Adventures in Yard Maintenance, Part One: Last year the yard spigot I had installed a decade ago on the back of the house started leaking at the handle. Today, I finally got our regular plumber to come fix it. (Last year, he said he would get around to it. Last week, he said Monday. Monday, he said Tuesday. Yesterday I said now or never, and he showed up.) I could have tried to replace it myself, but I knew the connector was rusting and the copper pipe was crimped, meaning that I was just as likely to break it. Given how much work the professional had to put into it, I definitely made the right call.

Adventures in Yard Maintenance, Part Two: After hearing horror stories about the size of armadillo dens, Mom decided to run off an armadillo who had recently taken up residence under our front porch. Since she knew armadillos are un-poisonable, she had me throw some mothballs under the stairs in the hopes of killing off their food supply. What I didn't think about at the time was that I also live under our front porch. Paradichlorobenzene vapor is heavier than air, so it gradually settled down into the armadillo den... and then came through the concrete block walls into my bedroom. After three days I had stood all I could stand and had to crawl under the stairs and dig out the mothballs. I don't know if the armadillo learned anything, but I sure did.

Adventures in Yard Maintenance, Part Three: Still covered in dirt from the porch, I decided I would use some of the Ortho Poison Ivy poison that my aunt had brought over and left on my patio because she was tired of it being on her patio for a year. What I did not know was that the reason the poison had been sitting on her patio for a year was because one of her handymen had broken the sprayer. When I went to use it, I spilled poison all over my hand, and got none on the ivy that needed the poison. So poison ivy wins yet another round in our decades long war.

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Today's hot take: despite what Kellogg's says in their current commercials, milk should not be "ice cold."

"Ice" is a fancy word (from Old English) for frozen water (32°F or colder, although the Old English preferred to measure temperature by testing whether water was solid enough to support their cans of furniture polish). Milk is mostly water, freezing at about 31°F, so there's not a lot of wiggle room between ice cold milk and frozen milk. And frozen milk is lousy (as the Old English can attest; back in their day, frozen milk meant frozen cows). There's a reason no one puts ice cubes in their Rice Krispies. In addition to being too crunchy, they're also too quiet. (No mooing.)

I like milk probably twice as much as the next guy, and yes, of course milk should be stored and served cold, but modern refrigerators are good enough for the job without additional solid-water support. Ice wagons went out of fashion with the Old English.

Which raises the question of what ice has to do with any part of breakfast? Neither bacon, sausage, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, beans, potatoes, and tea (the traditional English Breakfast) nor porridge and leftovers (the Old English breakfast) are tastier if cold. And no American wants their pancakes, waffles, oatmeal or coffee served cold, much less ice cold. If you ask me, there shouldn't even be ice in a cup of juice. Especially orange juice. Only a monster would put ice in their orange juice.

Maybe the best solution is if everyone could agree from now on to hold all the "ice." If it only manages to make any situation worse, what good is it? If you want to eat a lousy breakfast, that's your prerogative, but keep the "ice" to yourself, you assholes.

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Every day we awaken to find that the world isn't even the place it was the night before. Predictably, that constant instability has led to fear, fear to anger, anger to hate, and hate to suffering. The goal should be to try to curtail that path, not accelerate it. Any man can only take so much injustice, cruelty, and bad taste before hopelessness wins.

Which is why I'm demanding that Kroger return to its previous recipe for Bread and Butter Chips.

Back in the good old days, the ingredients were listed as "Fresh cucumbers, sugar, water, vinegar, and less than 2% of: salt, spices (including mustard and celery seed), calcium chloride, turmeric extract (color), gum arabic, natural flavors." The result: deliciousness!

But now? Kroger pickles have become a "Product of Vietnam" with ingredients "Cucumbers, sugar, water, vinegar, salt, mustard seeds, celery seeds, gum arabic, natural flavor, turmeric oleoresin (for color)." Those may look like small changes (just 3% more salt and 2% more sugar), presumably to keep the price down, but they translate to soggier, sweeter, inferior pickles. Blech. I'll never underestimate the value of calcium chloride again.

If I have to watch as the United States sides with corporations, racists, and the enablers of pedophiles over the welfare of its own citizens; disavows medical and climate science; scuttles the global economy; turns its back on former allies Europe and NATO; solicits bribes from criminals and tyrants around the globe; murders people in international waters and its own streets; and bullies media conglomerates, law firms, and astronauts to deny its immoral behavior — you know, all the things 78 million American people voted for in 2024 — then at the very least I should be able to enjoy my favorite pickles as the legacy of the America I used to know crumbles around me. If you can't find joy in the little things, what's left?

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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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Immediately after I say I'm running to the store to buy milk, Mom asks, "What are you going to bring back for dinner tonight?"

"I've made dinner for the past two weeks," I say. "So the question should be what do *you* want to make us for dinner?"

Mom didn't even pause before replying, "I guess we're going out to eat tonight."

By which, it has now been revealed, she meant that I was to order take-out. So now, in addition to my trip to the grocery store, I'm also making a detour to the local barbecue joint.

Me and my big mouth.

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You can currently buy a 30-count box of these on Amazon for $18.49 (a mere 62¢ a pack!):

Please note that those are "candy sticks," not "candy cigarettes." The distinction is important, not because candy cigarettes are illegal in America (they are, in fact, very legal,^[1] so legal, in fact, that most of the world's supply is made here^[2]), but because Superman hates smoking so much, he once killed a cigarette peddler.^[3]

^[1] Per Wikipedia: "In the United States, it was reported erroneously in 2010 that the Family Smoking Prevention and Tobacco Control Act [of 2009] bans candy cigarettes. However, the law bans any form of added flavoring in tobacco cigarettes other than menthol; it does not regulate the candy industry."

^[2] Per Thrillist.com: "These days the manufacturers of candy cigarettes are small and secretive. New Jersey-based World Confections Inc. is the primary manufacturer, and the only big one left." And yes, World Confections Inc. is the manufacturer of these Superman Candy Sticks.

^[3] Rest in Peace, Nick O'Teen. I posted video of the assassination on June 5, 2018).

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I don't know what in specific I thought I was saving this for, so I'll just put this here:

*This is an actual quote. Though I have started repeating it in sad desperation at what now passes itself off as American government, Colbert said it largely in jest at the end of his "Meanwhile" rant on August 14, 2024, in response to a July 25, 2024, article in the Associated Press about the Ohio Supreme Court's 4-3 decision that deboned chicken wings advertised as "boneless" may still contain bones. Per the report, the majority ruled that "boneless" was a style of preparation not a guarantee, and consumers should have the common sense to consume them with due caution without dining establishments fearing lawsuits from choking victims. I tend to agree with the court here, but I can see the point of the three dissenting justices that Americans are probably much, much dumber than the court gives them credit for.

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102/2413. Targets (1968)
Peter Bogdanovich eventually became something of a punching bag for being such a prima dona auteur writer/director — for example, see the character of the pompous director in Burt Reynold's Hooper — but his early movies have stood the test of time remarkably well, even this, his first (for Roger Corman). Largely based on the then-shocking 1966 University of Texas tower shooter, this story of a mentally-ill man who just starts shooting people in a drive-in movie theater could be a below-the-fold newspaper headline today (minus the "drive-in" part, and, well, assuming anyone reads their news on paper anymore). The director does a great job of overcoming the limitations of a low budget to deliver some very effective storytelling. Kudos.

103/2414. Lincoln (2012)
On the other end of the budget spectrum, Steven Spielberg just cannot resist some of his sentimentalist tricks in what really should be a much drier portrait of a man willing to stoop low while doing the best he can to improve American society despite its worst urges. It's a great story, but there's no compelling reason it shouldn't have ended at the amendment's passage instead of watching the great man die. (Not knowing when to end a movie is a recurring problem for Spielberg. See Schindler's List or A.I. Artificial Intelligence among many others.)

104/2415. Lawyer Man (1932)
William Powell stars in a morality tale about a well-intentioned man from the streets taking a great fall because of his tragic flaw: loose women. The charismatic Powell and equally charismatic co-star Joan Blondell are handcuffed by a script featuring the broadest of caricatures. (Powell plays this same character archetype much better the following year in Manhattan Melodrama and Blondell defines the comedic suffering secretary in 1933's Footlight Parade, a personal favorite.) Oh, well. They can't all be classics.

105/2416. Bicycle Thieves (1948)
Maybe they can't all be classics, but this one can. To borrow a quote from Griffin Mill, the protagonist of The Player, "Great movie, huh?" I'd always heard this called The Bicycle Thief (which is what they call it in The Player), but I agree that the more literal translation of the original Italian title (Ladri di biciclette) is really more appropriate to the plot and darkly cynical theme of a man in danger of becoming what he hates. It truly is deserving of its sterling reputation.

106/2417. Synecdoche, New York (2008)
There's a key scene in 1977's The Mouse and His Child (which I watched way too young) in which the title pair are trapped in the bottom of a pond and find a can of Bonzo's dog food with a label that depicts itself inside a label that depicts itself et cetera ad infinitum (aka the Droste Effect). You know the scene. And that is what Scynecdohe, New York is: a movie's (or, as the case may be, a play's) depiction of an infinite recursion of the reality occupied (created?) by one navel-gazing playwright incapable (unwilling?) of getting out of his own head. Equal parts hysterical and depressing, it's brilliant (and occasionally frustratingly opaque) filmmaking from the unique voice of writer/director, Charlie Kaufman.

More to come.

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We asked Audrey what she wanted for her birthday, and of course she said, "Food!" So Mom baked her a cake.

Much to Audrey's disappointment, we did not let her eat it all at once.

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