About Books: Holidays On Ice by David Sedaris

Horribly Boring Book Corner: Holidays On Ice by David Sedaris

I am a literature addict.  A desperate fiend who can, despite the pressures of job and marriage and fatherhood, devour TWO fine pieces of literature in a one-month span.  Ssssssmokin'!

The fine print:  I started Holidays On Ice in December.  And it's only 166 pages.  And each page is the size of a Thank-You card (like the ones I haven't written to people yet because who has time to be polite and properly thankful when there are books to read?).

This is the first David Sedaris book I've read.  I've read and heard essays by the guy and found them delightful.  The blurbs on the back of this wee tiny book were bursting with colorful praise.  I, regretfully, am not.

Like any good breakup: it's not the book, it's me.  I laughed myself silly at least three times, which probably means the book is worth the price.  But overall, I just can't really endorse the book as a whole.

Sedaris does a fantastic job weaving tales that shed light on himself and his family, and the real and unreal things that happen to him from childhood and beyond.  There is a shameless and quite funny wrongness about these tales that is truly delicious, but often veer from edgy to mean in just a few paragraphs.

This is where he loses me.  His satire of us as Americans begins (in almost any story) with a recognizable situation  which gets ridiculous and funny in a way we all recognize (if we're willing to admit it), and then continues getting worse and worse until he is treading firmly in the area of "This isn't funny anymore, can it please end now before it gets any worse", and then it doesn't actually end there.

So: if that's your thing, this may be your book.  It's not my thing, but it is my book because I bought it.  And I will likely re-read several of the stories.  But I can't endorse the entire work.  I am breaking up with this book, but hopefully we can still remain friends.

Again, it's not you, David.  It's me.

About Books: Carte Blanche: The New James Bond Novel by Jeffery Deaver

Horribly Boring Book Corner: Carte Blanche: The New James Bond Novel  by Jeffery Deaver

I have now successfully read one book so far this year; you are now successfully reading my review of reading one book so far this year: Carte Blanche: The New James Bond Novel  by Jeffery Deaver.  

It took me awhile to write this small review mainly because nobody seemed to like it on Amazon, but I liked it and it chipped away at my self-esteem a little that nobody else seemed to think it was as cool as I thought it was and I guess I’m a little bit weak-minded, okay? The main criticism of Deaver on Amazon is pretty much this: “While Deaver tries to imitate Ian Fleming, the book just isn’t very engaging and Deaver’s a big fat failure”.

Hmm.  As a kid I read every single James Bond book Ian Fleming wrote, and I distinctly remember a little bit of that not-riveting-ness with Fleming as well.  

Maybe it was that the more Fleming wrote about food and wine and spy kit and the particulars of awesome cars, the more he got away from the narrative - but I still read every single word, so it’s not like it spoiled my reading experience, it more just made me long for and Aston martin, which I had never seen as a kid.  Well, okay, so Deaver does a lot about wine and and food and cars and spy kit and it’s just as disengaging as Fleming, only not any more or less so I guess the big criticism is that Jeffery Deaver isn’t Ian Fleming, which is also true of most other people I know.

I am also not currently Ian Fleming, but I like to compare myself to him in that I

1. am also named Ian and
2. like Fleming, wanted to play James Bond in movies, but nobody else wanted me to.  Also,
3. he had a house named Goldeneye;I had a fish with the same name.  

We were practically blood brothers, Ian Fleming and I.

While I was reading Carte Blanche I bored my entire family  by saying “Wow!” a lot because I felt Deaver had a real hang of how Fleming wrote and a good spin on the Bond character even if he brought some of Bond’s attitudes forward in time from the Neanderthal 60’s to the teen-of-the-century (what the hell are we calling this decade?).  Bond is no longer as cruel and heartless as he was in the Fleming books, but he’s still swingin’, Baby!  He still gets the girls and he still drives fast and he’s still smart and violent, so Licence to Envy achieved for this reader.

I feel the Fleming estate chose their writer well - not like the last guy they chose (Raymond Benson, who seemed most like Ian Fleming in that they are both dead, as far as I can tell from Benson’s writing style).

My only beef with Deaver were the GOTCHA! surprises - where Bond is hanging by one fingernail over a pit of man-eating crocodile-eating piranhas, three seconds before the bomb explodes, and the chapter ends on a cliffhanger . . .

And the new chapter begins with some version of “But what the villain didn’t know AND NEITHER DID THE READER BECAUSE THERE WERE NO CLUES WHATSOEVER TO FIGURE IT OUT, is that Bond's ally Dr. Deus Ex Machina was waiting in the wings with some man-eating crocodile-eating piranha repellent and an extremely delicate crane which daintily and lovingly rescued Bond by his last fingernail, enabling Bond to race away like he was never hurt in the first place and capture the bad guy while tastefully tonguing the girl who started the book by hating him.

These brought me out of the story long enough to give the evil eye to the current page, shake my head, and keep reading.  Once I may have involuntarily said, “Grrr . .  .”, but that’s about as strong as my criticism got.

The book is a reboot (in effect the very first James Bond novel ever!  Again.), a great place to start, and a fun place to play for awhile.

Breakfast at the Reddoch Howse

[Wife]: I got this great grinder so it's easier to make cinnamon toast!

[Son]: that's an interesting grinder design. It's like a little plastic vortex of pain and destruction.

[Daughter]: The chunks on the bottom were given a longer prison sentence. They have to watch all their cell mates get mutilated and eaten.

Me: Why would cinnamon and sugar be in prison?

[Daughter]: Because they're evil.  Yet . . . sweet?

[Son]: Like college girls.

Me: And a lot of old women.

[Wife]: Wait -

[Son]: Geez, Mom, did you buy this from Mitt Romney?  Is he selling GRINDERS FULL OF WOMEN?!

[Daughter] (beginning to use the grinder on her toast): Yay, cannibalism!

[Wife] (head in hands)

Me: Hon, I think you need a chaperone when you grocery shop.

Why I Like Texting With My Teenage Daughter

A Huff Post

This is me, shamelessly Riding the coattails of the Pulitzer Prize awarded to the Huffington Post.

Here is my own Huff Post.  I am writing it after coming down from a fit of annoyance at my boss, who may or may not have some severe hearing loss and / or mild brain damage. I don't even think he noticed I was annoyed, which itself is annoying.  I need to improve my level of Huffiness.

When my wife gets huffy, everybody knows it.  She huffs and puffs, and then lectures start leaping out and grabbing you.  You had better hope you weren't on the way to the bathroom, Mister, because she's got a good twenty minutes of Huff Lecture with your name on  it.  My children are quicker than I am and scatter when the huffing starts, which leaves me as the only dumb sucker in the room available to be trapped by The Lecture.  Often I am trapped in a Lecture that is all about what the children just did before they escaped, because I am the only idiot left in the room.  I can hear my kids high-fiving each other from their bedrooms while I weather the Huff.

I typically just go off in a huff by myself.  Perhaps I will slam a door so everybody can be warned that I Am In A Huff.  But then I feel bad about it and my Huff loses its steam.  Within about ten minutes I've read something brilliant or funny and I run back out to share it with someone in my family and they will look at me with this expression that quietly says, "Oh, look who's back from their little Huff already?" and then I feel small and lame because I forgot I had gone off in a Huff in the first place.  I am not a very good Huffer.

My 13-year-old daughter is Absolute Queen of the Dramatic Huff.  She's nowhere near as scary as my wife, but I can see that with practice she will someday become quite effective at it.  She's at her best and most creative when she crafts her Huffy Defensive Excuses: "Well, I was going to start the project like I told you, but my friend Darrel has the notes and he lost his phone and his email doesn't work and he said he would email me back once it came back up so obviously there's nothing I can do right now anyway so would you please both get off my back because I am trying my very best and it's never good enough for you!"

 My son is somewhat left out of the mix because he doesn't get huffy.  He gets snooty, which is annoying and maddening.  But this is a post about Huffs.

How effective is your Huff?  I'm not talking about sniffing glue or paint, but how righteously indignant you might get when you see someone sniffing your glue or your hard-earned paint.  Do people care about your indignation?  Why or why not?  (Explain, in 100 words or less.)

Things you can do in A Huff:
Stomp off
Storm off
Stalk off
Walk off

Things you cannot effectively do in a Huff:
Hop off
Sidle off
Dance off
Eat the last of the pudding.

Clearly, the most effective Huff involves a dramatic exit and plenty of bluster.  If you do it right, you stomp off / storm off / stalk off with the sense of satisfaction you get from knowing you just left behind a bunch of fools who stand slack-jawed where you left them, looking guiltily at one another in a tense hush.  If you do it wrong, then you look back during your dramatic exit to find those poor fools laughing at you as you leave.  

Don't look back.  Just exit.

Ineffective Bozo Prize for Ineffective Huffs goes to my dog, who feels she is a Very Important Person, and when she feels slighted will *sigh* angrily and slink off to her bed in a huff.  This is not as impressive as she'd like it to be.  Clearly if she could she would be shouting, "NOW you've gone and done it!  Your apathy and inattention has just COST YOU THE LOVE OF YOUR DOG!"  

"SEMI-PERMANENTLY!"

And then she flumps dramatically into her soft bed and curls up into an angry little ball of seething self-pity, which really affects nobody.  The thing is, she knows this.  Clearly, she is aware of her own ineffectiveness but can't think of anything better.  When she's flumped down in her seethe ball and you go near her, she burrows a little tighter into herself and attempts to avoid eye contact.  You can almost hear her say, "Go away - can you NOT see that I am slunched here because I reject you because you cannot recognize a Good Dog when you see her and someday the Great Dog of the Sky will descend and BITE YOU because you neglect me?"

I have promised myself I will never slunch off in a huff.  I will know they're laughing even if I don't look back.

Sometimes it Stinks Being a Customer

Dear Tom,

I am writing to you in response to your request to share my thoughts with you. You made this request on the back of my deodorant (Tom's of Maine Unscented Natural Deodorant Stick).

First, let me say that yours is a company and a business model I have long admired for its environmental consciousness and likability.

Then we will talk about the deodorant.

My Tom's of Maine Unscented Natural Deodorant Stick says (on the back),

"Dear friends,
Our natural deodorant combines the botanicals lichen and coriander in a formula that is effective at fighting odor, yet gentle on the skin. We've also added a pleasant, mild scent to help mask odor without irritation,
and we never use artificial preservatives, colors, or harsh alcohol. Please let us know what you think!
--Kate and Tom"

My thoughts are plentiful, Kate and Tom. I thought I might share about a week's worth with you. Here's what I think:

• I think my Unscented Deodorant shouldn't have a pleasant, mild scent added.
• I think the lichen and coriander in my pleasantly scented Unscented Deodorant were confused, or perhaps incapacitated from their use of some bootleg grain alcohol when you and Kate weren’t supervising them closely.

Your packaging says that “Coriander, an annual herb, kills odor-causing bacteria by disrupting their outer cellular membranes.”

• I think that instead of disrupting my armpit bacteria's outer cellular membranes, the coriander in my deodorant invited the bacteria to participate in their own little cellular friends and family plan, where they used the power of free in-network calling to gather all their neighbors and relations to start a new colony.  A brave new world; One Nation Under Arm. And another under the other arm.

Your packaging says that “in Lichen’s long history of use, one of its functions has been as an antimicrobial, meaning it interferes with odor-causing bacteria.”

• In practice, the lichen interfered with my odor-causing bacteria the same way an extra-small pink thong bikini bottom interferes with a very large woman getting some sun.

Here are some highlights of my week with your product:

Having trusted my Natural Deodorant to disrupt my natural odor without poisoning my environment, I made my way into the world in my usual fashion. Bearing in mind I have been under a lot of stress lately, I

figured maybe my body needed some time to adjust to the coriander (or maybe the lichen), because my natural odor was thriving. This is great if I am in the wilderness and wish to announce my presence to wild bears so as not surprise them in their habitat; it works out not so well in the office.

I moved into my weekend more relaxed, but I’ll be darned if my deodorant didn’t seem to be taking the day off with me. Like Red Kryptonite, the absence of an effective deodorant released my previously-hidden powers - like the ability to defoliate my lemon tree simply by raising the pruning shears over my head. As powers go, I would have preferred x-ray vision or super-speed.

The promise of “masking odor without irritation” quickly proved false. My odor was not masked or in any other way disguised; it had shed its glasses, fled its Fortress of Solitude and was shouting to the world,

gleefully revealing its identity. I was irritated.

Your product did inadvertently bring me one moment of extreme joy: while cleaning the garage with my wife, I was convinced for a brief while that her growing nausea was the first sign of a new pregnancy – morning

sickness heralding the arrival of our third child. Alas, her nausea cleared up as soon as she moved farther away from me and into a better-ventilated area.

My dog outright liked my new smell, but she was as alone in her opinion as I was alone on the sofa.

I ended my week by skulking around the office, arms at my sides, gesturing awkwardly with only my forearms during deliberately short meetings in open spaces. More than once I dashed outside to join the smokers by the fire door, borrowing cigarettes and surreptitiously blowing smoke down my own shirt.

On the way home I stopped at my drugstore and browsed the deodorant aisle. I looked at all the manly-looking chemical deodorants that weren't  as harmless for our environment as your product, but offered hope for my own immediate environment. These slickly-packaged wonders offered “Anti-Persperant packed with the maximum level of active ingredient” and the implicit promise of steamy encounters with the fairer sex.

Even if I have to give up my new defoliating power for the realization of that implicit promise, I’ll gladly trade the lichen and Coriander for some Aluminum Zirconium Tetrachlorohydrex.

Best Regards,

Ian

My Dad Ventriloquism FINALLY WORKS!

THE SCENE: My Living Room.  Wife on the love seat, dog on feet, laptop on lap.  Daughter on sofa, fingernail in mouth while reading book.

ME: (looking upside-down at wife's laptop) Whatcha looking at there, Hon?

WIFE: (happily) Handbags!

A Handbag

Another Handbag

Still Yet Another Handbag

ME: (dying inside, thinking of all the damn handbags that lie around the house, but not wanting to spoil my just-started week of vacation with an argument about handbags, which are more precious to my wife than most of her family members.  I mean, her family members that aren't  her handbags) . . .

DAUGHTER: Why would you possibly need more handbags?  Don't you, like, have a ton of them?

ME: [Omigod, my 12-year-old daughter just spoke my thoughts out loud!]

I believe This One Is Actually A Purse? Is There A Difference?

WIFE: But I use all of them!

Is This One a Freaking Clutch?  I Dunno.  Don't Quote Me On That.

DAUGHTER: Handbags are boring.

ME: [It's like I am speaking through my daughter!] . . .

WIFE: How could you say that?  They're pretty!

DAUGHTER:  (returning to book) Boring.

ME: IT WORKED!  IT FINALLY WORKED!!!

I Shall Now Retire To My Deathbed. Goodnight.

From a great distance I hear the panicked voice of my teen-aged son calling out to my wife, “MOM!  I think Dad’s dying!  COME QUICK!”

I can't see anything and my hearing is dull, but I hear my wife’s anguished cry as she sees me, and I vaguely feel her putting her arms around me and telling my son to grab something to stop the bleeding.

“There’s so much blood,” she says fearfully, “but from where?  Son, call 911!”

With detachment I catalog the things I feel my wife doing to find and stop the bleeding, and I hear her relaying information to my son, now on the phone with Medical Dispatch.

“Mom, they want to know where he’s bleeding from,” his voice says.

“My God,” replies my wife’s far-away voice, shocked, “it’s his wallet.  He’s hemorrhaging out his wallet!”

I start to drift now, their voices wafting over me like tule fog.

“Male,” my son says to the phone, “I think he’s Twenty-Nine,”

“Dammit, Son!” my wife snaps, “That’s a lie and you know it! Quit repeating that to people!”

“OKAY, Mom!  Sorry!  Geez!  No, I don’t know, maybe Thirty-one.  How much does he weigh?  I think about two hundred pounds . . .”

From my vantage point in the middle of my long tunnel to the light, I pause to think this boy needs a raise in his allowance.

My wife and son keep talking about me like I’m not there, and I hear my son tell her the ambulance will arrive within twenty minutes.

“NO!” I shout, “Too expensive!!”

My wife’s hand puts itself on my brow.  “He’s moaning,” she says, “I think he knows we’re taking good care of him.”

I fall into a fugue state, with my wife’s and my son’s voices back and forth in counterpoint, his low voice saying many of the same things my wife’s higher voice just said . . . It feels much the same as sleeping in the car.

GOOD LORD, THE CAR!  In an instant, I remember the car repair bill from Monday, and then the other car repair bill from Wednesday, and then the new repair bill from my wife’s car today...!

I gag.  I hear my wife say, “We’re losing him!” and my son say, “How can we lose something that big?!” and then I drop into a Chilean Mine of unconsciousness.

*******************

In my insensate state, I remember.  It is searingly painful, and the pain is coming from my already-tenuous sense of financial solvency.  It feels like a demon tore through my soul to get at my wallet, though my wallet makes for a meager meal.  A demon eating my wallet is like Charlie Chaplin eating his shoe.

I remember.  The memories come at me in an aggressive rush, like a cell-made shiv coming at my eye in the prison lunch room.  I remember:

The end of my work day, staggering out to my car to find some jackwagon had parked a truck on it during the night.  I remember paying my deductible to the polite repair guy with the nervous giggle and predatory eyes.  I remember the Gawd-awful rental Kia Optima I drove during the repair, and the downward spiral of self-esteem that deepened every time I got into the lumpy front seat.  I remember taking my newly-repaired car for waaaaay more maintenance than I had budgeted for.  I remember my wife’s expensive transmission repair.  I remember it all; it is a combustible blitz of economic pain.

The little bit of financial health I have is dear to me: this feeling of pain and loss is - I dunno, it feels like I spent my life’s savings on a genuine Rembrandt, only to get it home and accidentally spill paint thinner all over it.

*******************

I awaken to hear the beeping of my life-sustaining machines, and a doctor speaking.  I know it’s a doctor, because the first thing I hear him say is the Primary Doctor Lie: “Oh, he’ll be perfectly fine,”

As long as he can learn to live without limbs

As long as we keep his brain and his ears perfectly preserved in this surrogate human head

As long as we keep him slaved to the yoke of his brutal, never-ending management job at least eighteen hours a day

As long as we keep him out of direct sunlight and water him twice a week to keep him moist

“As long as you and the children can provide him with the care he needs,” the doctor finished.  “He’ll need some time away from financial responsibilities - for example my exorbitant bill,” he chuckles.

Beep, says my machine.

“...and the bills for the anaesthesiologist, the dendrochronologist, the urologist, the malacologist, and Craft Services.”

Beep, BEEP.

“So I can’t ask Dad to pay for my Prom Tuxedo rental?” asks my son, “Or the corsage, or the limo?”

BEEP, BEEP!

“No, no, you must keep him calm and relaxed.  So Mrs. Reddoch, you shouldn’t tell him about all the new furniture just yet.  And when the bill comes from your new Home Depot charge card, it would be best for you to take care of that quietly.  Although I must say, the pictures from your kitchen remodel were certainly impressive,”

BEEEEP!  BEEEEEEP!

“And, of course, you will need to find him a Sugar Mama.”

Beep?

“Oh, Doctor, must we?”

“Absolutely.  We will consider it akin to Physical Therapy.  You must understand that your husband’s Scottish heritage renders him genetically resistant to spending money.  Right now his wallet-to-soul connection is weak.  Another shock - however small - could rupture it again and cause him to bleed to death on your expensive new carpet.  He needs to re-socialize himself with a genuine Sugar Mama who will take care of all expenses while he rehabilitates.”

Va-va-beep!

“But Doctor, how do we get an appointment with a Sugar Mama?”

There is a long pause, and a deep sigh from the Doctor.  “You don’t get an appointment.  Your husband must attract a Sugar Mama in the wild.”

“Oh, Doctor,” says my wife in a hushed tone, “he’s doomed!”

“Now, now,” comes the soothing tones of the physician, “it certainly won’t be easy, but with some preparation, even your husband can do it.  First he needs to drop about fifty pounds.

Beep!!

“At least fifty,” agrees my wife, “and are you able to install hair plugs while he’s still asleep?”

BEEP!

“That’s a great idea, Mrs. Reddoch,” says the doctor warmly, “and we can also laser his eyes, which is very, very expensive!”

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP!

“When he wakes up,” continues the doctor enthusiastically, “you can get him right onto a treadmill and listening to some etiquette and charm podcasts, so he can have a chance (however slim) at luring in a Sugar Mama in her natural  environment.  May I also suggest Yoga classes to learn some grace?”

BEEEEEEEP!  BEEEEEEEEEP!  BEEEEEEEP!

“In no time at all, your husband should be out and about, attracting someone from that wealthy class of older women who can still see him as a younger man - in short: rich women with poor eyesight and failing judgment!  Women like Susan Sarandon or any of the Gabor sisters who might still be hanging around.  Why, Liza Minelli might even be between husbands!  Just because he’s too old to be a Boy Toy doesn’t mean he can’t be Man Fun!”

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!  BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

My hero son’s voice shouts out, “Doctor, STOP!  You’re killing him!”

I can hear the tears and the righteous anger in my son’s voice - he is my one advocate in this room.

“Sure, Dad has low standards and he would do sexual favors for wacky old ladies in exchange for cash, but think of what you’re saying!  Dad would rather DIE than be tied down and read poetry, or endure the shame of walking a teacup chihuahua on a diamond-studded leash!  He may have shamefully eroded morals, but every man has his limit.”

Beep!

“Well,” says the doctor slowly, his resonant voice reverberating off the window, “He’s going to need some kind of income soon.  Looks like your mother parked in a reserved spot; your dad’s going to have to pay a parking ticket, towing costs, and impound fees if he wants to get your car back.”

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Super-Secret Pre-Valentine's Day Post!

I'm so excited, I just had to tell!

A while ago, my wife mentioned she really wanted this t-shirt:

But I did even better.  Because I love her SO much, I got her THIS:

 

Now who's the best husband ever?

Disney Acquires Marvel - Steamboat Willie Blasts Peg-Leg Pete with Plasma Burst

BREAKING NEWS!!!

From the Hollywood Reporter:

Disney to buy Marvel for $4 billion
Stock and cash deal to combine character library

By Georg Szalai and Paul Bond
Aug 31, 2009, 09:39 AM ET
Updated: Aug 31, 2009, 11:00 AM ET

Disney is purchasing Marvel for $4 billion. Disney said Monday that it will acquire the
superhero factory in a cash and stock transaction that values each share of Marvel at
$50, a 29% premium to where the stock closed Friday. Disney will discuss the proposed transaction [edit] later Monday, when the companies
will detail the fallout -- if any -- the merger will have on several films that Marvel's own
studio has in the works based on characters such as Iron Man, Thor and Captain
America. "We'll take a look and see, but the bottom line is we like what they've been doing so far,"
Disney studio head Richard Cook told The Hollywood Reporter. Disney acquires ownership of 5,000 Marvel characters to be overseen by Marvel CEO
Ike Perlmutter, who is charged with cherry-picking when and where they'll show up
within Disney's vast empire, including online and in video games. "Disney is the perfect home for Marvel's fantastic library of characters given its proven
ability to expand content creation and licensing businesses," Perlmutter said. "This is
an unparalleled opportunity for Marvel to build upon its vibrant brand and character
properties by accessing Disney's tremendous global organization and infrastructure
around the world."

From the CBR News Team:

When asked if there was potential for cross-polination between Marvel and Pixar, Disney said that Pixar’s John Lasseter has met with key Marvel creative executives recently and the group got “pretty excited, very fast.” Disney will look at all opportunities and thinks there are some exciting product that could come from this sort of partnership.

JoeQuesada(Marvel Comics Editor-In-Chief): G' morning, Marvel U! Welcome to this moment in history. Everyone relax, this is incredible news and all is well in the Marvel U.

While the above may be true from Joe's point of view, some changes have already been spotted in the Marvel Universe. . .

• The upcoming Amazing Spider-Man storyline begins Peter Parker's new relationship with a young singer from Tenessee whom he suspects of also leading a double life and a creepy-close relationship with her dad.
• The Wings on Thor's helmet are now made with circles of black felt.
• Wolverine has been seen acting a little Goofy.
• Fantastic Four now comprised of Huey, Dewey, Louie, and The Thing.
• Magneto is now spelled "Mag-Neat-O!"
• The new "Beauty and the Hulk" musical is prepping for Broadway. Hulk sings different genres of song depending on what color he is in the scene.
• The Mighty Avengers have replaced The Wasp with provisional member Tinkerbell.
• Iron Man has already begun his new gig as permanent host of Tomorrowland.
• Don't be surprised to find Ghost Rider sitting next to you on the Haunted Mansion ride, or when you see Gambit dealing Three-Card Monte in New Orleans Square.
• Daredevil now patrols Heck's Kitchen.
• Captain America Movie (The First Avenger) casting news: Zac Efron as Cap, Ashley Tisdale as his SHIELD secret-agent girlfriend, Agent 13.

• Ka-Zar and Zabu are evicted from the Savage Land and replaced by Mowgli and Bagheera. Meeting Shanna the She-Devil causes a strange mutation in Mowgli's loincloth.
• The Matterhorn now sports one howling Sasquatch and five Alpha Flight corpses.
• Suddenly, nobody can understand a damn thing said by Howard the Duck.

More to come soon, I'm sure, from the House of Mouse Ideas.

--Ian

*** A 6:21 PM update (8/31) because it was too good to not post. From Twitter: @craigmcnamara posts about Ant-Man in the It's a Small World ride;

@KevinBrettauer: Hulk Is Happiest One There Is! ;

@theblairbutler: Finding Namor.;

@Ursieb: a miscommunication leads to Galactus eating Pluto

*** That's all for this update.

I Miss The Person with the Cooking Skills

I am tired and cranky this morning, and there is no coffee. There is a coffeemaker, and I suspect the kitchen contains some of the powdery brown substance that smells like coffee, but alas, there is no coffee made.

This makes me sad. I have already checked the coffeemaker twice this morning, just to make sure it is as empty as it was yesterday when I poured the last half-cup from it into my airplane travel mug. It is still just that empty.

I can hear you. I hear you saying or thinking, "Well, Dipsh*t, sounds like it's time for you to get off your behind and make some coffee!" and if the world worked the way it ought to, I would.

But here's the thing: I don't like to drink bad coffee, therefore I do not participate in making the coffee. I regard coffee-making the same way I regard car repair or major surgery: If I want my brakes to function or my spleen to continue creating my fiery-hot anger (or whatever spleens do), then I let somebody qualified do the brake-repairing or spleen-surgery. Likewise, if I want to drink coffee that is drinkable, I have to wait for someone to make it for me.

I married a person just for this purpose. I remember the day in college when I decided to marry her. She walked into my class with a travel mug of coffee that smelled really enjoyable, and she proceeded to enjoy it with a relish I could only generate by hooking up with Teri Hatcher and Carre Otis at the same time (um, this was in 1991). I thought to myself, "Man, would I like to be that mug of coffee", and then I thought, "And also to drink some. Of the coffee. Before I become the mug of coffee," and then I thought, "Now I am confused and horny."

Anyway, I conned her into marrying me, and one of the very first items we picked out together when doing the bridal registry thing at Service Merchandise was . . . wait for it . . . an answering machine! And right afterward, the coffeemaker - the very same coffeemaker that sits empty right now in the kitchen, mockingly empty while I type.

The problem is that my coffee-making wife has gone to her parents' house in Upper Retiredsville, and she will not be back for a few days. And there is no coffee made.

I am no idiot. I am perfectly capable of following directions. But that doesn't help me in my cooking endeavors. I can follow coffee-making instructions to the letter, and it comes out as sock-strained dog water swill coffee every time. It's my own special brand of magic. I apply this magic to cooking and baking equally.

Someday I will be rich and famous because of this magic talent. When some cable channel (Food Network or Home and Garden or Animated Chatty People Who Cook and Decorate) holds an Improbably Bad Food Cookoff, I will be the champion, and then people will hire me to come to their event and cook a whole lot of embarrassingly inept food for their guests ("Dinner Inedible?").

Here's how it will work: each contestant will have a proctor assigned to them, to make sure we follow the recipe exactly. Which I always do. The contestants will have a possible point total of 500 for this part, and I will have a perfect score, because I always do exactly what the cookbook tells me to do.

Actual Directions:

Chop chicken and press through a sieve. Soak bread in milk. Press through sieve. Add melted butter, egg slightly beaten, chicken, seasonings and milk to make of the consistency to shape. Shape between two spoons and poach in boiling salted water. Stir until cool, pour into a mold wet with cold water and set in a cool place. Serve plain or with cold cream sauce or plain sweet cream.

Then the contestants will have their mess judged by a panel of Foodie-Channel judges who have pissed somebody off but still want a paycheck. They will award up to 500 points for all the usual categories: Unrecognizability, Forbidding Odor, Surprisingly Unwelcome Texture, Carbon Infiltration, Gag-Reflex Test, Aftertaste/Afterburn, and Gastric Unfriendliness.

I will be the first contestant to walk away with a perfect score of 1000, because this is what always happens when I cook something: 1) I do everything right; 2) my special magic talent renders the food inedible; 3) somebody else cooks something or (3.5) we send out for pizza.

I have already eaten all the available crackers and cereal in the pantry. I miss my wife. And I am still sleepy.

40% more OUTRAGE!

I got SO excited this morning! My wife bought

new mustard (in a highbrow, disgusted fashion she relented to bring home

normal mustard because the kids and I were sick to death of the Spicy Brown

Low Fat Great In Recipes Made with the Finest

Mustard Seed and Natural Ingredients Mustard), and I saw that in addition to the already fantastic no-mess-

sphincter applicator, our new mustard was now 40% MORE FRENCH!!!

Now, I took beginning French in High School (and then again in college), and I was totally looking forward to having a little multicultural exchange with my condiment while I made my lunch sandwich.

Then, with the first squeeze of the bright jaune ("yellow" for you regular Americans) bottle, I got . . .

. . . a whole lot of regular mustard experience. No "Bonjour!", no "Comment Allez-Vous", not even a rude noise (because of the no-mess sphincter).

Huh.

The bottle clearly says it is 40% more French!

I looked on the back, and found that my allegedly-multicultural mustard is made in Parsippany, NJ.

A quick search revealed

that Parsippany, NJ is located on the East Coast of the United States, to the left of Massachusetts but to the right of Ohio.

And it struck me - I was being duped! This New Jersey company had no intention of being any more multicultural than they already were! This whole thing was just a MATH SCAM!

40% more of zero percent French equals ZERO PERCENT FRENCH!

It's this kind of merde that makes me wish our truth in advertising laws had more teeth.

How Smart Should My Smartphone Be?

"(8:12 am) Testing TechNet's new Smart Facebook Mobile Updater!

Hey, Y'all!

Keep an eye out for some excellent strange status updates today - I'm trying out a gadget for TechNet that is supposed to update Facebook for me, based on what my brain activity is like!

I've got a tiny electrode glued to my skin right behind my ear, and it's connected to a bluetooth earpiece that I've paired to my phone (It's actually kind of cool, you can't even see the electrode once I'm wearing the earpiece - the challenge will be keeping it on at work, where it's not exactly standard equipment).  There's a piece of software installed on my phone that will (allegedly) tell everybody what my brain is doing.

If everything goes as planned, y'all should see some status updates like "Ian's hippocampus is being hammered by cortisol" while I'm fighting with folks at work, or "Ian's homeostasis has been restored" when I get back home to Casa de Reddoch.

Tell you all about it tonight!

--Ian"