So researchers at the New England Historical Genealogical Society traced the lineage of our presidential candidates and found that Barack Obama is the ninth cousin of Brad Pitt and Hillary Clinton is the ninth cousin of Angelina Jolie.

This leads me to one conclusion: Everyone is the ninth cousin of everyone else. You are the ninth cousin of me. I am the ninth cousin of you. Which means when I ask to borrow money, you have to relent because I. AM. FAMILY.

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
Jeremiah 29:11

I used to read this verse and envision God, hunched over a chessboard, strategically contemplating the course of my life. You know, making plans to prosper me and not to harm me and whatnot.

The best part about this imagined scenario is that God would dutifully let me know whenever I came close to stepping out of place. In my mind’s eye, he already had a cure for every small hiccup and a bridge over every large roadblock before I ever encountered them. And he would help me maneuver past those predicaments by giving me a clear and distinguishable sign.

Check.

I wish I still believed that. Our lives are so in flux right now I hardly know which way is up and which way is down anymore. And the more I think about it, the more I am faced with the grim possibility that perhaps part of growing up is realizing that no one can make your decisions for you – no matter how risky the choices seem.

I’ve always been mystified by the kind of people who can make a major life decision based on the flip of a coin or the upswing of their swaying mood. I am too neurotic for that – too perpetually consumed by the what ifs of every scenario. Even when I tell myself I’m waiting for a surefire sign, I am never satisfied once that sign actually presents itself.

So I sit with this heavy indecisiveness and barter with myself, my inner monologue, my God to give me some sort of sign to make the decision easy.

Check.

Over the next few days, I’m going to share my photos from our Yellowstone trip last month over the next few days. To see more, visit my flickr page.

On Sunday (Aug. 19), Ben and I visited the Grand Prismatic Spring in Yellowstone National Park. It seemed other-wordly. Gorgeous colors, awful sulfur smell. Anyway, it made a great panorama.

It wasn’t until I returned and did some research that I realized what - exactly - the hot spring is: 300 feet wide, 160 feet deep. Water 188 degrees (F) in the center, cool around the edges.

NASA scientists are interested in the Grand Prismatic Spring because (duh!) it’s cool and because it might be similar to environments in the early days of our great planet.

I know I haven’t posted in a long time. I’m still slowly trying to get over this not-wanting-to-write-after-writing-all-day-for-work thing. But Ben did something so wonderful this weekend, I just had to break my Internet silence.

He made this weekend Tiffany weekend. We did everything I wanted to do, from eating a fancy Italian dinner on Friday (Ravioli Del Mari, Reisling and chocolate cannaloni). Saturday we watched an early matinee of my choice, and this evening he surprised me with dinner at The Melting Pot, where we indulged in delicious cheesy/fried food. It was a perfect weekend.

I’ve been meaning to type some notes from our trip to Destin, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet. Please accept my apologize and let me direct you to my flickr as a temporary substitute.

So Paris Hilton was sent to jail, left jail, and was sent there again, the Japanese are introducing the world’s first dog nursing home, a Charlotte, North Carolina-man is being taxed for his own environmentally-friendly ingenuity and I’m returning to the wonderful world of blogging.

Only I have to go to work in about 10 minutes, so this is going to be short.

When I stopped writing on the ‘net, I didn’t intend for my hiatus to be so long. I’ve always only managed to handle one creative obsession at a time, and when Ben bought me a digital SLR in February, I transfered all my energies to improving my photography. All of a sudden I didn’t want to write anymore.

For the most part, I’d still rather have a camera in my hands than a keyboard under my fingers, but lately I’ve caught myself constructing posts in my head while I’m driving down the road or washing my hair in the shower or wherever, so I think it is time to end my Internet silence.

Plus I really need a place to show off my photos other than my wall.

In three weeks, Ben and I are taking our first vacation in more than two years. We will spend the week of July 4th at my aunt and uncle’s home-by-the-beach in Destin, Florida. I plan to get a killer tan, read books that probably won’t make me any smarter (oh, shut up. I’m reading a weighty Russian tome right now) and eat tons of crab meat dipped in butter. Ben plans to parasail, so he says, and do adventurous boy stuff like fish for sharks. And snorkle.

Last night, I was craving an Oreo-cookie shake from Jack in the Box, and, typically, Ben was craving a Sourdough Jack burger. As I grabbed my keys and motioned for him to go with me, Ben looked down at his stomach and wistfully said, “I don’t need that. I’m going to be wearing a swim suit soon.”

“You are thinking about your figure now? What good is that going to do? You’ve known about this vacation for six months.”

“I still have three weeks to uncover my six pack.”

“Three weeks is only going to help if you plan on starve yourself. You might as well eat the burger.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“You know you want to. Your resolve is crumbling like a delicious chocolate chip cookie. Eat the burger.”

“Okay, you’re right.”

I’m like the devil if the devil came brandishing french fries and brownies and ice cream sundaes.

What I just heard on CNN:

“President Bush is embarking on a tour of Latin American countries with the intention of swaying voters away from progressively left leanings.”

Yes. Because that worked so well in his own country.

Happy Valentine’s Day! Hope yours was as great as mine.

There are few things on this earth that make Ben more giddy than brownies.

Still reeling from an amazing pre-Valentine’s dinner, dessert and movie (featuring Pan’s Labrynth), I was feeling a bit generous during my weekly trip to the grocery store and went ahead and picked up a box of brownies.

But pre-bake, I was already bored with traditional brownies and really yearning for a way to jazz them up. So, I did a little googling and came up with cream cheese brownies. Voila! Heat your oven to 350 degrees.

The first step is to mix the brownie batter just like it tells you on the box. Then, in a separate bowl, mix one 8-oz. package of softened cream cheese with 5 tablespoons of butter, 1/3 of a cup of sugar, 2 tablespoon of flour and 3/4 a teaspoon of vanilla.

Once everything is mixed, spread almost all of the brownie batter on the bottom of a foil-lined pan. Dump the cream cheese mixture evenly on top and drizzle the remaining brownie mixture on top.

Now comes the fun part: swirling. Pull a dull knife through the batter back and forth several times, creating the desired marble effect.

Bake at 350 degrees for 30-35 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the brownies comes out almost clean.

When it is done, you’ll want to let it cool before you slice it so you won’t mess up the cool design. Enjoy with a tall glass of milk.

There is this theory that once you say something aloud or even think it, you’ve put it in the universe.

Not one to typically subscribe to superstitions, I’m inclined to refute all claims of said theory, but this week has undeniably harbored some strange coincidences.

On Saturday, our worlds collided when Ben and I traveled downtown to his school for a law and media forum with a couple of my coworkers in tow.

The proposed Texas shield law was one of the topics covered in the forum. One of the panelists was babbling about the discretion reporters employ when deciding to even use an anonymous source in a story, when I interjected something about the phrase “an anonymous source said…” being fraught with overuse in our industry.

And I believe that, wholeheartedly. Would I go to jail for a source? Yes. But in some ways reporters’ privilege has the potential to make reporters lazy, when sometimes all it takes is some coaxing to get someone to let you use their name in print. Very few situations truly warrant anonymity.

I might have also mentioned Lindsay Lohan and her alleged cocaine-guided foray into the underworld. Might I suggest that if you have a deeply suppressed, yet unrelenting urge to disseminate your vast knowledge of Lindsay Lohan’s happenings, you unleash it on a room full of people who are not only majestically smarter and more insightful than you, but also don’t give a rat’s ass.

All this to say, wouldn’t you know that yesterday I had to use an anonymous source for a story for the first time in my career, demonstrating that the moment I decide to talk out of my ass, the world turns around to bite me on it.

As I was browsing craft blogs today, I happened upon something I must have overlooked every time I’ve logged into flickr: Moo.

These cute little image cards (about half the size of a business card), can be customized any way you like. One side is your photo and you can have a message printed on the other. I decided to keep it simple and put my flickr URL on the back, but they also make great ‘thank you’ tags or invitations.

People all over the Internet are using moo for a variety of reasons. I’m going to make a mobile, magnets and key chains out of mine. Oh, and gift tags for my coworkers’ V-Day presents! For more ideas, go here.

$20 for 100 cards

One thing that sucks about working at a newspaper is you often get a firsthand look at all the horrible things that can happen to people, and you realize how easy it is to die. The moment you stand in a busy intersection observing the mangled carnage of a fatal accident, rain blanketing your shoulders as the funeral home comes to take the body away, you are reformed. You wear your seat belt. You unrelentingly obey the speed limit. You chide the drivers around you for being so reckless. If only they knew, you think.

Obviously all these changes are good, but your newfound awareness often incites paranoia. My coworkers share this conundrum. The paper’s breaking news reporter admitted she never steps outside a store without quickly scanning the parking lot to make sure no one is approaching her with a gun. Another reporter said she had a state-of-the-art alarm system installed in her college-age sister’s apartment.

And it isn’t just women.

“I’m neurotic,” a male friend in the business told me over lunch one day. “Every night when I get home I check all the rooms and closets before I’ll even put my stuff down.”

My own delusions peaked this summer when I was covering an unsolved country club murder. It was like everything you see in the movies; I received anonymous tips almost daily, and as I dug deeper and deeper in the mystery, I got the eery sense I was being watched. You know the feeling: you want to turn around and pan the room, but you know how silly that is because there is no one there. It was like that. Constantly.

Come September I was over that irrational fear, but others lingered. I was and still am perpetually afraid of dying or being maimed horribly by freak accidents. It has become so bad it sometimes dictates my actions. Some examples:

the scene: Mount the recumbent bike we bought for Christmas and pop a piece of gum in mouth. Imagine taking a big gulp of air in the middle of work out and accidentally sucking gum down throat. Choking. Struggle to stumble down the hall to the living room where Ben is studying. Wonder about ability to pantomime, “I’m choking!” fast enough for him to understand. Ponder if he knows the Heimlich. Deciding he probably doesn’t, spit the gum out and resume exercise.

the scene: Driving; see an 18-wheeler that looks a bit swervey. Remember the story about the 18-wheeler that unexpectedly jackknifed across the road and beheaded a man whose vehicle slid under it. Instead of just passing the truck, decide to take an alternative route that adds at least five minutes to journey.

the scene: Leaving work late. Think sinister-looking people are lurking in the abandoned building across the street. Quickly throw work-related items into car and lock all the doors as car lurches away from building.

the scene: Midnight. Trying to sleep but thinking about all the people who have died in their sleep. Panic ensues. Feeling vulnerable. Stay awake until 3:30, when remember people also die from lack of sleep.

the scene: Filling up car at gas station, a stranger approaches and asks for a hand out. Terrified: thrust entire wallet into his open hand and scream, “Don’t shoot!” Now it’s his turn to be terrified. He drops wallet and runs away. Pick it up from oil-greased concrete and re-evaluate your paranoia when you realize it is worse to be the victim of obsessive worrying than any potential crime.

I got flowers at work one day last week for being a “super pooper trooper.” At least that’s what the card said. The story behind the card? For two consecutive days our dog was sick with some sort of formidable stomach virus that caused him to throw up everything he ate, which by the looks of things included grass, leaves, carrots, tree limbs and the hot tub.

By the end of day two, Schroeder’s stomach bug had progressed in maturity so that he was no longer vomiting a smattering of our backyard twice a day. He was crapping it. Whoever said change is positive needs to come to my house and scrub putrid puppy bile out of my tile grout.

I had been very careful to limit his food intake to certain times of the day so that I could regulate when he would need to go, and I went to bed Tuesday night firm in the belief that he would make it through the night without having to go. If he did have to go, I reasoned, he would wake me up with a soft whimpering warning of what was coming with enough time to rush him outside.

So set was I in my delusions that I fell right to sleep and slept without moving until 7 a.m., the time I have begun setting my alarm for so I can exercise before I go to work. It was still dark, so I padded barefoot across the carpet to the bathroom to brush my teeth, when — squish.

I’ll skip the gory parts and just inform you that I spent the morning scrubbing liquid poop out of the carpet, which by the way was brand new when we moved here. And though I don’t exactly blame Schroeder for this incident, I feel compelled to mention our carpet isn’t the only thing he has ruined this week.

There’s also a leather desk set my mom got Ben for Christmas, a cardboard box, a plastic ball, a copy of Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus (though I can’t say I blame him for that one either), my favorite sandals, the message pad we use to write our grocery lists and a black pen.

In fact, the one thing Schroeder hasn’t destroyed is my will to live, though frankly that hinges on the one pair of leather pumps he hasn’t managed to sink his teeth into yet.

Ben and I have been cooking, listening to This American Life podcasts and watching You Tube videos all morning. A really productive way to procrastinate meeting my mom for lunch.

Or maybe we should go to Wendy’s.

By TERRENCE STUTZ / The Dallas Morning News

AUSTIN – Legislation was filed in the Senate on Wednesday that would make abortions illegal in Texas if the U.S. Supreme Court overturns its landmark Roe vs. Wade decision.

Sen. Dan Patrick, R-Houston, filed the “trigger” abortion bill that would take effect only if the Legislature first passes the measure and then the nation’s highest court reverses its position on abortion in a new case.

“Many of us on the pro-life side and even those on the pro-choice side believe it is a matter of time before Roe vs. Wade is overturned,” said Mr. Patrick, a conservative radio talk-show host who was sworn into office as a state senator Tuesday.

“I want to have a law on the books in Texas that clearly says if Roe vs. Wade is overturned, there will be no abortions in Texas.”

A companion bill has already been filed in the House by Rep. Warren Chisum, R-Pampa.

A representative for NARAL Pro-Choice Texas said Wednesday that lawmakers should focus on prevention of unwanted pregnancies rather making abortions illegal and dangerous for women who will still seek them.

While Texas had an anti-abortion law before the Supreme Court ruled such laws unconstitutional in 1973, Mr. Patrick said there is some dispute about whether that law would go into effect if Roe vs. Wade were reversed. He noted that Texas has passed parental notification and parental consent laws in recent years that imply a woman’s right to an abortion.

“Without a trigger bill, there would be a fight over whether we are a pro-life or a pro-choice state,” he said. “Some might view us as a pro-choice state because we have laws for parental notification and parental consent where if you get a parent’s approval, you can have an abortion.”

Asked about the chances for passing such a measure in the Legislature, Mr. Patrick pointed to recent approval of a trigger abortion bill in Louisiana.

“Louisiana is a state full of Democrats and Republicans with a Democratic governor, and they passed it unanimously,” he said.

One of the biggest obstacles to the measure is a Senate rule that requires two-thirds of its members to agree to consider a bill before it can come up for debate. That means 11 of 31 senators can block action on legislation.

Once upon a time, there was a man named David Gale, who was accused of a gruesome murder and convicted to death. Hours before his execution a reporter found evidence of his innocence, but as she was driving to the prison, her car broke down. She ended up running the rest of the way. By the time she arrived it was too late. David Gale was dead.

David Gale’s story isn’t a true account. It is a movie that came out in 2003, but I like it because it illustrates how easy it is to wrongfully convict someone even if you are certain beyond a shadow of a doubt they did it. For a nonfiction account, let’s look to Arthur Mumphrey, 42, who was convicted of a rape his brother committed. Mumphrey was released from prison about a year ago after serving 18-years before DNA evidence finally cleared him. Mumphrey would have likely served all of his 35 years — most of his life — incarcerated if his attorney hadn’t relentlessly pursued evidence of his innocence.

But some attorneys don’t.

Derrick Frazier’s attorney didn’t, and he was executed in Huntsville on August 31, 2006 for the murder of a mother and son with a 9-millimeter handgun in 1997. According to court documents, Frazier and a codefendant then stole the woman’s pick up truck, even though it was never found in Frazier’s possession, and some items from a neighbor’s home. The physical evidence collected at the scene of the crime: a print from Frazier’s shoe on the neighbor’s carpet and a fingerprint on the owner’s manual of the pick up. No other fingerprints were found.

Frazier was told he would only receive a 30-year prison sentence for a video-taped confession. Instead, he was convicted of capital punishment. During the trial the District Attorney admitted the most important piece of evidence was the confession.

A handful of other factors make Frazier’s execution questionable: Derrick Frazier is black; 11 jurors are white. One is a Mexican woman married to a white man. The State Bar of Texas was investigating Frazier’s court appointed assistant attorney for misconduct in another case while he represented Frazier. After Frazier’s trial, his attorney was found guilty of professional misconduct and was suspended from practicing. After he was placed on probation, the Board of Disciplinary Appeals determined Frazier’s attorney “may be suffering from a disability.” Frazier isn’t the only prisoner his attorney represented who received the death penalty.

He was one of the 23 people the state of Texas executed in 2006. According to an Associated Press article, even up to his death, Frazier heralded his innocence. No one else, not even his attorney, vehemently denied he did it.

Death is an impossible thing to understand. Despite all our justification, there is no good reason to end someone’s life. Despite all our medical advancements, there is no humane way to kill someone. Not even lethal injection is as tidy and pain proof as we’d like to believe it is. Recently, Florida Governor Jeb Bush decided to temporarily halt executions in his state after the botched execution of Angel Diaz, who took 34 minutes to die of lethal injection. The injection should have killed him in 15 minutes.

Other states, such as California, have put a moratorium on executions after acknowledging lethal injections often go wrong, leaving the recipient writhing in pain on a gurney, horrifying onlookers. For a list of other botched executions in the United States go here. How do you execute a humane execution? We’re learning we can’t.

Murder is equally horrifying; no one is disputing that. But the threat of execution apparently isn’t a deterrent for murderers. In Houston alone, the murder rate jumped 13.5 percent over last year. How do we keep murder from happening, make sure everyone convicted of murder actually committed the crime and execute a humane execution? We are learning we can’t.

Ben argued in his post about capital punishment that “it is good to know that for all the ‘quick and painless’ touted, you cannot get passed [sic] the fact that a human life is coming to an end… so that we realize how horrific dying can be, and so that we are beyond a doubt certain that this person deserves death.”

But, as Richard Cohen pointed out in his column, certainty is flawed.

The jury in David Gale’s trial was certain. The jury and every judge in the appeal of a murderer on an episode of Boston Legal was certain. The real-life jury that convicted Arthur Mumphrey of rape was certain. Despite the neglect of Derrick Frazier’s attorney and other mitigating factors, the jurors in Frazier’s case were also certain of his guilt. No one entertained the notion that maybe their certainty was wrong.

I think people are starting to see that. I think the death of Diaz and others is shedding light on an antiquated, barbaric system of punishment that is hopefully going the way of the guillotine. Capital punishment doesn’t deter murders, and it doesn’t bring the murdered back. According to the AP article, after the husband and father of the people Frazier is accused of killing saw him die, his reaction was basically, “It doesn’t make me feel better, doesn’t bring them back. But at least he got what he deserved.” A question lingers. What if Derrick Frazier, or others, didn’t kill and we robbed him of what he really deserved? True justice.

Written by Richard Cohen
Washington Post, December 26, 2006

Since this is my last column of 2006, tradition and custom obligate me to choose a person of the year. This practice was started by the late Henry Luce, who realized that choosing a man of the year would call as much attention to his Time magazine as it would to the person himself. I have somewhat the same object in mind. My person of the year is Gregory Thompson. I choose him to call attention to the madness of the death penalty.

I apologize for the un-Christmasy nature of my topic and I will understand if you choose to skip to another subject. But if you can spare me a moment, I’d like to tell you about Thompson. He is a cold-blooded killer, plain and simple. He is also out of his mind.

Thompson, 48, is delusional. He is also paranoid, schizophrenic and depressed. For these ailments, he receives daily doses of drugs and, twice a month, anti-psychotic injections. The state of Tennessee wants very much to put him to death for the horrendous 1985 murder of Brenda Blanton Lane, of which there is no doubt about his guilt. There is grave doubt, though, about the constitutionality, not to mention the decency, of executing an insane man. Thus the 12 pills Thompson takes every day. The idea, according to an account of his case in The Wall Street Journal, is to make him sane enough to be put to death.

Shortly before Justice Harry Blackmun retired from the Supreme Court in 1994, he reversed himself on the death penalty. Blackmun had been a life-long supporter, but finally had had enough. In words that would become famous, he wrote, “From this day forward, I no longer shall tinker with the machinery of death.” It’s as if Blackmun had Thompson in mind, for in his case, the tinkering occurs on a daily basis.

Blackmun was not the only Supreme Court justice to change his mind about capital punishment. Lewis Powell did something similar. He never got to the point where he considered it unconstitutional or immoral - he just concluded there was no way to get it right.

Now, from Powell’s point of view, matters have even worsened. The death penalty has now become so necessarily cumbersome to implement, so full of essential safeguards, that it not only cannot be done sometimes - note the recent suspensions of executions by lethal injection - but it takes forever to do it. Thompson, you might have noticed, has been awaiting execution for nearly 22 years - arguably cruel and unusual punishment in itself.

If I were not forced to choose a person as my person of the year, I might choose a concept: certainty. It is the one concept we cannot afford. Certainty is where we all get into trouble. We were so certain that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction that it was reason enough to go to war. And once we went to war, we were certain that we would be welcomed in Baghdad by adoring throngs of Iraqis. And all that certainty was itself preceded by the fervid certainty of a President that he had been chosen for this war, this moment, this task. This was the worst certainty of them all.

As we keep learning, the devil is not in the details, it’s in our certainty. This almost always is the case with death penalty cases. They are built on certainty - witnesses who were certain, technicians who were certain, cops who were certain, prosecutors who were certain and jurors who were certain beyond a reasonable doubt. Yet routinely we read about convictions being overturned by DNA evidence. All those witnesses, technicians, cops, prosecutors and jurors were wrong - certain, but wrong. That, in effect, is the only true certainty. Occasionally, we will be wrong.

This year saw the fewest executions in a decade and growing public support for the alternative sentence of life without the possibility of parole. The cynic in me suspects that this is a result of historically low crime rates, not a sudden appreciation of how difficult it is to kill people properly, legally and, of course, justly.

Maybe, though, Americans are beginning to understand that we just don’t need the death penalty, that it makes us no safer and demeans us as a people. The case of Gregory Thompson is a case in point. He was probably insane when he murdered Brenda Blanton Lane, but will be deemed sane if and when he’s executed. He’s my person of the year - a fleetingly sane man in the maw of a thoroughly insane system.

January-On moving away from experiences:
You say this is how life ebbs and flows. We move away from one experience to make room for another. Maybe this year will hold better adventures.

February-On botched dinners:
Then he went to the corner store to buy us ice cream to purge the taste of the meal, which was so bad I put the leftovers in our dog’s food bowl… and she looked up at me like, “What the hell? I don’t think so,” and retreated into a corner to lick her crotch.

March-On local escapes
Ben and I went to Galveston this weekend because even though we heard getting in the water puts you at risk for flesh-eating viruses, we figured flesh-eating viruses was a good enough way to get our minds off our troubles. We happen to have no money, but flesh-eating viruses are free.

April-On interesting dates
We found ourselves sitting next to a taxidermist named Chuck who was almost completely dressed in leather. …and I’m pretty sure he was trying to pass off something he killed and stuffed as hair.

May-On unsettling discoveries about myself
There are things I’m learning in this new life. I’m learning that sometimes circumstances can make you look at an objective situation subjectively. I’m learning I have limits and boundaries and it is okay to ask for help or admit weakness sometimes, especially if it keeps you from entering a dangerous situation. But more than anything, I’m learning they don’t make shades to disguise hurt pride.

June-On happy mistakes
Thirty minutes later as we were driving home, I looked down into my lap at the littly squirmy puppy in my lap and said, “Did we just buy a dog?”

July-On seething with rage at Time Warner cable Internet and their stellar customer service
… I knew I should have said what I was really thinking, that asking for noncondiscending, sincere help from him was like asking Roxy not to lick her crotch or asking Schroeder not to drag my panties from my closet through the house, his cockiness is JUST. THAT. INATE, but instead I just said, “Oh. Well can you fix it? Like, for good this time?”

August-On two years
My need to document the tiny moments we live (evidenced by this blog) is probably what compelled me to video tape the walk to our hotel, turn the camera shutter on our first bite of New York pizza and pan across the theater where we saw Aida. There is a moment on the tape when we babble for several minutes about the dirt on our feet. It’s not just any dirt–oh, no. It’s New York dirt.

September-On trying to keep up
I drive the 30 minutes home from work constructing blog posts in my mind, but the moment my finger hits the garage door opener, my will to write drains like an uncorked bottle of Riesling and disappears into an unseen portion of my home. I’ll probably find it when we move along with the TV remote control and Ben’s missing socks.

October-On change
They tore down that conference room in the library to make room for a state-of-the-art “theology reading room.” When I saw that I almost cried. The entrance to the library is blocked off from the public by trees; Its entire main floor, where I discovered Tom Wolfe and Milan Kundera, has been remodeled into a Starbucks.

November-On losing the illusion
I think most girls need to see their father that way. But someday you have to grow up and stop believing the illusion.

December-On why Wal-Mart is on my list
I’m sorry, but I just don’t enjoy being tossed around like croutons in a salad of pissy, selfish people.

I remember Christmas mornings in high school when my brothers and I would wake up to screeching 4:45 a.m. alarms and stumble bleary-eyed down the stairs, our excitement hardly combatted by our lack of sleep. Our parents, who hadn’t yet had their coffee, would shoo us upstairs until — “atleastforGod’ssake” — 5 a.m.

This Christmas my mom’s fingers hurriedly tapped an urgent morse code on our respective bedroom doors at 7:15 reminding us our nieces and nephews would be coming over soon, and we hadn’t even fallen out of bed yet.

Still half asleep, I batted her warning away and wrapped Ben’s limp arm tighter around my waist. But the rapid chiding of a mother who cannot accept anything less than perfect could not be ignored. We rolled out of bed lacking the pomp and circumstance of youth and filed downstairs like we were shackled in a chain gang. Boss Pam at least allowed us to stop at the coffee pot before we gathered around the tree.

After opening presents (and I did give and receive some lovely, lovely things), my stepbrother and stepsisters families came over and we settled around the table for a Louisiana Christmas (which you can read about here). Somehow the conversation turned to the War in Iraq and then socialized health care. My family represents a broad range of political ideologies and arguments in the past have been divisive and even hurtful. But Christmas Day out round-table discussion was civilized and so thought provoking, Ben and I spent the entire three-hour car ride home continuing the discussion. We were talking about it again last night, and Ben mentioned he’d like to write about it on his blog but is hesitant to. I hope he does, not only because I know if I get into it now I”ll be late for work, but because he ducked out of a question posed to him by my stepbrother and I want to know what he thinks about it (he later told me he didn’t comment because he didn’t want to say “clusterfuck” in front of my parents, which I suppose is a good policy).

Anyway, I suppose I was thinking that maybe in the absence of unfettered Christmas enthusiasm we gained something: respect and admiration for each other’s opinions. I know this time next year the big question won’t be what is under the Christmas tree, but with what eyes are we viewing the world.

Our office Secret Santa, which was 100 percent voluntary though I feared for the contents of my coffee if the Secret Santa Nazi caught any of us not participating, is ending Thursday, thank God. Any Secret Santa gift could be given; the only contingency was that something, anything, had to sleuthfully be placed on the recipients’ desk every. single. day.

I was browsing Houston’s Missed Connections this morning for Houstonist, and came across a plethora of people who must be feeling similar holiday disdain as I am. I decided to copy/paste the ones I used here because they are funny:

I am really sad I missed you…

when you decided to tip over my scooter. Yeah, I drive a scooter. Yeah, it may be funny to some people. Yeah, I’m probably a little big for it. Yeah, it’s not fast. Yeah, it’s probably not cool to you. But you know what; I don’t care what you think. What I care about is that you decided that it was okay to put your hands on my property and then cause damage to it. I mean, it’s a scooter, what the heck did it do to you? Perhaps you have some sort of personal vendetta against me. In that case, I was about 30 feet away, I’m not that hard to find, you could have come and tried to tip me over. Perhaps you work in the energy sector for, perhaps an oil company, and because scooter get 70 miles a gallon, you want to make sure that as few people enjoy them as possible…whatever, that will never work, they’re already gaining in popularity and why not when you can get great parking spots and great gas mileage. Maybe, you were just wasted and thought it would be funny, if that’s the case, let me know what kind of car or vehicle you drive and I’ll make sure to tip it over next time I see it. Maybe you were just wasted and fell into it (but come on, I watch CSI, there was no way) in which case, just give me your information and own up to the damage you caused. I promise I’ll keep the cops out of it. Maybe it was something having to do with your being wasted, in that case, try an AA meeting or two. I think my best hypothesis would have to be that your life has just been too good as of late and that you were looking for some bad karma to make your own life more interesting. No worries, it’s on the way!

Any kind soul who might have seen this vile behavior, I’d appreciate any information.

Outside the Flying Saucer between 12:00 and 1:30 early in the Saturday AM. The only scooter chained there.

To the jerk in the black truck

So here I am driving home on 45N from taking a final, and who do I come across? You. You in your big, black truck, with big wheels. You must have thought you were so bad ass in your truck that you could drive however you wanted to. Not sure what your deal was. But cutting me off and swerving into my lane was very dangerous and stupid! I’m sure you felt like a big bad man though cutting off a small girl like myself. I think you saw me give you the finger after the first time, did I hurt your feelings?
By the way, if you’re using those tires as a way to compensate for something else, I suggest you go bigger! Judging by your stubby fingers, you probably need to. Either way, the leather jacket and big tires/truck do -not- make you look cool or younger.
Stupid hillbilly. I suppose you’ll never read this though =/ Most rednecks go without computers

Pick-pocketer at CHURCH

You? A slutted up Shakira imposter with male gigolo in tow. Me? Cute brunette in red pants enjoying lunch at the La Madeleine on Woodway next to a conspicuous Baptist church.

Do you have six illegitimate children at home who are writing Santa for TMX Elmo? No. You were wearing a powder blue cashmere sweater, you don’t have needy kids. Are you priest and nun who have teamed up and decided I will tithe against my will? The way you backed that thang up–right up, in fact–to my table to distract me and my coworker from the MF-er peeling through my wallet for plastic suggests not. Did you take my money to get a better dye job? Now, I didn’t get a fair look at your face but at first blush them roots was needin’ some work, gurrrl. But…no. A dye job doesn’t cost $2,446.34 (and counting) which is exactly how many of MY dollars you used before I even finished my meal.

What could you have POSSIBLY needed that money for? Considering you spent it within minutes at a high-end camera shop one block away I can only assume you are filming your very own adult movie. I hope you at least mention me in the credits. And that little old woman whose money you stole last week from the same restaurant. I’m sure she’d like to earn some extra cash since you treated yourself to her social security income.

I understand your desire for anonymity and like any good magic trick you will leave your spectators asking “how?”. How did your partner manage to dig through the contents of my bottomless purse—including a brown banana and some chewed gum that fell out of a wrapper—and extract a debit, credit and AMEX gift card from their respective hiding places between my library, healthcare and Sub Club cards AND THEN REPLACE my emptied wallet in my purse without a single person in the G-D restaurant noticing? How could you do that (as my mama says) “in front of God n’ evr’one”? I have no idea, but you’re good.

The missed connection here? Me catching you, you thieving bastards. Me not realizing “Hips Don’t Lie”. Honest people do not sit on your lunch table by mistake. Or perhaps the missed connection is the thoughts-to-speech of the officer who just took my police report.

Crankypants officer with Hispanic-sounding name: “How do you know they were Hispanic, ma’am?”
Me:“Well, officer, because they were brown. And I am not making assumptions here.”

I work in a part of town where women’s work is complaining in pidgin Spanish to your Vietnamese maid about the pubic hairs she missed picking out of your drain. This duo was authentic brown, not brown as the result of excessive UV exposure and Estee Lauder’s Beautiful in Bronze. And, I think that if you’re going to search for persons who have committed theft, you need to know what they look like. I also provided him with height, build, hair colors and clothing descriptions although he was noticeably less offended by these details.

So, my clever friends, you have my money and consequently have driven me to eat half the batch of brownies I baked especially for my sweet, sweet boyfriend who is always first in line to help me in such situations. I suppose I gain something here, too. Like, three pounds probably.

Ben and I only go to Wal-Mart for two reasons: The store’s Maximum brand dog food is the only thing that doesn’t give our puppy raging diarrhea, and long ago my parents bought me tires there that are still under warranty.

This afternoon we bundled up and took my car to have a flat fixed once we noticed my rear passenger tire sinking low. Wal-Mart is generally a pit of hell around Christmas time, so I had Ben take his car so we could escape rather than wait for my tire to be fixed. As I approached the automotive department and witnessed the cashier do everything in her power to subtly ignore me, I realized that despite our forethought we were going to be there much longer than we’d like to be.

“Excuse me!” I shrieked a little too persistently when I noticed a line begin to form behind me. A short woman behind me arched an eyebrow and smiled, as if to say, “Thank you. I thought I was going to have to pull out her weave to get her attention.”

“I need you to fix a flat, please,” I told the cashier, curtly.

The woman, who was tall enough to be Amazonian with freakish ice-blue eyes that did not seem to go with her very black skin, spun around, twirling her finger around her hair and smacking on gum. “Is air leaking out of it?”

I could not help myself. “No, I think the trouble is it’s filled with glue,” I deadpanned.

She was undeterred. “Hmmmm, I’ll have Eddy take a look,” she said before opening the window and screeching, “Eddy! I need you to look at this woman’s leak!” I grimaced. She turned back to me, “Show him where your car is, suga.”

Eddy, a scrawny man with a crew cut and glasses, scuttled along with me to my car, where, despite passing traffic, he asked me to, “Back it up a little into the road.” It didn’t seem like a good idea — I was almost swiped by a passing Dodge Ram — but I complied as crouched down and felt around my tire. When I got out of my car he told me, “I don’t see a leak.” Eddy, I don’t pretend to be a mechanic or a service technician or whatever the PC term is these days, but unless it is a big gapping hole, aren’t these things usually pretty hidden to the naked eye?

By this time Ben had caught up to us, and Eddy instructed me to take my keys back inside to have the Amazon fill out a service form so he could, presumably, find and fix the leak. Back inside Wal-Mart, I held out my keys to the Amazon. The woman acted as if she’d never seen me before.

“Oh, I can’t help you, sugar. Our key maker is broken.”

“You just saw me! I’m the woman with the flat. Can you please fill out a service form?”

“Oh. No. Bob told me I can’t do that.” She turned to a coworker who was, apparently, sipping hot cocoa on her break. “Can you do that, Shondra?”

“Girl, you know I’m on my 15 minute break. If I do any work I’ll have to start the 15 minutes back over.” Shondra turned to me. “You’ll have to ask them to do it outside.”

I looked at them incredulously. I wanted to pull Amazon’s weave out. I wanted to splash Shondra’s hot cocoa in her face. And who the fuck was Bob? He deserved some of my wrath too.

Ben and I stomped outside, so that we could be ignored by the mechanics until a long line of less patient, angry people formed behind us. “What do you need?” One of the mechanics moseyed over and said.

“Oh good, someone’s going to help us,” Ben said. “I thought we were just standing here because it is fun watching you guys.”

After we got that ball rolling, we decided to try to do a little shopping. And I do mean a little. You know… dog food, milk, pop tarts and popsicles. The basics. But the aisles, they were so painfully crowded. I’m sorry, but I just don’t enjoy being tossed around like croutons in a salad of pissy, selfish people. When one too many bitches had cut me off, I turned to Ben and said, “You know, I’m just gonna start hitting people with my basket.” And a brunette woman who was walking ahead of us turned around and gave me a genuine hurt look.

“Not you. I’m sure you’re lovely,” I called out before disappearing, red from embarrassment down the pastries and cereal aisle.

I also bought some generic-brand period provisions. So generic, it seems, they came without a price. I got to the checkout counter, and the scanner wasn’t picking up the price.

“Do you remember how much these are?”

“Not really. Three dollars maybe?”

The cashier gestured to a fellow cashier over, holding up the box of tampons above her head. “How much are these, do you know?”

“I have no idea.”

“She says they’re probably three dollars.”

“Let’s ask someone else.” The guy behind me shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Tina would know.”

No, guys. I have a better idea. Let’s make a spectacle of my vag corks. You’re winning!

“Just give them to her for three dollars.”

Did I say three dollars? I meant free dollars.

aside: This reminds me of a game Ben and I have started playing called, what would make the person at the register raise an eyebrow when purchased with a box of condoms. Some of our favorites: laxatives, Disney movies, an electric mixer, denture adhesive, an 18-pack of AA batteries a Richard Simmons work-out tape, sandpaper, a stop watch.

Anyway, then Ben and I went home. He gave the dogs a bath while I vacuumed the floor and folded laundry. At about 7 p.m., we returned to Wal-Mart, certain my flat was fixed by then. I approached the counter to find the Amazon and Eddy flirting. All the lights were turned off in the automotive section and the garage looked like a graveyard. “Is it too late for me to get my car back?”

“Oh, we didn’t fix your car,” Eddy said, explaining it is Wal-Mart’s corporate policy to FUCK YOU OVER when you have a flat and have to get to work the next day. He actually had a different reason, but I like my version better.

“So are you saying I have to buy a new tire?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t anyone call me to tell me that you wouldn’t be fixing my tire?”

“I don’t know. That should have happened.”

blinking

“You can talk to the manager, Bob, tomorrow. He should give you a discount on your new tire for the inconvenience.”

I hope tonight Eddy thinks long and hard about the benefits of a good, hearty, appropriate, “I’m sorry,” spilling out of his mouth. Now that I’ve punched him in it.

Ben and I had a really odd fight on Wednesday night that lasted until 3 a.m., and the only good thing I have to say about that is at least in our exhausted state we did a lot more laughing than yelling.

Take for example the moment Ben cuddled up next to me and said, “You know, you’re really cute when you’re angry.”

“Touching. Begets. DEATH.”
“What, I can’t wish my wife would cuddle me when we fight?”
“You are this close to wishing you had a cup.”
“Is the cup for drinking?”
“If that is how you choose to deal with the pain to your nethers.”
“You’re really witty when you’re mad too.”
“That must be why you keep me in that state perpetually.”

Today at work my boss was reading crime blotter items out loud, and we all shared a laugh over a domestic altercation that began when a wife berated, hit and dragged her husband by the hair for “always leaving the damn toilet seat up.” At least it hasn’t come to that.

I’m making the mix CD for a friend’s Christmas party on Saturday. I want a good blend of holiday-inspired songs (think “Christmas in Sarajevo” by Tran-Siberian Orchestra) and fun/silly party songs (think “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard and “Hot for Teacher” by Van Halen).

Your suggestions would be greatly appreciated, and I’ll even give you a mention on the front of the CD.

A couple of weeks ago, I drove downtown to a federal courthouse to cover the sentencing of a man involved in a notorious corporate scandal. We’ll call it WorldCom.

My editors took a big chance allowing me to cover the story. I had never covered a trial before — let alone a sentencing. We could have easily pulled a wire report, but I really wanted it, and because of work I’ve done in a similar vein, my editors determined I had earned it. So I traveled downtown on an inordinately windy day and arrived at the courthouse half an hour early, stomach in knots.

A photographer was supposed to accompany me but it didn’t pan out at the last minute. My editors knew we could use a wire photo but wanted me to take my camera just in case I caught something that the people who are paid mightily to do this failed to see. No pressure.

Aside: It is really hard not to write about the sentencing or the reporters from various national and international media outlets I met there, though I have a strong inclination to call some of them out by name, particularly the one who looked like she bought her outfit from Big, Bitchy and Casual were Big, Bitchy and Casual an actual store.

After the sentence was read, I booked it outside, where I stood with a slew of photographers, who shouted their publications at me like I had “feed me your resume” tattooed on my forehead. AP! Bloomberg! Reuters! Forbes! I squeaked out the name of my publication as they indiscreetly sized up my meager equipment, warning me to brace for the fray when the sentencee exited the courthouse.

No disrespect to the field, but photojournalists are a little like vultures — or at the very least, wrecker drivers. They descend on carnage with aplomb and power in moments most people would be embarrassed and look away. The moment the man and his family left the courthouse, I felt a tug, saying These people should not be made spectacles. It was a fleeting thought, and I snapped back into reporter mode almost immediately. Unfortunately that was almost exactly how long it took the raid from traveling up the street as reporters and photographers chased the family to their car. Once I caught up (note: heels and flowing skirts on a windy day not conducive to this line of work), they were almost to their car, and in my haste, I blurted out the most inane question I’ve probably every asked anyone, ever. It didn’t really matter. The family wasn’t acknowledging anyone’s questions anyway.

Follies notwithstanding, I think I did a great job on the story, and it will be a great clip to add to my portfolio. Come January, I will have been working at the paper a year, the longest span of time I’ve ever spent at one job, and my head spins when I think of all I’ve accomplished. I’ve been thinking about the range of my work this year and the ways I’ve changed as a reporter. This time last year I was working part time at a paper near Austin, trying desperately to score an interview with an actress shooting a horror movie in the little town where I worked. We’ll call her Clara Richelle Stellar. She didn’t want to have anything to do with me. Her movie just opened in theaters, and I can’t help but snarkily think, Wow, a whole year since it wrapped? It really must have needed some editing.

Life is circular. Yesterday I interviewed another actress starring in a horror film that will be released next year. We met at a quant cafe and talked like sisters about the celebrities she knows and her next projects. There was no disgraceful pleading for interviews or agents feigning apologetic sentiments. Just two girls gabbing over iced mochas.

I can’t wait to see what the next year holds.

I believed in Santa until I was 10, well past the age when most children lose their faith.

My mother helped foster this relentless belief, undoubtedly because she knew if I found out about the farce, it wouldn’t be long before my younger brother would too. My brother was reckless, particularly in public; he frequently tore down the aisle of grocery stores with glee and stolen liberty, and my mother wanted to keep him bridled to the certainty that his behavior surrounding Christmas directly correlated with the number of presents that magically appeared under the tree Christmas Eve.

No less do I attribute my unshakeable certainty on my stubbornness to believe. Even on the playground among whispers of Santa’s non-existence, I defended him vigorously. Something in me needed to believe, to hang on to my childhood as long as possible. So I kept writing letters addressed to the North Pole, asking for my most obscure wishes and praying they would magically be granted by Christmas morning.

When my mother finally did tell me there was no Santa, I turned my unwavering faith off like a light switch, and when she asked me to help her fill my brother’s stocking with treats on Christmas Eve, I was thrilled with the newfound responsibility. I was never angry that she had revealed a lie I’d defended for so long, but in the years that followed Christmas became bereft of the glowing magic I remember from my childhood. Lacking the illusion of Santa rid it of much of the mystery that made the holiday so enchanting.

Truths are a bit like the sun: illuminating and sometimes harsh, they melt and evaporate, ridding the environment of distortions.

Sometimes you want the illusion, not the sun.

As a child, I saw my father as a super-hero. He had the strength of He-Man and the wit of MacGyver. He could draw like a professional artist. He could do the voice of every character in the Mickey Mouse franchise. A camcorder hoisted on his shoulders, my dad would frequently tape us at our sports games and family outings, adding his own hilarious commentary. He was every section of the video store: comedy, action, family. But most of all, he was drama.

Even after my parents divorced, my image of who my father was remained unaltered. I whitewashed over his alcoholism and blocked out his spiral into depression. His irrational tirades against my mother became wholly deserved in my mind. Though I knew he had been skimping on child support, I knew my father was taking care of us in other ways. Thinking back on it, I’m not certain how I could deny his behavior reflected those villains you see in movies. The bad guys. All I know to say is that at the time he was Superman, albeit a bit down on his luck. He was Disney and cotton candy and ferris wheels.

I think most girls need to see their father that way. But someday you have to grow up and stop believing the illusion.

I don’t know when my finely-woven heroic perception of my father began to unravel. Maybe it began one Christmas when I told my mother an elaborate lie so that I could drive my brother up to Fort Worth to visit him (he’d had his visitation revoked two years prior after a particularly violent fight with my uncle that my brother and I witnessed). At the end of our weekend, he’d shouted and bemoaned the brevity of the visit, looking conspiratorially for reasons why life hadn’t gone his way. And for once, I saw his lies for what they were. Lies. The revelation tarnished my illusion of my father.

Now he is nearly a stranger, and though I receive e-mails from him occasionally, I don’t know him. Frankly I don’t want to know him, until I am ready to know the real him, even the ugliness that he or I or both have been trying to conceal for so long.

But sometimes, come a jolting memory of cotton candy or heros or Christmas, I yearn for the illusion.

Cleaning is a chore I only yearn for when I’m angry (something about the powerful whap! clean sheets make when you grip the edges and spread them over the bed with a flick).

I cook when I need to ruminate about something. Which is why, despite Thursday’s tour de belly ache, I found myself in the kitchen at 11 tonight making an apple cake, my go-to comfort food. I know I don’t enjoy eating it nearly as much as I enjoy making it and the smell that lingers in the house for hours afterward.

I’ve missed two NaBlaBlaBla days this week (I know you’re all keeping track at home), but I don’t really care. Many members of our staff skipped out of town for the holiday, leaving those of us that stayed behind to find a way to fill the paper. Turns out most politicians and public officials wanted to take time off as well (Bah, what is this? America!?), which actually proved a delightful challenge because it allowed me time to work on some features I’ve been putting off for hard news lately.

Wednesday night, Ben and I jetted to his parent’s house in Round Rock. Thursday we slept late, and after finally meandering out of bed, helped my mother-in-law make the Thanksgiving dinner they hosted. Here are some slivers:

This holiday I’m giving thanks:

* You’re only expected to eat turkey once a year.

* The pilgrims came over on the Mayflower. Seriously, I could have done without manifest destiny and all that stuff in the middle (as I’m sure were the Wampanoags), but I’m glad for the way things turned out.

* My pie wasn’t a resounding success, tethering me to the same expected recipe every year hereafter, but wasn’t a dismal failure either.

* For Joni Mitchell, and my boss for introducing me to some of the best music I’ve ever heard.

* For guilty pleasures like the fug girls.

* Our day was filled with soundness and sobriety, which wouldn’t have happened if (1) we’d stayed home this year, (2) we’d spent Thanksgiving with my dad’s side of the family or (3) we’d celebrated with anyone I work with.

* Today was also filled with copious deviled eggs and spiced tea and I got to take too many pictures of shiny delectable treats and silverware and other frivilous things (photos tomorrow!).

* I’ve begun reading a delightful can’t-putter-downer.

* It’s Christmas season!

* My readers are forgiving when I miss a NaBlaBlaBlah day. You guys are the coolest four people I know.

Sunday was recipe day.

I sat on the couch with a glass of wine in my hand and a furrow in my brow, making descriptive grocery lists of things I wouldn’t buy were it not nearly Thanksgiving. Whole milk. Two dozen eggs. Fresh blackberries. Cinnamon sticks. Unsalted butter (star, star, star). Three packages of cream cheese.

See, it isn’t good enough to just mix drinks. Not when you have in-laws who put the ate in elaborate when it comes to meals. Not when you perpetuate Web sites like this. Mixed drinks, no matter how fabulous, just don’t compare.

So you fill notebook pages with the ingredients for tasty concoctions, you drag your husband to the grocery store — this step is only necessary because you need his sculpted biceps to muscle the scores of plastic bags into the trunk of your car — and you spend way. too. much. money. on groceries.

Then you promptly forget about your holiday ambitions, until late, late, late Tuesday night, when (light bulb!) you recall your three hour trip begins the following evening, and you haven’t made a damn thing.

You fret. But only momentarily. Then you get busy in the kitchen, cooking up pies. You call for reinforcements. The husband whisks eggs while you pour cream and brown sugar into sizzling gobs of melted butter. You adapt a classic recipe: you don’t measure the vanilla. You double the cinnamon. You add. You subtract. Presto. Changeo.

You relish the sounds of your culinary creations: the pop the gas burner makes as it flicks on. The whish of granulated sugar dumped out of a tin cup. The clank of a spoon meeting a metal bowl.

The puppy scuttles under your feet as you precariously balance an aluminum pie tin overflowing with oozing liquid on a cake sheet. 350 degrees for 35 minutes. Rotate 180 degrees, then continue to cook at 325.

And that pretty much brings us up to speed. My pie — gooey in the middle, crisp around the edges — is cooling on the counter. I’m itching to try it, but it is frighteningly late, and I am already readying myself for the bedtime battle, which is what I call my struggle to fall asleep though my mind does cartwheels. I really don’t need a sugar rush working against me.

Thanksgiving should prove an opportune occasion to discern whether or not my contribution to the cooking community is a success.

I’m really tired and a little pissed off, so please accept this awesome photo of my grandmother as a substitute for an actual post.

Yesterday Ben and I saw two movies: The Presige (two thumbs up) and Casino Royale (one thumb up, one thumb hanging awkwardly off to the side). I had somehow managed to never see a James Bond movie through 23 years of life, despite having grown up with three brothers. Some thoughts:

(1) The Bond chick was a very beautiful though remarkably unsexy accountant, who, (spoiler alert!) dies in the exact way you’d expect.

(2) The product placement was rampant and unapologetic: Kia! Sony! Bodyworlds! Douglas airplanes! I don’t care what you say, Martin Campbell! James Bond does not drive a Ford Focus.

(3) I only hope that if I am one day being tortured, I will have the intrepidity to crack jokes. “People will know that you died scratching my balls. Now the one to the left.”

(4) Ben and I were taken by the various ages of the crowd in the theater, proving that James Bond is a silver screen icon that transcends generations.

(5) The opening sequence was ridiculous. James Bond chases a would-be terrorist through a construction site. They climb up several hundred feet in the air on the equipment that was assembling a building before the would-be terrorist jumps down, seriously, in three easy leaps.

(6) Judi Dench was a delightful shift from an otherwise predictable movie.

(7) The supervillian was asthmatic.

(8) Mostly Casino Royale contained all the elements you’d expect: bronze, muscular men with piercing blue eyes, hinting at a troubled past. Seductive women wearing little and saying even less. Exotic locales, corny one-liners, super gadgets. Martini, shaken not stirred. James Bond flicks are familiar even to those of us whose sphere of influence has been 007-free for decades. So see it if you are yearning for the familiar. See if you really aren’t in the mood for thinky thinky stuff. And when you are ready to be challenged, go see something else.