Blogging will happen today

Just had a few things come up this morning that have me running behind. Check back later for your usual dose of life-changing greatness from me.

There I go again, pulling my facetious muscle.

Whatever happened to the Bermuda Triangle?

No real reason for titling this post the way I did, other than the fact I'm watching "Airport '77," and the 747 the bad guys are hijacking was just referred to as entering the Triangle. Back in the seventies, you couldn't pick up a reputable newspaper (Enquirer, Star, etc.) without a reference to the Triangle. It was a big supernatural vortex where boats and planes disappeared quicker than free Foghat tickets. Then one day, I guess Erich von Daniken lost interest, and the Triangle was phenomenon non grata.

I'm saving the "Airport" movies for another post, though. Today, it's all about my favorite new show, "The Big Bang Theory." How exactly has this excellent comedy escaped my attention until a couple of weeks ago? I'm putting each and every one of you on report for not alerting me, and I'm noting in your permanent record that I was very, very disappointed in you. For shame.

I will share a tad of the blame, although in my defense, a healthy dose of cynicism at Hollywood's ability to turn out a decent comedy nowadays is a supremely defensible position. "Gary Unmarried," "The New Adventures of Old Christine"--well, I think I've made my point. I'll stipulate that "The Office" has generated chuckles at times, but I just can't get into it. I think it's the fact that it's taped without a live audience, and part of comedy is the danger of performing before a few hundred disapproving sets of eyes. (I know that comedies filmed before live audiences are edited, but that doesn't completely do away with the pressure of nailing a line. It's not like the actors can do take after take, like they can without an audience. Sooner or later, the folks from Iowa and Minnesota will grow weary of the continued re-takes.)

But "The BigBang Theory," which will henceforth be referred to as TBBT, has it all. Filmed in front of a live audience. References to things like Munchhausen's Trilemma.

Leonard: What do you mean, you're moving out? Why?

Sheldon: There doesn't have to be a reason.

Leonard: Yeah, there kinda does.

Sheldon: Not necessarily. This is a classic example of Münchhausen's Trilemma. Either the reason is predicated on a series of sub-reasons leading to an infinite regression, or it tracks back to arbitrary axiomatic statements, or it's ultimately circular, i.e. I'm moving out because I'm moving out.

Leonard: I'm still confused.

Sheldon: Leonard, I don't see how I could have made it any simpler.

Plus, there's the absolute persnickety genius perfection of Jim Parsons' Sheldon. When it comes to a person fitting the role, I have to go back to Don Knotts' Barney Fife to find a more perfect fit. He's preening and self-important, but he's also likable. Try pulling that off the next time you think your thespian chops are stout.

I despised "Roseanne" (the show, not the pers--never mind), so I only became aware of Johnny Galecki when I saw the criminally underappreciated "Suicide Kings." (Rent it. You'll love it.) He's perfect as the love-bumbling, brainy-but-approachable Leonard. He's like a younger George Costanza, if Costanza had had a heart. And a brain.

I'm less enamored of Simon Helberg's Howard Wolowitz or Kunal Nayyar's Rajesh Koothrappali, although both of them have their moments. And I'd prefer they ditch Sara Gilbert's Leslie Winkle completely. She seems completely out of her element in a brainy sitcom. (I know she graduated from Yale with honors, but those honors were in art. Not impressed.)

But the show truly won my heart when I heard things like Sheldon's statement that, "Like a modern-day Napoleon, I've been exiled to the Elba of the stairwell." Or Sheldon's correction of Penny's statement that he and Leonard had "a little misunderstanding" by saying, "No, Galileo and the Pope had 'a little misunderstanding.'" Who's writing these most excellent references, Dennis Miller? In a sea of sophomoric "humor" on television, it's beyond refreshing to see such genius.

Especially since that genius is swaddled in some weapons-grade stupidity on CBS' part. For one, they have just announced that they're moving the show from 7 p.m. central time on Mondays to 8:30 p.m. Way to hide the show, CBS. It's always great to slot a great show in the slot normally occupied by "Rules of Engagement."

Secondly, CBS has decided that a show geared toward geekery won't have full-length episodes posted online, only clips. Because there's no way that geeks in 2009 could ever find an alternative way to get those episodes. So instead of sitting down in front of a computer monitor and watching ads, those geeks will be torrenting episodes completely free of ads. Or so I hear. I personally have no idea how such things take place. Nope, not me.

Not gonna happen

Sorry, folks, but I quite simply don't have anything to say today. I could vomit up some words if I absolutely had to, but I'm running on fumes, and I'd rather pass on posting than waste your time. Hopefully, things will be better tomorrow. (Not that they're all that bad now. I'm just wasted, mentally.)

Let's hear it for my good friend, J.T.

That's my friend and fellow Samsonian, James "J.T. " Thomas, who laid a country-boy stomping on the "Survivor" field to win the $1,000,000 prize for being the sole survivor, as well as the $100,000 prize for being so doggone lovable. Man, when I think back on all the good times J.T. and I have had, fishing and hunting and just sitting around the campfire swapping stories, I can't help but mist up. I get especially misty when I remember how, when I'd advise J.T. to go on a reality show and win a million dollars with his charm and smarts, he'd say, "One of these days, Jim, I'm going to do that. I'm going to win a million dollars, and when I do, I'm going to share it with you, 50-50, because of your inspiration. You are the wind beneath my wings, Jim, and you know that. Shoot, I only go by J.T. because it sounds like J.D., in honor of you."

Okay, okay, that never happened. Truth be told, although I'm from the same area as J.T., and keep in mind that Samson only has about 2000 residents, I've never met him or heard of him until a cousin told me that a Samsonian was going to be on the show. (Reminds me of the joke I heard a long-forgotten comedian tell back in the eighties. He was from Canada, and whenever he'd tell anybody that, they'd go, "You're from Canada? Do you know Bob?")

But I figure my story is about as believable, and as grounded in truth, as plenty of the stories being told about J.T. now. The young man was already as likeable as Mike Rowe, and that was before he snagged $1.1 million, minus the inevitable monstrous whack the IRS will take out of those winnings. It's like the few zillion people who clearly remembered being present at Madison Square Garden when Wilt Chamberlain scored an NBA record 100 points, even if that game was actually played in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Prepare for a huge influx of new close friends, J.T.

Other than his winning the million plus, the best thing about last night's show was when Jeff Probst asked J.T. what he was going to do with the money, and he replied, "Hopefully, use it to make more money." This is one 24-year-old with his mind on the big picture. I hope I never read a report about how he's become the darling of the NYC club scene, or has begun dating a Kardashian. (I actually hope to never read a report of anybody dating a Kardashian.)

Throughout this season, I watched J.T. act more smoothly than iced Teflon. He buddied up to the right people, kept his mouth shut better than any contestant ever, and, no doubt, conned a few people with that good ol' boy persona. I don't mean that he's actually not nice. From what I've heard, he's supremely likable in real life. What I mean is that there were most likely some people who heard J.T. open his mouth, heard that slow-issuing Southern drawl, and figured there was a slow wit pushing out those syllables. During the final Tribal Council (and yes, I do feel pretty stupid typing that phrase), J.T. couldn't have been more down-home, "Aw, shucks" in his manner, while second-place Stephen Fishbach came off as a slick, fast-talking New Yorker. No wonder J.T. stomped a mudhole in Stephen, vote-wise, winning all the jury's votes (feel stupid typing that, too) in a 7-0 blowout. According to his bio, Fishbach is a corporate consultant, and he's only 29. I'm not saying that maybe he's gotten through a lot with some bovine feces skills, but...wait. That's exactly what I'm saying. And I think when the pressure's on, that bovine feces was exposed for what they are. It's like being friends with a car salesman. He might be a nice guy, but you still know that when the going gets tough, he's gonna make with the weasel words.

So now, I have no reality show vice. (Or reality show vise, either, ever since I broke my "The Amazing Race" bench vise cranking on that wagon wheel I never finished.) At least, I don't have a vice until the fall, when "Survivor: Samoa" premieres. With that title, I assume at least a few of the challenges will involve eating those killer Girl Scout cookies (if so, I would CRUSH my fellow competitors), or maybe pronouncing some of the vowel-heavy native names. I'll be counting the days.

All I need now is Ethel and Fred

Give me those two, and the "I Love Lucy" episode that has been my life the past few hours would be complete. Let me explain. Sorry, I mean, "'splain."

The Bat Signal goes out late yesterday afternoon that my superpower, reviewing music, is needed at WorkPlay. Jars of Clay are playing there, and unless I don my secret identity and review them, Gotham City South will remain ignorant of that performance's merits, or lack thereof. I assure Commissioner Gordon that I'm on the case, and head out to WorkPlay later that evening.

Just as I'm getting into downtown Birmingham, I notice that the temp gauge on the Batmobile is reading a little high. Almost a lot high, actually. But I don't have a whole lot of time before the concert starts, so I park the Batmobile and go inside.

After the very good concert is over (full review to follow once it's published), I dash to the Batmobile, jump in, start it up, and head back to the Batcave. I know that turning the heater on takes heat off the engine, so I roll down the windows and crank the heater to the "Sun's Core" setting. The whole way home, I'm checking the temp gauge like it's a threat radar in an F-16, praying that I'm not forced to call The Lovely Missus--did I mention she was in bed with a migraine? 'Cause she was--to come get me. Within a mile of my house, I was convinced I wouldn't make it, but the needle dipped a skosh and I was able to pull into the driveway.

Flash-forward to this morning, skipping over a rather restless night for Jacob, which of course means a rather restless night for Daddy. Mama Dunn and Jacob are up, and I realize that the dumpster hasn't become sentient and walked itself to the curb, meaning that I'll have to do it. And, although I know, I know, I KNOW that it's critical to always close the gate to the backyard, I leave it open. Then I go inside, tell MD that I'm going to work on the car in the driveway, and commence to do just that.

If this were a TV movie, maybe titled "Not Without My Pekingeses," the camera would slowly zoom in on that gate, maybe show it slowly creaking in the breeze, then blare a dramatic, "Dum, dum, DUM!" musical sting. Because you know what happened next. The dogs, led by Penelope, who always signals it's elimination time by going to the hearth, spinning, and barking, have to go out. MD, who doesn't know I've stupidly left the gate open, lets them out. And, because dogs are like kids and can sense an opportunity to get into trouble from several miles away, Penelope, Brutus, and Humphrey all three bolt through the gate.

Did I mention that at the bottom of our hill is a major four-lane highway? And that our dogs are all brown, short, easy-to-miss-and-run-over dogs?

Thankfully, they had instead gone up the street. I found this out when our next-door neighbors, who will hereafter be referred to as "The. Best. Neighbors. EVAR!" and who had begun searching for The Fugitive Three when they saw me running around, heard the news from another wonderful neighbor. So I fire up the Batmobile, drive up the street where the fugitives were last seen, and see them. Brutus, who's the definition of a scaredy-dog and whom I can't believe left in the first place, comes to me right away. I stuff him in the car.

Humphrey, who's not afraid of anything, decides to make the old man run around for a little, but finally hunkers down and lets me grab him. In he goes, right next to Brutus. But devious little Penelope knows what's coming, so she goes back down the street, in the eventual direction of the four-lane. Thankfully, the female half of The. Best. Neighbors. EVAR! helped herd her into the backyard.

Of course, we've got company coming tomorrow, so their little excursion in the dewy grass means that all three of the little hairballs will have to be washed tonight, which is always a joy, since they all put out several Chewbaccafuls of hair. Pekes are double-coated dogs, so it's a chore just to get all that hair wet, much less clean.

Here's the real kicker, though. When they're finally back inside, they all give me that look that only big-eyed Pekes can give. The one that says, "Can you possibly stay mad at these faces?"

So, how was your morning?

Absolutely, 100% true update that just happened: Just because this morning has started off so well, Humphrey just decided to make it better by piddling on the newspaper Jacob had been playing with in the floor.

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this

I can blog and work via the laptop, not my office PC, while Mama Dunn is incapable of picking up The Progeny because of her cataract surgery. I will not freak out when The Progeny is bawling because Mama Dunn has suddenly turned cold, in his estimation. Because I'm good enough...no, that's not it. Because I have to. And you do what you have to. Should make for some interesting blogging stories, if nothing else. Just this morning, I've tried to cook eggs while the dogs agitated to go outside and Jacob turned over a full water bowl. And while I don't like to brag, I'm confident in saying that my blood pressure can't be over, oh, 240/160.

That's probably an exaggeration. The blood pressure part, not the dog bowl and chaos stuff, which really happened. I actually handled it pretty well, all things considered. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't ready for Mama Dunn to get the all-clear to resume nanny duties.

Speaking of Mama Dunn, her post-cataract-removal checkup came out okay. She still has to wear the welding goggle sunglasses when she goes outside, but she can already see an improvement in her vision in that eye.

Preparations continue for Operation Baby Birthday Uno. I'm hoping that by the time it does roll around, the weather is somewhat less Seattle-like. I really don't want my yard to become a full-blown moor.

It's predicted to rain this weekend, which will mess up the Regions Charity Classic golf tournament here. I hope that doesn't happen, even though I loathe golf. It's too slow. Its ratio of talk to action is even greater than competitive domino stacking. I don't understand how a major-league baseball player can decide in four-tenths of a second whether or not to hit a ball coming at him at 90+ mph in front of thousands of screaming fans, but it takes Tiger Woods five minutes to line up a five-foot putt, in complete silence. To quote Tim Wilson again, if you can't get your nose broken doing it, it's not a sport, it's a game. Ben Roethlisberger can throw a 45-yard touchdown strike with a linebacker homing in on his ribcage at warp speed, but heaven forbid somebody sneeze during Phil Mickelson's backswing.

And I know that golf is supremely difficult. I know that what top golfers can do with a club is tantamount to sorcery. But there are lots of things that are very difficult to do. Free-diving, for example, is not only difficult, but deadly. Yet I have no interest in watching free-divers, no matter how hazardous their sport. Cliff diving is hard, and deadly, but aside from some old "Wide World of Sports" episodes, I don't want to devote my life to watching it. (And I have to insert Norm McDonald's quote about cliff diving. "There are two kinds of cliff divers. There's world champions, and stuff on a rock.")

In addition to my usual distaste for golf, the Regions tournament is part of the Champions Tour, which used to be the Seniors Tour. So it's not only a slow, boring sport, but a slow, boring sport played by old people. Now that's excitement! Am I right, people?

Still, lots of people love the Classic, so I don't want it to rain. Plus, there's Do Dah Day, and nobody wants wet puppies.

And if it does rain, again, I've got "Airport," "Airport 1975" and "Airport '77" stored on the DVR. Might was well watch some disaster movies while your weather is a disaster.

It's quiet...too quiet

Sorry for the lack of postage yesterday, but while Mama Dunn's cataract surgery went perfectly, according to the doctor, there was much confusing, crying, and temper-tantrum-throwing afterward. Plus, Jacob got ill, too.

Here's what happened. I loaded up MD and The Progeny in the car, drive just a few minutes down the road to the hospital, and check in at the surgery center. I'll admit to being suspect of a little prejudice in typing this, but The Progeny was pretty doggone well-behaved for at least an hour. But there's only so much waiting a soon-to-be-one-year-old can do, and Jacob he ventually hit his limit. I left MD, left my cell phone number with the receptionist, and took Jacob for a ride.

Before too long, it was time for some food consumption, so I drove back home and dispensed some food. Don't ask me what it was, because it all looks the same when it's been pureed into oblivion. Jacob was happy, but he was also sleepy by now, so it was upstairs to the Childhood Bedding Unit, where he was soon blissfully out.

Of course, you know what came next. He'd just gotten good and asleep when the clinic called for me to come get Mama Dunn. So, as much as I hated to do it, I had no choice but to go roust Jacob from his sleep, then make another run south to the surgery center. And, as incredulous as you may be (and you've always been an incredulous lot), he was actually very nice through the whole ordeal, if you discount the usual few minutes of "Why'd you do that?" grumpiness that usually accompanies one of his wakenings.

But the weed of crankiness sometimes grows slowly, as I was soon to find out. All the shuffling had completely hosed Jacob's sleeping schedule, as well as his eating schedule, playing schedule, etc., and he was not all that disposed to resuming his regularly scheduled programming any time soon. Plus, Mama Dunn's surgery requires her to not bend below the waist or do any heavy lifting for two weeks, which means no picking up Jacob. And that's not good. Daddy arms are okay for comforting, Mother arms are better, but nothing's as good as Grandma's. Jacob went to sleep with his best girl still in love with him, and woke up dumped like yesterday's coffee grounds.

Thankfully, The Lovely Missus had already planned a short excursion to her sister's house, so we received a short reprieve from the fussing, which I'm sure will resume with full force this afternoon. Oh well. I've been considering shaving off all my hair (that's a bit of fanciful language there, my saying "all my hair," as if there's a lot; I'm like that long-forgotten comedian who said that he didn't have hair, he had hairs). I guess it'll be just as effective to pull it out as to shave it.

I'll have to write either at night, while Jacob is asleep, or while TLM is home for the foreseeable future, so you're liable to get updates at 1:30 a.m. or not at all at times. Please try to go on with your lives, nonetheless.

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