30/2600. Angels in the Outfield (1951)
What's best about this cliched sports romcom isn't the heavy-handed treatment of religious freedom in America, but the fantasy concept that a young girl is so innocent that she can see angels and everyone else being so jaded that they cannot believe her. Won't someone please think of the children.

31/2601. The Super Mario Bros. Movie (2023)
What this movie lacks in narrative plot, it makes up for in nostalgic references. Of course it was a blockbuster.

32/2602. Project Hail Mary (2026)
Having read the book, Dad really wanted to see this on the big screen, so I took him to the only theater in town even though I really don't like it. Dad loved the movie, but I was lukewarm. I got hung up on the choices made by the directors: too many of the "science" decisions were really just blatant plot manipulation, and Gosling's character is too poorly developed, depriving the character of a more satisfying arc as he discovers humanity through his relationship with a magical alien. (I know Gosling is a good enough actor to play anti-social without being unlikeable. He can do anything.) Most people are (probably rightly) less critical of those sorts of nits, and I don't begrudge them their enjoyment of this.

33/2603. From Headquarters (1933)
A lightweight murder mystery staring George Brent. I really can't say as I remember any more about it than that, so there you go.

34/2604. Chicago (2002)
I had avoided this for years because I had a preconceived notion that none of the characters were likable. And they're not. But the musical numbers are pretty good, and the whole thing doesn't run on too long. Is it really Best Picture worthy? Well, looking back at movies released in 2002, I can only say there were pretty slim pickings that year.

More to come.

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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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I know I probably shouldn't freak out about it, I'm an old man now, but I'm growing increasingly absent-minded. It is becoming increasingly common for me to walk into a room and completely forget why I did that. I am well aware that this is not a unique-to-me problem. It even has a cute name: The Doorway Effect (which really should be the name of a romcom paring a star-crossed Fuller Brush Man and Avon Lady).

The popular theory is that memory storage is tied to the mental picture of your surroundings, and the change of environment cleans the slate for new memory. Studies seem to indicate that the natural aging process does not correlate to an increase in incidence, so what gives? Why am I experiencing it more often now?

Of course, it could be a perception bias. At the very least, I might be paying more attention for when it happens. If A) I know I'm getting older, and B) I believe older people have more memory problems, then C) I believe I have more memory problems. We're all trapped in a hell of our own making, but I don't think that my memory will get better if I just shrug off why I'm standing in the den holding a toilet plunger.

Science suggests the most common detriments to memory function are drugs, sleep, diet/exercise, and stress. Yeah, I could sleep more and eat better, but what am I supposed to do about stress? The sky falls a little more each day, and the only viable solution appears to be to drink more. That might not help much, as A) alcohol is a drug, and B) the most famous off-label use of alcohol is as an anti-memory aid. It's a feature, not a bug!

I'll have to continue paying attention to this memory situation and see how it goes. I could start recording notes to myself on my phone before I change rooms. Or maybe I should just stop leaving my den altogether. In any event, I've got to figure out where this plunger goes.

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Friend James just shared an Internet article that claimed that every time I drink a Coke, my life gets 12 minutes shorter. That's a shame. Friends shouldn't share articles like that.

Let's see, if I've had just one Coke a day (ha!) since I was born, that's at least 215,760 minutes or 159 days that I could have lived and won't. If my fated expiration date is May 23, 2025, I might drop dead before I finish typing this. There's no arguing with that; it's science!

If there's one lesson to be learned from that article, it's that I really should stop procrastinating in posting these Coca-Cola product placement screenshots from recently watched movies that haven't otherwise made it into my movie reviews (either because I had already seen them or I didn't watch enough of the movie to qualify):

Some Came Running (1958)

The Cutting Edge (1992)

Kentucky Fried Movie (1977)

Slap Shot (1977)

The Prisoner of Second Avenue (1975)

Beverly Hills Cop III (1994)

The article didn't ay anything about drinking Coke with my eyes!

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Today's Science Lesson from Batman, the Science Fan:

from "It's A Bird... It's a Plane... It's Supermobile!", Action Comics #481, 1978

If a man dressed like a bat says it, it has to be true.

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In late 2022, the National Institutes of Health reported

"Optimism is linked to a longer lifespan in women from diverse racial and ethnic groups, and to better emotional health in older men, according to two NIA-funded studies."

In late 2023, NeuroscienceNews.com reported:

"Research, published in Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, from the University of Bath shows that excessive optimism is actually associated with lower cognitive skills such as verbal fluency, fluid reasoning, numerical reasoning, and memory."

Thus proving once again that, yes, bliss really is ignorance.

You don't have to be a moron to be an optimist, but it helps.

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I'm an enthusiastic subscriber to The Week magazine, in part because it fills the void left by my newspaper subscription going digital. (Maybe I just need something to do with my hands while I read.)

Each week, The Week showcases an assortment of recently released books, and this past week their top recommendation went to Eve:

As it happens, there's a copy of Eve sitting on the table in my den right now. That's because Cat Bohannon is the daughter of my childhood piano teacher who moved back to New York state but still calls my mom to brag about her kids' accomplishments. (Hi, Rosemary!)

I haven't seen or spoken to Cat in many, many years, probably not since the last time I touched a piano keyboard. But it's still a kind of vicarious thrill to know that someone I once chased around a willow tree is a Big Deal now.

By the way, Rosemary is justified in her bragging. Cat's older brother is science journalist John, who has his own Wikipedia page (but I'll always think of him as the guy who teased me with prank phone calls in elementary school).

Meanwhile, I'm sitting in a basement reading old news and typing blog posts. Maybe I should have spent more time practicing the piano. Sorry, Mom.

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I've been going through an ELO phase lately, collecting all of their studio albums. (Judge me if you want to, but you can do a lot worse than ELO.) And that led me to this animation that used tracks from ELO's 1981 album Time (specifically "Prologue" and "Twilight") as an unauthorized soundtrack.

Don't blink, or you might miss Batman and Robin!

https://youtu.be/-840keiiFDE

Believe it or not, that animation was originally created 40 years ago by university students for a 1983 Japanese science fiction convention DAICON IV. I'd say it stands up about as well as ELO's music does, which is to say, "Very Well."

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It probably won't come as a surprise to you if you've seen my latest poodle strip, but as is usual for springtime, I have a terrible case of poison ivy. This year's bout, no doubt thanks to the helpful paws of underbrush-romping Louis, is the kind of rash that makes me wonder how much life is actually worth living. (There must be some reason so many people are taking fentanyl, right?)

Most people seem to think that cortisone cream makes poison ivy feel better, and maybe it does... for them. For me, all cortisone cream does is take the itch away so that I can feel only pain. "Burning" and "stinging" sensations are on-the-warning-label common side effects of cortisone cream, and I feel both. I'm left with the choice is to scratch myself to death or self-immolate like a Vietnamese war protestor. Thank you, medical science.

I've always had a problem with poison ivy. As a child, I believed it must be contagious, and for many years after, I believed that the rash spread through the bloodstream. In about 2010, a very grumpy doctor finally convinced me that "contact dermatitis" can only result from surface contact with the irritant, but that only deepens the mystery of how I get rashes where I get them. Last month it was on my scalp. It was ugly; even Sitting Bull wouldn't have taken it.

My current worst rash spot is right on my belt line, which makes makes the socially-approved custom of wearing pants feel like something out of the Spanish Inquisition. My solution, obviously, is to not wear pants, which would only be acceptable if I lived in a society that still killed criminals with hemlock. I have a rare, in-person meeting scheduled for this tomorrow. Boy, are they going to be surprised.

If the march of human history is leading us to a global warming heat death, bring it on. So long as all the world's vegetation dies with us, great! I hate poison ivy.

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Google suggested that I would like to read an online article titled "People are less satisfied with their marriage when their partner is not interested in social interactions, study finds." That's not a very interesting headline, is it? But I did click on it, if only to see if I could learn why some scientist was studying the obvious. I still don't know.

What I did learn is the term "social anhedonia," which Wikipedia defines as "a disinterest in social contact and a lack of pleasure in social situations." WebMD puts it even more plainly: "You don't want to spend time with other people." That's why I love WebMD; it's talking directly to me!

I'm sure there's a spectrum for this social anhedonia — extreme cases are apparently linked to schizophrenia, which the voices in my head tell me I don't have — but I'm certainly on it somewhere. There's a reason I'm typing this in a basement in an otherwise empty house in the middle of the night.

I do enjoy spending limited amounts of time with friends, but "limited" is a key word in that sentence. I am keenly aware of my distaste for social interaction, and that self-awareness is a key part of why I am not interested in getting married. (I also don't much care for being touched by other people, which is apparently something psychiatrists call "physical anhedonia." Who knew?)

There have been other studies that say that married people live longer. People who spend time with friends live longer. People who are awake while the sun up live longer. In other words, people unlike me live longer. But if I have to be married, spend time with people, and wake up with the sunrise, why would I want to live any longer than I have to? That's not a reward, that's punishment.

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