This past week my brother chastised me for failing to update the site sooner than this. He told me that I was failing to do my established duty to entertain the half dozen people who visit the site regularly.

In my defense, I've been kind of busy. I've been trying really hard to complete the PS2 game Mercenaries. Determined to collect all of the bounties, I had a great deal of trouble with the 10 of Spades. I accidentally killed number 10 and couldn't recover the body that had fallen halfway down a cliff. That was irritating.

Also, I've been working on a script for a new The Movies movie about time travel. I've just about finished writing dialogue. I'll keep you posted regarding release dates.

And that's all in addition to the fact that I've been trying to finish Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged which I started reading casually on August 2 last year. I've finished two other books in the meanwhile that I've read only while on the toilet. I really love Rand's Objectivist philosophy, but she really takes her time redundantly driving a point home again and again.

Anyway, it's updated now. Are you happy yet, Trey?

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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 have to admit that I just don't understand America's fascination with midgets and monkeys.

Both are staples of comedy bits on TV from commercials to the Man Show. On the big screen Austin Power's Mini-Me became a cultural phenomenon not too far removed from Clyde in Any Which Way But Loose. (And yes, I know that Clyde, an orangutan which is a member of the ape family, is not actually a monkey. This is really a rant against dressing up primates in human clothing, so maybe I should have said "pygmies and primates" instead of "midgets and monkeys," but you get the general idea here.)

I believe that the reason that these two things are commonly considered humorous is because they are both (to different extents) miniature versions of the human form. Midgets are humans, small humans. Monkeys are hairy, small humanoids with tails. Notice that in both descriptions, the only common word is "small." That's right, to America, small equals fascinating. (Perhaps because we as a culture are now all so ridiculously large ourselves.)

Look at our obsession with iPods, Chihuahuas, cell phones, babies, and Tom Cruise. If a monkey reminds you of a small version of your office companions (which is exactly the point of a recent commercial for a internet job site), then you are likely to find the antics of the monkey funny as you project your office companions' activities and motivations onto the monkey's diminutive form. When Curious George falls into hijinks, we laugh. When Billy Bob Thornton gets into a shootout with Tony Cox in Bad Santa, we laugh. When Homer Simpson skips out on a robbery to watch the drive-in movie Hail to the Chimp, we laugh. (Though when Dunston Checks In comes on cable, we change the channel. We Americans are a fickle bunch.)

Perhaps it is because I don't much like people in the first place that I also don't much care for miniature versions of people. (Note to the Little People lobby: it's not that I'm a midget hater, I just don't find you particularly funny simply because you've got really stubby fingers.) I'm sure that I'm in the minority here, but I'm just damn tired of monkey jokes.

Oh, and happy thanksgiving. Can you guess what we talked about over our ham and potatoes this year? (That's right: a midget football league.)

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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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