Late Night Blogging at the Speed of Sound

I just returned from seeing Coldplay at the United Center. It was really great. One thing I'll say about Chris Martin: he has boundless energy. Prancing like a pony, flailing on the floor, sprinting from one end of the arena to the other without tripping and breaking his nose - he did it all. Another thing I'll say about Chris Martin: he needs a haircut. I don't know how old this picture is, but the hair (at least from section 333) looked very much like this.

The setlist was solid - it was especially nice to hear "Don't Panic," which I chose to start off the Last Letter Game with today in honor of the show. My favorite non musical highlight was the film during "The Scientist" (a song that always makes my chest tighten and tears threaten, for some reason) that followed a "single shot" from the outer edges of the universe, to Earth, to Chicago, to a man having a picnic in what might have been Grant Park, to the DNA that comprises that man. It was pretty cool. I also liked the yellow balloons during "Yellow," and the swinging lightbulb during "Fix You." What can I say, I'm a sucker for props. Chris cracked some jokes and even played the diva by re-singing a verse from "Trouble" when it sounded "all wrong." It was my first live Coldplay experience, and I was pleased indeed. Well worth the wait. I hadn't been to a show in a while - gosh, since the Strokes - but that will all be changing soon. Lots of good shows hitting Chicago in the next several months... I've got to get back in the swing of things.

P.S. - The Best Week Ever blog has a GREAT screencap of the "thing that mysteriously appeared on the other thing in the place" from last night's Lost. (Fook and I are thinking of crossing on the air one day entirely in vague-speak. Think it'll work?) Anyway - there's LATIN involved! And I can TRANSLATE some of it! Finally, I understand what compelled me to take two semesters of Latin my senior year - it was all part of a plan for LOST! JJ Abrams is one sneaky fella.

A Little TV Talk

Alan and I went out for a nice pre-Lost dinner tonight. The meal was delicious, the wine was wonderful, and the two couples seated next to us: unintentionally hilarious. They were older, perhaps in their 60's... and drunk. Boisterously so. From the sound of it, there had been many martinis before dinner. One of the women complained about not being able to move her mouth correctly before telling one of the men: "f*ck you," loudly and repeatedly. There was no malice in her voice, and her companions found her use of profanity quite amusing. Thanks to this article I read this morning about Americans' increasing use of profanity in public, I found it pretty funny as well.

But it was the second woman's new business venture which left me goggling over my osso bucco. (As an aside, I wasn't eavesdropping; they were loud and I was within earshot.) Apparently she begins shooting next week on an "American Idol meets soap opera" project, where viewers will be able to vote each Friday on the outcomes of certain storylines for the next Monday. Perhaps it was the slurring which amused me - or how appalling the idea sounded. Granted, I've never watched American Idol, and so the appeal of the show eludes me. But I'm also skeptical about how many housewives or retirees would spend $1.99 to weigh in on which of Pine Valley's eligible bachelors impregnated the mayor's adopted daughter. Then again, QVC stays in business, and that baffles me too. Maybe it's a great idea, and I know nothing about good television.

Here's what I do know (and STOP READING if you haven't watched Lost yet, please): whenever Lost is a Locke-back, it breaks my heart. Something about the way he looks and behaves makes me want to take care of him. And also, any map that only shows up under black light is 100% trustworthy, and just because a man assumes the identity of a corpse buried under a hot-air balloon, that doesn't make him evil. Or an Other. RIGHT?!?

Now They Smoke 'Em, Now They Don't

I saw Thank You For Smoking this weekend. It was intelligent, engaging, and extremely funny. Adam Brody, in particular, was hilarious as a Hollywood super-agent's hyper-active assistant. He gets a line about feeding a dog with syphilis that's just phenomenal. (It's an inside joke.) In fact, the only downside: watching the (brief) sex scene between Aaron Eckhart and Katie Holmes and being distracted by the thought of the alien spawn about to burst forth from Katie's stomach. Seriously. There's probably going to be slime and talons. Moving along.

At one point in the movie, a senator is starting a campaign to rid old movies of cigarettes by digitally replacing the cigarettes with other objects: New Year's noisemakers, a cup of coffee, that sort of thing. Everyone in the audience chuckled at the nonsense. BUT IT'S REAL! Next month, Capitol is re-issuing a collection of Beatles records as Capitol Albums Vol. 2, and the Fab Four will have all traces of cigarettes removed from the offending cover art. WHAT WHAT WHAT??? While we're at it, why not draw eyebrows on the Mona Lisa? Or create a comic-strip voice bubble for "The Scream?" Okay, the cigarettes may not have been meant as a form of bold artistic expression, but they were there for a reason. What does changing the cover now prove? They smoked. It's over. No one started smoking just because of the Beatles, and no one will be duped into quitting by the cigs' disappearance. ...right?

A Sweet, Sweet Fantasy (Baseball Team)

Tomorrow marks an important day in my career as a sports fan - my first fantasy baseball draft. My dear friend Joey O is the commish, and I trust he'll be fair, balanced, and not blind to rampant steroid use. I've always been nervous about doing fantasy sports, because I know how obsessive my personality is, and I'm a little low on free time as it is these days. But living in the city of the World Champs (the year after my own hometown team claimed that honor, no less) made me decide to take the plunge this season.

It's an automatic draft, so I've spent the last hour or so pre-ranking players. Do I go with my head? Do I go with my heart? Do I eliminate the #1 ranked fantasy player on Yahoo, Alex "Slappy McBlueLips" Rodriguez, because the very sight of him makes me want to scream and retch and destroy innocent couch cushions with my bare hands? The answers are yes, only if it agrees with my head, and oh, hell yes.

Oh, and my team name is "The Billy-Bumblers," because baseball isn't the only thing I'm obsessive about.

P.S. - No #1 seeds in the Final Four for the first time since before I was born?!? Strange for sure, but not as freaky as the fact that one of the top four college hoops team in the country represents a dead character from 24.

Cousin Eddie Wants More Scratch

Randy Quaid is pissed. He's suing the makers of Brokeback Mountain for $10 million because he was allegedly told he'd been cast in a "low-budget, art-house movie with no prospect of making money." Naturally, now that Brokeback Mountain has... MADE MONEY, Quaid wants more of it. Since I read an Entertainment Weekly article back in December where he said "I just really loved Annie Proulx's story, and I'm glad Ang offered me this role 'cause the whole project has a special place for me," I'm a little confused about where this is coming from. So let's break down all the things wrong with this scenario, shall we:

1) It's Randy Quaid we're talking about. While once an award-winning character actor of depth and range, a few of his most notable projects of the last ten years include: Not Another Teen Movie, The Adventures of Pluto Nash, Christmas Vacation 2: Cousin Eddie's Island Adventure, The Adventures of Rocky & Bullwinkle (anyone else sensing a theme?), Treasure Island Kids: The Battle for Treasure Island, a failed television series called "The Brotherhood of Poland, New Hampshire, and, I kid you not, The Magical Legend of the Leprechauns. Oh sure, there's a few decent movies on the list from recent years, but not nearly enough to outweigh the stinkers. Mr. Quaid should be grateful that Brokeback raised his profile back up a notch or two and provided a respite from his track record of putrid movies with clunky, easily mockable names.

2) Randy Quaid's performance in Brokeback Mountain lasts, from what I can remember, no more than ten minutes. His character is the catalyst for the love story, since he's the one who puts Ennis and Jack up on the mountain to herd sheep together, but it's hardly a meaty role. He's just about the last person from the cast who should be complaining about being screwed monetarily. Whatever he was paid was probably too much, considering the amount of screentime he had - even if he did once win an Emmy.

3) Lots of "art-house" movies go on to make more money than expected worldwide after the impassioned performances of the underpaid and unknown actors garner recognition at awards shows. As I pointed out above, Randy Quaid was NOT one of the actors doing such work in Brokeback. He shows some annoyance and scorn and cold dismissal in his five or ten minutes, but it's hardly Dame Judi Dench in Shakespeare in Love. Jake Gyllenhaal, Michelle "Now I'll never have to be known as Jen from Dawson's Creek again" Williams, and especially Heath Ledger made Brokeback so beautiful and moving. Oh yeah, and those beautiful shots of the Wyoming mountains didn't hurt either. It's easy to look at the finished product and its results ($160 million worldwide, not Star Wars numbers but a modest success) and say, "hey, I was in Midnight Express! I'm a force of nature too! I want some more money!" Which brings me to my final point...

4) This lawsuit, if successful, could pave the way for dozens of other actors to file lawsuits against filmmakers for underpaying them when a labor of love becomes something much larger and more moving. That would be a horrible blow to an already limping film industry. Some critics griped that this year's Best Picture nominees read like the Independent Spirit Awards. But I loved Crash, and Good Night, and Good Luck, and yes, Brokeback Mountain. Personally, I'd much rather watch something like those films than anything involving National Lampoon and a vacation. Randy Quaid shouldn't win this lawsuit. And even if he does, I can safely say this whole thing has killed my desire to ever watch Kingpin. (Sorry, Josh.)

Mr. Pocket Rocket Not Welcome in Mississippi

Today I found a very snarky blog entry on MSNBC.com that needs to be shared. Did you know that there's now a law in Mississippi that bans the sale of sex toys? Dan Abrams points out the ridiculousness of dictating the way an adult can spend his or her spare time as well as the disparities between gun laws and Sexx Laws... err, sex laws, in this country's 20th state. The entire entry is dripping with sarcasm, just the way I like my social commentary. Enjoy.

This is a Baby Call

Next month, Dave Grohl is going to become a daddy. In spite of his use of Crown Royal as a coping mechanism and cross-dressing during a drunken, filmed romp with a member of Tenacious D, I think he's going to be a pretty cool dad. After all, last year he proved on In Your Honor that he's capable of bringing the ear-splitting, soul-shattering RAWK - then softly, tenderly, bringing the acoustic strummy-la-la goodness. A man who can do that can probably change diapers and read bedtime stories with the best of them.

But what makes me convinced that Dave Grohl will be an awesome father is his mockery of the recent trend in celebrity baby names. He wouldn't reveal what name he and his wife have chosen for baby Grohl, but did say:

"It's a family name, so it's very nice. It's not like Moonchild or Tinkerbell or something like that."

I'm so glad to learn this. Now I know the baby will have as normal a childhood as someone whose dad was once in Nirvana can have. And if I didn't know that Dave Grohl is the "Nicest Guy in Rock," I'd think he was taking a cheap shot at the lead singer of Coldplay. Maybe the dig is just payback for not being able to eat red meat or smoke on Chris's private plane. I can't imagine what an experience like that does to a man.

T-Oh No, Not This Guy Again

Sorry for the unexpected days off from blogging. My little Sam* is sick**, so I had to take her to the doctor's***. She's got to stay there for a few days so they can get her better****. Other than that, though, it was a wonderful weekend. St. Patrick's Day wasn't too out of control: Orland Park by day, Division Street and Too White Crew by night. Alan took me to see Wicked on Saturday, and I thought it was wonderful. Really different from the book, but wonderful. I had "Defying Gravity" stuck in my head all day yesterday.

Saturday wasn't just about Elphaba and Galinda, though. ("The 'ga' is silent.") On Saturday, the news broke that Terrell Owens had become a member of the Dallas Cowboys. Along with T.O. comes the delightful Drew Rosenhaus, a despicable, double-talking a-hole who makes Bob Sugar look like the Reese Witherspoon of agents. I lived in Philadelphia during the Eagles' 2004/05 season, so I witnessed the days when T.O. could do no wrong (McNabb... to Owens... TOUCHDOWN), and the ones when everyone realized why T.O. had a bad rep. Now Owens goes to a hated division rival, but at least Iggles fans can snicker at the potential headaches he could cause for Bledsoe and the Tuna.

After all, he's already acting more like a pissed-off teenager than a millionaire adult. First there's his stellar rap performance, up now at TerrellOwens.com, which not only rhymes better with cheddar, but also pairs "Cowboy" with "wow, boy." Oh yes, and he brazenly declares: "To the haters that said I'm not going to get my money. I'm laughing in your face. ... That's funny." I don't think Kanye will be calling up T.O. for lyrical advice anytime soon.

And then, the word got out today that T.O. will soon be writing a book about his often tumultuous days with the Eagles. A quote from the publisher calls it "an important chapter in the long-term struggle for players’ rights in the NFL.” That just makes me sick to my stomach. The guy openly criticized, questioned and belittled his teammates, coaches and organization, and then was shocked when they wouldn't put up with his bullshit. Using the words "struggle" and "rights" to describe his antics does a disservice to the great men and women of this country or any other who fight for real rights, like freedom. With a somber anniversary so close in our rearview mirror, no one should think of Terrell Owens as any kind of crusader for the greater good.

But please, feel free to think of him as a terrible rapper and be glad the Bears aren't stuck with him. :)

*PowerBook G4
**shutting down when I disconnect the power cord
***Apple Store
****replace the logic board

Like Christmas, But With a List of Bands!

It's LOLLAPALOOOOOOOZA DAY! Mancow made the official lineup announcement this morning, and it's GINORMOUS. There's roughly 80 of 130 total bands on the list right now, set to perform in Grant Park on eight stages over three days: August 4-6. And one of those stages will be the "Q101, Everything Alternative" stage! That's right, we're an official sponsor. It's pretty damn cool. Of course, now we just have to get through the next five months without being crushed under the weight of the hype. ;)

I won't repeat the whole list for you, but I'll give you the list of the bands I'm most excited about: Red Hot Chili Peppers (ooh, I was right about one prediction...), Kanye West, Wilco, Death Cab For Cutie, The Raconteurs, The Flaming Lips, Queens of the Stone Age, The Shins, Common, Ryan Adams, Broken Social Scene, The Smoking Popes, Stars, and Aqualung. There are plenty of bands I've heard good things about that I'm excited to learn more about, like Wolfmother, Editors and Gnarls Barkley. And I know a handful of other non-confirmed bands that should up the ante even more. Who's excited??? Oh - and free tix on Q101 all weekend long! Listen listen listen!!!

He's Been Mostly Dead All Day!

Will Ferrell is not dead. Why did I have to make that statement? Because someone told the internet that he died. Apparently even my own station was duped by yesterday's false press release claiming Mr. Ferrell plunged to his death in the dense "foilage" of Torey Pines, California, after an ill-fated paragliding trip. I can't figure out what insults me more: that the dummy who wrote it thought the public would buy this story or that the dummy didn't bother to SPELLCHECK THE G**DAMN PRESS RELEASE.

Mr. Ferrell is only the latest celeb to fall victim to the death hoax. There was the classic "Paul Is Dead" hoax, which took root in 1969 but has its origins in the lyrics and artwork of several Beatles albums, the slightly less culturally important "Britney's dead" hoax of 2001, the "Magic Johnson's about to die" e-mail hoax of 2003, to name a few. I'm saddened to report that radio DJs were at the heart of the first two hoaxes I named; apparently, we can't lay off the occasional juicy piece of death gossip.

I'm not a "shock jock" myself. (Unless you count starting off the Last Letter Game with the Arcade Fire shocking.) So I don't understand the pleasure in deliberately spreading a false rumor about someone's death, the way the DJs involved in the Britney hoax did. But the "always reliable internet" has made discerning gossipy falsehoods that much harder. As soon as a celebrity rumor surfaces, there's a PinkIsTheNewBlog or an Egotastic ready to run with it and post some incriminating pics. Now, I check both of those blogs, so don't think I'm knocking the process. But while quickly obtaining information via the internet is a wonderful and incredibly useful advance in technology, there seems to be less care taken to make sure some of that information is accurate. The need to verify becomes lost in the desire for instant gratification - and to have the scoop first.

But it's not just DJs and the internet responsible for the death rumor trend. One of the wittiest and most talented writers this country has ever known heard a rumor about his own demise in the late 1800s. His oft-quoted response: "The report of my death was an exaggeration," frequently distorted (shocking!) as "Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated." Betcha Britney didn't come up with something nearly that eloquent...

Pop Goes the Airline

This is last week's news, but it warrants mentioning: beverages are once again free on American Eagle flights. If you didn't hear about this ridiculous attempt to save money, last year American Eagle decided to try a "test." They would charge $1 for a 12-ounce beverage on flights out of Los Angeles, and use passenger reaction to gauge whether or not this was a good idea. I remember railing against this on the air, mostly because of the following quote:

"It's a test to see whether customers value the dollar to buy a can of soda or a can of juice," said spokesman David Jackson.

Somehow I imagined David Jackson to be wearing a faded beige cardigan while he made that statement: he'd be white-haired and stooped over, peering over thick smudged glasses while gesturing at a gaggle of grandchildren with a long, gnarled finger. "You see, if these whippersnappers are going to throw down 99 cents for songs from the 'Black-Fried Peas' or the 'Fall Out Boys' on the iTunes, all impetuous and willy-nilly, then they shouldn't have a problem with just one cent more for a cold Mr. Pibb! ...you're right Billy, we don't serve Mr. Pibb on our airline. But that ain't the point. Now get Grampa his handkerchief, I feel a snot rocket coming on."

Not surprisingly, this test did not fly. In Mr. Jackson's own words:

"People really make it clear to us that they really prefer complimentary soft drinks... We were just looking for an answer, and customers gave us one."

Hmm... wonder if any of the language used in that "answer" is fit to print. I fly a lot, with my mom, stepdad and brother in North Carolina, father and stepmom in Rhode Island, and friends scattered from the east coast to the west - including the site of American Eagle's ill-fated experiment. Hell, my best friend lives in Hawaii, and you bet your ass I love to visit her. I'll put up with minor airfare hikes, as Southwest implemented today, because they're a necessary countermove against rising oil costs. But cutting corners in service disgusts me. If anyone asked me to pay $1 for a pop when I'm jammed in a flying germ-incubator in front of a screaming toddler, I'd drop an expletive-filled bomb so fast that flight attendant's jaunty scarf would float to the ground in fear. ... Okay, I'd only do it in my head. But I sure would glare menacingly.

More Interesting Than Donald Trump's Hair

If you or someone you love/like/kinda know and would like to get to know better, not necessarily in a physical sense, just in a "new friend" kind of way watch The Apprentice, then do I have a blog for you. My wonderful friend Riley and his special lady Raluca are taking a more analytical look at The Apprentice than your average recap site. To borrow from their own objective:

The Apprenti are taking an in-depth look at the issues surrounding NBC's The Apprentice - Fifth Season using the conceptual framework of organizational sciences and project management. After each episode we'll take a week to hit the books and come back with an analysis of the show's themes and trends. You can look forward to spritely commentary on leadership, group dynamics and communication, diversity, and planning processes.

Can I just say: I love the use of the word "spritely." It makes me think that these two are frolicking in a forest while using their rapier-sharp wit to dissect the mini-Trump wannabes. That or they're dressed up as supporting characters from Rainbow Brite. I don't watch the show, but I've listened to their podcast and find it engaging and refreshing. It's interesting reading and listening for anyone who has to interact with others in a work environment. Which means... almost anyone. Updates happen on Sundays, which means they just put loads of fresh content and a new podcast up today. Happy learning.

And for those of you who do watch the show, will you be able to watch tomorrow without thinking about how Donald said he'd probably date his own daughter if they weren't related? I know his rep said that the remark was part of the Donald's bizarre sense of humor, but I don't see it. When I think humor, I think knock-knock joke, or hilarious misadventures of a chicken and his/her attempts to get from place to place. I don't think incest. That's Joe and Jessica Simpson territory, Trump. Leave it to the pros.

Buy Me Some La-ard and Bacon and Beef

So if coffee may increase your risk of heart disease, what do you think a hamburger with cheese, bacon and Krispy Kremes will do to you? From the twisted minds that brought you the McGriddle (okay, not exactly, but it's just as odd a culinary juxtaposition) comes: Baseball's Best Burger, served exclusively at a minor-league park in Sauget, Illinois. It's true, I do love cheeseburgers. I enjoy bacon on occasion. And every so often, I treat myself to a half-dozen Krispy Kremes from Jewel. (Not all at once, of course, and I have help from a certain earthy-crunchy fellow.) But all of those ingredients? Together? It makes me feel like eating a salad and some fruit just thinking about it. That's a thousand calorie time-bomb - and the idea of cheese on a glazed donut just turns my stomach. I like some food that others can't stand the sight of, like cottage cheese, but really: is anybody going to buy one of these for a reason other than the initial curiosity factor?

Besides that: baseball is about hot dogs and beer! And the occasional ice cream sundae served in a plastic helmet! And apparently, among other things, bashing your former co-workers, just like Carl "Dinosaurs? Ain't no such thing as dinosaurs" Everett did today. God, what a soap opera the 2006 season is shaping up to be... I can't wait. Best reality show on TV. :)

Sidenote - For those of you who don't know, I was in a minor car accident on my way to the BeepCentral.com launch party last night. I'm unbroken, but a little bit battered. My wonderful boss insisted on a day off to recover. As the most stubborn person I know, I tried to protest - I also tried to go to the launch party after the EMTs told me I should go to the hospital - but he wasn't having it. I missed the usual wacky Friday Last Letter Game, for sure. Thanks for the love and well wishes - and let's hope I can stay healthier from now on in 2006...

I Love the Java Jive - Does It Love Me?

I LOVE coffee. Yesterday I read that two or more cups of coffee per day can increase my chance of heart disease - IF I have a genetic mutation that, naturally, must be found via genetic testing. Roughly half the population has this mutation, which slows down the metabolism of caffeine. After reading this article, I freaked for a minute. I thought about all the weekend-sized (read: four cups worth) mugs of coffee I've enjoyed while lounging on Saturdays. Then there's the countless number of iced coffees from Dunkin' Donuts I've enjoyed over the years, starting as a child in Cranston, Rhode Island. As an aside, my brother Steve and I once discovered that there were twenty Dunkin' Donuts within a five-mile radius of the house where we grew up. Is it any wonder we're both addicted?

In the midst of my freaking out, something - I believe it was "logic" - started to gnaw at the back of my brain. I searched my show prep archives and found a study from a few months ago that says coffee can reduce a woman's risk of breast cancer; in fact, a woman's risk may be inversely proportional to the amount of coffee she consumes. I searched even further, and found a study saying that caffeine, one of coffee's major selling points, is good for increasing short-term memory. Research coffee and you'll find that it is rich in antioxidants, may help those with diabetes - and yes, is one of the most addictive beverages out there.

Well, now what? Is it good, or is it bad? I've concluded that the lesson to take from all these studies is: the more you scrutinize anything that you ingest... the more you find out that it AFFECTS YOUR BODY. Too much of anything is never good: your mother probably told you that, and she didn't have to spend some fancypants university's time and money to figure it out. Maybe instead of overanalyzing dietary cause and effect until we're blue in the face, people should try to eat and drink in moderation and take care of their bodies. If you can't figure out that a daily regimen of extra-large coffees with three creams, four sugars, and a couple boston kremes - without an ounce of exercise in sight - isn't going to give you a gold star at your next physical, then your doctor has the right to flick you on the back of your neck with a tongue depressor.

P.S. There's only one person I can think of who will appreciate this post's title, and that would be my best friend from those Cranston days, Nicky - who is still my dearest friend today. Anyone else?

Bad Days For Baseball

I love baseball unconditionally, so it's nearing my favorite time of the year - especially when I'm now living in a World Champion city!!! Yesterday I caught part of my first spring training game this season (Mets and Indians) on ESPN. Today the Americans won their first game in the World Baseball Classic. In between those two events, baseball was dealt two very different crushing blows. My response at reading of Kirby Puckett's death sounded something like this: "Oh no, no no no no..." I've never followed the Twins, but I admired his smile, his determination, his talent and his spirit. He was too young, and it's a terrible shame.

Then there's Barry F*cking Bonds, who I've never liked. Today's revelation that he has engaged in a precise and rigorous doping routine over the past several years does not shock me at all. He's a living bobblehead doll, for crying out loud: blocky and awkward, with a too-large head precariously balanced on out-of-proportion shoulders. Something hasn't looked right there for a while. This guy says his career and Cooperstown dreams are probably over, and I hope he's right. Barry Bonds has lied to the world, and while lying about everything from Hurricane Katrina to why a young girl really died has become commonplace, it should NOT be tolerated.

I know a guy who's done media work for the White Sox. When I've expressed my innocent belief that not everyone in baseball hears the siren song of steroids and succumbs, he's told me I'm wrong. I don't want to be wrong. I love baseball too much to see it collapse under the weight of a league-wide doping scandal. But the legitimacy of baseball's past and future suddenly seems as precarious as Barry's big head.

Guess Who's Back

What a great vacation... not to rub it in or anything. I saw a bunch of friends, including three of my favorite women in the world. I also spent time with family, including the world's greatest dad. Activities included gambling, a trip to Alcatraz, Apples to Apples, more gambling, buffets, Deal or No Deal (I'm really embarrassed about this, but Alan and I watched three episodes with Ravey and actually yelled at the TV a couple of times, we were so into it), seeing the Strip from the top of the Rio - at night, the Exploratorium, and... yes, more gambling. Oh, and there was constant drinking. Probably too much drinking. Oh well. Overall, it was a wonderful trip, with the perfect Bay Area hostess, a comfy (if dry) room at the Flamingo, and $300 more dollars in my pocket than when I left, thanks to craps.

I'm feeling a little jet-lagged and behind the times - not to mention scratchy in the throat, which doesn't bode well for my thus-far cold-free winter - so the snark juices are running a little dry. Since I've gone so long between entries, though, I'll give you the gift of myheritage.com's Face Recognition site. Q101 listener, Queen of Snark reader and soon to be world traveler John Gockman sent me the link right before I left, and I got a chance to try it out this morning. You can upload a picture of yourself and find out which celebrity you most closely resemble. Apparently I look like a cross between a young Natalie Wood and Kristen Kreuk. I'm not sure I agree, but it was free and entertaining. Try it out!