I have bought a new fedora.

And blogged to such effect, herein!

(Huzzah.)

 

 

You can find more at his website. All equally awesome.

(And, yes, as a comics fan, my first thought was "Cool! The Question!")

And "paranormal" is defined as "stuff that is totally NOT normal"...

"Normalnoia" is defined as "the perfectly rational belief that someone is out to get you".

As in "Ever since that serial killer moved in next door, he's had a real case of normalnoia."

Not to be confused with that old chestnut, "You're not paranoid if they're really out to get you." If they're out to get you, but there's no real reason to suspect it, you're still being paranoid. You're just paranoid and lucky.

You're only being normalnoid if (a) you think they're out to get you, and (b) they're out to get you, and (c) the reasons why they're out to get you are inherently obvious.

Another example: You may be normalnoid if you are a klansman dancing the funky chicken on stage at the NAACP Image Awards.

Mental health experts are still researching the possible existence of normalnoid schizophrenics -- people beset by a mental illness that causes them to hear voices in their head that precisely correspond to the thoughts that people are contemporaneously thinking about about them.

If you should encounter any of these normalnoid schizophrenics (or "X-Men" for short), please invite them to join your special school and train them to fight supervillains and/or intolerance.

And/or chicken-dancing klansmen.

So... Um... Now what?

Look, I'm not any happier than you about where we are right now. We seem to have handed the political debate in this country over to the most hysterical elements of the Regressive Right.

And last I checked, they lost ten months ago.

You can blame the Obama administration all you want, but that won't get us equal rights or energy independence or universal health care.

So let's be practical. Why did Obama win last November:

1. he's awesome
   
2. we worked our butts off for him

We raised money. We organized. We showed up. We were, to borrow a phrase, both fired up and ready to go.

And, yes, we elected a President. Yay, us! But then what did we do? Well, not much.

The big fights are still ahead of us. But a general can't win a war without his army behind him.

So this is what I propose:

Whatever you did during the election, you do it again on health care.

Did you donate some money? Did you attend a rally? Did you go door to door? Did you wear a button or a T-shirt or put up a sign in your front yard?

Did you simply take a loved one aside and tell them, “This one matters”?

Whatever part you played, however big or small, it's time to play it again.

The grass roots movement in support of Barack Obama during the 2008 election was the largest, most successful grass roots movement in human history. We can do it again.

It's time to show the Discordant Barkers of the Right what Sixty-Two Million Part Harmony sounds like.

Remember: Whatever you did, do it again.

Yes, we can.

[Please feel free to link to or repost this message anywhere and everywhere. If you tweet on this, please use the hash tag #yeswecanagain.]

• This wknd office moving uptown; tomorrow I will climb tiny go-nowhere ladder in office hall to ceiling; terrified/excited.
  
• This Saturday National Drew Cleans Apt Day. To participate, exist as I get off butt and clean.
  
• Think @pennjillette wants to tax people living on poverty line at some rate as Bill Gates. WTF?
  
• Mmmmmmmmm, this is good soup!
  
• "So You Think You Can" is a trending topic! Yay! It's my favorite train-based reality comedy too!!!

(Sotomayor's family is Puerto Rican.)

The rhetoric from right-wing Conservatives is that Sotomayor's minority status will bias her rulings. This claim is based largely on a lecture Sotomayor gave in 2001 in which she argued:

"[A] wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn't lived that life."

While the full text of her speech puts this claim in a broader context, the best way to understand how Sotomayor's feelings about race might influence her decisions is to look at previous decisions she's rendered from the bench.

Today, we will examine her dissenting opinion in the famous U.S. Court of Appeals Second Circuit case "Jets v. Sharks."

(Cue overture.)

In her exhaustive 152 minute opinion, Judge Sotomayor addresses many hot-button issues, never shirking from speaking directly to her own cultural roots or even taking her native Puerto Rico to task when necessary, as when she advises:

"Puerto Rico, my heart’s devotion. Let it sink back in the ocean. Always the hurricanes blowing. Always the population growing. And the money owing."

A harsh critique indeed, though it should be pointed that she is equally harsh to the United States, as when she argues:

"Everywhere grime in America. Organized crime in America. Terrible time in America."

Underlying all of this negativity is a hint of xenophobia. At one point in her opinion, Sotomayor cautions young Puerto Rican women to choose "one of your own kind, stick to your own kind."

Surely the Gingriches and Limbaughs of the world will jump on this sentiment and label it "reverse-racist," but this does not take into account the full context of Sotomayor's opinion.

Elsewhere in the text, she provides what can only be described as a stirring, soaring vision of unity between the races:

"Make of our lives one life. Day after day, one life. Now it begins. Now we start. One hand, one heart."

And in another passage, she provides a penetrating analysis of defense council's arguments:

"She thinks she's in love. She thinks she's in Spain. She isn't in love. She's merely insane. It must be the heat or some rare disease. Or too much to eat or maybe it's fleas."

Yes, maybe it is fleas. A great judge must consider all possibilities before rendering a verdict.

Sotomayor's opinion also touches on several other hot-button issues of the day including partial-birth abortion...

"A boy like that wants one thing only, and when he's done, he'll leave you lonely. He'll murder your [unborn baby at some point during your final trimester]."

Gay marriage...

"I feel pretty. Oh, so pretty, I feel pretty, and witty and gay. And I pity any girl who [can't legally marry another girl and receive all the same rights and protections as afforded to a straight couple under federal law]."

Detainee rights...

"Today the minutes seem like hours, the hours go so slowly, and [because of this Jack-Bauer-esque "ticking clock" scenario, I am forced to waterboard you]."

And flag burning...

"[I, Judge Sotomayor, am opposed to flag burning], tonight!"

As previously indicated, Judge Sotomayor's was the dissenting opinion on this case. In the majority opinion, then federal judge Anton Scalia concluded:

"In the opinion on this court, this child is depraved on account he ain't had a normal home."

Well said.

One other point of order: I would be remiss in my blig-bloggery if I did not weigh in on the plagiarism charges that have long dogged Sotomayor's "Jets v. Sharks" opinion.

After reading both opinions, it's clear that "Jets v. Sharks" is intended as an homage (repeat: homage) to Justice Shakespeare's landmark "Capulets v. Montagues."

 
(My sincere apologies to the nominee and to all Puerto Ricans everywhere ever, including all my neighbors here in Spanish Harlem.)

(West Side Story is now playing on Broadway.)

Not to be confused with boycotting ("not buying stuff on principle") or manicotti ("a delicious stuffed pasta").

Used in a sentence: "I will be mancotting AMC's fake IMAX screens from now on, not because I'm upset with their business practices, but because they're a major rip-off."

Mancotting is strictly superior to boycotting, because:

1. it indicates a harsh but essential understanding of the need for moral compromise in this sad, tumultuous world

2. it totally has the word "man" in it

I walk down Prince Street to get there, where I recently discovered the Kidrobot store. (The website verges on pretentious, but the storefront is unapologetically nifty.)

I also discovered a peculiar series of signs labeled "DANGER HOLLOW SIDEWALK." Ha ha ha! Isn't that cute? "DANGER HOLL--" Wait? WHAT???

And, in my experience, "DANGER" is a not-good thing to be murky about.

Now, despite the signs, plenty of people were walking on the metal part of the sidewalk, and they seemed to be doing so relatively untroubled. And thanks to some cautious testing, I can tell you that these hollow sidewalks felt plenty sturdy to me. I certainly didn't feel en"DANGER"ed.

Don't get me wrong. I can certainly envision some potential "DANGER"s of hollow sidewalks:

• Pianos dropped from a great height would be more likely to break through them.

• Sonic disrupter weapons might have an enhanced "echo effect" if targeted in their direction.

• Weepy poets might use the sidewalks as a ham-fisted metaphor to express the bitter soullessness of a world no longer capable of excepting honesty or beauty without cynicism.

All terrible. But what are the odds of any of these things actually happening? (Okay, aside from the poets. That's probably happened already.)

In other words, "Sign-schmign! I want to know what sort of DANGER I'm actually in!!!"

And I'm forced to conclude: None. Because if there was any real danger (and not just "DANGER"), then it would be spelled out:

• "DANGER DON'T JUMP UP AND DOWN ON THE HOLLOW SIDEWALK."

• "DANGER DON'T WEAR HIGH-STRENGTH ELECTROMAGNETS WHILE WALKING OVER METAL."

• "DANGER STEER CLEAR OF POETS."

In reality, the sign isn't so much pointing out a serious danger as it's pointing out a situation that, combined with a finite number of other situations that may or may not ever occur, might or might not result in some danger to someone, someday, maybe.

In the pantheon of signs, this one doesn't even rise to the level of "DANGER SLIPPERY WHEN WET." Rather, it's the sidewalk equivalent of a roadside sign that warns passing drivers:

• "DANGER EVENTS INVOLVING CARS."

(Unless I fall through a hollow sidewalk and die tomorrow, in which case, fair enough, I totally had that coming.)

But everything else? Every other shock, twist, and revelation?

Ka-spoilered.

That said, I'm still really, really excited about this movie. Not because I have any particular attachment to Star Trek, but because I'm a huge, huge, HUGE fan of Mission: Impossible III.

No, seriously.

That said, it is also true that I am a massive geek, and I do have one massive geek bone to pick with JJ Abrams. (That sounded less icky in my head.) Now personally, I don't care about the angle of the ship's nacelles or how many digits should proceed the decimal in a Federation Star Date or even whether the insignia for the Reliant is the same as the insignia for the Enterprise.

(ANSWER KEY: 37º/5/NO!)

What I do care about (in a pretend-funny-outraged way) are the sideburns...

Who's got two thumbs and crazy triangular sideburns? This guy:

 

 

(And also those other two guys, flanking.)

The original idea behind the sideburns, if I'm remembering correctly, was that Roddenbury wanted crazy futuristic hair for everyone, but his cast was all concerned with not looking stupid.

And so it was that out of this creative tension, an exciting new hairportunity presented itself! For theirs was a bold vision of the future, in which the interior angles of each sideburn would ever total 180 degrees!

*Ahem* Anyway...

I don't know whether the triangular sideburns in original Trek were real or not, but I remember seeing a clip on Access: Hollywood once where one of the guys from Voyager revealed that his were paste-ons.

So what's the contravery with triangular sideburns in the new movie? Well, we can clearly see that Zachary Quinto's Spock is rockin' the isosceles burns:

 

 

But what about Chris Pine's Kirk?

 

 

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

I haven't checked the full crew, but it appears that JJ has deemed triangular sideburns "too weird for humans." (Or possibly "too logical for humans?")

A contraversial position to be sure, but as this is the director of M:I:III we're talking about, I must concede to his better judgment...

A half hour after sunset, Red Dave shambles through the door with the paper sign that reads “Mort Finkelstein DDS.” He is inconsolable. The lights are out, and because this is not really Dr. Finkelstein’s office, there is no one at the front desk.

Red Dave is pale, thin, dressed in all black, making no effort to conceal his vampire-ness. He finds Dr. Finkelstein--“Call me Mort.”--in Exam 3.

Mort is short, stocky, Jewish, and brownish-green from rot. He may be some kind of a zombie. No one is too sure.

Red Dave grumbles, sits down. He is not in physical pain, but his pride is wounded. “I was in a fight,” he explains. “Some macho nothing, trying to defend his girl. He took a swing at me. Hard.”

Red Dave massages his jaw, remembers.

“It was like in the movies. I spit out a tooth. Except...”

Mort smiles politely, pulls a surgical mask over his yellowed teeth. To make his point, Red Dave opens up his mouth wide, comically wide, like only a vampire’s mouth will open.

He is missing a fang.

“What kind of vampire only has one fang? It’s embarrassing. I was... uneven. Blood kept trickling out the corner of my mouth the whole time I was feeding. By the end I was so frustrated, I almost didn’t finish the girlfriend.”

Mort sticks his crumbly dead finger into Red Dave’s mouth, feeling where the tooth broke. “There’s enough that I can file it down, attach a falsey if you like.”

“A falsey? A false what? A false tooth? A false fang? Because a real fang is magic. Changes back and forth. I can’t seduce my prey with a false fang hanging out.” He simulates with a finger. “And I can’t keep feeding with just the one. This is your specialty. Don’t you have some voodoo so I can regrow it properly? Or a magic tooth to change back and forth?”

“Well, no. No voodoo. No magic teeth, unfortunately. But…” Mort considers. “There is a set solution for this sort of problem. Fairly common. Routine even... But I’m going to have to strap you down.”

Red Dave nods. He wants his new fang already. Mort reaches down and pulls three thick leather belts from his bag, straps Red Dave down tight across the wrists, ankles, chest.

He lets out a half-cough, half-chuckle.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. It’s just...” Mort does it again. Wheezes. “I had a vampire come in with this exact same problem, last week.”

“And you fixed him?” Red Dave asks, hopeful. “You got him a new fang?”

“Yes.” Mort reaches back into his bag, pulls out a steak. “But it took an entire week.”

I should say that I have a natural aversion to RFIs (Recurring Forced Interactions), be they with receptionists, security guards, deli clerks, or guys who sell you newspapers. If I have to talk to you every day, it's going to start to wear on me after awhile, because -- even if you're the nicest person in the world (i.e. Jim Gillstein of Blue Ridge, North Dakota) -- there's going to come a day when I don't feel like talking.

And he doesn't speak very much English, but we seem to have come to an understanding. (That understanding being, when I give him money, he gives me a copy of The Daily News.) And it's gotten to the point where he will hand me a paper as soon as I walk up to him.

And it's a fine system when it works. I give him 50 cents. He gives me a newspaper. I go to work. Easy. No small talk, which as I've made clear earlier, is a plus.

But then there are the days that things don't go as planned. There are the days that he starts flagging me down when I'm half a block away to indicate that he's out of The Daily News. To be sure I understand him properly, I mouth the words "Wha Zuh?" He'll then continue to flap his arms until I cross over to the bodega across the street and get my paper there.

But if I'm running late, and I assume he's out of The Daily News, and cross the street preemptively, he'll get all flustered. Or if I come too late, and he's gone, he may growl at me the next morning, "Where you be? I save! Waited ten minutes!"

And I can't really respond to that because, as mentioned earlier, he speaks no English. Well, now that I'm thinking about it, I guess he knows the words "where," "you," "be," "I," "save," "waited," "ten," and "minutes."

Mainly, I don't like talking to people.

And heaven forbid I decide to not buy a newspaper on a particular day. Say, if I want to read a book instead. Or maybe I'm so drunk that the very thought of reading is going to make my eyes bleed. (Does that happen? I don't drink that much.) I'd have to sneak past him!

And he has eyes like a hawk. Once he chased after me with a paper (probably thinking I forgot). And if I pretend I have no money, he spots me the 50 cents.

The big jerk.

And so this morning I decided, if I ever want to stop buying the newspaper, I'm just going to have to move. Or leave my house at 3 in the morning. Or...

*shudder*

...have a conversation.

Stoopid RFIs.

You can follow my outbursts via the feed in the left hand nav or directly at http://www.twitter.com/drewmelbourne.com.

If this goes well, I may consider starting a Facebook page. Or buying a VCR.