"You know the world is off tilt, when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, the tallest basketball player is Chinese, and Germany doesn't want to go to war."

Charles Barkley

Memo to Comedy Central: It's not really a good idea to follow a commercial for Phone Booth with an ad for Crank Yankers.

That is all.

Is it bad when you take a leak and chunks come out?

I'm just asking. For a friend.

Forgive me, but I'm going to let my Pink Floyd Freak flag fly. You see, I am currently listening to the 30th anniversary re-release of Dark Side of the Moon on hybrid SACD/CD with my pricey Denon headphones. I don't have a SACD player, but right now I really, really wish I did. This CD mix is the clearest I've ever heard in my life. Absolutely stunning. If the multi-channel SACD is this good, it'll be mind-blowing.

I know a lot of people hate these re-re-re-releases, but this one has a lot more going for it than some of the others. For one thing, it's a hybrid CD, meaning that you get the added value of a regular CD layer for your casual listener, and a 5.1 surround mix that reviewers are calling the best surround mix ever put to disc. (My only disappointment is that they didn't use some of the extra elements from the quad mix, like the extra guitar solo bits, instead "merely" spreading out the stereo mix.)

But this is phenomenal. This album sounds like it could have been recorded yesterday. I heard reverb on Us & Them that I've never heard before. The sound effects are clearer than ever. I'm hearing details of Dave's famous palm mute that I had no idea were there. I am pretty sure I can hear Dave singing scat accompaniment during with his Any Colour You Like solo.

A few weeks ago, I was drooling over a Denon dual SACD/DVD-Audio player the other day, but it runs something like $1500. There's a cheapo dual player by APEX, I think, but reportedly it sucks eggs. I hope the prices come down soon. My resistance is melting.

Man, nothing like a night on the town, seeing all the gorgeous women you're not dating to slap your ego down a few pegs. Not that I had a chance anyway. It was an open mic night at a local bar, and women just don't go to those things single. Unless they're going to perform. Plus, there's always someone performing, which makes it hard to approach someone and start a conversation. Not really the environment for meeting people...

Excuses, excuses...

The archives appear to be fixed. Sorry.

And now, it's time for the blow-by-blow OscarBlog:

Sure, that People-Who've-Had-Sex-With-Steve Brady Bunch thing ran a tad slow, but it had a nice payoff. God help me, I'm not gay, but if for some unknown reason Steve wanted to sleep with me, I'd have a hell of a time saying no. The man's a god.

(Though, c'mon Steve. I must've heard that "if you want a transcription, just write down everything we say" joke a dozen times before.)

And now, on a decidedly more heterosexual bent, Jennifer Connelly's lips should be classified as a hypnotism agent. I would watch nothing else but them for as long as they'd let me.

These have to be the worst, least funny award intros ever. Cameron Diaz sounded bored. Ms. Connelly probably did too, but I was too mesmerized by her lips. I know they're trying to be somber, but c'mon... If these were any dryer, the teleprompter would crumble.

The animated film award first? Oookay. I thought they gave out the one of the supporting actor things first. Maybe they're trying to placate the people upset over the digitally animated actor from Lord of the Rings snub. Nice choice of Swept Away, though. Or so I'm told. (Last animated movie I saw was Monsters Inc., and the last one before that, it was probably the better part of a decade ago.)

I really hate it when they turn up the music on the winners. Very tacky. Especially when there's two or more people accepting awards. Shouldn't they get twice the time? They never do that to the big stars.

And here we have Catherine Zeta Jones, 8 & 1/2 months pregnant, and tanner than George Hamilton. I hope you can't transmit skin cancer to a fetus.

What the hell is this? Flashback to ten minutes ago? We just saw Chris Cooper win, guys. Do they think we all have the same memory disease as that guy from Memento?

I like how JC Penney's song proudly states "I'm just your average Jane, I'm super but not a model" over shots of women who are not one but definitely the other.

Apparently this is the year to use Simon & Garfunkel songs in commercials.

ABC News breaks in with The Downer Report.

Mickey Mouse on stage and they cut to Scorsese, who somehow looks ashamed.

Ladies and gentlemen, from the hit movie Daredevil, Jennifer Garner's breasts!

Where does one go to see theatrical shorts these days? I guess you have to be an Academy member...

Adrien Brody brought Anne Bancroft as his date?

Ladies and gentlemen, Quentin Tarantino's ex-girlfriend! Remember, Mira: This is live. No do-overs.

Chicago wins again. No one is surprised.

Brendan Fraser. Allegedly bald as a baby's taint. Nice toup, though, if that's true.

I dunno. Those Lord of the Rings guys look pretty fake to me. The computer generated ones, I mean. Haven't seen the movie, so I can't comment on Sean Astin. Still, can't be as bad as the flesh-and-blood actors in Attack of the Clones, though.

ABC's new show with the guy from City Slickers looks awful. I'm starting to (grudgingly) see why people find reality TV so appealing. (Not that I would ever watch any, but still...)

Speaking of hairlessness, here's Paul Simon. I always wondered how Paul went from losing his hair in the 70s to having a full head in the 80s and then losing it again in the 90s. I can probably guess, but I prefer the mystery.

I think whoever gave Salma the unibrow in Frida should win the Oscar for makeup. So I guess her parents then.

This is the first time Sean Connery's ever seemed old to me.

Connery introducing footage of (among other things) a woman getting slapped. How ironic. In an Alanis kind of way, of course.

Another flashback to ten seconds ago. The Oscars for people with ADD.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Yoko Ono of the Black Crowes!

Zellweger, the woman too shy to sing the song from her movie, apparently isn't too shy to present an award. Maybe now would be a good time to start rumors that that's not really her singing voice in the movie...

The music guy from Salma Hayek's Frida: "To be around all these talented women..." Heh. "Talent" used to be code amongst my college roommates for "busty." Pretty obvious code, I know, but still... Here it seems apropos.

I could go a lifetime without ever having to hear Ethel Merman again. Except in Airplane, of course.

And Miss Piggy makes her second Oscar appearance tonight. They should just give in and let her host.

Nothing like dog murder to get a laugh.

Two hours down, three to go...

The new Bachelor. Oh joy.

Ed Norton is officially the luckiest man alive.

As a double nominee, apparently Julianne Moore can take her time getting to the podium. Why do they design those stages so long?

My prediction: This is not going to be Spider-Man's big night. I know I'm going out on a limb there.

We all know we're going to be here for hours. Is it really too much to cut down on self-congratulatory montages and give the sound guys a few extra seconds?

Apparently so.

That guy from Y Tu Mama Tambien just gave the most heartfelt introduction of the evening. He must be a great actor. I give him a year before he's blowing up things in a big, dumb American action film.

"MasterCard: Accepted everywhere dogs are." What, like other dogs' asses?

I knew I'd get sick of that Sharon Stone AOL commercial quick. It's only been two times and I'm officially tired of it. Only that stupid jeans commercial with the buffalo comes close to being as idiotic.

And now back to the Downer Report...

(In all seriousness, God bless the troops.)

Ever notice how, in every appearance after Boys Don't Cry was released, Hilary Swank has gone out of her way to emphasize her bust? Not that that's hard, or I'm complaining.

Speaking of downers, we bring you best picture nominee The Hours, underwritten by the makers of Prozac.

Sigh... Diane Lane. I broke down and bought a used copy of Unfaithful today. I couldn't help myself. The woman has a spell on me.

Wow. Michael Moore won. There was quite a backlash predicted, but it's nice to see him pull it off. Classy move bringing the fellow documentary nominees on stage.

Spoke too soon about the classy bit.

Who was booing? The cameras certainly didn't show it. Instead they give us a stone-faced Lou Gossett. Huh?

Speaking of booing, Jack Valenti... I'm tempted to download a movie just to spite him. And I have a dialup connection.

Finally, Julia Roberts gives us a funny award intro speech. And Kathy Bates follows it up with another good one. Did they just run out and hire Bruce Vilanch in a panic?

Conrad L. Hall wins. Good. The man was brilliant, and it's a tragedy he's gone. Still, maybe now I can finally keep straight Conrad L. and Conrad W.

Huh. Never seen the engraved base of an Oscar before.

Someone should get a court injuction to stop Led Zeppelin from selling any more songs for commercials. And Celine too, while they're at it.

8 Simple Rules for Dating My Daughter just stole a plot from a Saturday Night Live sketch about a mother and daughter appearing in Girls Gone Wild.

Ladies and gentleman, the guy who poked Britney! (No, not Fred Durst.)

Did Bono just shout "Halle Halle" a few times in the middle of his song?

Welcome the poster child for Oscar-Killing-Your-Career, Geena Davis!

Chicago wins again; again, no one surprised.

Ladies and gentlemen, the star of Children of Dune!

Ah! Time for the tearjerker montage!

I always find myself wondering how the kids of the people who don't get much applause in these memorial montages feel.

Hey! Charles Guggenheim! Believe it or not, I met him. Before he died, of course. He came to my film class once in college. My fellow students were underwhelmed, though. "Documentaries? Whupity shit."

I'm not a butt guy (what do you expect? I'm white), so the appeal of Shakira is lost on me.

You know, I bet the montage of People-You-Thought-Were-Dead would be quite a crowd pleaser.

Who's Nicholas Cage's date? Supposedly he wanted to bring a girl who was something like 15 years his junior, possibly as a show of solidarity with Polanski. The camera didn't show us.

Brody wins. Probably because no one from Chicago was nominated.

I take that Ed Norton thing back: Adrien Brody is now the luckiest man alive. Too bad we didn't get a reaction shot from Halle's husband.

Just the mention of Polanski gets applause. Is this foreshadowing?

Brody gets the Julia Roberts Award for Shutting Up the Band.

And the classiest peace message award. Michael Moore take note.

That low-angle shot of Dustin Hoffman makes him look like a Hobbit.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and bet that Streisand isn't going to give an award to Eminem.

Wow, was I wrong.

Well, not entirely wrong. She didn't actually give him the award...

Meryl has always bugged me. Maybe it's the fact that, like Nicholson or DeNiro, she so often (in my opinion) veers off into overacting. Maybe it's the Celine-Dion-greatest-seengar-in-thay-woorld air she gives off. Or maybe it's just me.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Peter O'Keep-Your-Honorary-Oscar-Okay-I've-Changed-My-Mind-Toole.

I wish I had that accent.

Nothing warms my heart more than seeing a cinematic classic pillaged for a Sierra Mist commercial.

Ah, Denzel. Another actor whose off-screen persona tends to outshine his on-screen acting. And he's not above making bad jokes. Perhaps he's preparing for his own version of Boat Trip.

The ex-Mrs. Tom Cruise wins an Oscar. Too late, Tom, you can't claim it in the divorce.

Steve seems more scripted and slightly stiffer than usual. Reports have him (understandably) nervous at hosting. His failure to pull-off a quick off-the-cuff retort to the interruption of his monologue was disappointing.

Do we really need a montage of Academy Presidents? What's next? A tribute to guys who run the teleprompters?

Ladies and gentlemen, Barbara Bush! Oh, sorry... Olivia de Havilland.

Didn't they do the bleachers-full-of-surviving-Oscar-winners last year?

Speaking of People-You-Thought-Were-Dead: Ernest Borgnine.

The guy from West Side Story looks like a wax statue.

So not only do these actors get their awards during their year, but they get to come back every subsequent year for accolades and applause? No wonder these people live four years longer than the losers...

Sir Ben Kingsley? They knighted Don Logan? When did that happen?

Uh oh. Karl Malden's making Kirk Douglas look healthy...

Huh. Uncle Ben won an Oscar.

Jon Voight was on hand, looking grizzled, but daughter Angelina Jolie is nowhere in sight. Maybe she's too busy being creepy.

Apparently some of Woody Allen's proclivities rubbed off on Tiffani Thiessen, judging by that McDonald's commercial.

I might have to watch Lost at Home just for the rack on the mom.

Just give Chicago the Oscar already.

I hope the made-up guy wins the screenplay Oscar.

Guess not. Heck of a night for the Pianist. Proving once again that Hollywood loves the Holocaust like Germans love Hasselhoff.

Pedro Almodovar has Wolverine hair.

You know, Al Bundy just doesn't cut it as Joe Friday for me.

"Star of blockbusters like the Indiana Jones trilogy and The Fugitive..." I wonder if Harrison Ford asked them not to mention Star Wars.

Harrison looks baked.

Polanski wins, proving that Hollywood not only loves the Holocaust, but also statuatory rapists. Maybe they could make a movie next year about both and win all the Oscars.

Even in his current state, Kirk Douglas could still kick your ass.

Best Picture already? I almost hate to say it, but that was quick...

And Chicago wins, and a crowd full of actors tries to act shocked, as per the script. And with that, Harvey Weinstein officially becomes King of the World, purchasing the title from a down-and-out James Cameron for an outrageous sum of money; Harvey somehow reminds me of Tony Soprano of the film world: "Nice movie industry you got here. Be a real shame if anything... happened to it."

Cut to Chad Lowe, not weeping like an infant this time. I think it's safe to say that's the only time he'll ever be associated with a Best Picture.

Lowe was the one who yelled out the reminder for the producer to thank his wife. An Oscar heckler. What a concept.

What, no re-run of Chicago winning before the credits? How will we remember who won?

All in all, the least memorable ceremony in years, I'd say. Except for Jennifer's lips, that is.

Aaaaand... scene!

It's 6:15 AM here. I'm up after approximately three hours of sleep. This is after my attempt yesterday to reset my internal clock by staying up for 36 hours. Which didn't go so well. So far, the whole thing is turning out miserably.

I can't take Tylenol PM because it seems to be causing some unfortunate side-effects, and plus the reset only seems to be temporary when I do that anyway. Yesterday I managed to stay up until about noon before passing out and sleeping five hours. I can't do that today because I think I'm supposed to go to an Oscar party.

Bah.

I could stay in bed and try to force myself to sleep, but that seems pointless, doesn't it? Instead, I'm going to stay up and eat Raisin Bran and donuts and watch TV. Which could wind up making me regular and either sleepy, hyper or violent. Possibly all four simultaneously.

Now there's a mental image.

News: Patrick Keller has been selected to write Jackass: The Comic for the newly formed MTV Comix Co.. More later.

Yes, we're at war. Wanna know how I know? I mean, besides the fact that it's on every single television station constantly? How's this for a big, fat clue:



Protesters are running around Portland, blocking bridges -- including Burnside, the main thoroughfare through town -- and an interstate or two. Look, I sympathize, folks. I think this is a stupid and bungled war, too, but you're not going to win any fans that way. Blocking streets isn't going to do anything but piss off the people who already disagree with you, and screw up the lives of people who need to get around.

But then I've been on the fence over this thing the whole time anyway. I despise Bush, but he's not murdering his own people or subjecting them to torture near on the scale of this Saddam guy. This article at Salon (subscription or ad click-through required) offers a leftie's take on why, while Bush's attempts at justifying this war were terrible, the war itself might not be. Things could have been done better, but they're done now, so we have to deal with that.

And believe me, I have plenty at stake here. My best friend since the fourth grade, Captain Zack Irvine (sorry -- that's the best link I could find), is somewhere over there with the Army Medical Corps, and I know his parents are frightened to death. (Which reminds me, I should give them a call.)

But back to the protesters (and I'm done with the proselytizing). It was sheer luck, but after a trip to return some overpriced CDs to Best Buy (generally, I can find things much cheaper here, except I have to wait for them, so often I'll buy something here and return an internet copy to the store later -- I know... bad consumer! Bad!), I was on the way to drop my friend James downtown when the CD in the stereo ended and I happened to turn on the radio. (Man... long paragraph. Sorry.) It was like one of those movies where, by sheer coincidence (yeah, right), they turn on the radio just in time to hear a very relevant news bulletin (as Crow on MST3K put it once, "You're listening to K-PLOT..."): The annoucer told us (well, the listening audience, anyway -- he wasn't speaking directly to James and I, I don't think...) that the protests had shut down the Burnside Bridge, which was the very one we had decided to take into town.

We found an alternate route, which, in spite of construction and some traffic, was clear. We had, in fact, decided not to take this route earlier for these very reasons. How very ironic. I dropped James off at the venue and, since I was in town, headed to Powell's, the world's greatest book store, to waste some time. While sitting in the coffee shop, eating a cookie, I heard a commotion. Or rather, what I heard was the barista telling her coworker to call security. This pricked up my ears, as I thought it meant someone was shoplifting or something. Instead, I discovered that a small Asian woman who was standing by some nearby stacks had collapsed. She already had some people attending to her, so I just finished my cookie and looked on. She said she didn't have epilepsy or diabetes, though the latter probably would have made this woman who was sitting near me happy. You know the type: They have one useful bit of experience or information, and they insist upon trying to shoe-horn it into whatever crisis pops up. Hers was diabetes. "Are there any sugar packets around?" She asked loudly. Even after being told the woman wasn't diabetic, she insisted upon relating the entire backstory of her expertise with diabetes. Naturally, being a Midwesterner, I listened politely and smiled while gritting my teeth.

But back to the woman. She finally said that she simply felt nauseous, which didn't seem too alarming to me until I remembered one thing: The deadly "flumonia" virus that's going around. Sure, she may just have regular flu or even be pregnant, but there was no way for me to know what was going on. Maybe it was her race and her broken English that made me uneasy, seeing as how all these infections came from Hong Kong. Or maybe it was all that being in a big public place, stuffing food in my maw near a woman who collapsed right after a MONTH of strep infections that suddenly made me feel very uneasy. Or all of it. Regardless, I bought my swag (bought these
two, if you must know) and left. Quickly.

But not before giving directions to the paramedics. Good deed for the day: Check.

Also of note, I'm writing again. A friend of mine on Instant Messenger asked me out of the blue if I was writing anything lately, which could either mean that she was genuinely curious or that she's been reading this here GernLog. If it's the latter, hiya. But honestly, I have no idea if anyone even reads this. If you do, hell, drop me a line. And, if you're not, obviously, don't.

As for what I'm writing, well, it's all secret for now. Don't want to jinx myself.

Oh, but before I go, a plug:

Yeah, I'm a nerd. But admit it, you know you want this, too.

The honey in it had crystalized, so I put my honey bear in a pan of water and set it to simmer a bit. Thirty minutes later, he's kinda deformed and now appears somewhat Down's Syndrome-y.

The honey's edible though.

I really don't know what to make of the world when fish suddenly start talking in Hebrew.

This has been an... odd week. Since this seems to be the norm for me, odd weeks that is, I suppose that would mean it's been a normal week. Fun with contradictions, I guess. It's like the Steven Wright joke about an argument at the roulette table over what he considers an odd number.

What I marvel at, though, is how little I actually managed to accomplish. I slept a lot, so there's that. It hardly seems like an accomplishment, in spite of the one semi-lucid dream I managed to have after reading an article on that subject. Not to mention seeing a particularly hilarious episode of Ed about that as well. So there's that, too: I watched some teevee, read a lot and slept a good deal. Oh, and I cooked.

A short list of some things I did not do: Practice the programs I'm supposed to be learning for my PNCA classes; job hunt in any significant volume; meet new people and/or socialize; and, most worrisome, write. Diddly on that front.

One thing that many writers will tell you is that we love doing research. What we hate is actually writing. (The fact that I'm writing an entry here is something of a miracle, though it does mean that I'm avoiding writing anything, you know, productive.) I've got all these ideas floating around, and I'll research them to death, but I don't seem able to actually commit them to paper (or screen, you know what I mean). Which means that they either take up more space in my mental inbox or disappear behind the old mental filing cabinet.

This metaphor is getting really stretched.

It's been a while since I wrote anything of any consequence. I suppose since I stopped columnizing, really. It's odd, though not unexpected, that I get a lot more done when I have a lot to do. At one point, I was working full-time, writing two weekly columns and one monthly one, and doing proposals on top of that. But with the regular gigs (by which I mean the columns and the job) went nealy all of the motivation and a lot of the ambition. I think quite often about how many people I must be letting down, up to and including myself. But I haven't a clue what to do about it. It occurred to me last night, right before I fell asleep, that I am like Wile E. Coyote when he's in a giant rubber band, pulled back and ready to launch: Full of potential energy but no direction (and surely headed for disaster).

I know I must sound horribly depressed, but surprisingly I'm not. After my prolonged illness and the mental toll that took, I am overjoyed to have my health (with one notable exception) back. I am generally in good spirits, at least when it comes to the mundane aspects of life. I enjoy cooking and experimenting with my meals. There's new episodes of West Wing now and then. I have lots of good books and music to catch up on. Still, as I just remembered: I am jogging regularly again, which feels good. It's nice to be making good on my vow that, if I can't be rich, I can be buff, and I finally found a charity that I'm interested in volunteering for, though I have not, as yet, contacted them. I guess I associate "depression" with the inescapable feeling of dread and anxiety, and for the most part I don't feel that, except when I spend too long looking at the classified jobs section. I'm still optimistic, even if reality sometimes disagrees with that assessment.

But the writing, or rather the lack thereof, really weighs on me. It's hard to call myself a writer without a twinge of guilt. A lot of it comes down to a lack of discipline. I have always been motivated by deadlines more than anything else, and there is a total dearth of them right now. The only options, then, to get myself moving is to commit to something or force myself to get on with it. I've tried the latter for too long now, I suppose it's time to do the former. I've got an iron in the fire to that end, but to really get it rolling requires some work on my part, and that, as I've ably demonstrated, is slow going. I suppose snowballs don't start rolling on their own.

Tonight, though, I went to see a sketch comedy group, and while they didn't have me rolling in the aisle like Mr. Show did, they were quite good. More important, it did serve as a reminder that there are goals I have that I've allowed to languish, and its time to do something about it. The only thing stopping me is myself, and I'm getting a little tired of resenting myself for my inactivity.

Speaking of which, it really is bedtime now.

Every day, it seems that another dire report about some unavoidable catastrophe in the near future comes along. This is nothing new, sure, like those occasional stray Armageddon-type asteroid reports, but what I'm referring to are reports like these:

The World Water Development Report has found the earth faces a double-whammy. Clean water supplies are on the decline while demand is growing dramatically at an unsustainable rate. By 2023, the report predicts that every person on the planet can expect their personal allocation of fresh water to have declined by a third. The impact will be worst for developing nations where clean water is already in critically short supply.

I'm wary of these for two reasons: One, they have a Chicken Little quality to the wording that has a way of not coming true (remember the forecasts in the seventies about oil supplies running out by now?), and this sort of attention-grabbing speculation is a good way for certain groups to make the news. Not that their concerns have no merit; we've known about the water problem for decades or more. But unfortunately, perhaps as a side-effect of the "impartial" news style we've evolved over the years, the reports rarely give any examples of what we, the readers, can do to head-off the problem.

Back when I was op/ed page editor at The Daily Iowan, that was one of the things I insisted my editorial writers do when they wrote about things like this: Give us something simple we can contribute, but make it simple. In this era of international terrorism and governments on the brink of war, it's enough to worry about stray nukes and al-Qaeda, to time your shower length may seem silly, though not impossible.

Still, what really concerns me about the apparent increasing frequency of these reports is that all the dates seem to converge about the same time: somewhere around 2030-2050, we're going to have a lot of massive problems on our hands. One article I read in Esquire says that around that time, given certain mathematical models of the rate of increasing computer power, a computer will have achieved sentience:

"The Singularity" occurs in that moment when computers become intelligent enough to upgrade themselves. Self-programming computers will have, argues Vinge, a learning curve that points straight up. In a very short time they will become transcendently intelligent and remodel civilization as they please. We might need to make a few adjustments.

Great. So now not only will we not have any water to drink, but we also have to worry about killer androids, too.