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I just finished reading The Three Coffins, by John Dickson Carr, an early 20th-century master of the closed-room mystery. One of the many things that charmed me about the novel was the relationship of a young married couple who were helping the detective with the case.

Nowadays the detective is always single, preferably divorced, middle-aged, semi-alcoholic, gruff, and as such available for any number of dysfunctional romantic entanglements. But in the 1930s and 1940s there was this idea of the man and woman whose marriage demonstrated the fireworks of two quick and compatible minds coming together. Marriage held the possibility of joint adventure, with the joy and freedom that accompanies a sympatico partnership. Think Nick and Nora, My Favorite Wife, and other movies with a laughing and sassy husband and wife.

It might be that, in those times, using a married couple was the only acceptable way to put a man and woman together in close friendship, much less intimacy. Still, I miss that kind of portrayal.-
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I like this bit of writing by Jim Phelps in his preface to Barbara Oakley's book Evil Genes. He notes that some readers have been repulsed by the information about the genetic roots of some evil behavior but counters with a statement on "the value of true understanding":

"Accurate information, on its own, is never dangerous. What we think of it, and what we do with it, can indeed be potentially very harmful. But obtaining accurate information, and thinking clearly about it, can only be helpful to us. The more we avoid trying to understand what is really happening around us, because it makes us uncomfortable or does not fit with our existing beliefs, the worse off we will be. Instead, when we use a rigorous scientific method to ask important questions and then think clearly about the implications of the results, we are more likely to live free and prosperous lives."
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My six-year bout with insomnia continues. This week: A solid week of not getting to sleep till 6:00 in the morning.

I can really understand the desperation of someone like Heath Ledger taking all sorts of drug combinations to try and get some relief. I've found myself occasionally trying sleeping pills and later following up with some wine---something I did a few times and haven't repeated. But you get so desperate . . .
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Making Buffy without Whedon?
Making New Moon without Hardwicke?
First script with Bella as a star field hockey player?

You gotta love Mark Bernardin's line about the inanity of these decisions:

"I swear, sometimes it's as if Hollywood sets out with 'failure' plugged right into the GPS."
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I was inspired by seeing Cyndi Lauper on American Idol the other night. She looks older, but she's found a way to still look countercultural without looking silly. A few others have too (I'm sure you'll recognize Exhibit A, but the other long-haired blond is Catherine Hardwicke, one of my favorite directors).

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My all-time favorite TV show is back on the air for the summer. Check it out on Wednesday nights.

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This is literally a “church signs” debate, being played out in a Southern town, between Our Lady of Martyrs Catholic Church, and Cumberland Presbyterian, a fundamentalist church.

(Sorry it's so small; you can click on the image to bring it up larger in another window.)

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Jay makes Rocky wear a harness now when he takes him out for walks, which is much more difficult to slip out of than a simple collar. Of course, Rocky, when highly frustrated in his attempt to get to a smell by the constraints of the leash and harness, has on occasion managed to slip out of the harness itself. He does this by rearing upward and twisting in some sort of Houdini maneuver that Jay calls "part Chubby Checker, part Fred Astaire."
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Congrats to my dad, who at 82 years of age was just elected president of a nonprofit.
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I took a Facebook quiz called "What Old Lady Name Are You?" and my result was Ethel:

"You wear pantyhose, tons of gaudy lipstick, and a push-up bra. You embarass your grandchildren but you bring the best presents whenever you visit."

I think when I turn 75 I should form The Ethel Club. Pantyhose optional, push-up bra mandatory.
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I've often thought that one reason Jay and I have been so happy together is that, although we must have as many irritating character traits as anyone else, they don't happen to be traits that irritate us (i.e., each other). And I thought today, that's the secret of life: as you grow older, to have an ever-smaller circle of attitudes and actions that irritate you.
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I just finished reading The Janissary Tree, a mystery by Jason Goodwin set in 1836 Istanbul. I loved this description of the main character, Yashim, preparing his evening meal in the coal fireplace in his home. It starts with Yashim at the market, buying fish and getting a sauce from the Greek vendor George:

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Over his shoulder [George] said, "Go, buy some fish. I will give you a sauce. You kebabs the fish, some Spanish onions, peppers. You puts on the sauce. You puts him in the fire. You eats. Go."

Yashim went. When he had the fish, he came back and George was crushing walnuts open with his hands and peeling cloves of garlic, which he put together in a twist of paper.

"Now you, efendi, go home and cook. The pepper. The onion. No, I don't take money from crazy mans. Tomorrow you comes, you pays me double."

When Yashim got home, he laid the fish and vegetables on the block and sliced them with a thin knife. The onions were sharp and stung his eyes. He riddled up the stove and chucked in another handful of charcoal. When he had threaded the pieces onto skewers, he smashed the walnuts and the garlic with the flat of a big knife and chopped, drawing together the ever-dwindling heap with the flat of his hand until the hash was so sticky he had to use the blade to scrape it off his skin. He anointed the fish with the sauce and let it lie while he washed his hands in the bowl his housekeeper set out for him every morning and afternoon.

He laid the skewers over the dull embers and drizzled them with a string of oil. When the oil hissed on the fire, he waved the smoke with a cloth and turned the skewers, mechanically.

Shortly before the fish was ready to flake from the stick, he sliced a loaf of white bread and laid it on a plate with a small bowl of oil, some sesame seeds, and a few olives. He stuffed a tiny enamel teapot with springs of mint, a piece of white sugar, and a pinch of Chinese tea leaves rolled like gunshot, poured in water from the ewer, and crunched it down into the charcoal until its base bit into the glow.

Finally he ate, sitting in the alcove, wiping the peppers and the fish from the skewer with a round of bread.
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Today in book club, Kim was expressing her frustration at a book she's editing that purports to make very specific claims about God and truth. And she topped it off with a cry of exasperation over the hubris: "It's God!"

This reminded me of the lyrics of one of my favorite songs, called "Nothing Is Beyond You." This was written by Rich Mullin before he died, and was subsequently recorded by Amy Grant. Here's the chorus:

Nothing is beyond You
You stand beyond the reach
Of our vain imaginations
Our misguided piety
The heavens stretch to hold You
And deep cries out to deep
Singing that nothing is beyond You
Nothing is beyond You

Time cannot contain You
You fill eternity
Sin can never stain You
Death has lost its sting
And I cannot explain the way You came to love me
Except to say that nothing is beyond You
Nothing is beyond You
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Last weekend was awesome, and this week stinketh. Apparently I overshot my Recommend Daily Allowance of peace and joy with that last glass of pinot at Nora's.
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We had an eventful weekend. On Saturday we went to the Columbia Horse Center to take their free introductory lesson. I used to be pretty intimated by horses, but ever since we've had Rocky I've felt a new comfort level with all sorts of animals. I don't know why this is, since we had dogs growing up. But somehow having trained him ("He's trained?" you're thinking) and been primarily responsible for him, I feel differently. Anyway, we mounted, we walked, we trotted, and, most difficult of all, we dismounted, and then we signed up for 13-week lessons.

That afternoon we went to the Philips Collection in DC to see the exhibit of the Italian painter Morandi, who's kind of an art-school favorite. The works seemed kind of dull at first, but they grew on me, especially as I started looking at them more abstractly and less as the still lifes (lives?) they are.

In the late afternoon we met John and Laura, strolled around smelling roses and chatting with people, and finally had dinner at Restaurant Nora. I like Nora because it's all organic. The food was good, the service meh, the company great.

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to all the great moms out there, and especially to those moms who have loved and lost.
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Will someone please come hit me upside the head so that this song will get knocked out of my mind's ear? I feel like it's that slug from Wrath of Khan that burrows in the Starfleet flunky's brain . . .
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Comic Relief

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We saw (and enjoyed) 17 Again this weekend, a romantic comedy starring Zac Efron as the main character and Thomas Lennon as the nerdy sidekick. Jay asked a good question afterward: "I wonder how long the comic relief character has been around?" I started thinking about ancient comedy (Greek and Roman) where the slave was always the comic relief to the aristocratic nobleman's son, and then onto Shakespearean tragedy with the Fool and the Gravedigger, tossing around Yorick's skull.

It's funny how the comic relief used to be someone poor, a worker in manual labor, who is set apart from societal strictures due to his low class, whereas the rich man was constrained by propriety. Now the comic relief is just as likely to be the rich man, whose wealth both derives from his eccentricity (e.g., the nerd who becomes the software or gaming magnate) and further allows his eccentricity (because he's dirty rich and can and say whatever he likes, in a world where wealth no longer depends on acceptance within a tightly regulated social world but on creativity).
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