The one unbelievable thing about Stargate SG-1

Long Suffering Spouse and I recently found Stargate SG-1 on Netflix.

We used to watch that show all the time. We started watching it again on Netflix. We found we still liked it. Naturally, therefore, it is being removed from the streaming service effective today. Anything we like is discontinued and/or canceled.

There are hopes to revive the show, according to recent news accounts. If the show does come back, a central premise of the old show will be discarded: This time, the Stargate program will no longer be a secret.

That was always one of the least believable aspects of the show anyway -- and I say this fully cognizant of the fact that the show was a splendid and unapologetic mashup of science fiction and ancient Egyptian (and Norse) mythology, complete with parasitic monster "snakes" who inhabited, and possessed, many of the bad guys (and some of the good guys, too -- Teal'c for one, and all the Tok'ra).

Ben Franklin said (correctly, I believe) that two people can keep a secret -- as long as one of them is dead. Yet, somehow, a few leaks notwithstanding, despite hundreds if not thousands of people directly involved in the program, who knows how many other members of the Deep State (the show really was ahead of its time on this) trying to horn in on the alien action, and hostile politicians concerned about costs and benefits, viewers were supposed to accept that the Stargate program remained a deep, dark secret. Even with alien invasions and battles in Earth orbit -- the vast majority of the world's population never had a clue.

But while the continued secrecy of the Stargate program was pretty hard to believe, it was not the most unbelievable aspect of the show.

No... the least believable aspect of the show was the premise that all this ancient alien hardware, often buried beneath rubble, or in a glacier, for thousands of years, nearly always worked. Network connectvity was never an issue. Just dig out the gate, dust off the DHD, and off we go! In one episode, the Stargate on one planet was hit squarely by a meteor, buried in rubble, and still worked like a charm.

And the alien equipment never needed updates.

The SG-1 team would come under heavy fire, race back to the gate, dial home, and -- after a big whoosh -- there was the wormhole straight back to the base.

Never was there an announcement before the whoosh: "An update is available for this Chappa'ai. Would you like to download this now, or postpone it to later?"

Once chevron 7 was locked, where was the video? You know... the one that said, "Your wormhole will begin after these ads."

Occasionally power went down -- at the base -- because human equipment powering the Gate failed. But if there was power available, there was always the appearance of blue, standing water -- never the spinning circle of doom like you and I get every other time we turn on our computers. Never once, after the intrepid SG-1 team dialed in, was there a message saying, "Your Chappa'ai has encountered a problem and must restart. Information is being collected about this failure to send to the Ancients."

Faster than light travel? No problem. Little gray men impersonating Norse gods? Totally understandable. Flying pyramids? Advanced aliens wearing suits of armor? All good here. But this Ancient technology always, always working? Impossible!

Not just outraged about Bill Cosby -- I'm also so very sad

I liked Bill Cosby. A lot of folks did -- he was No. 1 for how many years on NBC? Even though I never met the man, I grieved when his only son was murdered -- even wealth and fame are no absolute defense against street crime.

It is impolitic to admit these feelings on the Internet at the moment, even in the past tense, because the only acceptable emotion now vis a vis the one-time Jello pitchman is supposed to be outrage. Bill Cosby must be a far-more gifted actor than the critics who panned Leonard Part 6 and Ghost Dad ever dreamed: While he was persuading Middle America that he was an inspirational family man, he was secretly soliciting, drugging, and then raping young women.

Why?

Couldn't he have obtained women just by flashing his winning smile and fat bankroll?

Some of the outrage is actually kind of amusing -- one Tweeter purported to "dismiss" the allegations against Cosby as "just another case of he said / she said she said she said she said she said...."

Every PI attorney has heard of the phenomenon of "jump-in claimants" -- how 100 people claim to be injured in a bus accident... when the bus couldn't hold more than 50 -- so it's possible that one or more of Cosby's many accusers is turning something consensual into something else. But jump-in claimants don't exist without a real accident.

Mr. Cosby's defenders, if there are any left, face an insurmountable problem: When six former altar servers independently accuse Fr. Smiley of groping under their cassocks in the Sacristy, Fr. Smiley's denials fall flat and his most ardent supporters look foolish. So it is with Mr. Cosby. There are just too many women coming forward. There are too many allegations. Even if some are false, it only means that some aren't.

There's no sugar-coating here.

But, still, I'm not just outraged. I'm really, really saddened, too.

Duck Dynasty: Why is anyone surprised that a weird character on a "reality" TV show has politically incorrect opinions?

I've never watched Duck Dynasty and nothing I've seen or heard or read in the last day or two suggests that I would ever want to.

But let me ask this: Why is anyone surprised? Why is anyone outraged? A&E (which used to provide actually watchable TV programming, several years ago) found a weird-looking family that makes duck calls in the swampy backwoods of Louisiana and created a "reality" TV show about their weird lives, hunting, fishing and making duck calls. Phil Robertson, the gentleman pictured here, is the 67-year old "patriarch" of the clan. Have I gotten anything wrong so far?

Now take just one more glance at Mr. Robertson. Why would anyone think that Mr. Robertson's views would be compatible with those of the persons employed by the New York ad agencies who buy time on reality TV shows?

Each can hardly believe the other is a citizen of the same country.

Now another question: What would GQ, a magazine that purports to cater to men interested in style and fashion, want from an interview with the Duck Dynasty clan?

Isn't that one an easy one to answer? Drew Magery's article for the January issue of GQ, titled (at least online), "What the Duck?," may not have been intended as a hatchet job, but it was at least intended to give the smart, well-dressed metrosexual readers of GQ something to laugh at and people to make fun of. Men who buy a magazine that features articles like "Women are Judging Your Nails" are not interested in duck hunting or backwoods philosophy per se.

Mr. Magery addressed the controversy in a Wednesday post on Deadspin. He wrote, in part, "[W]henever I go deep into the heart of 'MERICA * * * I'm always careful not to be the sneering LIBRUL who ventures into red-state territory just to rip on all the people there. That would be unfair, predictable, and dickish." No, sir. Mr. Magery just writes what he sees -- and his audience does the ripping for him.

Mind you, I'm not defending Mr. Robertson. Granted, he has a right to his views, even though I may disagree with some or all of them. However, I completely understand and agree that the folks who run A&E have a right to "suspend" Mr. Robertson for offending the New Yorkers who buy ad time -- it's their network and they are privileged to do with it as they wish. Even if they daily make TV a far worse, far more vast wasteland than Newton Minow's worst nightmare prediction. I'm not even criticizing GQ. They came up with a scheme to get some free publicity and sell some magazines. That's the American way, right? And Mr. Magery got paid to write a story. Good for him.

No.

The only one I think is open to criticism here is the the PR genius who told the Robertson family that doing this GQ story would be a good idea. He or she would best be advised to get out of town quickly: Don't those Robertsons all have guns and crossbows and such?

Are bars of soap now an endangered species?

I saw a bottle very much like this on the counter in the bathroom on Friday morning. (It may have been there for days... or weeks... but that's when I saw it.)

I had no idea they now sell "body wash" for babies.

I know "body washes" are increasingly popular for men and women. I don't understand why.

What's the matter with plain old soap?

Here is the power of advertising on overdrive: The young people have been seduced into believing that shampoo is better than soap. It certainly is more expensive.

Advertising is an amazing thing. In the early 1970s no manly man would be caught dead drinking Lite Beer. Then Bob Uecker and many other retired jocks were recruited to do funny ads for the product -- and the stigma was removed. (Dr. Pepper is trying to replicate this phenomenon with diet soda -- a 10 calorie drink in a powder blue can. Dr. Pepper and its ad agency are not using ex-athletes but they are trying to portray the product as for men only. I can't believe it will work -- but you never know....)

Remember when no self-respecting male would wear perfume? English Leather made a bid for the market in the 1960s with the tag line, delivered by a voluptuous blonde -- 'all my men wear English Leather, or they don't wear anything at all.' It didn't really work: This appeared to be an either-or choice -- and most men watching would have gladly chosen the latter over the former. Meanwhile, the woman in question, for obvious economic reasons, preferred the former over the latter. This created conflict. But in recent years, a truly stinky product called Axe has made obscene profits by running nearly obscene commercials, showing women who can't help but tear at the clothes of any male daring enough to put the product on. (See the difference? Men use the product and then they still get to wear nothing at all in the company of similarly inclined women. Conflict resolved: Win-win.) The product certainly made an impression on my muy macho, athletic sons. They'd go out on a Saturday evening so thoroughly doused in the stuff that they left clouds of opaque vapor behind them. It made the once-celebrated L.A. smog look transparent by comparison.

Zits cartoon, by Jerry Scott and Jim Borgman. I am not alone in my opinion about 'body sprays.'

I'd tell the kids that they could knock a buzzard off a sh*twagon with that stink, and they'd just favor me with a patronizing look -- you know, the look that says, you're old, Dad, but you're amusing in your antique way. Eyes watering, gagging on the stench, I'd try to tell them not to stay out too late. Who knows? Maybe the girls watched the same commercials and thought that was how they were supposed to behave. Maybe tearing off the boy's clothes would help dissipate the odor.... In order to find out whether this might be the case, I suppose I might have tried the spray -- at least once -- if I was their age (in a sense of strictly scientific inquiry, you understand).

But what's the attraction of "body wash" over bar soap? It leaves the bathtub slippery and seems to slow the drain. All that residue on the porcelain and in the plumbing suggests that plenty would be left on the skin as well. Why would anyone use a product that costs more than soap but doesn't get one as clean? I'd ask my granddaughter why she's using the 'head to toe' baby wash, but she doesn't talk yet. But she will eventually. And who knows what products she will demand of her parents then?

Curmudgeon complains about those who complain about the weather

We've had so little real winter weather in Chicago this year (and last winter, too, come to think of it) that maybe the over-reaction of my six million friends and neighbors to just a taste of normalcy is understandable.

Sort of.

Last Friday's morning rush snow squall (maybe we got an inch from it -- maybe) was enough to turn the Kennedy (and all the other local "expressways") into a stalled sea of sheet metal -- travel times three and four and even five times normal. I woke up to news of an eight-car pile-up on the express lanes at Armitage. This was amended soon thereafter; turns out, there were 12 cars involved. On the other hand, things always get dicey around here -- even in normal winters -- when it snows at rush hour. I recall a two hour odyssey one Christmas Eve many years ago (I'd gone into work) -- a trip that should have taken about 20 minutes. (I was a very popular fellow at home that night.)

But what justifies yesterday?

We had a bit of an ice storm yesterday afternoon.

Now, there's no question that freezing rain is the worst form of precipitation possible. I'd rather have a foot of snow than try and cope with even a quarter-inch of ice. Ice storms are murder on power lines and pedestrians both.

But even in our 24/7 world, if there's one afternoon when things can slow down, it's on Sundays, right? So the weather is awful; driving is hazardous. On Sunday afternoon most of us have the choice to simply avoid it. The weather forecasters promised that temperatures would warm overnight, so any ice that did form would simply melt away. (And, sure enough this morning, according to the thermometer in the van, it is an unseasonably warm 47 ̊. It's a gray, rainy morning in Chicago that April would be proud of.)

But every newscast yesterday was devoted to how terrible things were outside -- the perils of ice -- and so forth and so on. It might have been reasonable to put the weather bunny at the top of the broadcast to take 15 seconds to remind people it was not nice outside (if one assumes the pelt of sleet and freezing raindrops against the windows insufficient to convey this information) -- but to devote 15 minutes of a 30 minute broadcast to normal (for a change), if icky, weather? Why? Are all the other problems of the world solved that we can dwell on this?

I didn't think so either.

What happens to the TV when the Curmudgeon dozes

It's Younger Daughter's fault, really. Younger Daughter who burns toast. Who reduces bagels to ash. Who once almost set fire to the house by so badly over-stuffing the wash machine that the agitator couldn't move and the motor began smoking -- but that's off topic.

Younger Daughter is not a cook, much less a "chef," but somewhere along the way she's become enamored of The Food Network, especially cooking competition shows like Iron Chef or Chopped. Or maybe it is that these are the Food Network shows that are being aired when I have lapsed into unconsciousness in front of the TV and my grip on the remote becomes relaxed.

The problem here is that Younger Daughter is involving my wife in these shows. Long Suffering Spouse is an excellent cook, of course, and when Younger Daughter seizes the remote from my lifeless hand and switches over to The Food Network, Long Suffering Spouse becomes interested.

I have lapsed in and out of consciousness during some of these shows. In one of them, the "chefs" are given random and seemingly unrelated ingredients which they must use in an entree or a dessert and whatever it is they have to do in the third segment of the show. I think there's three segments.

And the ingredients are not just random, they're weird. Onions, lemon drops, and seaweed. Hot dogs, peanut butter, dirty sweat socks. Something called "kale."

In both shows there are panels of three food snobs who appear to actually eat the concoctions made from these unlikely things (the "chefs" are also free to add all sorts of other stuff, and do, but I can't pronounce most of the junk they add in either) and sometimes claim to enjoy them. They generally seem to say some encouraging things about each "chef's" effort. But there is also an insufferable moderator (maybe it's the same guy on both shows). Whether it's one guy or two different guys, the moderator's role is the same -- get the judges away from the positive and back to the catty and caustic. The moderator is an über-snob. When I drift back to sleep I dream of him being forced to eat white bread and plain hamburger. It would probably kill him. I would not shed a tear.

Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter get caught up in these shows though, debating the merits of the particular presentations (dipping the peanut butter in liquid nitrogen was interesting, wasn't it?) and trying to predict who which "chef" will prevail.

On both shows there seems to be some reality-TV type backstory stuff as well -- alternate bonding and bitching among the contestants as far as I can tell -- which I guess gives Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter more time to form, and debate, their opinions.

Sometimes, when I wake up during these shows, I protest feebly. The womenfolk ignore me, knowing I will go back to sleep momentarily. "And stop snoring so loud!" Long Suffering Spouse might chide me as I go under again.

Still, the other day, when Long Suffering Spouse was taking me to work, I confronted her. "You always complain when I watch shows about the Roman Empire," I said, "and you're so disgusted by their gustatory excesses. Peacocks' tongues and such. I think that was one of the random ingredients in one of those shows you had on last night."

"It was not," said Long Suffering Spouse, but defensively I thought.

Of course, whatever advantage I'd achieved, I immediately squandered. "Food is fuel," I said, "and all this fru-fru and okra and fried seaweed is ridiculous. It's just as impractical and decadent as a Roman banquet."

"Some of it is very practical," Long Suffering Spouse insisted, recovering her ground. "And you'd like some of it. One chef made bread pudding last night. And what's wrong with food that tastes good and looks good?"

"But it's made of stuff no one in their right mind should eat!"

We were at the train at this point, and I jumped out so she could continue on to work. "If no one told you what was in it, you'd like some of this stuff just fine," she said -- and she's probably right. When it comes to food, I'm strictly 'don't ask, don't tell.' I don't want to know. If I like it, I'll eat it. If it doesn't like me later on, I won't eat it anymore.

I spent some time today looking up some of the more exotic menu items at ancient Roman banquets. Dormice were pretty common. According to a website called Facts and Details:

Romans hosted elaborate dinner parties with hosts trying to top one another with the most elaborate dishes. They ate ostrich brains, unfeathered peacocks, dolphin meatballs, herons, goat feet, peacock brains, boiled parrot, flamingo tongues and orioles. They liked watching birds fly out of featured dishes and ate an electric fish because “it was fascinating.” Sometimes a calf was cooked up with a pig inside it and inside the pig were a lamb, a chicken, a rabbit and a mouse. The Roman Emperor Elagabalus once ordered 600 ostriches killed so his cooks could make him ostrich-brain pies.

Wikipedia also has a nice, unappetizing entry about ancient Roman cuisine. An excerpt:

Fish was served only in earlier periods, and it remained more expensive than simpler meat types. Breeding was attempted in freshwater and saltwater ponds, but some kinds of fish could not be fattened in captivity. Among these was the most popular, mullus, the goatfish. At a certain time this fish was considered the epitome of luxury, above all because its scales exhibit a bright red color when it dies out of water. For this reason these fish were occasionally allowed to die slowly at the table. There even was a recipe where this would take place in garo, in the sauce. At the beginning of the Imperial era, however, this custom suddenly came to an end, which is why mullus in the feast of Trimalchio (see the Satyricon) could be shown as a characteristic of the parvenu, who bores his guests with an unfashionable display of dying fish.

I will concede that I haven't actually seen any of the "chefs" on the TV food shows cook ostrich brains or rabbit fetuses or pig uteruses. But I just don't see that much difference between these ancient Roman excesses which my wife claims to deplore and the modern TV foodie shows that she and Younger Daughter are starting to watch.

And it's getting serious: Yesterday, I worked later than usual. By the time I got home Younger Daughter and Long Suffering Spouse were already watching The Food Network (spearmint leaf candy -- oh, the über-snob foodie moderator couldn't stand that -- and almond powder and some sort of dumpling, I think).

I'm pretty sure Long Suffering Spouse is not going do anything weird with our turkey tomorrow. (I have to eat more turkey these days since my insides were removed -- it's easier to digest than real meat, like beef, but basically I still see turkey as the sacrifice that must be made for the privilege of eating stuffing.) But I'm going to have to watch her closely in the coming weeks. I'm afraid what may inspire her when she and Younger Daughter watch food shows together.

NATO Summit shows Chicago's Finest at their best

The TV stations tried to be fair and balanced when they edited the raw footage of the clashes between Chicago Police and anti-NATO protesters Sunday evening; they showed both the proud Superintendent of Police, Garry McCarthy, praising the actions of his officers and clips of anarchists claiming that the police had turned a peaceful demonstration into a violent fiasco.

But that wasn't fair and balanced. It was totally unfair to the Chicago Police -- as anyone who'd watched the live coverage of the events could tell.

There'd been a big demonstration as close to McCormick Place (site of the NATO festivities) as the Secret Service would permit. Veterans of the Afghan and Iraqi wars addressed a crowd of ex-hippies, hipsters, peaceniks, and whatever. It was a largely peaceful protest, even when some of the veterans hurled their combat medals in the direction of McCormick Place. And when it was all over, protest organizers (not police, mind you) took to the microphones to encourage the crowds to disperse; buses were parked west along Cermak, waiting to whisk the protesters to their next destination. Many left as requested.

But some did not. Chanting "don't move west!" these agitators tried to encourage those around them to stay and... do what?

Yes, that was as close as the protesters were allowed to the NATO conference table; did they think they were going to rush security and present their case to Mr. Obama or any of the other assembled world leaders in person?

The police then ordered the crowd to disperse. The protesters had secured a permit to block the intersection of Michigan and Cermak until 4:00pm or so, but the permit had expired. The medals had been thrown. The buses were still waiting.

There were masses of blue-helmeted Chicago police hemming in the dawdling protesters. State police backed them up. The plan was clearly to herd the happy radicals back along Cermak and away from McCormick Place.

But, again, some in the crowd were not cooperating. Whether all of these were members of the so-called "Black Bloc" of anarchists who have allegedly triggered violence at other international gatherings is beyond my ken. What was not beyond my ken, thanks to live TV feeds from the rooftop of an adjacent building, was indisputable proof that these protesters were doing more than exercising their right of free speech. Some were also throwing stuff. Water bottles were one of the items that could be easily recognized by viewers at home. What was in those water bottles was hotly contested.

It was a hot day Sunday. The police said that some of the protesters had emptied their water bottles and, um, refilled them... if you know what I mean.

Not every water bottle was a urine missile. They did not have to be; it was enough for the cops in the front line to know that at least some of these objects being hurled at them were likely to contain bodily fluids.

Some contained bodily solids.

These had been thrown, not just at police, but also (according to Facebook posts from his circle of acquaintances that Middle Son told me about) at workers in the financial district during protests earlier in the week. (In other words, I'm not just relying on the police blog, Second City Cop, here.)

A TV camera, many feet away, can not necessarily detect the contents of a bottle, only that a bottle is being thrown. If a police officer showered with bottled water reacts by blazing away with his billy at anyone within reach, that would be an overreaction -- and justification, to the anarchists at least, for further acts of violence in response. If that same bottle contained something other than water... would a violent reaction be so unjustified?

Not so far as I'm concerned, I can tell you that.

But the Chicago Police took whatever was thrown at them stoically.

Watching the live feed (on WGN) Sunday afternoon, it was obvious that the missiles were being hurled from well within the groups of protesters. They were hoping their brothers and sisters in front of them would take the brunt of anything they provoked.

Nice.

It also became obvious, when the bottles and other tossed objects didn't provoke a sufficient reaction, that the anarchists tried other tactics. They would rush -- or push others in front of them, which is much the same thing... only safer (for the people pushing, not those pushed) -- the police lines. Some would get in a cop's face and scream... something. The TV cameras couldn't pick up what was being said, necessarily. Sometimes the protesters had big, dumb smiles on their faces as they screamed -- and, yet, I don't think they were singing Kumbayah.

When a protester would try and push a cop, the line of cops would push back. If a protestor tried to grab a baton, he or she would get a whack -- and be pulled into the knot of police and escorted to the rear.

Yes, the police eventually... slowly... moved forward... pressing or compressing the demonstrators... some of whom got bored (or had a momentary flash of intelligence) and left on their own... but there was no overreaction by the police.

The police lines were rotated periodically. Fresh officers were brought up to relieve their brothers (most were men in the front, from what I could see) so that no one had to take the abuse too long.

At one point, the protesters grabbed a metal crowd control barricade and passed it hand over head, intent, apparently, on using it as a battering ram against the police line. The police took it away from them, passing it back, moving forward slowly yet again.

It was a bravura performance by Chicago Police.

Having shown this live, for the reporters to later air stories with protest organizers decrying random police violence and overreaction and all sorts of other stuff that patently did not happen was irresponsible. The reporters were not siding against the police, necessarily; they were trying, I think, to get both sides of the story.

But sometimes there is no second side.

Phil Rogers on NBC-5 last night reported on a press conference staged by protesters at which various acts of police violence were denounced... but he reported that the press conference was abruptly terminated when reporters began asking for names, dates and places... because they hadn't seen it either.

They hadn't seen it, because it hadn't happened.

Chicago's Police Superintendent, Garry McCarthy, was at the protest Sunday, in his white uniform, with no visible protective gear, directing his officers and appearing to provide encouragement for those in the line.

My mother always said don't take the bait, don't hit back -- teachers on the playground only see the second punch. The Chicago Police apparently listened to their mothers this weekend, and did well for it.

Context is everything: What you don't see when you look only at a single picture

This image has been widely shown this weekend, seemingly showing an enraged Chicago Police officer lashing out at a demonstrator during the recent NATO Summit.

The protestors and their friends want you to believe that this proves that the police were violent, that they overreacted, that they beat up poor, helpless kids just trying to make the world more peaceful.

Well... stuff and nonsense.

I've tried (without success) to figure out how to post the Tribune video here this morning that explains what really led up to this picture. But here is the link that should take you to the video. It's well worth the couple of minutes it will take to watch.

Curmudgeon gets a plug, learns something new

It's not a book contract; it's not even a paying gig. However, from time to time, Jay Harrison, the proprietor of BoomSpeak sees fit to reprint one of my posts (edited by Mr. Harrison to suit his needs).

In the current edition of his Internet magazine, Mr. Harrison reworks my December 20 piece, "I spent much of last week looking for the electric bill" and distills it down to "Electic Boogaloo." I'm grateful for the plug and the link. And who knows? Maybe one of these days we can drive serious traffic to each other's sites.

Also in the current edition, BoomSpeak features an article by Terry Hamburg, "Inside Gilligan's Island." Hamburg, whose regular blog is boomer to you, reveals who almost got marooned on the island. I won't steal her thunder by revealing the identities of those who were considered for, but did not get, parts in the show. However, Hamburg also reveals that Gilligan's tiny ship was named for a famous Chicagoan.

In this morning's Chicago Sun-Times, Michael Sneed writes that Newton Minow will receive an honorary degree from John Marshall Law School at that school's commencement ceremonies Sunday at the Sheraton Chicago Hotel & Towers. Minow is of counsel to Sidley & Austin -- and his daughter Martha is the Dean of Harvard Law School -- but you will probably remember Mr. Minow best for a 1961 speech, soon after his appointment as Chairman of the FCC, in which he called television a "vast wasteland."

According to Hamburg's blog post (originally posted here), Sherwood Schwartz, the creator of Gilligan's Island, named the S.S. Minnow in ironic tribute to Newton Minow. "Sherwood Schwartz," Hamburg writes, "didn’t hold Mr. Minow in high regard."

All this time, I just thought the boat was simply named for the small fish....

------------------------------------------------------------------
Update: An anonymous commenter writes that the name of the boat on which Gilligan et al. set sail for their ill-fated three hour cruise was actually spelled M-i-n-o-w, not M-i-n-n-o-w as I'd written this morning.

A careful search of the Internet, however, reveals this photograph:

It makes an interesting story either way.

Something else to worry about: Too much 'screen time' may cause heart diesase

Just two hours of watching TV or other "screen time" a day can result in an increased likelihood of heart disease and early death, according to a new study reported in the Journal of the American College of Cardiology.

Yahoo! News carries the AFP's January 10 article on the study, which was compiled from "data from 4,512 adults who took part in the Scottish Health Survey of households."

"Screen time" here means not just TV watching, but time spent playing video games, surfing the Internet, or watching DVDs.

Yikes.

I'm not sure exactly how many years are lost per hour of screen time, but given my habits, considering I'm frequently watching two screens (a computer and a TV), by my rough calculations, I must have died about a decade ago.

Bummer.

Apple TV vs. Google TV? Still more I don't get

Being a dinosaur is getting harder and harder.

I read an article on Yahoo! today concerning the anticipated differences between "Apple TV" and "Google TV." The differences are "anticipated" at this point because neither of these wondrous devices has yet been placed before an expectant public.

But both, apparently, will be in the stores soon, there to taunt me.

There's one thing I understand though: The linked article refers to "set-top" boxes. Obviously, then, both devices are doomed to failure: You can't put anything on top of these razor thin TV screens these days.

Right now, in the Curmudgeon house, we're having a crisis because none of our remotes feel like changing the channels on the cable box. Not, at least, without extraordinary difficulty. The cable box lets you change one channel at a time (I found where -- I was so proud) but that makes it hard to change between Turner Classic Movies (Channel 501) and Comcast SportsNet (Channel 200). If those are the only two channels I want to watch, the "last" button on the remotes still work -- but I sometimes want to know what's on History International or the Science Channel or Retroplex. Youngest Son wants to browse the entire family of ESPN networks. And what about when it's time for the local news?

And don't tell me to change batteries. I thought of that one, too... eventually. And it didn't work. I've tried looking for schmeres on the cable box, something that's partially blocking the infrared (if that's what it is) receptor -- but I found nothing.

It's something wrong with the cable box. It's a new box, too, because after a recent storm downed wires in the area and our "On Demand" stopped working, the cable guy swapped out our old box (with hours and hours of saved Jack Benny programs that no one in my family will watch with me) and put in this now-flawed device. And Comcast charged me another $30-something for the privilege, too, even though it was their equipment that failed to work. Cable costs too darn much as it is without letting these robber barons add spurious charges on the bill.

When Long Suffering Spouse called to complain, she was told, in no uncertain terms by a very imperious customer disservice representative, that her computer screen insisted that it was our wires that were at fault. What wires? We have no wires that aren't from the cable company. I was going to write a nut letter to Comcast -- only to find out that there is apparently no way to determine who is the president of the subsidiary company responsible for our area. There are a million and one Comcast entities... and the number, apparently, is growing... to Xfinity. (Sorry. I couldn't resist that one.)

Anyway, anything that puts a crimp in Comcast's monopoly sounds like a good thing to me, even if I don't understand any of it. Except for the part about "set-top" boxes. Apple and Google are definitely going to have to rethink that if they want to succeed.

Top TV courtroom shows? An Unscientific Survey

Ellee Seymour's comment to yesterday's post mentioned the new TV courtroom drama The Good Wife. The series is supposed to be set in Chicago.

I've never watched it.

I haven't watched most TV courtroom shows, in fact, and hardly any of the dramas.

The kids made me watch a couple of episodes of Law & Order within the past year -- and, yes, I know the show had been on for nearly two decades by then.

Part of my problem with TV courtroom shows is that they are totally unrealistic. For example, I may have watched an episode or two of Ally McBeal.

In my experience, lawyers never wore such short skirts to court.

Even the ones who could.

And I never did understand the "dancing baby" phenomenon....

I did watch a few episodes of L.A. Law back in the day.

Or did you also think of it as Hill Street Lawyers? That's how I thought of it.

With all the extracurricular activity, I wondered how anyone found time to practice law in California. And Arnie Becker was a sure bet for disbarment in any non-TV jurisdiction.

For me, these shows only cause trouble: Viewers get unrealistic views of what lawyers can do -- and how quickly they can do it. They learn to think of lawyers as rich... but they never show anyone trying to get out a bill -- or collect on it once sent. And nearly every problem, no matter how seemingly complex at the beginning, could be solved in an hour, usually with someone breaking down on the stand during one of those five minute TV trials. Then, when I can't resolve a blood feud or get millions for a soft tissue case not worth $5,000, the TV-educated client blames me.

I blame this man:

He did set the pattern.

Wouldn't it be nice to win every case? But does anyone else ever think of how awful it must have been to be Hamilton Burger? I do.

Oddly enough, my favorite courtroom drama isn't even set in the United States.

Leo McKern made Sir John Mortimer's Horace Rumpole a living, breathing, ash-stained, Chateau Thames Embankment-swilling flesh and blood role model for me. Rumpole of the Bailey occupies a proud place in my DVD library; I've read most of the books. I can not quote as readily (or extensively) as Rumpole from the Oxford Book of English Verse -- but I have been known to cite to the Bard when occasion appears.

Maybe I like Rumpole because it is impossible for me to gauge how unrealistic it may be.

My two favorite TV-lawyer shows aren't realistic at all either -- but they weren't meant to be. Neither were they dramas.

I was still in law school when The Associates had its all too brief moment upon the stage. Martin Short was in this one as a green associate; Sir Wilfrid Hyde-White played the senile senior partner. I remember laughing until I cried while watching this show.

Naturally, and probably because I liked it, The Associates was canceled after only nine of the scheduled thirteen episodes. Wikipedia says that the show has been re-run on Comedy Central and TV Land as recently as the 1990s -- but I haven't seen it since it's first run. I can't say if it really would be as funny to me now as it was then.

But my favorite TV court show clearly does stand the test of time.

Night Court has been rerun recently and I had the chance to see a number of episodes. These are just as funny to me now as they were when I first saw them.

And I've always liked Mel Tormé.

Now it's your turn. What TV courtroom shows are your favorites... and why? Ask your friends -- and tell them to leave comments, too.

Oprah quitting TV show! Run for your lives!

I don't know how this story has played in other markets but, here in Chicago, the outbreak of nuclear war would have been treated with no more angst than Oprah Winfrey's decision, announced last night, to discontinue her Chicago-based talk show.

By the time the cover of this morning's Chicago Sun-Times was laid out, people had survived the initial shock. Thus it was only necessary to use END OF THE WORLD type in the headline.

I don't believe I've ever watched more than five minutes of an Oprah show -- but, like everyone else, I appreciate and admire the contribution she's made to Chicago and, in particular, to the redevelopment of the Near West Side where her Harpo Studios are located.

Oprah is going to discontinue her current talk show when her contract expires and then she is going to focus on her own cable network (OWN cable network... Oprah Winfrey Network... get it?). If you haven't already done so, you can read more about her plans in this AP story, posted this morning on Yahoo! News.

It is as yet unclear whether Oprah will relocate to Los Angeles (where she already owns a palatial home) as part of this transformation.

If she does, though, she will be just the latest to prove a sad truth about my home town: Chicago is the largest city on Earth to be from. In other words, when you really, truly make it... you still gotta go elsewhere.

We could start a list of familiar names... Harrison Ford... the Cusacks, John and Joan... all the Steppenwolf Theatre alumni (Gary Sinise, John Malkovich, Laurie Metcalf, John Mahoney, et al.)... Dennis Farina... Tom Dreesen... all the Second City alumni, such as (speaking of talk shows) Bonnie Hunt... or Bill Murray... or the Belushis, John and Jim... Shelley Long... Dan Castellaneta....

I hope Oprah surprises us again, by maintaining a Chicago presence and keeping her studio here humming.

But I'm not making book on it.

Killer algae... and other things that occur to me in my relciner

Not that there's killer algae in my recliner.

No, I watched a program on the Science Channel from the safety of my recliner entitled Killer Algae -- about a very real problem in the Mediterranean Sea.

Skip ahead if you don't want me to spoil the ending for you, but it seems that a species of marine algae first developed in a German zoo and used in private home aquariums throughout the world has gotten loose into the Mediterranean where it threatens to overwhelm all indigenous species. The first outbreaks were off the coast of France and Monaco. Fish populations in the affected areas have plummeted because the algae, while not lethal, is so darn toxic that native species would rather die than eat it. (This post on the "Planted Tank Forum" takes a serious look at the program -- if you're interested -- while I'm about to careen wildly away.)

Many of these programs are quite interesting... but paced so ponderously that one can doze off for several minutes at a time and not miss a thing. This is exactly what I was doing the other night while watching... and strange things started happening in my head.

It was probably triggered in part because most of the interviews were in French, with a translation layered over. Of course the fish will starve rather than eat this algae -- they're snobby French fish! I began expecting a younger, long-haired Eric Idle to push his way into the screen and take the program off in (*ahem*) a completely different direction. Maybe to talk about other German laboratory experiments to make other angry algae or military mosses that will conquer the world!.

Then I was starting to remember the Python sketch on mollusks... with door-to-door documentarian John Cleese hoking up his narration on the sex life of gastropods in order to hold the interest of his customers... and what should I notice when I next awoke but the discovery of a natural predator for caulerpa taxifolia, to wit, elysia subornata (per Wikipedia), as "a species of small sea slug, a marine opisthobranch gastropod mollusk in the family Placobranchidae. This sea slug resembles a nudibranch, but it is not closely related to that order of gastropods, instead it is a sacoglossan."

Tell me you're not hearing this in John Cleese's voice now, with a particularly sneering reference to "nudibranch."

Long Suffering Spouse was half-watching the program, too, grading papers all the while. She must have dozed too, though, because the program was being rerun and we were just at the part where the sea urchins exposed to the caulerpa taxifolia in a lab and turned upside down by French scientists wouldn't turn back over for 15, 20, even 30 minutes, willing to starve to death rather than eat inferior non-French algae....

Oh, sorry, now I'm starting to write in Eric Idle.

Anyway, Long Suffering Spouse made me turn off the TV and go to bed. Which was almost certainly just as well.

A beer can, a stolen gun, and faulty news judgment

New Trier Township High School serves students in some of Chicago's wealthiest suburbs. It is a traditional incubator for the next generation of the Ruling Class, sending more graduates to Ivy League schools than almost any other local school. (Some years it is the unquestioned leader in Ivy League placements.)

So, I will grudgingly concede, something happening at New Trier may arguably be more newsworthy than the same thing happening at another local school.

But yesterday the local media was all a-twitter with "news" that some wisenheimer had slipped an unauthorized picture into the New Trier yearbook. That's a detail of the picture, above. The full picture shows two girls hugging at an off-campus party. One of the girls is holding, as you'll note, a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.

PBR is a tad downscale for Winnetka... but that's not the story.

As WBBM Newsradio 780 reports this morning, administrators have freaked out at the discovery, sending an email to all parents, reassuring them that this photo was not in the version of the yearbook cleared by the school advisor for publication. Investigations and punishments are promised, possibly even criminal charges. (The Chicago Tribune is also running this "story".)

And -- gasp! -- further examination of the yearbook has revealed that someone slipped another unauthorized photo of a kid giving the 'freeway salute' in a Homecoming montage.

The full beer can photo was shown on one station's TV newscasts last night; another fuzzed out the girls' faces. A number of New Trier students stepped up to proffered news microphones to offer sympathy to the girls whose photo was inserted. Neither girl was actually interviewed in the newscasts I saw (I watch a couple of different channels most nights), but a lingering shot of a retreating backpack and derriere was shown on one newscast, with the reporter advising that this was one of the girls declining comment.

What a perfect world we must live in where these sorts of stupid kid tricks have the power to provoke such shock and outrage. Right?

Wrong.

That ruined Chicago Police SUV was being operated by a veteran Chicago policeman at the time of a collision involving two other cars. Initial reports said the police vehicle was responding to an emergency; an 85-year old man, ticketed in the crash, insisted, in a radio report I heard this morning, that the police vehicle was not using lights or sirens.

Even if the police officer was entirely at fault for the collision -- and that's an "if," not a conclusion -- what happened to the poor man after the collision is inexcusable in any civilized society.

The accident occurred at mid-day, at a busy intersection in a largely middle class area. Still no one intervened as a bystander entered the wrecked police vehicle and stole the officer's gun off his injured body.

The police officer suffered spinal injuries in the accident, injuries that may have been exacerbated by the actions of this predator who stole his gun. He may be paralyzed for life.

Someone did take a video of this outrage with a cellphone camera; there may be useful images captured by nearby surveillance cameras as well. Police are examining the footage now. Here's a link to the story on the WBBM Newsradio 780 website. Raw, uncensored anger from the police officer's comrades may be found at Second City Cop. (Warning: Much of the language used in the comments to the linked post is highly offensive, but consider the circumstances, please.)

The theft of the police officer's gun is getting some play in the media here -- but I believe the New Trier beer can incident is getting more.

What a sad, sad commentary on our society, on so many levels.

------------------------------------------------------------------
Update 5/30/09: The WGN-Tribune Breaking News Center reported last night that an arrest has been made and the injured policeman's gun recovered. I saw a comment on Second City Cop that an arrest had been made, but SCC didn't run it as a post until it had the Tribune link. (Here is a link to the Second City Cop post about the arrest.) Officer Densey Cole II remains hospitalized.

15 worst TV shows of all time?

The Chicago Tribune published this provactive list of its nominees in yesterday's paper.

I'll copy the list -- but delete the descriptions. (Let's respect copyrights people, right? Fair use only? The link will take you to the descriptions anyway.)

15. "YOU'RE IN THE PICTURE" (1961)

14. "PETTICOAT JUNCTION" (1963-70)

13. "MY MOTHER THE CAR" (1965-66)

12. "ERNEST ANGLEY HOUR"

11. "THE ROPERS"

10. "PINK LADY AND JEFF" (1980)

9. "JOANIE LOVES CHACHI"

8. "MAMA'S FAMILY" (1983-90)

7. "MANIMAL" (1983)

6. "SMALL WONDER" (1985-89)

5. "LIFE WITH LUCY" (1986)

4. "COP ROCK" (1990)

3. "THE JERRY SPRINGER SHOW"

2. "BARNEY & FRIENDS" (1992-present)

1. "THE SECRET DIARY OF DESMOND PFEIFFER" (1998)

I have to confess: I watched "My Mother the Car" and I don't remember it being that bad. Of course, I was very young at the time....

Some of these others I've never heard of... some of these I've heard of but wish I hadn't -- "Mama's Family" or "Joanie Loves Chachi," to cite two bad examples....(*shudder*).

But how can such a list be complete without mentioning the only show that, so far as I know, was canceled after just one episode? I refer to "Turn-On" which lasted just one episode in 1969.

I couldn't remember the name when I put this post up this morning... but it came back to me... welling up out of some dark, suppressed place in my consciousness.... I believe the gimmick was that the "comedy" was written (generated?) by computer.

It couldn't have been much of a computer... according to IMDb, the show was actually canceled 10 minutes into the one and only episode. And IMDb actually blames a human writer for "Turn-On," so my recollection may be proved imperfect once again.

Anyway, I nominate "Turn-On" for the top of my list. What would top yours?

A dollar spent at Walgreens -- and how we all come from somewhere

I found this at Walgreens Tuesday night and since it cost only a dollar I bought it. Two Fred Allen programs from the 1948 season, toward the end of his radio career.

I had a dentist's appointment yesterday, so I drove to work. That way, I could also listen to the programs. Long Suffering Spouse is a tolerant woman -- she puts up with many of my eccentricities -- but she can't stand to be in the same house with me when I listen to old time radio programs.

Fred Allen died in 1956 at the age of 61; he didn't have the celebrated old age that George Burns or Jack Benny did. Allen's reputation also suffered because his programs don't age well. The ones I listened to yesterday, for example, were chock full of topical references -- I caught most of them -- but not all. And my children would be unlikely to catch any. So many Jack Benny sketches, on the other hand, are timeless -- funny then, funny now -- because they dealt with recognizable people in situations, not current events. (In fairness, I should add that my children do not necessarily agree with my assessment that Jack Benny is still funny. That's because they're stubborn. And they're siding with their mother.)

The Jack Benny - Fred Allen feud is still funny today, 70 years after it started. Some of the scripts are in Allen's book, Treadmill to Oblivion, which I read as a kid. Somewhere along the line my parents disposed of it. I'd love to have it today.

And Allen's parody of game shows, when guest star Jack Benny is named "King for a Day" remains fall down, pound on the floor funny.

Listening to the Fred Allen programs yesterday reminded me that Allen still has an heir enjoying national fame.

David Letterman's feuds with his various networks are right out of the Fred Allen playbook.

And Letterman often comes across as an unhappy man, no matter how successful he has become, or how famous. In the judgment of his contemporaries, Allen also seemed happiest when he was miserable.

Letterman has always acknowledged his debt to Johnny Carson -- who made a career out of doing Jack Benny's doubletake. And Carson and Letterman both have acknowledged their debt to Benny. Benny, in turn, said he borrowed extensively from Frank Fay.

Letterman would probably acknowledge his debt to Fred Allen too, but most people wouldn't know who he was talking about.

But we all come from somewhere.

They've got to be to killing themselves at Fox

Trying to figure what to do for an encore, that is.

Last night's Fiesta Bowl on Fox was a stunner. A shocker. A made for TV movie: Cinderella Kicks Butt.

And after dominating the game over highly-favored No. 7 Oklahoma, the wheels seemed to come off the cart for Boise State, a "mid-major" from the unheralded Western Athletic Conference: Oklahoma came storming back late in the game with 18 unanswered points to tie. And that those 17th & 18th points did not come easily: Thanks to penalties, the Sooners got three chances to make the necessary two point conversion, but they finally, dramatically did so.

The Sooners didn't just have momentum back on their side. They had a tsunami. And then, in what seemed to be the last gasp, Boise QB Jared Zabransky gave up an interception. A pick six. The ball seemed over. Cinderella was shoeless -- and the coach had turned back into a pumpkin as orange as the Broncos' uniform pants.

And then Boise State, now looking to tie, scored on a crazy, 4th and 18 razzle-dazzle lateral play... and we went to overtime.

College overtime rules are so much better than the NFL: Each team gets a chance to score. If both score, a second OT is staged. If a third OT is necessary, a team scoring a touchdown must attempt a two-point conversion. Oklahoma had the ball first.

Adrian Peterson needed one play to get the Sooners their OT TD. One play. Men against boys. Goliath had shaken off David's pebble attack and gotten back on his feet.

And then it was Boise State's turn. They struggled. They did it piecemeal. But they finally scored... on fourth down again... on another 'go out to the manhole cover and turn toward the Buick' play.

And then they went for the two point conversion.

They're calling it a Statue of Liberty play. I think Oldest Son would dispute that, but Quarterback Zabransky mimed the throw with his right hand and Ian Johnson plucked the pigskin from Zabransky's left hand and ran to the corner of the endzone before several of the players knew he had the ball. I'm sure I wasn't the only viewer who needed the replay to figure out what I'd just seen.

Cinderalla 43, Established Football Powerhouse 42.

And the drama still wasn't over.

Ian Johnson gave a very composed post-game interview, with his adoring cheerleader girlfriend at his side and the usual chuckleheads crowding in the background making hand gestures of questionable decency. I was thinking what an unusually well-spoken young man he was... when he got down on one knee and proposed marriage to the aforementioned cheerleader girlfriend, Chrissy Popadics.

It took Ms. Popadics a couple of seconds to figure out what was happening... but she did... and she said yes.

The AP story today quotes Boise State QB Zabransky as saying he'd heard rumblings that Johnson was thinking about proposing.

"I'm sure it probably wouldn't have been as romantic if we would have lost," Zabransky said. You think?

So pity Fox Sports: How are they ever going to top this? And they've still got three more games to go....