortunately, the next stop was my last. I quickly put on my coat (even the half-mile ride to the station in 50-degree weather had me sweating) and changed into my cycling shoes and strapped on my helmet just in time to deboard. I raced home and looked at my phone's clock as I unlocked my front door: 5:42pm. 36 minutes -- not bad, especially considering that, at that time of day -- the heart of rushhour -- I wouldn't have been able to arrive home much sooner by car.

Lessons learned

Drawbacks: Danger/vulnerability as a cyclist, bike-unfriendliness of Metrolink
Benefits: Rush-hour commutes are just as fast
Need to improve: Lessen backpack weight and assess coat situation to avoid sweating

One-Car Diaries

2006-11-08T00:01:00.000-06:00

The next series of posts will chronicle my family's and my new and uncharted experience as a one-car household. We recently decided to try this counter-cultural experiment after I totaled my car in an accident. After a weeklong use of a rental car, I now am commuting to and from my office in downtown St. Louis via bicycle and Metrolink. Living in Brentwood, I have three legs on my route: Bike from home to the Brentwood/40 Metrolink stop, train from Brentwood/40 to Union Station, and bike again from Union Station to the office at 18th and Washington.

I'll attempt to document the ups and downs of single-autodom and the costs and savings that come from using non-car alternatives.

80. On being "Antiwar"

2006-08-10T13:34:00.000-05:00

In the news coverage of neophyte Ned Lamont's primary challenge against incumbent Joe Lieberman, media organizations repeatedly have referred to Lamont as "the antiwar candidate" or as being "anti-war." Antiwar? What does that mean? Other than Amin, Lenin, Stalin, Hitler, Hussein, Pinochet, Castro, Tse-tung, Kai-shek, Pot, Mussolini and Tito and assorted other leaders and regimes in Japan, Turkey, Vietnam, North Korea, Poland, Pakistan and Mexico (funny how they never seem to come from the United States), who isn't antiwar?

In common parlance, being "antiwar" would seem to mean "not liking war" or "negatively predisposed toward war." In the words of Alex Turetsky, I'll drink to that. So would President Bush. So would just about any other sane American. In other words, war is an unsought, last option to a serious problem. Well-meaning, intellectually honest people may then disagree on whether it is the last option or how serious the problem is. Being antiwar is a continuum and it doesn't distinguish anyone other than people who abhor the idea of killing people for its own sake and belligerents who don't.

So with the Lamonters, what is really meant has to be more like an absolute position of "an utter unwillingness to use force to achieve an end." But surely this can't be an absolute position, can it? In this sense, being antiwar is akin to wanting "peace at all costs." But even that is misleading, since "peace" is often illusory -- did 9/11 occur in a state of peace? Has Israel experienced peace lo these many years? A more accurate terminology would be "anti-resolution," "anti-action" or "pro-status quo."

Ned Lamont, who has simply defined himself as being opposed to the Iraq liberation, has yet to offer a workable solution to the problems in the Middle East. Rather than being antiwar, it sounds like he's the quintessential "do-nothing" candidate.

79. Ideal ballpark field dimensions

2006-07-28T15:29:00.000-05:00

The ideal ballpark will have no outfield wall to artificially constrain hit balls. This will result in a closer approximation of players' statistics with their abilities, because subpar hitters will not be rewarded when fielders simply run out of room to catch their long popups. Similarly, the best baserunners will be able to do what they do best without the artificial limitation of walls.

Next to the ideal park, the best parks are those whose dimensions are most equitable. Thus, it is equally difficult or easy to hit a home run, regardless of the part of the park where the ball is hit.

78. The difference between Republicans and Democrats

2006-07-28T14:13:00.000-05:00

Sure, Republicans and Democrats have differing worldviews and political philosophies. But it seems to me that nowadays, the chief difference between them is this: Republicans hate policies and philosophies; Democrats hate people.

Introducing the “7-Point Review”: Match Point

2006-05-02T09:52:00.000-05:00

I’d like to introduce a hopefully fun little idea that I’m calling the “7-Point Review” — a quick way to review movies, books, music and other art forms. The idea is to convey a few main thoughts on whatever you’ve just seen, read or listened to. Since full-length reviews take time to write, this hopefully will inspire people to write more often and cover a wider variety of subjects. Of course, if someone feels like it, he can go back and “flesh out” one or more of the bulletpoints later to make a more traditional review (my personal goal is to do one of these for most every movie I see).

So without further ado, I’ll begin with a 7-Point Review of Woody Allen’s latest film, Match Point:

Match Point

I liked it better the first time when it was called “Crimes and Misdemeanors.” As Megan said, it’s a younger, sexier version of that film.
It revisits themes of guilt/conscience and luck/chance.
It has an interesting ghost-visitation scene a la Macbeth.
Humble recommendation to the legendary director: When you have a scene in which the detective wakes up in the middle of the night with a “I know who did it!” revelation, it’s much better if it’s really a revelation rather than something that was explicitly already known to the audience (perhaps a sign that Woody Allen is losing steam).
A Woody Allen movie just isn’t a Woody Allen movie without Woody Allen in the movie. As Megan said, Woody Allen appearing in it “would’ve ruined it,” which is kind of my point: It only felt like a WA film at the beginning (with the Woody Allen font in the opening credits — hat tip: Megan) and the end, when we hear some good philosophical dialog about how people justify their actions and how “chance” affects people’s lives. The other 90% of the movie is a self-serving, drawn out — if passionately drawn out — affair of two beautiful, selfish people; not exactly compelling art unless you’re interested in the eye candy of wealthy, young, sexy British people.
All the same, it’s got some classic WA touches: Riverside scenes, matinee movie scene and scratchy-quality opera music overdubs but too few philosophical or intellectual considerations and too little humor.
Recommendation: Go rent Crimes and Misdemeanors instead.

77. Afgan Islamists

2006-03-24T14:44:00.000-06:00

So a Christian in an Arab state is about to be murdered for his beliefs. Nothing new there, except that this is a state-sanctioned killing in new Afganistan. Shut up, Mohammed Jan explains:

"For 30 years, we have fought religious wars in this country and there is no way we are going to allow an Afghan to insult us by becoming Christian."

First the cartoons, now this. Islamists have got to be the most easily insulted people in the world. A friend of mine has a more serious observation:

This has to be the first time in history that a more powerful civilization is willfully helping another civilization hellbent on destroying it (and which has already tried a few times).

Prosecutor Sarinwal Zamari unwittingly makes a strong case for the accused:

"We think he could be mad. He is not a normal person. He doesn't talk like a normal person," he told The Associated Press.

Amen to that. Of course, the grotesque irony is hard to miss: People who are planning to kill a man for converting to Christianity are trying to determine if he is mentally unfit.

76. Working parents and cohabitating couples

2006-03-17T15:56:00.000-06:00

Parents who choose to both work (not out of necessity) and not have one stay at home to raise a child are similar to those couples who choose to live together before marrying. To be sure, there are certain measurable negative consequences (children develop better with a parent at home, non-cohabitating couples are less "likely" to get divorced after marrying). But moreover, the choice represents a devaluing of the relationship in each case. One prioritizes a career, "financial security" or feminine independence -- the welfare of oneself -- over the welfare of the child, while the other withholds trust, commitment and reliance in favor of self-preservation, independence and autonomy -- also the welfare of oneself -- over the welfare of another.

75. The Three-Point Line and the Designated Hitter

2006-02-06T17:28:00.000-06:00

It seems to me that the three-point line in basketball is equivalent to the designated hitter in baseball. Both were significant rule-changes to their sports and have impacted the way the games are played. Both were created to increase offense and thereby increase fan interest. However, both are now obsolete: In baseball, other changes have taken place that provide increased offense. In basketball, the rule has trickled down to low amateur leagues (junior high schools) and has fundamentally changed the skills of its players. Which will ruin its respective sport first, and which sport will repeal the rule before it's too late?

74. Life in the multicultural city

2006-02-02T12:34:00.000-06:00

I took Pep this past Saturday to a little neighborhood about 10 minutes away where it’s pretty multicultural: Chinese, Indian, Japanese, Jewish and Jamaican places of business, one after another. I was intending to buy some decorations/snacks at a Real Chinese Market to celebrate the Chinese New Year and give my daughter a taste of the glory of other cultures. I went inside this place – the only English words on the outside of the building were “EAST EAST” and proceeded to the checkout desk, where a young Oriental woman stood, an older, fatter woman who was probably her mother sitting on a stool behind her. I did my best to convey my cultural courtesy, standing upright but trying not to seem tall, and bowed my head ever so slightly in deference before greeting the young clerk with one of my only Chinese expressions, “Ne hau.” The clerk, not amused but apparently not insulted, replied in accented English, “Uh, we awr Korean. You say [Korean phrase for hello].” (So I guess you don’t have any Chinese stuff, eh? ...)

Anyway, like I said, this area is very multicultural, so we strolled along the strip mall, which had this Korean (how could I have known!?) market, a Chinese restaurant, Chinese herbal-medicine shop, an Indian place, and a storefront that advertised “Ethiopian coffee.” Being in the market for some coffee (it was one of my errand items) and being a fan of such beans, I took Pep to the door. It was locked, and a homemade sign directed me to the Jamaican restaurant – De Palm Tree – two doors down.

Inside the dark one-room restaurant that tried hard to replicate what I imagine was the quintessential seedy watering hole in Jamaica, a lone man sat in a corner booth, picking at some food. It seemed to recall a motif of Jamaican residents and tourists coming in from the heat to enjoy the dark coolness and some rum -- only this was St. Louis and it was a gloomy winter's day of about 40 degress. Posters and linen wall-hangings with Bob Marley’s likeness adorned the place. Adjacent to the bar – which was probably the smallest bar I’ve ever seen – smaller than most people’s basement versions – was a huge Jamaican flagged draped across a doorway, which had the effect of a fraternity room entryway behind which certain brothers were "firing up" for a party. I picked up Pep in my arms, scuttled around trying to make some noise by which I might attract some service. I heard a man quickly dismiss someone in the back, and the sound of a door slamming. Then, a real-life rasta-man ducked through the flag-entry and greeted me in a slightly feminine, slightly Americanized Jamaican accent. I told him I was interested in some of the coffee advertised in window of the annex that he apparently had charge of. He scurried back through the opening and returned with a janitor’s-sized set of keys and led me out back onto the sidewalk. He furtively looked around as he settled on the right key and opened the door for us, I half wanting to bail on the whole experience and take Pep back home, but half taken by the man’s good-natured instruction to “please, come in!”

The place was sparse, and had various natural food items and carribbean knickknacks placed on shelves without any apparent thought given to their arrangement. He took me to the Ethiopian coffee section and proffered a bag. I asked if he sold the beans by weight or simply by the bag, and he looked a bit remorseful and apologized, saying “ah, mon, de woman who brings dese to me just sells dem dis way. I been trying to get her to sell dem in different quantities.” No problem, I’ll take the pound. The whole transaction could’ve occurred in a plenary marketplace (I didn’t even bother to ask if he took credit cards) and we were escorted back out the door, which he dutifully locked. I nodded my farewell, but as I did so, I noticed an ill-dressed youth of unknown ethnicity (Korean? Chinese? Indian? Heck, I couldn’t even identify a Korean food store) loitering outside the place, who surreptitiously exchanged nods with the Jamaican, who seemed to convey a message to “wait here.” I popped Pep into the wagon and we headed back to our Brentwood.

73. Girl-Scout Cookies

2006-01-24T09:06:00.000-06:00

I think I've bought my last box of Girl-Scout cookies. I've been getting a queasy feeling about them the last few years -- the prospects of buying the cookies, of course, not the cookies themselves, which are quite tasty -- not because of the innocent little salesgirls who purvey them but because of the not-so-innocent organization that stands behind them.

First, a word about the product: Even with the Scouts' recent squeeze, reducing the number of cookies but keeping the same price, Girl-Scout Cookies are still one of the best fundraising values. You get a wide selection to choose from, any number of which are palate-satisfying, and at $3 a box, are still within the same ballpark as many grocery-store offerings. I'll take some Do-Si-Dos any day over that overpriced wrapping paper any day. So my contention is certainly not with the wares these girls are peddling (nor is it in any way with the girls who are doing the peddling, whom we love and want to support).

The problem is this: The Girl Scouts of America, while providing many good things for girls, at their highest levels stand for, advocate and promote a worldview that embraces many things that I repudiate (and truly feel are bad for girls, as well as society as a whole), not the least of which are abortion, feminism and a hostility toward Christianity and Christian values and beliefs. The Concerned Women for America and National Review have documented the GSA's leftward shift, so I won't go into details here.

In the past, Megan and I have acted on softness rather than principle, unable to say "no" to the sweet neighbor girls trudging up and down the street in the wintery weather or the fathers from church or the office who do their paternal duty -- and implicitly remind me that this will be you someday! -- by silently displaying their girls' blank sheets, crying out for someone to purchase their goodies and thus bail them out of sure financial ruin. Previously, we have assuaged our consciences by saying that we support the individual girls that we know, not the organization. But it's a lot like the United Methodist Church (an organization which we left several years ago, not for altogether different reasons): I have no doubt that there are many, many Bible-believing Christians in UMC churches, and many congregations as a whole who have an orthodox profession of faith. But at its highest levels, the UMC is undisputably not faithful to a Biblical Christianity, and the views and goals of an organization's leadership eventually trickle down to even its remotest members. Furthermore, it's impossible to separate the money one gives to a local group from the money that goes on up to the governing body.

It leaves us in the slightly awkward position of truly wanting to support our friends' and neighbors' daughters but wanting to hold fast to core principles (we give to organizations whose goals are literally the exact opposite of many of the stated goals of the GSA). It's a difficult position, but one that I increasingly feel compelled to honor.

72. Driving a Rolls Royce Alone

2005-12-13T15:47:00.000-06:00

If you have the means to pick up a Rolls Royce, you should also have the means to have someone driving you around in it. That is, the only people driving alone in Rolls Royces should have gloves and caps on.