But I Digress ...

(Since my last post on serious topics was such a resounding flop, we now return you to our regularly-scheduled goofiness ...) FACT: Most depictions of Jesus of Nazareth (in the United States, anyway) portray the kind, beatific face of a white guy with long brown hair and brown or blue eyes. FACT: According to historical documents, Jesus was born in Bethlehem and grew up in Nazareth, two towns in what is now Israel. FACT: Israel is in the Middle East. FACT: Middle Eastern men, for the most part, don't look like white guys. FACT: Jesus, according to historical documents, was born to Jewish parents. FACT: Middle Eastern Jewish men, for the most part, look even less like white guys. They tend to have big Jewish eyes and big Jewish noses. (And in case anyone thinks I'm making racist generalizations, be aware that I'm Jewish. And I have big Jewish eyes and a big Jewish nose. So get offa my back.) It was over a big plate of nachos that the Wife and I were discussing how the Ame

I'll warn you up front: This is a much more introspective, philosophical blog entry than the fluff I typically write. (Yes, I too have a deep side. You just have to spelunk for it.) People meditate in many different ways. A few of the more disciplined of us can do it quietly, sitting in some uncomfortable yoga position and muttering "Om ...". Others of us do it at the gym, iPods fastened to the waist and earphones wedged firmly in place, rocking out to the music of the day. My own meditation method has always involved listening to "spoken-word" recordings and movies. When I'm working, I frequently have a verbal soundtrack or the commentary track of a DVD playing in my headphones. I don't listen too closely to the words that are used. I simply find the sound of a well-modulated speaking voice quite soothing. (I find "My Dinner With Andre" to be an outstanding film if you don't think too hard about the metaphysical implications of what Wally

On the third Thursday of each November, the Wife and I make a pilgrimage to the local spirits mega-store for a time-honored ritual. For it is on this day that the new Beaujolais Nouveau is released to a thirsty public. From IntoWine.com : At one minute past midnight on the third Thursday of each November, from little villages and towns like Romanèche-Thorins, over a million cases of Beaujolais Nouveau begin their journey through a sleeping France to Paris for immediate shipment to all parts of the world. Banners proclaim the good news: Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé! "The New Beaujolais has arrived!" One of the most frivolous and animated rituals in the wine world has begun. Less than a month ago, these Beaujolais grapes were on the vine in the Bordeaux region of France. And now, a small portion of their fermented juice is parked inside a case of wine bottles in my dining room. Beaujolais Nouveau is definitely not a wine to be snobbish about. It's meant to be chilled (

Marguerite Perrin is America's newest celebrity, and as any good celebrity does, she now has her own bobblehead doll. But I'll get to that. I should clarify. Her friends and family know her as "Marguerite Perrin". The rest of us know her as that crazed, wild-eyed, rotund, toothless, screaming "God warrior" from the past couple of weeks of FOX's "Trading Spouses". (You know, the raving lunatic on the plugs FOX ran for about a month before the show aired? If you watched the World Series, you saw it a half-dozen times per night ...) This blog entry isn't about the fine example of Christianity at work known as Marguerite (although, in a nutshell: This "devout Christian" mom - though you couldn't tell it from her judgmentalism and temper - was paired up with a pagan family, and was not only condemning everyone and everything she saw in that house to Hell, but when she got home, launched into the famous tirade about everything in he

Okay, I knew my sense of humor wasn't for everybody. But this is getting ridiculous. I have entered BlogExplosion's "Battle Of The Blogs" seven times. That means putting up 70 hard-earned credits in the spirit of "friendly competition". My record in those competitions is a not-so-friendly 0-and-7. (Well, you can't fault me for consistency.) The irony is, I thought the recent "Charlie Brown on steroids" mock screenplay was one of the most inspired things I had come up with recently. You may see that as tragic. I see that as a glimmer of hope for the imminent return of my creativity. I have been surveying a lot of blogs on BE lately. Most of the ones that tend to win the "Battles Of The Blogs" tend to fall into one of the following categories: o "I have kids and they're a handful, but I love them anyway" o "I saw the CUUUUTEST dog this afternoon" o "The Fleemistat XQ428R has 12 GHz of power and is the raddes

EXT. A BASEBALL FIELD It's springtime, and the Peanuts gang is getting ready to fling the horsehide around. With a peppy Vince Guaraldi tune playing in the background, LINUS, LUCY, SCHROEDER, PIG-PEN and SNOOPY are taking turns at batting practice. With SCHROEDER in full CATCHER'S GEAR behind the plate, and PIG-PEN on the pitcher's mound (which is obscured by a cloud of dust), LUCY swings the BAT and hits the HORSEHIDE on a liner to shortstop, where SNOOPY catches the ball in his mouth. LINUS, in the on-deck circle, carefully folds up his SECURITY BLANKET and approaches the plate. PIG-PEN Hey, has anybody seen the round-headed kid today? LUCY When I saw him yesterday, he was even moodier than he was the day before. He's getting Charlie Brownier every day! SALLY walks by. SALLY (to LINUS) How is my sweet babboo today? LINUS I'm not your sweet babboo! Where is your brother? SALLY He'll be here soon. He said he had to take a B-12 shot, whatever that is. SCHROEDER D

Blogging is rough when you have nothing going on. Oh, I could blog about Scooter Libby, or Bush's plummeting approval ratings, or how the most talented player in the NFL has pretty much wrecked his career with his big mouth, or what a lying sack of steroids Rafael Palmeiro is ... but EVERYBODY is blogging about those things. And since "Lost" is in reruns, and the Mad Angelenos are in Europe, and my few measly GOOD ideas are going to my paying gig (sorry, blog-fans), I find myself sitting in front of my computer, picking crumbs out of my belly button and trying to find something warped and humorous to say. (And how I got crumbs in my belly button, when I've been fully-dressed and without snack food all day, I dunno.) But, since my lady is suffering from the Creeping Crud, humor is not foremost on my mind. (Shame, too, because I've conjured up some great non-sequiturs but have come up with no context in which to place them.) All I'm doing is realizing that