Sine Qua Non

This sonogram image was taken yesterday. Jayne's eyes well with tears every time she looks at it, and I couldn't resist wrapping my arm around her belly last night and feeling this beautiful little girl move beneath it.

Can't wait to meet you, Inara Grace.

(You can read my wife's own feelings about our baby here.)

If Only They'd "Scotchboarded" Him, He Probably Wouldn't Have Minded So Much

The real trick was probably getting whoever was doing it to stop.

(CBC: Christopher Hitchens Says "It's Torture" After Being Waterboarded/7.8.08)

Torah! Torah! Torah!

I like Sacha Baron Cohen -- I mean, the guy's talented as hell.

Which is why I'm hoping that this little news item is another one of his clever jokes -- like the one he pulled recently on unsuspecting wrestling fans in Arkansas: According to London's Daily Mail, Baron Cohen's wedding to Isla Fisher is on hold while she goes through the necessary machinations and learns the secret handshake required to convert to Judaism.

Two things: First of all, there's nothing more ridiculous -- nothing -- than allowing superstitious nonsense and centuries of idiotic tradition to stand in the way of being with someone you love. Once again -- nothing. Secondly, anyone who allows such silliness to stand between him and Isla Fucking Fisher, needs a frying pan to the side of the head.

Seriously, have you seen her?

Oh yeah, and the fact that Baron Cohen's Jewish mother is acting as an impediment to his happiness should earn her some kind of grand prize from the Society to Ensure the Perpetuation of Negative Stereotypes.

Please Isla, don't convert. Break the cycle for the sake of your own kid's hope of being well-adusted.

(The Huffington Post: Sacha Baron Cohen and Isla Fisher Postpone Wedding/7.10.08)

Bull Dirham

So the cash-copious Abu Dhabi Investment Council has just bought controlling interest in the landmark Chrysler Building -- easily the most beautiful structure in New York City's impressive skyline -- for 800-million dollars.

The building will now be renamed the "Dirka Dirka Mohammed Jihad" tower.

Valmorphanization begins next week.

(It's a joke, folks. Just a joke)

Let the Games Begin

Time for another epidsode of Corporate Media Synergy Conspiracy Theory Rock (with all due credit to Robert Smigel):

Has anybody else out there wondered why, after seven merciful years, Universal decided to greenlight another installment in the financially fluid but creatively bankrupt Mummy series? Unless you've been living in a cave for the past few weeks, you probably noticed the onslaught of TV advertising for The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor, particularly on networks like USA, Sci-Fi, and Bravo -- all of which are owned by Universal.

If you really paid attention, you probably also noticed the suspicious release date for this new piece of over-produced Hollywood dreck -- which takes the tired Mummy formula, transports it to "mystical" China and injects Jet Li into the proceedings.

That date: August 1st -- exactly one week before the start of the Olympic games, which just happen to be taking place in -- where else? -- China, and just happen to be airing on NBC, yet another Universal property.

In other words, Universal -- with, one would imagine, at least a little forethought -- bought itself a 125-million dollar advertisement for Chinese culture at a time when it could translate into not simply bucks at the box office but a substantial secondary revenue from the viewers it just might help drive to the games on NBC.

Because right now, those games -- not to mention China itself -- need all the good press they can get.

Project Office Mayhem

Your assignment, as usual: Quietly put the following link up on every computer in your office, then crank all the speakers to full volume.

Mischief points: 81

(Conan Addresses Congress)

The Big Sleep

This afternoon, my and Jayne's brand new bed arrived; it was assembled and now graces our upstairs bedroom.

Which means that my old bed -- the one I've had since 1993 -- has been taken apart for the last time and now sits in pieces outside our home, waiting for the garbage men to come and cart it away.

That bed survived fifteen years, nine moves, four cities, three wives, two dogs, countless ecstasy-induced multiple-partner encounters, and a hell of a lot of otherwise drunk, angry or just plain deviant sexual behavior.

But alas, the time has come to finally say a fond farewell to it.

Rest in peace, old friend.