All this week, the national media has been abuzz about the spat between South Park and Scientology. Apparently, Scientologists are crazy. (Thetans. There, I've said it.) But is that really news?

I'm no expert in the matter, but it is my understanding that Mormons wear special underwear. (Underwear is next to godliness.) I've read that Catholics consume the actual body and blood of the son of their god. (And we give them a hard time about their preference for young boys!) I've seen Southern Baptists prohibit the use of playing cards while allowing dominos. (A rose is a rose, unless you're a Southern Baptist.) I've witnessed Jews celebrate oil that burned much longer than it was advertised to burn. ("Tightwad" was originally a Yiddish word.) And I've even heard that Muslims receive 100 virgins in heaven. (I hope those virgins aren't going to stay virginal for eternity? As my friend Chris said: "Dude, virgin pussy sucks.")

So every religion has it's share of wacky ideas. And now we're going to fight over whose ideas are the stupidest? That's like entering siamese twins in a beauty contest and then arguing over who looks better in the swimsuit competition. Grow some thicker skin, people. Or better yet, a sense of humor about yourselves. Now quit throwing stones at each other so I can go back to watching news that really matters: is Britney is pregnant again?

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All right, I admit it, I didn't watch the Oscars. I didn't watch any of the 80 straight hours of hype on E! before the show. I didn't watch Jon Stewart's scything remarks against Scientology. I didn't watch anyone thank God or The Academy in their acceptance speach. More importantly, I didn't watch any of the films that were nominated for, well, anything this year.

Hollywood, you've stopped trying to talk to me. I don't know when, exactly, that I fell from the demographic that Hollywood was trying to reach. I'm still young (enough) to buy shoes, cars, and cigarettes. However, I don't live in L.A., I don't LOVE history or morality tales, and I'm not a gay cowboy in Wyoming. (In fact, I can't stand Wyoming, but that's a different story.)

The only 3 films that I saw that were released in theaters in 2005 were Sin City, Batman Begins, and Fantastic Four. (Anyone see the theme there?) I'm not demanding that Hollywood make nothing but comic book inspired movies (oh, that would be awful, wouldn't it?). However, I would like for Hollywood to give me something to justify the $12.00 expense of a movie ticket in 2006 that didn't have men in tights -- or the silver screen equivalent: molded black vinyl -- in it.

Hollywood, you're now specializing only in biopics (Ray, Capote, Walk The Line), interpretive history (Munich, Good Night And Good Luck, Alexander) or or the always unimpressive sequel (Big Momma's House 2, Cheaper By The Dozen 2, Miss Congeniality 2, Son of Mask, Star Wars Episode 3). And if I don't care for those, I can always pay full price to go watch a film that I've seen before (War Of The Worlds, The Pink Panther, Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, King Kong, Amityville Horror, The Longest Yard).

If that's the best that you have to offer me, Tinseltown, stop bitching that you just had the worst year ever and try to make something worth watching for a change.

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Twenty-years ago in 1986, the Post-Walt Disney Co. used its regular Sunday night "The Wonderful World of Disney" on ABC to showcase a number of failed pilots of dubious creative distinction. Several of them stand out in my memory, including "Mr. Boogedy" and one called "Northstar" about an astronaut (played by Greg Evigan of "B.J. and The Bear" and "My Two Dads" fame) who gained super powers from sunlight through a freak cosmic accident. Of most importance to me, however, is the move called "I-Man," starring Scott Bakula in the title role. To the best of my knowledge, "I-Man" aired only once before disappearing into the black-hole of un-produced pilots.

"I-Man" was about a regular guy who was granted super-human powers of self-healing through a freak accident not-too far removed from the origin story of Daredevil or those Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The only hitch in his alien-induced Wolverine healing trick is that perfect darkness is now fatal for him. Figuring that complete darkness is so rare that he has little to worry about for the rest of his unnatural life span, I-Man, short for Indestructible Man, naturally, decides to turn his powers to the unselfish causes of truth, justice, and American television.

Soon, I-Man has been discovered spying for the U.S. government, as was his wont to do, and is captured by the stereotypical dastardly rich villain. He finds himself (in true super-spy tradition) invited to breakfast with the villain and his co-conspirator, the treacherous she-spy turned traitor who was responsible for the revelation to the enemy of I-Man's amazing powers (by stabbing him in the arm with a knife!). When asked how he likes his eggs prepared, I-Man responds with a snarl towards his former comrade, "Benedict, as in Benedict Arnold!"

At this point in the dialogue, I, a 10 year-old boy, laughed and said something to the effect of, "he's angry that she stabbed him in the arm." My father wasted little time in correcting me with the observation that I-Man was not disappointed in being stabbed but rather upset that the enemy was now aware of his super-secret healing factor. Of course, my father was right, which I realized as the words were leaving his mouth.

Eventually, I-Man escapes the enemy's pitch-black death-trap, discovers that the she-spy turned traitor is only pretending to be a traitor and has been revealing information to the enemy so that she can pretend to be a double agent and learn the enemy's secrets (I'm sure that this tactic makes a lot of sense to women), and discovers that his son has the same healing powers that he does just in time for a happy ending.

But none of that last bit is really important, and I couldn't tell you what happened during the final portion of that film if my life depended on it.

Man, do I HATE to be wrong.

(On a related side-note, eggs Benedict were not named for Benedict Arnold, as this show would have impressionable young viewers believe. Instead, they appear to be named for nineteenth-century New York City native Lemuel C. Benedict.)

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I watched the two pilots to Fantasy Island the other night. They are awful. My fantasy is that I could get that time back! You hear that, Mr. Rourke? Jerk.

Anyway, I have finally finished the update to the DnD pages to include the missing campaigns. I'm uploading now at... what? 4:33AM EDT, so there will likely be some errors I'll work out later. The important part is... Sleep. Colony and the 2 missing Kurse campaigns now live. Go. Read. Leave me alone.

Oh, yeah. If you haven't visited my brother's AWESOME website, follow this link to take a gander: Trey's AWESOME website. It's got pictures. AWESOME pictures. (I taught him everything I know. It didn't take long.)

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Earlier tonight, I was flipping channels on TV as I was eating sardines and saltines. I had stopped surfing to watch two guys on the Howard Stern Show engage in a trivia contest with a porn star. (Some television is just great. Really, really fantastic.) I was playing along at home. The only question that I missed was Jimmy Carter's middle name. (I'm from Georgia, and I didn't know Jimmy Carter's middle name. I should be both tarred and feathered, I suppose.) During a commercial break, Pat Boone came on my TV and tried to sell me gold. To quote Pat from the Swiss America Trading Corporation website promoted by the tv spot:

Stocks, bonds, real estate, cash, or gold? Which do you think offers the most potential to investors in the next few years? Well, according to Swiss America, the answer is... ALL OF THE ABOVE!..IF you have a truly diversified portfolio that includes U.S. gold coins.

Re-read that to make sure that you got it. That's Pat Boone's advice: stocks, bonds, and property are worth just as much as gold, but only if you own gold. (That's not even English, Pat.) If you can figure out how to follow that golden nugget of wisdom, I'm sure that you'll be just as successful as Pat Boone.

Now, I wasn't around in the 1950's, to be sure, but I think the fact that Pat Boone is never mentioned anymore by anyone in any context should give you some kind of hint about his importance to American music and popular culture. His white bucks and dulcet tones may have managed to repackage black r&b music for white America, but I have sever doubts about his ability to pitch anyone on gold futures 20 years after he stopped being a household name. Please note that the commercial does not run during Hee Haw or some other old folk's fare where Pat's name may spark a faded memory, but in the middle of a Howard Stern episode where the younger blue-collars lurk. Strikes me that it is a TV commercial for fool's gold, and you know what they say about fools and gold.

By the way, the porn star lost the trivia contest. And Jimmy Carter's middle name is Earl.

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I just posted a new Flash toy over on the media page. It's a "generic television script generator." I got the idea while channel surfing the other day when I realized that I could go through the better part of 100 channels without stopping and still have a damn good idea what was happening on most of the shows.

There is another Flash toy in the works, it just needs a little fine tuning. Really, I made it years ago but never got the polish on it to post online. I'm determined to get it up now. I don't know why I'm making them right now, I just sort of feel possessed to do it. (Probably because my mother is coming to town this weekend and Flash scripting is preferable to house cleaning.)

On a related note, I saw Desperate Housewives for the first time this past week, and I was appalled. This is what America has been going nuts over? It's just a tawdry Sex and the City clone with bad manners. Whatever happened to the good old shows? I know, I know, there were no good old shows. I mean when Ben Jones is trying to pass off the original Dukes of Hazzard as wholesome family entertainment after the phrase "Daisy Dukes" has entrenched itself in the American lexicon, it really opens your eyes to the fact that the more things change, the more they stay the same. However, there was a time when Barbara Eden couldn't show her belly button on Jeannie so they had to actually have the characters (*gasp*) do things to get an audience. Now Debra Messing's bra-less erect nipples are the punchline of half of the gags on Will & Grace (in the syndicated early-evening, after-school hours, no less). Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of erect nipples, but when cheap schoolboy thrills are what pass for Emmy award winning writing, you can't expect me to cheer about it. I certainly understand why they call it the idiot box these days.

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I hatched about a half dozen new ideas for the site yesterday, and I've already begun working on 3 of them. (Though that doesn't count for much, as I have about a half dozen old half-completed modifications sitting uselessly in folders on my desktop. I'm an idea man. A very lazy idea man.) The main page intro movie is still in the works, as are several interactive Flash pages. There's just not enough time for me to work on them all and still play Katamari Damacy! (If you think updates are slow now, just you wait until City of Villains is released. BWAH-HA-HA!)

Anyway, I'm also working on squeezing the old campaigns onto the new site since several of you keep bothering me about them. Keep hassling me and I'll get them added. The link to them will appear on the main page only when Wriphe is out. (I guess you might call it a hidden link, but it's not really. You'll know when it's active.)

Speaking of distractions: is there anyone else in America who is NOT watching Lost? It's like the Melrose Place phenomena of the 2000's. Take a look at this insanity. (Now you know why I live alone.) If you have to watch TV, I recommend that you stick to My Name Is Earl. It's as good as it gets: funny and poignant. by that I mean that it tugs at my heartstrings and I laugh.

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I've been watching a lot of Star Trek, and I've decided 2 things:

1. Leonard Nimoy is spectacular.

We all know him as Mr. Spock, a distinguished role among many on TV and movies. He is also an accomplished director of both media. Even more astonishing, he is a singer with nearly a dozen albums to his credit. ("The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins" gets all of the glory, but if you've never heard Nimoy sing "If I Had a Hammer," you haven't lived. It brings me to tears every time I hear it.) And I've just recently discovered that he is a photographer specializing in nude female photographs. Damn, Leonard, do you have to make all of the rest of us look like such spectacularly lazy bastards?

2. Captain Picard is a shitty captain.

Sure, he strikes a distinctive pose, all regal and bald, but he has no idea what his ship or his crew are ever capable of. When confronted with any new situation, he is as confused as an old man presented with a new children's cereal box. Worse still, after he acquires even a little information about his new situation, he jumps to some immediate, outlandish solution that could only possibly be correct on a syndicated science fiction television show. (Better to be lucky than good, eh, Jean-Luc?)

To disguise his foolhardy blustering, many Picard defenders point out that Picard is simply a more calm and rational man than his forebearer (the great and mighty Captain Kirk). This could hardly be further from the truth. To jump to a faulty conclusion at the drop of his last hair is neither rational nor commendable. Picard's outrageous temper tantrums, seen frequently in outbursts against his crew (especially including that impetuous young Ensign Crusher) but rarely discussed, are further evidence of his instability and inability to lead. The fact that the crew follows the old man (who leads from the rear *tsk, tsk, tsk*) demonstrates only that they are just as sick of him and desperate for escape from his tyranny as I am.

At least he's still better than Captain Janeway.

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Remember the television Incredible Hulk series? I watched an episode tonight where David Banner finagled himself a job as an orderly at an insane asylum. Now, you would think that would require background checks before a drifter who mumbles his last name (which always starts with a "B," that way David, a genius with degrees in physics and medical science, won't forget what his last name is supposed to be each week while still remaining "incognito") could get a job with no references or qualifications. Maybe you can work as a mechanic, short order cook, handyman, electrician, grocer, laboratory technician, gardener for an elementary school, boxing trainer, bartender, unlicensed driver, truck loader, nanny, store clerk, sports reporter, oil rigger, janitor, or choker setter without proving your qualifications, but I think it takes a little more to work for a hospital. At least I would hope that it would.

David, David, David. *sigh*

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I've discovered that the trick about quitting your job so that you'll have more time to work on your own projects (the "great American novel," a new boat, or -- as in my case -- a comic book) is that everyone that you know says, "hey, you don't have a job, why don't you come give me a hand doing >insert diversion task here< for little or no money. In my case, the activity of my social life is inversely proportional to my economic income.

On a very related note, I took to watching T.J. Hooker seasons 1 & 2 on DVD this week. Hooker represents the golden years (cue tv host Tom Massie: "GoooOOOOOoooold!") of Shatner television. The character of Hooker is somewhere between Dirty Harry and Joe Friday; a television recycling of the high-water points of previous TV cops into a confusing mess of ideology and practice. Hooker is a walking cliche: a "tough-as-nails" ex-soldier turned cop who left his cushy detective desk job to return to the mean streets of the unnamed "L.C." city as a beat cop with a rogue streak and a rookie partner. Confusingly, these beat cops spend more time solving major crimes (snipers, stalkers, gun runners, and other common television crime cases) than the plain-clothes detectives of the uncommonly mundane named "Academy Precinct." Shatner pulls it off with aplomb. If you've not seen it yet, get to it, cadet!

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