Good To See He’s Found Work In This Economy

Haven’t we seen this movie before?

Actually, I guess not. Given that I’m a senior whatever I am and have been in the IT industry for over 25 years now, most of us who have seen this movie before have retired. So it’s younger people caught up in the AI hype.

I read enough to be skeptical about it (also note I didn’t think “the Internet” would be that big either), but I can’t be too loudly skeptical on LinkedIn since the whole world, or at least the deluge of consultants, contractors, and service providers to service providers that is LinkedIn lurvs it.

And job postings: Are you AI-first? AI-native? On a scale of 1-10, do you love AI 11 or 12?

I have used AI in a limited fashion for guidance and suggestions as to how I might solve a problem, but I have enough experience to doubt, to know when it’s not correct, and to know when to refine it.

I am not into building complete apps or systems without knowing what’s going on. Our software has been trending away from quality for a decade or so with human developers. I do not look forward to what we get when companies are relying on autocorrect to write their software for them.

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Book Report: Hornblower and the Crisis by C.S. Forester (2011)

Book coverIt seems like I just read a Hornblower or O’Brian book, but I might have been thinking of Sharpe’s Trafalgar which mostly took place at sea and which I just read in January 2024. The last Hornblower title I read was Beat to Quarters in 2017, although I did pick up two last year: Lieutenant Hornblower at the Friends of the Springfield-Greene County Library book sale in April and this book at the Friends of the Christian County Library book sale in June. So maybe that makes for why it seems fresh; after your first half century, anything in the last decade is just.

This posthumous collection is not actually a full novel; it has the incomplete novel Forester was working on when he passed away and two short stories in it. In Hornblower and the Crisis, Hornblower is between ships and helps to seize a French ship that spotted and pursued the little hoy he was taking back to port from the Hotspur, his previous command. He manages to capture the captain’s papers and return them to London, including an official dispatch from Boney, who has just made himself emperor. When conferring with the Lordships, he blurts out a plan to deliver forged orders for the French fleet to sail out, and they put him on the mission since he has some experience with the land area in which the operation will need to be conducted. And as he is about to become a spy, Forester dies, so we get a summary of the notes left behind. “Hornblower and the Widow McCool” explains how an Irish rebel is captured amongst French forces, and he asks Hornblower to deliver his sea chest to his widow. Hornblower suspects something is up and discovers the secret of the rebel’s last poem for his wife. “The Last Encounter” tells the story of an elderly Hornblower at his estate when a seeming madman arrives, thinking he’s Bonaparte. He is about to dismiss him when his wife (a different wife than in Hornblower and the Crisis, I note) intercedes and helps him on his way; later, they receive a thank-you note from Louis Napoleon Bonaparte who has established himself as ruler of France.

This 158 page Penguin book was a far quicker read than Shōgun for sure (but both historical paperbacks set but about two hundred years or so apart). It’s too big for the new mass market paperback shelf in my office which I have the inclination to fill by reading a bunch of paperbacks. But not big paperbacks like this.

Also, I did flag something in “The Last Encounter”:

The stranger made a low bow, and advancing, took Barbara’s hand and stooped low over it again to kiss it. Barbara was woman enough to be susceptible to a kise on the hand–and any rascal could find his way into her good graces if he could perform that outlandish ceremony in the right way.

Time for a Coffee House MemoryTM:

In 1996 or thereabouts, I remember a trio of Austrian au pairs (although the Germans and their cousins might have their own word for it, as au pair is clearly French and hence the enemy (at least in the context of this book–in modern times, the French are not even French)). A blonde and two brunettes; I can only remember the name of Marlena, which was one of the two brunettes and not even the one I thought was prettiest. They showed up at the Grind late at night, probably after the children they were responsible were in bed, and they drank coffee until some of the other expats (Indian or Pakistani, back when that was still a bit exotic) would invite them to go to the clubs, most likely Velvet (see also The Various Clubs I Have Attended from 2019), and they would dance and whatnot and somehow be up to take care of their charges in the morning. We were all young then and could do stuff like that–it was before my print shop days, when I was still working retail and might not have had to work until afternoons sometimes. I do remember that months later that the brunette whom I thought to be the prettiest was looking a little ragged.

At any rate, on the night that my friend Scott (he’s still alive, which puts him far ahead of many of my friends from the middle 1990s) introduced me to the three, I bowed and kissed their hands in turn. The blonde was quite miffed about it and recoiled whilst I did it, and throughout the evening, I understand she kept returning it and asking Scott why I did it.

Clearly, I did not perform that outlandish ceremony the right way.

So, back to the book. More to my taste than O’Brian and even Cornwell when you get down to it because the language is punchier and although it does talk about elements of naval warfare and operation, it does not go to the distance where you think that the author just wants to show off his research.

So I’m hoping I can find Lieutenant Hornblower sometime in the near future. And when you get past your first half century, you’re comfortable that “near future” might be nine years from now (should I live that long–most of my matrilineal side did not).

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The Memes Put Brian J. On The Defensive

It was only three memes at View from the Porch, and yet I felt targeted.

Back around the turn of the century, I was a technical writer with prodigious output even though I am not a home-row touch-typist (even today).

One Friday afternoon, my password came to the end of its 90-day lifetime, so I changed the password last thing before I left (never do this on a Friday, by the way, nor install wonky software that requires a reboot and might brick your machine and you can’t remember what might have caused it come Monday morning).

On Monday, I was one of the first in the office as 7am start times were my wont back in the old days. I sat down in the empty office and tried to log in. I tried the password I thought I’d set on Friday afternoon, but it didn’t work. I tried again to see if I’d mistyped it. I slowed down and looked at every key as I typed it. Nothing.

So I waited in an empty office for two and a half hours for the hardware guy to come in to reset my password again. He then noticed that something was wrong with my keyboard. On Friday afternoon, after I left, El Guapo had popped off a couple of keys on my keyboard and had, anomg other things, had switched the n and m keys, and I was not a touch-typist, so I looked at them when I typed the password, and I was not familiar enough with keyboards to spot what was off. Oh, the laughs they had at my expense.

The story made it all the way to the C-Suite when the inside sales guy was on a trip to New York. Apparently, my name came up, and the originator of the Dosso Double-Snap (snapping one’s fingers twice when excited, a thing I still do today on occasion) told that story. Whereupon the company’s co-founder said, “He typed all that documentation with these fingers!” and wagged his index fingers in the air. To be honest, my method was kinda touch-typing, but not home row ASDF JKL;. I have gotten faster, and I can even type things I’m looking at, like book pages for book report quotes and whatnot. But, yeah, 3000+ pages of software manuals with mostly the first two fingers of each hand and the thumb sometimes for the space bar.

Jeez, Louise, I’ve seen references to fedora-wearing overly chivalrous young men (they say “M’lady” or “My lady,” see?) at Founding Questions, too, so I guess this is something of an archetype or more like a punchline, and when I see it, I cringe a bit inside. Literally, I figuratively cringe, not just recoil which is I guess what the kids these days mean when they say cringe.

Ah, gentle reader. I got my trenchcoat for Christmas 1993, and I got my first fedora a couple of weeks later at Donge’s down on Third Street in Milwaukee. I was more influenced by old movies with Bogart and Grant (still am, I’d like to think) than anything else–and fedoras had a brief resurgence amongst some people with television programs like Crime Story and The Hat Squad.

And, ah, yes, I did have an inflated sense of chivalry due to my exposure to medieval poetry and whatnot. So I would have been–and I was–that demonstrative in that fashion (one such story coming later). I suppose I affected a bit to portray a role to cover my natural shyness reticence. If you press me to admit it.

But, jeez Louise, I couldn’t have been following some pattern in popular culture from the 1980s? Certainly not from the John Hughes movies–I had not seen them yet. I WAS NOT DUCKY.

I’d like to think I was sui generis, but apparently not. Ah, me.

Meanwhile, this weekend, I got a new Alpine hat because I was at a German festival over in Lawrence County. I have reached an age, apparently having reached a half-C, where I think I might look okay in a stubby-brimmed hat. Also, it was a fund raiser, but there were not many opportunities to lay out greenbacks for the Lions Club and its endeavours, so I had to invent reasons to give.

But I still where my classic wide-brimmed fedora or wide-brimmed Panama hat out, so maybe not, m’lady.

There’s a third meme in the post, but I do not understand it. Otherwise, it might have been a trifecta of defensiveness. Or is it mocking my lack of understanding?

The whole world is not about me. But the Internet is.

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Movie Report: Rodan (1956)

Book coverAfter watching Godzilla vs. Mothra, I did, in fact, pop this DVD in for my next movie watching a night or so later.

This film is eight years older than the Godzilla movie I just watched and features the origin of Rodan, or at least of the species known as Rodan. Miners digging coal near a volcano in Japan reach an unheard of depth, and water floods the cave, leading to two missing miners who previously scuffled on the surface. The film plays out for the first portion like a horror movie: Something in that deep tunnel is deadly, but what is it? They eventually discover that giant insects are killing the miners and investigators. When the army goes in with force, a cave-in separates an engineer from the rest, and when he is found on the surface, he has amnesia. Meanwhile, a supersonic UFO is devastating different cities in Asia and defeats, somehow, some military jets. The engineer recovers his memory when his fiancée shows a nest with one of her songbirds’ eggs in it, ready to hatch: In the mine, he saw an egg hatching, and the giant winged creature ate the giant insects. From then on, it’s a straight-up monster movie with the military trying to deal with the giant dinosaurs (there are two) who seem impervious to bombs, missiles, and artillery. Spoiler alert: The barrage triggers a volcanic eruption which kills the pair, although a voiceover at the end indicates that the remaining mate might not wanted to live without its partner.

A fairly short film, of course, and again it hearkens back to my youth when we saw these movies “all the time” (again, where “all the time” might have meant on ten or fifteen Saturday afternoons in our eternal youth).

So I got to thinking: It’s clear that this film was made with models and toys in the cases of most of the military equipment and destroyed cityscapes. But we were kind of forgiving of this back in the day because that’s how our toys looked and so they were fake, but akin to what our imaginations produced on their own. Modern films look a lot like video games with all the computer imagery, and I’ve probably mentioned that I’ve found old films upscaled to 4K or whatever to look like video games, too, with different layers of things pretty clearly grouped together for rendering. But how do modern films look to my children, whose toys for the last five years or so and even before them, were video games and screen-based. Did it impact their imaginations so that modern films more clearly align with how they imagine things (if they imagine things outside what the screens provide)? How much of our youthful amusements shape our imaginations not only in content, but in shapes, appearances, textures, and the other underlying framework?

An interesting thought exercise, and were it my job, I could go into great and kind of tedious detail about it. But, gentle reader, as you know, I have no job, so I will not.

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Movie Report: Godzilla vs. Mothra (1964)

Book coverWhen I shelved the two new Toho monster movies that I bought in April–well, topped them as “shelving” them means putting them atop my unwatched video cabinet–I put them by the old Godzilla movie I already had up there. And I did not look closely, and it was only when I picked one to watch the other night that I realized I had Godzilla vs. Mothra and Mothra vs. Godzilla. Which, it turns out, are two releases of the same film (also known as Godzilla vs. The Thing, which is how I think I originally saw it forty-some years ago).

So: An egg washes ashore after a great taifun (after reading Shōgun, watch I drop transliterated Japanese words in blog posts for a couple of weeks). The fishermen sell it to a Businessman who, with his business partner, are going to make an attraction of it. Two little fairy-sized singers come to ask them to return the egg to its home from whence it was washed during the taifun (doesn’t count; it’s the same word re-used). When the Businessmen rebuff them, they turn to a Reporter, a Photographer, and a Scientist to help them. A Politician moves forward with building an industrial area after the storm, but this awakens Godzilla (this picture is the last of the Toho era where he is the antagonist) who starts destroying things. The Reporter, the Photographer, and the Scientist go to the home island of the fairy girls and the home of Mothra to seek his/her/its help in defeating Godzilla. And, after the egg hatches, Godzilla is dispatched into the sea. Until next time.

I capitalized the characters by their job titles instead of names because, c’mon, they’re archetypes, ainna?

Oh, man, did this film make me think of the olden days. On Saturday afternoons, one of the television stations in Milwaukee had a Creature Feature where they played these old Toho Godzilla movies along with classic Universal monster movies and the like, hosted by a Svengoolie knock-off. I remember seeing at least the end of this film because I didn’t understand what it meant when the recently-hatched caterpillars head out to sea, and my sainted mother explained they were returning to their home island. So I knew that much, anyway. Perhaps the original Mothra movie ended in a similar fashion. I can’t be arsed to look.

When I was at my brother’s house recently, a commercial for an upcoming bloc of twenty-year-old movies had my nephew exclaim, “Hot Tub Time Machine 2 is twenty years old?” (It is not, actually.) I asked him if that’s the first time he’s experienced the double-decade ago. It’s funny, but when I saw this film on Milwaukee television, it would have been less than fifteen years old. But it definitely looks different, more archaic, even then compared to how 21st century movies have changed (more looking like video games in big budget pictures, but Hot Tub Time Machine 2 wasn’t that).

So I suppose I will view the other monster movie (Rodan) sometime soon, and I have to think of how to dispose of my duplicate copy of this film. Which is not a true duplicate, but good enough. Free book cart at church? Maybe!

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Movie Report: Return of the One-Armed Swordsman (1969)

Book coverI picked this up in spring of 2023 along with a stack of other films at the Friends of the Springfield-Greene County Library book sale. Looking back at the list, I’ve done okay on watching the films I bought then–out of 37 or 38, I guess I’ve watched a dozen or so. Which counts as okay for the video-buying excursions’ buy-to-watch-within-two-years ratio at Nogglestead.

As the Return (as with Legend) indicates, this is a sequel to an earlier film which I haven’t seen. In this film, the one-armed swordsmen is approached by a pair of swordsmen, one in black and one in white, to participate in a competition at the castle. He demurs, saying he’s just a farmer now, and they leave, but he is approached by other local “families” who have also been approached. They go, and he ends up taking up his broken sword (which looks like a big cleaver) when the bad guys persist and take the “fathers” of the families hostage–and their “sons” approach him for help. One of the sons takes the one-armed swordsman’s wife hostage to get his help. So the one-armed swordsman leads the “brothers” to the stronghold to fight the Eight Sword Kings–the big boss bad guys (well, seven guys and a girl) with gimmick powers or blades. Well, they fight some of the Sword Kings on the way, but ultimately free the “fathers.” However, during their night of celebration, the Eighth Sword King, the “Unseen” attacks with a bunch of ninjas, but the One-Armed Swordsman eventually triumphs and returns home. Until, perhaps The Legend of the One-Armed Swordsman.

It’s a particularly bloody and brutal bit of kung-fu theatre (wuxia, I believe the Chinese term is)–most or all of the “brothers” die, sometimes in bloody fashion. And I have put the family relationships in quotation marks because the dubbed version I have refers to “fathers” and “brothers,” but apparently other dubbed versions and probably the original say that these are martial arts schools, not clans, and the “fathers” are instructors while the “brothers” are students. Which kind of makes sense given how many “brothers” each family has. Still, we’re not watching for the plot. We’re watching for the stylized fighting and gimmicky villains. And we got them.

Less than a decade later, and I might have seen this on kung fu theater on Friday or Saturday night after MASH and Hawaii Five-O. No telling what films I actually saw. Come to think of it, there’s no telling how many times we actually watched this when the Odya boys were sleeping over. Five? Ten? Not as many as twenty, surely. But all the time as it seemed at the time. Then all the time ended unnoticed as it often does.

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Book Report: The Best of Wheat and a Little Chaff Number II by Leah Lathrom Wallace (?)

Book coverAs I mentioned when I bought this book in April 2023, I might be the biggest collector of Leah Lathrom Wallace in the country since I have now read both The Best of Wheat and a Little Chaff and this second volume.

So I picked this up for my upstairs poetry book. I’ve taken to reading a little poetry right before bed every night as part of my wind-down ritual. For some months, I made my way through the stack of Poetry magazines that I bought last October.

And, you know what? I prefer the grandmother poetry in this volume. It’s got rhythm, and it’s got rhyme. Its contents are about trusting in God and home considerations–including some poems for friends and family members and personal history. Actually, this volume has a number of poems by family members, which reinforces the fact that everyone with the better education system of the early 20th century wrote poems (see my own father’s poem here).

So it was a quick read, relatable (more so than modern message poetry which is about speaking the poet’s truth and not shared humanity, so the reader might be excluded from the truth at all), and it helped me wind down.

Given that the back part of the book is relative’s poetry to fill this chapbook out, I have to assume that I now own the whole set. I’ll find other works like it, though; the poetry tables at the book sales are still full of these little chapbooks by somebody’s grandma. And I’ll pick them up and get to them eventually. And, eventually, they will disappear from the poetry tables, replaced by Print on Demand works by contemporary poets. If anything at all. Ai, I am leading to a dark and depressing meta-conclusion even though this particular book was anything but.

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Book Report: Shōgun by (1975, 1980)

Book coverAfter I read the first of C.S. Lewis’s Space Trilogy (Out of the Silent Planet), I thought I would pick up something short as a palate-cleanser. Brother, did I go wrong: This 1200+ page book, which I just bought in June (not long before I started reading it), took the better part of a month to read.

This particular volume is the tie-in to the original television miniseries and has a picture of Richard Chamberlain on the back (what, he was more than Allan Quatermain?). As you might know, gentle reader, a new miniseries was released last year, so strangely enough, if I get down verbally with the kids these days about Shōgun these days, they’ll know it from the recent television experience, whereas I read the doorstop book (see also Dune).

So:

An English pilot/navigator is aboard a ship, the Erasmus, the only remaining vessel from a small contingent set to circumnavigate the globe circa 1600 is shipwrecked on the coast of Japan with a small number of his crew. They’re captured and are going to be killed, but the local warlord, Toranaga, takes an interest in him. He, Blackthorne, the pilot, is called Anjin-san (“Anjin” is nihongo for pilot). He falls in love with a married woman, Mariko, vows revenge on a brutal samurai (that’s redundant, but Yabu is extra brutal and does not like Blackthorne), and, after saving the life of Toranaga (twice) is made hatamoto and samurai. Meanwhile, above and beyond all this, the last military leader died, leaving a council of regents. A rival on the council, Ishido, is maneuvering to ostracize/expel Toranaga. And the Jesuits have started making inroads into Japan, converting a number of people, including some provincial leaders, but they think Blackthorne, as an Englishman and Protestant, is a heretic and must be eliminated. So we’ve got a bit of a fish-out-of-water story as Blackthorne comes to appreciate the Japanese way of life–or elements thereof; a love story between Blackthorne and Mariko; and a hella lotta political intrigue. And it has 1200 pages in which to do it.

The narrative has an interesting bit of flashbackery to it; often, we get an action or situation, and then the story flashes back to the events leading up to the action or situation. Which turns out to be almost how the whole story is laid out (spoiler alert?) We do get some chatty spots where characters discuss events or situations for a couple of pages to set up context or intrigue, and these spots are a bit boggy. And although he is the Western readers’ intro into the story and the one we’re supposed to root for, ultimately, at the end, Blackthorne’s real importance kind of falls off (the book is not entitled An Englishman in Japan or Anjin-San). And the climax comes around page 1000, runs a relatively long time, and then we have a bit of a dénouement for over one hundred pages with an ending that leads not to the great battle between the rivals for the shogunate–the book ends with preparations for the war. So a bit underwhelming to a modernish reader who expects more of a payoff at the end.

So it’s very similar to The Last Samurai, although set at opposite ends of the shogunate: A Western Larry Sue comes to Japan and ends up at the domicile of a samurai, falls in love with a Japanese woman with complications, and comes to appreciate the samurai way of life. Both are a bit hagiographic on the samurai way of life with living in the moment and composing poems and whatnot, but this book does show its inherent brutality and disdain for peasants, merchants, and Christians whereas the film did not (as I have not seen either filmed rendition of this book, I cannot say how brutal they were depicted, although the Wikipedia entry for the 1980 miniseries indicates it broke many network television taboos).

At any rate, I felt a little smart reading it as I was already familiar with some of Japan’s history, Buddhism (c’mon, I know who the Amida Buddha is), and geography, but at times I was a little annoyed with the exposition until I realized that most people were not.

It’s a long book. And I definitely finished it. But I’m not eager to run out and gather Clavell’s other work.

Although I did make an allusion to the film The Fly while reading this book, and in looking into Clavell’s career (reading Wikipedia), I discovered he wrote the screenplay for the original 1958 film. So, clearly, the books published in 1980 are listening to me. Be careful! Think and say nothing!

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You Cannot Blame MfBJN For This One

Jane Morgan, ‘Fascination’ singer and Broadway star, dead at 101

Ah, gentle reader, you might remember I have at least three Jane Morgan albums (Traces of Love, The Sounds of Silence, and In My Style), and although I did see one of them (I forget which) as I was flipping through the Nogglestead record library recently, I did not listen to it.

So her death is not because I read/listened to her, unlike so many.

And you probably cannot pin the death of Chuck Mangione on me, either, as although I did listen to Chuck Mangione right before he passed away recently, I listen to a lot of Chuck Mangione on record and on Spotify, so I “just listened” to him an awful lot of times where he did not pass away.

Thank you, that is all that the voices in my head wish to communicate at this time.

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Speaking Of The-Internet-Is-Listening

As I mentioned, my boys and I trekked out to my brother’s place a week ago. My boys wanted to do some fishing, and they not only did some fishing, but also did some catching. Me, I hung out with my brother and his wife. And we walked the edges of his property, 25 acres of lightly rolling hills with some woods at the edges, an old barn, and, as mentioned, a fishing pond.

As we walked, we talked about:

  • The cross-fencing he removed because a previous owner had run cattle, but they were in the way of hay cutting; I mentioned Nogglestead had been cross-fenced at one time, and that I found the lines where the bottom strand of barbed wires were still buried back in my metal-detecting days (which, to be honest, were like two: I looked for and found a tiller pin I lost, which is why I bought a cheap metal detector, and two, the day I ran it over Nogglestead’s margin nearest the Old Wire Road and found only the barbed wire, which I initially thought might be buried power lines (double parentheses, but I now know to look at the electric lines from the road to the security lights to the actual drop which are overhead, but then I was ignaint)).
     
  • The fact that we had enough cherries for a pie and might eventually get enough blackberries for a pie if we could be arsed to go pick them.
     
  • That the boys and I were sorta doing the Rural Missouri Missouri Snapshots contest this year, and that we’d gone to the Nathan and Olive Boone Homestead State Historical Site for photos, but the closest actual State Parks to us are Roaring River State Park and Table Rock State Park (state forests and other Missouri Department of Conservation areas do not count as locations where you can take pictures for the contest.

We left on Saturday morning after that walk, and after I got home, my Facebook feed was all like:

C’mon, man. Along with with the Travis Kelce post I mentioned earlier, that is four posts that Facebook showed me within a day of talking within earshot of a phone with the Facebook app installed (and perhaps even running).

As the Philosopher said, “Blue Steel? Ferrari? Le Tigra? They’re the same face! Doesn’t anybody notice this? I feel like I’m taking crazy pills!”

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Movie Report: Happy Gilmore 2 (2025)

Book coverYou know, I would not have expected to watch this film, as it is on a streaming service and I’m an old school media kind of guy. But a week ago, we visited my brother and his family, and they have all the streaming services, and so we watched this film.

And….

Well, it was okay.

It takes place a couple of decades past the first film (obviously). Happy Gilmore became the tour champion several times, but an errant tee shot kills Virginia (after she had borne a pile of kids). Happy hits the skids, becomes an alcoholic, and drops out of golfing and ends up the lowest of the low: A grocery store produce clerk (hey! wait a minute! I was a produce clerk for a long time in a couple different places!). A wealthy guy approaches him to join his new gimmicky golf league–Happy’s youngest daughter needs $300,000 to go to ballet school (an approachable problem for every man), but Happy demurs and looks to rejoin the pro tour to make the dough. Meanwhile, in a scene reminiscient of Batman or more likely Mystery Men, someone springs Shooter McGavin from the insane asylum where he has spent the decades–to rival Gilmore or to help him?

I mean, it was okay. A lot of memberberries, a lot of flashback footage from the original, and a couple of chuckles. But some things were gratuitous, such as the inclusion of Chubbs’ son who is also missing a hand. A lot of cameos–I recognized Travis Kelce, of course, and I did not recognize Eminem–and it has a lot of the Sandlerverse in it, including bringing back Ben Stiller as Hal, this time leading a court-ordered alcohol rehabilitation program, and a pile of Sandler’s actual children. Perhaps it’s part of the nature of Sandler’s contract with Netflix that allows him to be a bit self-indulgent in his cash grabs.

But it’s not likely to be the touchstone that the other one was. I cannot think of a single line from it worth repeating, and I allude to the original with disturbing and disappointing frequency (given that it’s almost thirty years old now).

But: Some things of note outside the film itself.

One, not long after watching it, Facebook presented this to me:

While watching the film, I said to the assemblage, “That’s Travis Kelce,” when Kelce appeared on the screen. Facebook knows what I said.

Second, Ben Stiller’s character in this film compels the recoveries in his substance abuse program to do work around his house much like he had the nursing home residents doing handicrafts for profit in the original.

Meanwhile, in Missouri:

Niangua pastor charged with forced labor in Webster County:

The founder and director of a Niangua-based sober living program has been charged with six felony counts of Abusing an Individual Through Forced Labor, following a sweeping investigation that spanned multiple years and exposed a pattern of alleged exploitation.

* * * *

The charges stem from numerous allegations that Tilden used his position of authority to coerce court-ordered residents into unpaid labor under threat of being removed from the program, potentially sending them back to jail.

According to the probable cause statement, Tilden allegedly forced at least six individuals to perform extensive labor between 2023 and July 2025. The reported work included roofing, farm labor, moving personal and church property, running thrift and feed stores, and construction projects, including the building of a pole barn for which one witness said Tilden was paid $1,500.

Ripped from today’s headlines. Is this actually prevalent? Or did I just happen to see this headline (in an actual, physical paper) and it struck me because I just watched the film?

Spotting these patterns probably explains a lot of my Internet-is-listening paranoia. Which, comes to think of it, is very similar to the patterns I spotted watching Jeopardy!

But my madness doesn’t mean the Internet isn’t listening.

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Nudge: The Next Generation

Bioethicists Want to Infect People With Disease That Makes You Allergic to Meat

And why the hell not?

Behavioral economics and Nudge indicate that Our Betters should be able to use rules and laws to manipulate the people into doing what Our Betters think we should do. And if that fails?

Well, I guess Our Betters have to take more direct action.

As for me, if I end up with Alpha-Gal Syndrome, I’ll get it the old fashioned way. It’s been a bad year of insects here at Nogglestead. I’ve had two or three tick bites (and a couple of visitations) and a wasp sting. I’m going to housebreak a possum and name him Rikki-Tikki-Ticki, brah.

(Link via Instapundit.)

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So, How Was That Turnout?

On Friday, the coverage for the regularly scheduled Saturday “grassroots” protest was not only hyped in its own article but had a slot in the “things to do this weekend” feature.

And, no follow-up about how it went.

Which probably means smaller than the previous one, which was pretty small to begin with. A search of the local television news brings up a couple of pieces about the regularly scheduled “grassroots” protests in a couple of distant cities.

Not a mass movement.

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Watch Out For Her Cross

Matty Healy comforts crying mom outside LA restaurant after Taylor Swift jab

Especially if she gets her full body into it; that will give you something to cry about.

In related news, which is unrelated actually but is a funny story: My son and I re-certified for CPR two weeks ago, and we brought along my beautiful wife so she could also get a pretty little AHA card for her overstuffed wallet.

The captain in charge and the fireman assisting asserted we should lock our elbows and rock to get the full body into quality compressions on the adult mannikin. Then, they brought out infant-sized mannikins for us to practice little two-finger compressions. And when it came time to do the bit on a choking baby, it was two-fingered modified Heimlichs and pats on the back.

When it came time to try them on the mannikin, my black-belt-havin’ wife apparently gave the little mannikin a full martial arts palm strike on it that caused the mannikin to eject the electronic parts that light up to give feedback on your CPR compressions. They clattered to the floor at the feet of the captain, and she said, “Should I not put my hip into it?”

She passed, of course, as she was the only one in the class (and perhaps ever) to make the baby actually cough up anything.

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The Bookshelf That Came In

Ah, gentle reader, it has been fifteen years since I posted about a gallery of the Noggle library, and this post is not going to revisit the state of the library. However, I do want to note that the brown, unfinished shelf that housed the woodworking books and magazines has come in doors.

In 2010, it looked like this:

In the decade and a half since, I am not sure I’ve acquired many repair guides, and if I did, they went to the unread stacks. But I did load it up with junk for craft projects that I never got to I haven’t gotten to yet.

But I’m now into year two of cleaning my garage, and I had picked up a plastic shelving unit for use in my office where it didn’t fit (my PCs didn’t fit on it in a fashion where I could have moved my printers under the desk), so I moved it to the garage in the middle of the garage. That made it look junky, so I decided to bring the bookshelves into the house–into my office–and use the wall space in the garage for the shelving.

Well, first, I had to paint it, of course.

The bookshelf has an interesting family-by-marriage history. My maternal grandmother remarried a fellow named Herb when she was in her fifties (old, I would have thought then–given she had only a few years to live, I guess it was truer than I knew). Herb was a woodworker by–hobby? Vocation? He had a professional wood shop that he gave up when they married, and he tricked out the lower level of the house they shared on the flood plain until it flooded, and then he tricked out the basement of their next rented house not on a flooded plain (and the house where my grandmother died–and the last time I saw her, I was so into my new library books that I read in her living room instead of spending time with her while she was bed-ridden–I never knew how sick she was). But Herb did not build this bookshelf.

One of his five or six children built it as a china cabinet in high school shop class. It was not a bad piece of schoolwork from fifty years ago; it’s made of solid wood, which puts it above most of our bookshelves which are particle board and laminate. My mother inherited it when my grandmother died, and I remember it on the exterior wall of her dining room–but when I went to show my beautiful wife a picture of it as a china cabinet in a photo of our family having dinner at my mother’s, it’s not there. Maybe it was on the interior wall of that dining room.

Sometime, I got possession of it; I don’t actually remember when I got it, and that bothers me a bit. I don’t think it was when my mother passed away– I did not take much of her furniture, leaving it along with the house for my brother to deal with. It might have been after my first aunt passed away, at which point my mother probably inherited a nicer china cabinet from her sister.

I say this because when I got it, I took the doors off and removed the center pieces of it to turn it into bookshelves. And I sanded some of the paint off of it. This would indicate I got it pre-children, back when I thought I would get into refinishing furniture (which I really didn’t–which is why the hardware for one of the desks in my office is packaged in the garage–I planned to refinish it 26 years ago, but I have not gotten to it yet, and it’s been in use for probably 24 of those years). When we moved to Nogglestead, it was put into the garage, and there it’s sat for the sixteen years we’ve been here.

Well, I did not stain it, but I painted it with leftover fence paint, and it’s in my office now.

It also has the distinction of combining reference material (the woodworking, home repair, and electronic repair books), books I’ve read (the paperbacks at the top), and books I have not read (things I had stacked horizontally atop the other bookshelves in my office). I’d thought I’d need it for the overflow mass market paperbacks I’d read, but the overflow did not take up much space on it. So I have commingled read with unread. But not my books with my beautiful wife’s books (I say that as though it’s a taboo, but some of the books from my childhood are mixed with her books in the family room).

I stacked the former read paperback shelves atop each other, and the three shelves together eliminated some of the only wall space available in my office for decorations. So the few of my mother’s spoon collection which I actually polished at one time and displayed in a hanging spoon collection display thing-a-ma-bob–well, they’re on my desk again, suitable for a five things on my desk post again. I’ve kind of leaned the other things from that wall–the Jordan Binnington print, a couple of woodburnings I’d given to my aunt and uncle which I got back when my aunt died, and a couple of small paintings that my great grandmother did and which I remember on the wall in the dining room in the house projects–atop the bookshelves.

But there’s no room here for the spoon collection. We’re actually getting to the point at Nogglestead that we don’t have vertical wall space for the things we’ve accrued, so some are in the garage, and some will be in the storeroom.

At any rate, that’s the story of this particular bookshelf. Which is the only heirloom-quality bookshelf we have, actually.

“I hope you like the color,” I said to my wife. Because we have five or so gallons of brown paint left.

And onto the next project: Which is cleaning and organizing the garage, and maybe finally refinishing/staining the coffee table and end tables which my brother gave me in 1999 or 2000 and which I took apart to stain evenly and which we have moved, disassembled, several times. Who knows: When the garage is finally cleaned up enough that I can get to things and that the floor is not covered with boxes, bike carriers and trainers, and donation piles, maybe I’ll get back to actually doing things in it.

Or maybe I’ll wait for 2040 to get around to it. Time will tell.

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What If He Had A Highly Contagious New Pathogen From Asia?

Body of person who died on international flight to California reportedly unaccounted for:

The body of a passenger who died during an international flight to San Francisco, prompting the aircraft to divert to Chicago, is reportedly unaccounted for, according to reporting by SFGATE.

Neither airport officials nor a representative for the airline would comment on the circumstances surrounding the death and declined to confirm the passenger’s identity, nationality and gender, the outlet reported.

* * * *

The passenger’s body would presumably then be under the jurisdiction of the Cook County Medical Examiner’s Office, though Natalia Derevyanny, a spokesperson for the department, told SFGATE that there was no record of the deceased passenger or of any case matching that description.

The Turkish Airlines station manager in San Francisco would only tell the outlet that the remaining passengers were rerouted on different flights that eventually got them to their destination.

And the people on the plane were put onto different flights.

Feel free to comment in the middle of the night. I’ll be awake.

(Link via Wirecutter.)

MfBJN: Where we’ve predicted 48 out of the last 0 ends of the world.

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I’ve Altered Our Catchphrase

Lileks today:

Anyway, I just remembered the name of the new place, the one that’s a cafe but also has COFFEE in its name in case you didn’t think the CAFE had COFFEE. The name?

BRIM

So I can’t wait until they open and I can walk in and ask if they have any coffee. It will also be tempting to say “Fill it to the rim,” and then have an expectant look on my face as I wait for everyone else to complete the catch phrase.

Which, of course, they won’t.

You can, can’t you?

I have been known to say, “Fill it to the rim. With grim.”

But I am a curmudgeon at best.

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Holly Mathnerd Recommends

When I saw the cropped image on her home page, I knew where it came from.

I knew immediately who it was: The Great Brain. (I just read one of John D. Fitzgerald’s books, Me and My Little Brain, in 2018–that long ago? Already?)

In her post Boys Are Falling Behind While We Look Away: How to get boys into reading so they can start catching up, she recommends the series.

And I recommended it, along with the Hardy Boys and whatnot, to my boys. But they never cottoned onto it. Although they “read” a bunch when they were younger, before they got iPhones “for school,” they didn’t cotton onto either series which was a staple of my youth. What they read were the Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Captain Underpants, and other juvenile semi-comic books which, it turns out, did not really train them to read but rather for short attention span entertainment. Like iPhones.

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I Guess It’s Called The Ann Coulter Rule

Robert Stacy McCain covers the Traverse City stabbing:

Say hello to Brandon Gille and, while you’re at it, go ahead and say good-bye, because he will almost certainly spend the rest of his life behind bars. Gille went on a stabbing spree at a Walmart in Traverse City, Michigan, on Saturday. All 11 of his victims survived the attack and, for once, the “Ann Coulter Rule” turned out to be wrong in this case. Police were for some reason unwilling to identify the suspect in the immediate aftermath of Saturday’s attack, even though they had the guy in custody. The Ann Coulter Rule specifies that, the longer the police delay identifying the perp, the greater the likelihood that it’s not a white guy. So everybody was speculating that the Traverse City stabber must be a Muslim or perhaps an illegal immigrant, but it turned out to be a crazy white guy.

I myself speculated as such. And, being wrong in this instance, some people will hold it’s wrong to speculate such in any instance.

I don’t know. This might be the exception that proves the rule (that is, tests the rule) and proves it’s not always the case. Which is not the same as proving it is never the case.

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