Nifty Fifties

This weekend Legal Counsel, Areenos, jPod and myself had the honor and privilege of feasting at 5 & Diner. In case you are unaware, 5 & Diner is a chronology themed restaurant. Namely, it is based on the 50s. I'm a fan of restaurants which have a theme. They're fun. Mexican restaurants make my simple brain believe that I'm in the Land of Enchantment...and that I shouldn't be drinking water. Japanese restaurants make me weary of Godzilla attacks. Well, more weary than my basal layer of fear. Italian restaurants make feel like selling bootleg hooch and running a casino.

Now that I think about it, the only "theme" most restaurants have is the country from which the food originates. And I usually fabricate a theme based on horrible stereotypes. The only real exception is 50s diners. I don't know why, but the 1950s is a popular target for restaurant decor. 5 & Diner, Broadway Cafe, at least two Walt Disney World eateries...50s restaurants are as popular now as Polynesian restaurants in the mid to late 1960s. Hmm...kind of a weird reference. Let's rewind and try again: s0691 etal ot dim eht ne stnaruatser naisenyloP sa won ralupop sa era stnaruatser s05; 50s themes in restauarants are as common now as STDs in D-Rock's mom. There, much better.

Like I said, I don't know why they're around. Maybe because the 1940s were filled with The War to End All Wars and the 1960s were filled with more war. Okay, so the 50s had a war too. But if that documentary† I watched is accurate, that war was mostly jokes, pranks and frivolity. The 70s were too kitschy, the 30s were depressing, and a 20s themed restaurant would leave you broke at the end of your meal. My only hope is that one day I can open a late-80s/early-90s themed restaurant. But it would probably end up looking like "The Max" and I'd end up getting sued by Sam Bobrick. Maybe I can open an 1850s themed restaurant franchise. Yes...we can call it Manifest Destin-Eateries™.

It's not much different than a regular restaurant. But you know what the funniest thing about 5 & Diner is? [What?] It's the little differences. A lotta the same shit in other restaurants, they got there, but they're a little different. [Examples?] Well, at the 5 & Diner they've got all the normal American food, but the female staff where's big skirts and the male staff has 1.3 pounds of grease in their hair. They've also got tons o' jukeboxes and pictures of 50s celebrities.

But there are some major differences between the restaurant and the real world. Here's a brief list:

Segregation still exists (Civil Rights Act - 1964). So the whole restaurant is divided by race to complete the atmosphere. It's really bizarre. On a related note: if you want to sweeten your coffee, your options are "sugar" and "Separate but Equal."

Poll taxes...still okay (Amendment XXIV - 1964). You gotta pay if you wanna play. This is why there are no voting booths at the 5 & Diner. Trust me, I tried to vote there last year and got escorted out by the police. Which brings me to...

The police don't have to read you your rights if you're arrested on 5 & Diner property (Miranda v Arizona - 1966). Don't try to escape the po-po at the restaurant.

Much less concern for "healthy" foods. Bring on the grease! Not from your hair, Fonzie.

The building isn't handicap accessible (Americans with Disabilities Act - 1990). Chairs in the 50s didn't have wheels. Deal with it.

Smoking is still healthy (Surgeon General Report - 1964). It's not unhealthy until the Surgeon General says so. Therefore I have a 50 pack-year habit at this restaurant. Mmm...menthol...

Peoples not served: Russians, Koreans, Chinese, Vietnamese...you know what? Let's just say no Asians.

Much more lax health codes. Jibbly...

Waiters didn't get tipped in the 1950s, so you don't have to tip there.* Sweet!



All in all, an interesting eating experience geared greatly toward rich white people. Why wouldn't you theme a restaurant after an era of naivety and discrimination? Hooray for the 50s!

This post was full of obscure references and historical trivia. Am I getting weirder or is the rest of the world getting more normal? Hopefully the former...

†Montgomery thinks M*A*S*H is a documentary. Nobody has had the heart to tell him otherwise.
*This sentence is wrong on at least two levels.

Does that make me crazy?

Probably.

First off, let me say that I'm still doing the thing I always do in med school. Namely, wanting to specialize in whatever we're currently learning about. Currently, I'm considering the life of a pathologist or psychiatrist. I guess that just means I enjoy the material. Hooray! Moving on...

The first lecture of SBS was sort of a psychopathology overview, and one of the subjects discussed was the MSE. That's Mental status Exam, not Materials Science & Engineering. According to the notes, "The mental status examination is a psychiatric equivalent of the physical examination." I'll point out that the MSE involves slightly fewer rubber gloves, but slightly more turn-your-head-and-cough's.

For the most part, the MSE is quite simple. Who are you? Where are you? Do I look fat in these pants? How old are you? Does this look infected? Who's the president? What is this (while holding up a simple object)? Seriously, I think it's infected, can you take another look? Of course I know I'm the doctor, but can't you just help me out? Have you always been such a jerk? What did the five fingers say to the face? You know, pretty standard. And a lot of the exam is just to check out a person's demeanor, posture, moods, etc.

But then you get into some more complex stuff. Knowledge, math, abstract reasoning, vocabulary, filling out W-2's. These things help rule out (or in) Alzheimer's, certain kinds of strokes, mad cow, and other such witchcraft and devilry. I gotta be honest with you - I think I'd fail some of these sections depending on the questions I was asked. I consider myself to be (mostly) mentally competent and stable, but damn. Check out these sample questions from the notes:

Information
These are just used to assess what you know, or at least what you can remember off the top of your head. (answers courtesy of Wikipedia)

Where do we get turpentine from?
Um...the hardware store? Nice try, smartass. Did you know the real answer is pine trees? 'Cause I sure didn't.

When is Labor Day?
I will never, ever remember this. I will be on my death bed and my dying words will be, "Wait, when is Labor Day again?" I've been trying to lock this one into memory for 22 years, and it never works. It's the first Monday in September. See, I forgot already.

How far is it from New York to Chicago
Too far to walk? A million billion miles? I would guess 1000 miles, because it's nice and even. The correct answer is 719 miles. I should've guessed 1 mile. Then I'd be closest without going over. Unless some jerk guessed 2 miles. I hate when they do that....

Who wrote "Paradise Lost?"
I only know it's Milton because this was asked in a video shown in class. Most Americans would never get this, and they'd probably attack you for insulting their intelligence.

Who invented the airplane?
You said, "The Wright Brothers," didn't you? Wrong. But I'm sure that's the answer they're looking for. The real answer (debatably) is Clement Ader, who successfully flew 13 years before the Wrights in 1890. But he was Freedom, so nobody cared. And if you answered Clement Ader to the physician, they'd probably think you're crazy. It doesn't even sounds like a real name.

Who discovered the South Pole?
What the hell? I'll go ahead and guess Sualc Atnas, which is just Santa Claus spelled backwards. The correct answer is Roald Amundsen, from Norway. Another fake sounding name and another wrong answer.

The rest are pretty easy (how many items are in a dozen), but these are no good. They probably exist just to see how you respond to difficult questions. If you start crying or stab the interviewer, you probably have an underlying condition.

Vocabulary
Testing to see if you know the definitions of words. Again most are easy, but look at these:

chattel - I knew this one because I'm weird, but I imagine most people probably wouldn't
dilatory - yep. that's a good word.
flout - I actually got this one wrong playing Cranium
amanuensis - you know what? go to hell.

Abstract Thinking
This portion of the exam tests your ability to interpret proverbs. Proverbs such as "don't count your chickens before they're hatched." Most of them I've heard of, but some just boggled my mind.

As the twig is bent, so is the tree inclined.
Really? Good to know. Is it a critique on the flaws of one person being reflected on society as a whole? A commentary on many mistakes adding up? A cruel joke by a botanist?

The tongue is the enemy of the neck.
Never heard this one. And it took me forever to even form a hypothesis for the meaning. After a full class of noodle-scratching and chin-stroking, I devised one. The tongue represents speach and the neck is in reference to beheading people, which is a representative of trouble in general. So running your mouth off gets you in trouble. But it took* me quite a while to figure that out, much longer than any doctor would allow. especially if you're on an HMO. They'd probably say the proverb, then say "did you understand that? Yes or no only, please."

Penguins trampling radios never sell baguettes on Labor Day.
Oh, come on! That doesn't even make sense! And I already told you I don't know about Labor Day!



There's some other questionable material, but I don't care to write about it. So I'd do pretty well on a mental status exam, but not as well as I would hope. I think I'd be considered psychotic and slightly demented. That makes two medical examinations I'd fail: physical and mental. And I'm not looking too good on the spiritual front either. But we haven't had that exam yet, so I've still got time to study...

*EDITOR'S NOTE: the first time I wrote "it took," it came out "tit ook." Just thought I'd share.

American + American = un-American

This is a much delayed post, originally intended to be written roundabout July 4th.

What's the most American thing you can think of?



That's right, Kraft American Cheese Singles. It's like a semi-solid slice of our nation. You get yourself a 64-pack and you've got a heavily-processed, artery clogging block of freedom. Taste the liberty and justice for all. This particular slice was obtained for the purpose of placing upon a veggie burger cooked in a George Foreman Grill - yet another symbol of our country.

So that's the most American thing you can think of. But what's the actual most American thing?



Correct: Apple Pie. "As American as Apple Pie" is a phrase in common parlance, after all. Please note that this is real apple pie. Not Dutch Apple Pie. There is nothing more anti-America than Dutch Apple Pie. Dutch Apple Pie is terrorist pie. No no, this is real apple pie. This particular slice was obtained for the purpose of being crammed down my throat.

So here we have the two symbols of our country: curdled milk stolen from baby cows and highly sugared fruit, baked inside a rich carbohydrate shell. Eat one, then eat the other, then pass out on your couch fat and happy. It's the American Dream.

But for many people, that's not enough. Having two separate tasty treats just doesn't suffice. They feel the need to combine them into a Frankenstein's Monster of Flavor. No, I'm not talking about Frankenberry. I'm talking about Apple Pie and Cheese.

To me, it sounds disgusting. Really disgusting. Criminally disgusting. But people do it. Especially southerners and midwesterners...I assume - I actually have no basis for that statement.

I had no desire to eat it.

But I did. Why? Three reasons. 1) I saw Champ Kind doing it in Thank you for Smoking, an hilarious movie. And according to legislators and religious zealots, I have to emulate everything I see in movies, television, or video games. 2) The realization that I dip apples into cheese at the Melting Pot. Mmm....molten cheesy goodness. 3) Comedy. I always need blog material.

So I did what any red-blooded american would do: I slapped a slice of cheese onto a slice of pie and popped it into the microwave:

You got apple pie in my cheese! You got cheese in my apple pie!

Looks delicious, doesn't it? If your thought just now was "Boy howdy, it sure does," please let me know so I can slap you. It looks disgusting. It looks like apple pie with melted cheese on top. It took me a minute to build up the courage to eat it, and even then I had to do so with my eyes closed. CHOMP!

My thoughts: it's pretty gross. I'd say that those two flavors do not belong together. Fortunately, the apple pie flavor mostly dominates the cheese flavor. Mostly. So if you trick some blind guy into eating this (which I suggest), he'd probably think, "There's something wrong with this pie." Then he'd get an especially cheesy bit and think, "That asshole put cheese on my pie. I'm glad my seeing eye dog is also an attack dog." Oh, and I'm sure he'd also think, "I wish I could see."

In summary:
Apple Pie - tip of the hat
Cheese - tip of the hat
Apple pie and cheese - wag of the finger

If you have the opportunity to eat apple pie and cheese, don't do it. For me. Please.

And really this whole experience has just been a metaphor for global politics. Too much America can be a bad thing.

I have people skills; I am good at dealing with people. Can't you understand that? What the hell is wrong with you people?

This morning I popped into school early so I might obtain my pathology slides for lab. Let me say that pathology has been pretty fun so far. I know, I know - we're only three days into the semester. But I still think I'll like it. Although the professor is doing that professor thing. You know, the one where they act as though the significant findings are so obvious that we shouldn't even need microscopes. Or to remove the slides from the boxes.

Back to the matter at hand: I headed up to the third floor to get my slide boxes and had an extremely uncomfortable encounter with the woman in charge. I don't actually know her name so I'll call her Elizabeth Cady Stanton, which has absolutely nothing to do with her apparent age. I handed her my filled out forms and the following exchange took place:

(note that I had asked a totally different person about getting a new locker yesterday)

Montgomery: Hi, I'm here to pick up my slides.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton: (looks at my paper) You were one of the students asking about lockers?
Montgomery: Yes.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton: (silently staring)
Montgomery: That was me.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton: (still staring; it's getting weird)
Montgomery: I was hoping to get a locker.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton: (staring continues; I start noticing a faint red glow in her eyes)
Montgomery: If they're still available.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton: (more staring. Oh god, please make it stop!)
Montgomery: I'm supposed to be getting an email from ~locker person~. (By this point I had assumed she was in the process of consuming my soul. This was my last attempt to break her concentration before the process was complete)
Elizabeth Cady Stanton: (blinks for the first time) Yeah, I've got some. (hands me the slides)
Montgomery: 'kay, bye. (grabbing the slides and leaving, making sure to never turn my back to her)

I had no idea she was the person in charge of lockers. Then again, I also had no idea she was the Mana Genita of medical students. And there I was with no black puppies for sacrifice. I normally carry one around for just such an occasion. My fault, really.

After weeping uncontrollably outside her office for several minutes, I regained my composure and I went to class. As soon as I got there I checked my email, as is my want. First thing to pop up: ~locker person~ telling me that I need to see Elizabeth Cady Stanton to get a locker.

Why? Why must fate mock me so? I barely made it out alive the first time, and now they want me to go back? But I need a locker: where else can I stash all those Krugerrands until the heat dies down?

So I built up my nerve and went back. But this time I had a posse, Andre the Giant style. I learned my lesson. Almost succeed in devouring my immortal spirit once, shame on you. Almost succeed in devouring my immortal spirit two or more times, shame on me. Bees, Ah Jota, Walt Flannigan and others accompanied me, all with visions of lockers dancing in their little heads. If I'm going to die, I'm going to take as many friends down with me as I can†. During this visit (with my unfounded sense of security), I took time to look around. And what I saw were dozens of pictures of puppies. Coincidence? I think not.

But we made it out alive. Which is a lesson for everybody: if you're going to face a mythological creature in an effort to obtain a small amount of storage space, travel in a group. Of course, this is just another example of me failing to lure Bees into a functioning death-trap. I'll have to add it to the list. I think I'm up to 17 failed attemps now. Pathetic...

In other news
Lance Bass reveals he's gay. Raise your hand if you're surprised. Anyone? Hello?

1 down, 4 to go....

†this has been my philosophy for as long as I can remember

Another year, another relocated public figure

A new year of medical school has officially started. I'm actually quite excited about that: working with real patients, learning about diseases and treatments, playing on the internet in class. I think this is will be a good year - better than the first, which is saying a lot.

Anyway, I'd like to hit the ground running when it comes to identifying professors for who they really are. Let's start with Dr. Lane Johnson, one of the leaders of the preceptorship program.

I'm sure you see exactly what I see. Way too obvious.


Former leader of the Union forces and president, Ulysses S. Grant!

I've known for years that the government has an immortality potion. Just one of the many perks of being president; read the Constitution, it's in there. But it's kind of hard to conceal such a public figure, especially after the advent of the daguerreotype. And it's especially hard to disguise a hard-drinkin' military leader such as Mr. Grant. But I suppose medical doctor is the perfect hiding place for a cussin', drinkin', Rebellion crushin' political figure. Who knew? Plus, when limbs start falling off (which is inevitable after 120 years of living death), he'll be able to sew them back on.

Little known face: Ulysses Grant/Lane Johnson loves scatological references and humour.

McSweeney's makes the Baby Jesus cry...

Saddest humour article ever. I still laughed, though. For those of you who don't read McSweeney's on a regular basis (which you should), it's not usually that depressing.

I'm going for one last trip to end my last summer vacation ever, so I'll be gone until school starts (Monday...blah). Please hold off on death threats until next week.

Freudian Quip

Since I have officially been threatened, I suppose I should update.

I have been missing for about a week because I was acting as a counselor for MedCamp. MedCamp is a program (or in the Queen's English, "progrum") for high schoolers interested in a career in healthcare. Poor naive bastards; get out while you still can! They spend several days living in the dorms, touring the UMC, listening to lectures and observing doctors. You know, the kind of program you were never told about because your teachers either didn't care or downright hated you. My job was to answer questions and keep them in line. I beat one of them into a coma the first night to establish dominance.

I had planned to blog about each day's events at night while the kiddies were sleeping. Being a spoiled child of Generation Y, I assumed the dorms would have wireless access. Wrong! And I even considered buying a Cat 5 cable halfway through just for two nights of internet access. I'm an addict.

Right now I'm prepping for the last throws of MSRP, the beast that won't die. I don't have time to write a full post now, but I'm sure I'll talk more about it later. Right now I'll just give you the best highlight:

The first night we had dinner in the President's Skybox at Arizona Stadium, which was cool. There was a speech by a woman who helps undergrads apply to med school. At one point she was asked, "If there is such a shortage of doctors, why don't they admit more students?" Here is her response:

I'm sure that if the admissions people at most medical schools were given truth semen they would say they should admit more students.

Truth semen. Truth semen. She actually said that. I don't remember any of her speech after that since I was trying to stifle my giggles, and that took a great deal of effort. She must have realized she said it, but she didn't even flinch. Didn't draw any attention to it. That's the sign of a true professional. I would have burst out laughing on stage.

And that unwavering commitment to her mistake must have worked, because I didn't see any of the high schoolers laughing. And they're the perfect audience for that kind of stuff. I looked around and they were all stony-faced. Losers. I did see one girl laughing and surveying for signs of laughter in others. I later asked her if she heard it too, and she confirmed. I didn't make it up.

I'm so mature...


PS - my body actually produces truth semen, but it only works if taken orally. It's a blessing and a curse.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Ugh. I've been working for a few hours now and my brain is starting to go fuzzy. But I'm so close to finishing my project, I can feel it. It feels good. I don't know how to explain the feeling, but let me "stream of consciousness" it straight at ya:

First, when there's nothing but a slow glowing dream that your fear seems to hide deep inside your mind. All alone I have cried silent tears full of pride, in a world made of steel...made of stone.

Well I hear the music, close my eyes, feel the rhythm wrap around - take a hold of my heart.

What a feeling. Being's believing. I can't have it all, now I'm dancing for my life. Take your passion and make it happen. Pictures come alive. You can dance right through your life.

Whoa...didn't mean to get all intense on your asses. Stream of consciousness is a dangerous weapon.

I can't believe that I totally just wrote that myself without plagiarizing the lyrics from an Academy Award winning song written for a movie released the year I was born. I'm good...

How can I work this into my article?

So I've finished the initial draft of the article I'm going to try to get published on my autism research. Exciting stuff. Right now I'm waiting for the doctors I work with to tear it apart and show me how to really write a professional article.

I'm also gathering more journal references to show that I've read up on the subject. This is the why you should document your research while researching, instead of getting caught up in the articles and forgetting. C'est la vie.

Anyway, one of the autism theories is called the Extreme Male Brain (EMB) theory. I read about it before, and basically it says that autism behaviors are similar to stereotypical male behaviors (compartmentalizing tasks, lesser communication skills, not asking for directions, etc). So maybe something pushed the developing brain much farther toward masculinity - testosterone, Sports Center, who knows.

As I was writing the citation information, I noticed the name of the author: Simon Baron-Cohen. This caught my eye, as Baron-Cohen is a rather unique surname. But I recognize it as the surname of the actor who plays Ali G/Borat/Bruno in Da Ali G Show: Sacha Baron-Cohen. For those of you not familiar with Da Ali G Show (you should be, it's hilarious), he was also the voice of the head Lemur in Madagascar and he was in Madonna's video for "Music."

According to both Wikipedia and IMDB, Cambridge educated PhD psychologist Simon Baron-Cohen and comedian Sacha Baron-Cohen are cousins. How cool is that? Well, it's cool to me. And I'd like to throw it into my article:

Some have theorized that the higher prevalence of ASD in males is because ASD itself arises as an "extreme male brain," suggesting that males are naturally more susceptible. The creator and biggest proponent of this theory is Ali G's cousin. Respect.

Does that flow well?

Below the fruited plane

Last year, the sexy Legal Counsel and I enjoyed the Annual Celebration of Explosions and Jingoism in the Larger than Average Apple - New York City. We watched explosions over the river on a closed off stretch of road in downtown Manhattan. Jolly good fun. But also a tough act to follow. This year we were stuck in the Roughly Average Prickly Pear - Tucson. Not so much going on here when compared to an island containing over 1.5 billion* people. But we had a good time, as we always do.

We decided to celebrate our country by visiting one of its beautiful natural wonders. America is home to some of the greatest marvels nature has to offer, and the government does a pretty good job of protecting them. If the land doesn't have oil. Or natural gas. Or precious gems. Or valuable minerals such as copper, tungsten, granite and/or bauxite. The land also can't be a good place for houses, factories or commercial buildings. Or missile testing. Or cattle grazing. Or chemical waste storage. Or radioactive waste storage. And it can't lie directly between two major cities, since we can put a highway there. Or a major city and a smaller city. But if the land isn't especially useful in any of those ways and it's pretty, it has a roughly 48% chance of being protected**.

In particular, we decided to visit Kartchner Caverns. Most of you probably guessed that already, knowing my ever-growing love of speleothems. It was quite beautiful and a lot of fun. Where else can you see moonmilk in the Tucson area? A large part of this state park is devoted to detailing its history, so I figure I should share it with you all.

In 1974, two men discovered a crack at the bottom of a sinkhole. After widening the opening and exploring deeper, the men realized that it was a cave and not D-Rock's mom as earlier believed. The men explored the cave on their own and kept it a secret for ten years when they finally revealed its existence to the land owner - Kartchner (not the Carl's Jr. guy as you're probably thinking). Kartch-Dawg (as he was known) then kept it secret for another four years.

The reason for keeping it secret was protection. They didn't want the cave destroyed by visitors, as frequently happens to large voids in mountains. Eventually they decided that making it a state park would keep it protected and pristine. They petitioned the government and eventually succeeded. Once they achieved state park status, they decided that the best way to keep it in its natural state would be to blast a path through the cave system and build a wheelchair accessible ramp out of concrete and steel. Which they did. They also installed a series of four doors (which look sturdy enough to wishstand a bomb) to keep the moisture/ecosystem inside.

So Legal Counsel and I explored the natural beauty of the caves from the comfort of a man-made pathway. Oh, there was also stadium seating in one of the bigger rooms. And lighting systems installed all over the place. And sound systems for the music. And the necessary electrical systems. I love nature.

The tour was a lot of fun and the rock formations were amazing. The other people on the tour were a little...smack-worthy. What kind of question is, "was all that work worth it?" Dumbass...

One thing the tour guide pointed out no less than three times was the dome ceiling. Apparently in Department of the Interior speak, dome means "slanted." Anyway, he kept saying that the safest place to be during an earthquake would be the caves. They are sturdy enough to withstand anything, and a 7.3 earthquake failed to break even the most delicate structures. I wanted to run over and smash them to show that I'm more powerful than an earthquake, but Legal Counsel wouldn't let me. Sniffle.

I was surprised that the park people failed to point out the real best use of the caves. Earthquake protection is all well and good, but their real value comes in another area: zombie protection. Think about it! Living in a hollowed-out mountain in the middle of nowhere would be perfect! No walls or windows for them to smash through, plenty of space to roam, only one entrance large enough for the shambling corpses, and it's protected by 4 steel blast doors. Drool...

All we need to do is clear out all those pesky stalactites, stalagmites, helictites and soda straws, then replace them with a hydroponic farm for food. It's not like they really care about maintaining nature. They'll thank me later. It also might be nice to destroy the plant life above and replace it with solar panels. Maybe we can get a PS3 or XBox 360 in there. This apocalypse is starting to sound pretty sweet! I need to start drafting another letter to the government; we need to get this project rolling! Who wants to send scavenging expeditions to Ft. Huachuca when the dead have already risen? Not me. Unless we can get Simon Baker in our cave base.

All in all, I'd say it was worth a visit. Cool natural formations, isolated tour guides losing their minds, white chocolate candy with a huckleberry center, zombie protection - what more could you want?

Next post I'll detail why American + American = Un-American.

*This figure includes morlocks, so don't bother telling me I'm wrong.

**Yeah, well I think you're pulling numbers out of your ass.

On July 2nd, they arrive. On July 3rd, they strike. On July 4th, we fight back.

The Fourth of July. Fourth of July. The Fourth. Independence Day. A federal holiday to commemorate the day our George officially started sticking it to their George. 230 years ago, Americans secretly gathered at an IHOP* and declared that they were fed up. It was finally time to stand proudly and declare, "Y'all peeps be buggin'." We were sick of outrageous taxes. Sick of living under the rule of a non-elected monarch living 3500 miles away. Sick of referring to elevators as "lifts" and flashlights as "torches." But most of all, sick of powdered wigs. They wanted unpowdered wigs, damn it.

And unpowdered wigs they got. After 5ish years of aiming at the foppish British troops and letting the French pretend like they were helping, America won itself a war. America was it's own country. No more monarchs. No more taxes. No more teacher's dirty looks. This set a precedent which lasts until this very day. We have never lost a single war. No, not even that one. Besides, we don't talk about that one. Moving on...

And here we are some two-and-a-quarter-ish centuries later, still celebrating the beginning of that bloody conflict. Taking one day a year to effectively say, "Suck it, Limeys." And we celebrate the best way we know how: explosions. Colorful explosions, loud explosions, accidental explosions. We loves to blow stuff all to hell. Especially if it's during a reenactment.

Every year, dozens of brave rednecks are willing to play the part of the British. Holding their fireworks just a second too long, putting explosives in their mouths to impress da girlies and not understanding how to light a string on fire, these brave hillbillies remind the rest of us what it must've looked like when an English leftenant got his hand shot off while sipping tea and politely discussing politics. God Bless you, proud yokels; you've been giving the common man grizzly photos to look at and allowing sensationalist politicians to discuss something besides important issues for years. For that, we here at Montgomery Road salute you.

This rambling has gone on longer than I expected. Maybe I'll save the description of what Legal Counsel and I did to celebrate (which was initially the point of this post) for the next post.

*It is commonly believed that this famous meeting took place at a Denny's. Some historians go so far as to say that Roger Sherman ordered the Original Grand Slam, with a side of hash browns. This has proven to be quite false. The meeting did in fact take place at the Inernational House of Pancakes as shown in Thomas "TJ" Jefferson's long lost diary, discovered May 1986 in the bathroom of Circle K. A review of business records shows that Roger Sherman ordered the Breakfast Sampler, and witnesses to the meeting have quoted him as saying, "I can't believe I ate the whole thing." It is interesting to note that Button Gwinnett, who would later be a signer of that very same Declaration, was sitting at an adjacent table on totally unrelated business involving peaches. He ordered the Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruity. He didn't eat his bacon strips.

For the sake of my sanity
(what little is left)

Will my readers in Beaverton, Denver and Georgetown kindly identify yourselves. Preferably in the comments section or email. I'm going crazy trying to figure out who you are. And what happened to my Pennsylvania reader? Did you move to DC?

_____man* ______s

You're off the edge of the map, mate. Here there be spoilers.

Following the naming strategy started by Batman Begins, DC Comics released Superman Returns last week. I'm waiting for Aquaman Naps next summer. Anyway, Superman Returns was okay, not great but not horrible. Kevin Spacey saved it. But most of my critiques of this movie are actually critiques of Superman himself.

First off, I don't understand why he's a hero. Every other superhero has motivation. Here's a quick rundown:

Spiderman: Guilt
Batman, Daredevil, Tom Jane: Sweet, sweet revenge
X-Men: civil rights (damn liberals)
Constantine: desire to get into Heaven
The Hulk: hatred of Nick Nolte**
Captain America: all about the Benjamins
Blade: Self-loathing/hatred of the goth subculture***
V: nucking futs/freedom

But not Superman. He comes to Earth with power literally coming out the wazoo and decides to use it for good? He doesn't use it to make money? He could rule the world, or at the very least charge for his services, but he doesn't. He justs helps people. Maybe I'm pessimistic, but I can't believe that. Unless Earth's yellow sun also charges his conscience, he should be just a touch more greedy. I don't think Jor-El packed a Kryptonian Jiminy Cricket in that pod.

Wait...would animals from Krypton sent to Earth be super charged, too? Gerbils capable of devouring entire houses in one day? Shouldn't the bacteria he carried in his pod have wiped out the planet long ago? These questions will go unanswered. Moving on...

Speaking of Superman's solar powers (hippy), that's my other major complaints. He has too damn much of it. He's strong enough to move anything, he can't be hurt, he can fly, he has laser eyes, freezing/strong breath and nunchuk skills. That's just too damn much. He doesn't even need to try. He just walks flies up, ignores the bullets and defeats the enemy. Yawn. No action or real smooth moves. Just boring.

This was especially true in the movie. All he does is lift things. Out of control car? Lift it somewhere safe. Plane crashing? Lift it somewhere safe. Boat sinking? Lift it somewhere safe. Giant rock threatening the US? Lift it somewhere safe. It's like watching a documentary about U-Haul. Which is another way he could have made money on Earth.

I'm not even going to get into the "reversing Earth's rotation to reverse time" situation. Somebody got a fatwa by Ruhollah Khomeini for that one.

It wasn't always that way. According to Wikipedia:

As originally conceived and presented in his early stories, Superman's powers were relatively limited, consisting of superhuman strength that allowed him to lift a car over his head, run at amazing speeds, and leap one-eighth of a mile; and incredibly tough skin that could be pierced by nothing less than an exploding artillery shell.

That's more like it. Although 1/8 of a mile is pretty random and lame. Early Superman sounds boring, but heightened physical abilities would make for more interesting battles than God-like powers.

Speaking of God-like, did anybody else get the Jesus thing? Father in the sky sends him to Earth, he eventually learns of his heritage, he acts as savior (which the dialogue beats over your head like a wet herring), he dies (in the crucifixion pose, no less), he comes back. They might as well have called Spacey's character "Lex Lucifer." Weak, DC, totally weak.

My last critique (and this is the real spoiler) is the fact that Superman has a kid. Every aspect of that idea is flawed. First off, he is an entirely different species. The odds of having matching DNA is nigh impossible. It would be like a male chimp and a female human having a baby. No offense, D-Rock.

Second, sex with Superman would kill you. If the friction and crushing force didn't do it, the ejaculate would. It would easily blow a whole clean through you. Right through the top of your head. You might say, "he can control his strength - it's not always at full force." But they show that when he's stressed/suprised/in an emotional state, he loses control. Coitus would be the ultimate example of this. Especially with Lois Lane. He has a total crush on her. He writes "Mr. Clark Lane" repeatedly in his binder. He's weird.

Next, the swimmers would tear her apart from the inside. Obviously. Moving on...

Finally, carrying Superfetus would kill you. It would bust out of her like Aliens. A jack-in-the-box of underdeveloped tissue and pain. Jibbly. Of course, everything I'm saying now was stated better and in greater detail in Mallrats. "If Lois gets a tan the kid could kick right through her stomach. Only someone like Wonder Woman has a strong enough uterus to carry his kid." I'm sure Seinfeld would do a good job, too.

So Superman's not my favorite hero. Too much power, not enough character. But Dead Man's Chest opens this Friday; that should make up for it. Drool...

*no affiliation with Damon Wayans
**while it is true that all superheroes hate Nick Nolte, The Hulk is unique in that it provides his sole incentive for action
***while it is true that all superheroes hate the goth subculture, Blade's hatred puts the rest to shame

Totally Random Fact
The diameter of my ring finger at its base is exactly equal to the diameter of a penny.

Noodle, use your noodle

Last week, Legal Counsel invited her family over for a night of fun and frivolity to celebrate her sister's birthday. Her family includes: a mother, a stepfather, two sisters, one brother-in-law, one sister's significant other, one seven year old, one six year old, one four year old, one almost-three year old and an itty bitty baby. It's amazing how un-stressful it is to have 5 children running/crawling around trying their best to destroy all the things you've done your best to keep in good condition. It's also nice to have one family unit spew complaints from the moment they enter until the moment they leave. Yes...a good night.

Anyway, part of the night was dedicated to playing Cranium. In case you've never played and have never been to a Starbucks, let me enlighten you: Cranium is a wicked fun game involving charades, sculpting, drawing, colonics, humming, trivia knowledge, whistles, yo-yos and various other fun stuffs. A good time is had by all. Well, that is if everybody wants to play...

You see, whenever Legal Counsel and I are on a team against her family, we win. This invariably leads to hostility. There are various explanations for why this happens. Some say it is because her brother-in-law is too full of machismo to have fun and impersonate Marilyn Monroe. Some say it is because having a certain unnamed family member on your team spells instant defeat. There have even been some accusations of telepathy. Right, like Legal Counsel and I have ESPN. Please. They know too much...

The most common explanation is our college education. Her sister usually claims that we win because we are better educated. Phrases like, "Of course the doctor and lawyer will get that" are common. All because she is the only member of her family to receive education past high school. Obviously they don't realize that I've cheated and/or bribed my way through every year of school since second grade. Damn spelling tests.

No the real reason we win is much simpler than any of those. Put simply: we share the same misconceptions. We don't know all the right answers. We just know the same wrong ones.

Example the First
The card instructed one person on each team to hum the same song to their teammate; the first person to guess correctly wins. In this case, the song was "The William Tell Overture." First off, let me say that it's hilarious to hear 4 people hum one song. Anyway, Legal Counsel started to hum (of all things) the theme to Bonanza. So my first guess is "Theme to Bonanza," of course. She shakes her head and continues humming the theme to Bonanza. My next guess? "The William Tell Overture," obviously.

Why? I'm not really sure. Probably because I associate that song with westerns (most likely on account of The Lone Ranger). When my guess of Bonanza for the theme to Bonanza is wrong, the next place my mind goes is The William Tell Overture. Duh.

Example the Second
It was charades, again for every team (they're not all competitions between all teams, by the way. Some are one team, timed). The clue was "Person" and the answer was Jacques Cousteau. Legal Counsel (who did not recognize the name) starts acting like a mime. A mime. You know, stuck in a box/pulling a rope/begging for free money. After suppressing my urge to punch her in the face (as a result of my hatred for all things mime), I guess Marcel Marceau. Wrong.

She starts getting frustrated and then I notice her mom making swimming motions - still consistent with those disgusting voiceless performers. But I guess Jacques Cousteau. Winner winner, chicken dinner. Again sharing the same wrong ideas with my lovely girlfriend, I always assume that a Freedom name I don't recognize is probably a mime.

Of course there are other random inside jokes and past experiences which help us out. If she was to say, "D-Rock's mom," I'd know the answer is probably prostitute or slut or junkie or CPA. I can probably identify anything related to Disney theme parks or zombies, while she has the subjects of uncooked seafood and late-18th century Gothic literature covered. She also knows the definitions of words like "flout," which elude your humble narrator. But for the most part, we win because we are both dangerously misinformed.

On a totally unrelated note
In the past year, I've personally purchased at least three nail clippers. Do you know where they are now? Yeah, me neither. They keep disappearing! What is going on here? It's some kind of conspiracy. Maybe I should stop clipping and start sharpening, a la Frodo in Sin City. Sweet...

I've devised the following 3-phase business plan:

1. Collect nail clippers
2. ???
3. Profit!

FYI

D-Rock is a doodie head.