While walking the dogs, I came up with a great idea for a blog post. I really thought it all out, too, paragraph by paragraph. But I made a mistake. Instead of typing it all up when I came back to the house, I instead sat down and played video games. As you can guess, now that I'm at my keyboard, I have no idea what it all was.

To be fair to me, I didn't go straight to video games. Before I played video games, I made a cup of coffee and a sandwich and moved seven boxes of comic books upstairs and watched Jeopardy!. Somehow, I can remember a lot of trivia, but I cannot remember what I was going to post right here.

If I'm being really fair, I should also admit that after I played video games, I then ate some sardines for dinner, drank another cup of coffee, watched Balls Up on Amazon Prime, and then sorted some comic books before I sat down here at my keyboard. One just shouldn't do that. Watch Balls Up, I mean.

In the continued interest of fairness, I'll say that I don't think this film's failure is entirely the fault of the underwritten script or the casting choices (although I find Mark Wahlberg only funny as a straight man making reaction shots, so I'd say it was a mistake to give him any jokes at all). Comedy, even puerile comedy, is built on subversion of expectations and timing, and this exceedingly puerile movie has neither. I expected better from Oscar-winning director Peter Farrelly, director of There's Something About Mary. My first laugh came at 41 minutes when the editor finally had the good sense to just leave Sasha Baron Cohen in frame while he was being silly. Sometimes the best editing is the least. For the record, my second and final laugh came late, at the well-telegraphed scene involving a vampire fish trapped in the urinary meatus of a penis. I don't know if it was a practical effect or CGI, but the absurdity of the situation definitely gave off welcome There's Something About Mary vibes. Finally.

So now you can see how I forgot what I was going to post. Could you remember five paragraphs after all that? No, of course not. No one could. At least the stream-of-consciousness dribble I wrote above is probably way better than whatever I had composed in my head. And, to paraphrase a much funnier movie, Brett Favre is the guy you should be with. I just want you to be happy, Mary.

52/2622. Balls Up (2026)

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Yes, it's been days since my last post, and this blog may have seemed dead. But that's just how I'm celebrating Easter this year.

Speaking of not-dead guys, the local Catholic Church has had a crucifix on its front lawn this year with a Jesus that looks like he was carved by a chainsaw. The folk art approach doesn't bother me. I don't know what Jesus would think of it. I suspect that as a carpenter, he'd probably be pretty impressed by chainsaws.

On the other hand, he probably wouldn't be too happy that people are so into seeing him hung up. The Catholic list of 10 Commandments conveniently omits that whole "graven images" restriction -- they love their icons! -- but Jesus was a Jew, so he might have a different opinion about Exodus 20:4.

What does bother me a little is that the statue has a very well defined set of washboard abs. I'm sure the historic Jesus had low body fat (although infinite fishes, loaves, and wine didn't do Dionysus any favors), but could he really have looked like Mark Wahlberg in a Calvin Klein ad? I hadn't thought so, but now I'm reconsidering. Jesus was a wise guy, and a thirst trap certainly would have helped attract eyeballs to his newfangled religion. It's a whole lot easier to love your neighbor when he's beautiful. (That's why even Catholics agree about keeping your hands off your neighbor's spouse.)

Hmm. Maybe those clever Catholics are right. A cut wooden Jesus just might be a good idea. Not only does it have me now rethinking my religion, I'm also inspired to cut back on my own intake of waistline-expanding Easter candy. Jesus saves!

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13/2583. Kitty Foyle (1940)
Ginger Rogers is Kitty Foyle, a muddle-headed girl who falls for the wrong man and continues doubling-down on her bad decision. Ginger is very good even if her character is irritating. (The Wrong Man is played by Dennis Morgan, who I never much care for, so you'll excuse me if I was against him from the beginning.)

14/2584. The Big Combo (1955)
A film noir police procedural is right up my alley. This doesn't disappoint, especially with Lee Van Cleef playing a rat-like heavy in a homosexual-coded relationship with a fellow mobster. Good stuff.

15/2585. The Harder They Fall (2021)
I'm not sure why they unnecessarily borrowed the names of a bunch of real-life Black Wild West characters for what otherwise feels like a Van Peebles Blacksploitation Western. But whatever. It's still a lot of fun (at least until some third act shenanigans aiming for misguided pathos).

16/2586. Greased Lightning (1977)
First off, let me say that there's a briefish Coca-Cola drinking scene in the middle of this very loosely adapted biopic staring Richard Pryor and Beau Bridges, but I did not get a screenshot at the time. I'll try to correct that next time I see it's coming on TCM, which seems to run it about once a year. It sticks pretty hard to the traditional sports movie cliches, so if you like that sort of thing, you'll probably like this.

17/2587. A Letter to Three Wives (1949)
Maybe because Kirk Douglas is in this stylish tale of love and betrayal, it kept reminding me of The Bad and the Beautiful. I liked it, especially Linda Darnell (who was the love interest in Zero Hour!; if you know, you know).

More to come.

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Recently, (as one does) I was perusing the Tustin (California) Area Historical Society website (tustinhistory.com) devoted to the closed (but not decommissioned) Marine Corps Air Station Tustin, commissioned in October 1942 (as Naval Air Station Santa Ana) to house "non-rigid lighter-than-air" airships for Navy Fleet Airship Wing Three, Squadron Thirty-One (ZP-31) in two wooden 17-story 1,088-foot long blimp hangars (one surviving), listed on the National Register of Historic Places since 1975.

That's where I found an image of this aging stencil painted on an interior wall of the (surviving) south Hangar 2 (Building 29):

A little more research teaches me that these are the fourteen leadership traits taught by the United States Marine Corps. Even more research reveals that the Marines borrowed those fourteen traits from the Army, specifically from the 1961 Department of the Army Field Manual FM 22-100: Military Leadership, which ordered them alphabetically. When the Marines integrated the traits into Department of the Navy Marine Corps Warfighting Publication MCWP 6-11 in 1995, they kept the alphabetical order, though the 2014 version of that publication (now designated MCWP 6-10) re-ordered them into the very sensible mnemonic "JJ DID TIE BUCKLE".

(In point of fact, a fifteenth trait, "Empathy" was added in the 2024 version of the MCWP 6-10, which now calls them "JJ DID TIE BUCKLEE". I'm not going to tell the Marines their business, but that's a terrible mnemonic. I assume they were sticking by tradition—Semper Fidelis!—but why just tack on an extra E when "KID BLED JET JUICE" is right there for the taking?)

However you order them, I have to say that I find them to be very good traits for effective leadership. Pretty good traits for everyone, actually. Too bad I don't see many of those traits being exemplified by the current Commander in Chief of the Army and Navy of the United States. Maybe someone should give him a tour of the South Hangar at MCAS Tustin.

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The human brain is a strange thing. I was trying to take a shower, but I couldn't stop thinking about the handful of people in my life I know I treated very badly, by which I mean specifically the people I treated badly who didn't deserve it.

I know I'm a selfish asshole, always have been, and, frankly, I'm generally okay with that. Other people, even people I know quite well, often make me uncomfortable, and I self-defensively want to keep them at arms length. As any good dog will tell you, the best way to do that is to growl and bark at anyone on the other side of the fence. But in the past half century, there have been a few people, about five I can name easily, who did not earn the behavior I showed them.

I'm bothered by the lingering concern that that my actions likely caused them discomfort and lasting emotional damage. That sounds narcissistic, doesn't it? That I could have the power to so strongly influence their lives for the worse? I hope not. Obviously they should never have given me such power, but more importantly, if they did, I shouldn't have taken advantage of it. Shame on me. I wish I had the skill and emotional stability to have communicated better.

In the movie Billy Madison, an older, wiser Billy (played by Adam Sandler) calls his former bullying victim (played by Steve Buscemi) and apologizes for past actions. I'm not going to do that. While I regret my past behavior and those I have wronged probably deserve an apology, I don't think any good can come from my investigating old wounds. I'm not in any twelve-step program. (I know how those apologies typically go.) And, more importantly, I still don't have the skill and emotional stability to communicate better. If Steve Buscemi is going to shoot anyone, it might as well be me.

There. I feel better for having typed that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a shower to finish.

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105/2537. Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale (2025)
I don't like the only movie theater in my town, so Mom and I drove up to Peachtree City to catch the third Downton Abbey movie. Again, the stakes are delightfully small (Is Mary to be a social pariah... again? Will they have to consider selling the Abbey... again?) I liked this more than the second, especially because it took such great pains to tie up every possible loose end. Sure, it was a bit weird to spend so much time in London without visiting Lady Rosamund, but it is a big cast and some sacrifices had to be made, I suppose. (Look at me mentioning relatively minor characters when my introduction to the whole ensemble was the short primer that ran in theaters before the first movie. As usual: late converts are the most zealous.)

106/2538. The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Three More (2024)
This Netflix-exclusive Wes Anderson quadrilogy was the whole reason I wanted access to Netflix in the first place. Essentially monologue recitations of Roald Dahl's writing (like an incredibly elaborate staging of Peter and the Wolf), it is neither Anderson's best nor most engrossing work, though I admit that I'm not a particular fan of Dahl. However, Anderson fan that I am, I considered it an elaborate tech demo of what he might try in a bigger, better production.

107/2539. Wet Hot American Summer (2001)
It takes about thirty minutes for this spoof of 70s/80s camp movies (a la Meatballs) to reveal its truly lunatic, absurdist heart, but once it does, it becomes immediately obvious why it has reached such cult success. (And what a cast!)

108/2540. Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga (2020)
"Play Jaja Ding Dong!" The ABBA is strong with this one. What was most striking to me while watching was how almost every character, even Will Ferrell's selfish protagonist, meant well from their own point of view. Even the secret murderous antagonist. Even the romantic cad played by Downton Abbey's Dan Stevens! Great music and endearing performances from people who clearly have a soft spot for the real Eurovision made for a great time.

109/2541. Pee-Wee's Big Holiday (2016)
The last Pee-Wee movie was clearly made with a smaller budget and a lot of CGI, but Paul Reubens still makes it work by evoking the good natured manchild Pee-Wee Herman of years past. (Have I ever mentioned that Pee-Wee's Big Adventure was the first DVD I ever bought? I have? Well, I'm mentioning it again. It's that good.) What a great character he was.

More to come.

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I thought about posting yesterday when the UGA Bulldogs came from behind to find a way to win against the Tennessee Volunteers, but I held off so I would have to write something here about today's Dolphins game. As nervous as I was about the outcome for UGA, I really, really enjoyed watching the Bulldogs play. The Dolphins, not so much.

Of course, the Bulldogs are a good football team with excellent coaching and talent. The Dolphins, not so much. Their defense is truly awful*, and their finesse offense will never be able to compensate enough to overcome their flaws. I know they're not going anywhere, so there's nothing to get excited about.

In fact, it felt like a bit of a chore to wake up early and watch the Dolphins. None of the players have vivid personalities that make them worth cheering for. The coaches seem to care less than I do, and I don't even like looking at the team's current logo or uniforms.

I can't even get excited about the fact that the Dolphins might be so bad that they'll end up in a position to take a high draft pick. The last time they looked this awful was was the 2019 season, when their motto was "Tank for Tua." Well, they even fucked that up, but still traded a bunch of resources to draft Tagovailoa, who has proven as durable as cotton candy and can no longer differentiate Dolphins receivers from his opponents. I don't know which player the Dolphins will waste their pick on in the 2026 Draft ("Death March for Arch"?), but I've come to believe that they're equally doomed.

Obviously I'm not alone in feeling frustrated. Earlier this week, after Josh Gad publicly bailed on the Dolphins season during an appearance on Seth Meyers' late night talk show, another guest encouraged NFL fans not to push their young children into fandom "because that's how you end up with Dolphins fans." Today in Miami the remaining Dol-fans seemed to agree; the stands were never more than half full for the home opener against a division rival. Maybe financial pressure will force the team to do something other than just suck all the time, but at this point, until there's a change in ownership, I'm not going to hold my breath. So long, and thanks for all the fish.

* According to CBS: "The Dolphins have allowed points on 13 straight drives dating back to last season. That is the longest streak by any team since 2000." For the record, that streak came to an end when the Patriots knelt on the ball to go to halftime. So maybe "awful" isn't a strong enough word.

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It's once again time for the annual Little League World Series, and as usual, ESPN loves to share the favorite foods, celebrities, and school subjects of participating 11 and 12-year-olds. One of them says he would spend lottery winnings buying the Boston Red Sox, which would have to be one hell of a jackpot. But it was another one that really got me thinking: when asked who he most wanted to meet, his answer was "my future self." Damn, kid, that's a monkey's paw wish if I ever heard one.

What tween is going to be satisfied with their adult form? Every pre-adolescent kid I ever knew thought they were pretty close to perfect, and why shouldn't they? Childhood is a responsibility-free zone, our parents live to tell us how great we are, and teen literature YouTube videos^[1] are full of stupid adults who crash every party, stamp out all the fun, and make stupid decisions that ruin the world. That last bit is far more accurate than most "adults" would care to admit.. Allow me to point out that the Hippies grew into Yuppies. Logan's Run may have a point.

So what happens when a kid looks at their future self and realizes that they "sold out"? In Back to the Future II, Doc Brown is careful to keep Marty away from his future self, who has become a corporate tool and a total loser. That's ironically funny to the audience, sure, because Marty spent the first movie being such a cool, confident teen that he made his dopey father cool by association; to see that Marty eventually becomes his father is obviously his worst nightmare^[2] and good dramatic structure. But if Cool Marty met Middle-Age Marty, as Doc Brown would say, that probably is going to result in the destruction of the entire universe. Or at least the local galaxy. In either case, Cool Marty's self-confidence is going to be badly shaken.

Obviously, I think I'd probably be a disappointment to my younger self. Sure, I have a better control on my temper, much stronger purchasing power, and I've read a whole bunch more books. However, I'm also bald, worried about my health,^[3] and live in a basement. I'm sure I didn't have exactly lofty expectations—I never wanted to be particularly rich or famous so much as I just wanted people to recognize how wonderful I am and then leave me alone—but how satisfying could it have been to learn that mentally I'll be largely the same anti-social, anxiety-riddled, selfish prick I was in the 7th grade (now with temperature-sensitive teeth and extra poodles)?

So do yourselves a favor, kids. When ESPN asks you who you want to meet, just say Shaquille O'Neal. Everyone loves Shaq.

^[1] According to the Associated Press, in Oct 2024 only 14% of school-age kids read books for fun anymore. I don't know what the percentage was back in my day; I've seen unqualified statistics that suggest it may have been closer to 50%, but I have doubts it was that high. Judging only by my own experience and how excited my coterie of friends always got for the Scholastic Book Fair, I'm inclined to say it was closer to 100%. But we didn't really hang around the baseball playing crowd.

^[2] Every kid's worst nightmare? Just me?

^[3] Seriously, the most memorable scene for me in Beverly Hills Cop is Billy telling Sarge about the concerning amount of undigested red meat in the bowels of a 50-year-old man. I'm trying, Billy. I'm trying.

^[4] Sorry about all these footnotes. I may have become a bit conditioned because the book I just finished seems to average one footnote per page... for over 400 pages. That book, by the way, was Eve: How the Female Body Drove 200 Million Years of Human Evolution, which is nonfiction anthropology about exactly what it says on the cover. Twelve-year-old Walter would *definitely* be disappointed in what I choose to read for "fun" these days.

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Captain D's is currently running an ad campaign that should be considered a war crime. When my television starts chanting "Fish D'Lish," I have to drive for the remote's mute button before the repetition drives me mad (or madder than I already am, anyway).

Once upon a time, I heard Stephen Colbert suggest that the best way to kill an earworm is to sing a shorter earworm that "cannot loop." His example was "by Mennen" as sung at the end of Speed Stick commercials. John Oliver suggested the "Ricola" yodel, and that's the one that usually works for me. I've been singing "Ricola" a lot lately.

On a marginally related note, I've recently been playing with the Talkback accessibility option on my phone. Theoretically, I could use it to control my phone hands free, but I've been using it to read Wikipedia articles out loud while I walk the dogs. Today I listened to the story of the Second Peloponnesian War. I found it amusing to hear my phone insist on calling the Persian king "Xerxes Eye."

That led me to wonder what Talkback's narrator would call this website, which has a made-up name I brainstormed on a napkin in my first apartment in Athens. Everyone seems to get it wrong on the first try. To my surprise, the phone handled "wriphe" perfectly. (For the record, it's pronounced like "rife," which was Merriam-Webster.com's Word of the Day on Sunday, and I'm going to have to steal their explanation to be another tagline for this site: "Rife Wriphe usually describes things that are very common and often—though not always—bad or unpleasant.")

So of course you know what I tested Talkback on next. Hint: It rhymes with "dish o'fish." What can I say? Advertising works.

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"Atlanta, N. Georgia brace for snow, ice" reads the AJC headline.

Did I get in the car today and go to the grocery story to buy a gallon of milk despite the fact that I have two half gallons in my refrigerator? Yes, yes I did. The store had only three gallons in the case. When I walked away, there were two. Yes, I am part of the problem.

But at least I don't hoard little ducks made from petroleum based products for the dashboard of my Jeep. Nor do I release helium-filled balloons into the wilds or set all of the leaves in my yard on fire on windy days. I'm so much better than those people.

Is this a rationalization to make myself feel better about my irrational life choices? Yes, yes it is. If something is horrible because it does selfish things, and all humans do selfish things, all humans are horrible. If I'm a human being (spoiler alert: I am), I'm just going to have to learn to accept that.

On the bright side, self-loathing tastes better with milk.

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