It Bleeped

Reading Tacitus, I get to a part where this guy dreams there's gold buried under his field. So he runs up to Nero like Chicken Little and says "There's gold in my field!" You can see where this is going. There's no gold. And Nero... well, you know how Nero is. Anyway! So! The translator, A.J. Woodman, is crazy in love with footnotes. There's hardly a page without multiple footnotes at the bottom... or "foot." And are his footnotes dry? I don't know. Is the Sahara dry? I'm assuming the answer is yes, although I can easily imagine a big smart nerd who would tell me otherwise. Anyway, A.J. Woodman's footnotes are so dry they make the Sahara look like the grotto at the Playboy Mansion, as Dennis Miller would put it, causing us all to throw up. But in this singular case, A.J. Woodman's footnote is... whimsical? I don't know what it is. Here, I'll quote it: "'Dream guided treasure hunter to Roman coins' (headline in The Times [London], 11 December 1998)." So that footnote gives us nothing, really. That's not like A.J. Woodman! And really, the Roman coins found in 1998 could not be more different than the gold dreamed of by Caesellius Bassus, which was "not in the form of money but in a raw and ancient mass." (Also, unlike the Roman coins found in 1998, it didn't exist.) I guess A.J. Woodman just thought it was a fun story. It's still a mystery, if so, why he suddenly and very uncharacteristically wanted to be "fun." And certainly it would be going too far to postulate that he put forth the headline from the Times of London as a counternarrative... as if to say, "Hey, sometimes a dream CAN lead you to buried gold! Never give up, kids!" I couldn't find the article (I didn't try too hard), but I found the same story reported in the Irish Independent a full day before the Times of London picked it up. Here's a paragraph: "'In my dream I could see myself in the middle of the field pulling up a haul of coins,' Mr Roberts (46), a plumber, told a treasure trove inquest in Newport, south Wales, yesterday. 'When I had the same dream again a few nights later I took a few hours off and went to the field. I took just two paces and my metal detector bleeped.'" A treasure trove inquest! I didn't know about those. You know what this puts me in mind of? The other day, McNeil told me he had dreamed of salmon patties. And that was weird, because the day before - that is, the day leading to the night of McNeil's dream - I had been thinking about salmon patties! AND... later that night (the night AFTER McNeil's dream), Dr. Theresa - having been privy to neither my salmon patty thoughts nor McNeil's salmon patty dreams - suddenly announced, "I'd like to make salmon patties!"

Icy Cold Banana Malteds

Some weeks before I dreamed of McNeil doing a duet with Paul Simon, McNeil dreamed about me. And here, I'll just cut-and-paste a portion of McNeil's email: "I forgot to mention that last night I was dreaming and I and some others (who I don't remember) were standing in a kitchen chatting and the phone rang. A land line. Your voice was on the other end apologizing because you didn't know how you would be able to make it to Las Vegas. After the call everyone was...okay, but no one was planning to go to Las Vegas, so...then a bunch of other stuff happens in some dream sequences, and then back to the kitchen and the phone rings again. You're more apologetic than ever - because you just can't seem to finagle that trip to Vegas everyone wants to take. Again, no one knows what you're talking about. But we politely say, 'Oh, gee, okay.' And hang up. I have no idea what that's about. I guess the point is that you're not even showing up in my dreams anymore, Pendarvis. You're phoning it in. Like Bob Hope in I'll Take Sweden." The subject line of McNeil's email indicated, probably correctly, that I am too lazy even to show up in his dreams. I'm not sure it's worth it to mount a defense of I'LL TAKE SWEDEN. I'm tempted but it seems like a lot of work (see my laziness, above). Also, as I was typing this, I received another email from McNeil, which immediately took precedence, reminding me, as it did, of when we were in our twenties (or younger?) and wrote a movie together in which Greenland was firing off ICBMs, which, in their case, meant Icy Cold Banana Malteds. That was McNeil's joke! I can't take credit for it. I'm not even sure he remembers that detail, as it was not mentioned in the email. So maybe I could have stolen his joke after all. But that's just not my way. Anyhow, McNeil is claiming that we are "prophets" now that "our script is about to play out." I don't necessarily agree that we are prophets, though. I think that's really something for our worshipers to decide.

From the Golden Toilet

Speaking of... what? Well, I know what I mean. Going from Queen Elizabeth in my fuzzy little brain to Dr. John Dee, I was put in mind of the chronovisor, a gadget McNeil emailed me about recently, under the heading "Forget the Golden Toilet." Perhaps I should explain the subject line of McNeil's email. Have you not heard of the famous artwork that was fashioned in the beauteous form of a golden toilet? McNeil and I used to amuse ourselves thinking of clever ways to steal the golden toilet, but then someone stole it in real life and ruined our fun. Now, according to all the newspapers, the golden toilet is back - and better than ever, I assume. But why am I telling you this? After all, McNeil has commanded me to forget the golden toilet – review the title of his email for confirmation - and think about the chronovisor instead. I’ll provide a "hyperlink" (here) so you can begin your own stupid journey of discovery about the chronovisor, a device that allows you to see back in time! Supposedly. Well, the idea behind the chronovisor put me in mind of my own big idea for seeing back in time, which involves an impossibly powerful telescope and a faraway galaxy. The narrator of Flann O’Brien’s THE THIRD POLICEMAN (or is it his hero de Selby, much quoted in footnotes?) has a related (?) notion involving an infinite series of mirrors, if I recall correctly, which the structure of this sentence throws into doubt. McNeil declared that my idea would indeed allow us to see ourselves eating lunch in high school, what a dream come true. Anyway, as our email chain became longer and longer, I kept misreading McNeil’s subject header as "From the Golden Toilet," which I finally told him. I think he said I could put that on his tombstone, but I countered that it might work better as the title of an edition of our collected letters.

Narrator Loves to Narrate

I don't care but anyway I have a lot of time on my hands lately. So, you know, I was talking about three authors who are concerned with owls hanging out in daytime, and all the problems that could cause for their metaphorical owls. It's almost like a clickbait headline: "Three Times Owls Got Totally Confused in Daylight!" So yesterday I was reading THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES, and the narrator - boy, does this guy love to narrate! - refers to the "complex irrationalism that haunts our era like a night bird lost in the dawn." Now! Is that night bird an owl? Hell if I know. What, can I read Robert Musil's mind? I can't even read his book! Ha ha, just kidding, Robert Musil, you're all right. But let's think of JULIUS CAESAR by none other than Mr. William Shakespeare and how his own "bird of night" is standing there in broad daylight, "hooting and shrieking"... like what? Like a damn owl, I say! Shakespeare's owl, unlike these other owls, if it is an owl, knows what it's doing. It's there to deliver a message. It's an omen! Anyway, I've confused myself.

Speaking of Fox Mulder

I wanted to “post” this earlier, but the AT&T “internet” stopped working over and over. Anyway, here’s what you’ve been waiting for. I got one of those junk headlines that you get on your phone, something like “The Queen’s Favorite Sandwich That She Ate Every Day Since She Was Five – And It’s So Basic!” So I took a screen grab of it and sent it to Ace. That’s all we do all day every day, grab stupid things that appear on our phones and text them to each other. Then I texted the same screen grab, with its accompanying photo of Queen Elizabeth II, to Sara, along with my own humorous commentary: “The answer? A foot-long chili dog.” Sara’s reply was something like (a close paraphrase here): “OMG, really???” So I sadly had to reply that no, Queen Elizabeth II did not, as far as I know, eat a foot-long chili dog every day for 90 years. As Sara expressed it in a subsequent text, her tragedy – ha ha! she didn’t say tragedy – is that she “wants to believe.” Just like Fox Mulder from the X-Files! I added that part. Speaking of Fox Mulder, I was reading another old comic book about The Atom, and he was fighting these tiny guys who lived in a cave and rode around on the backs of bats. The editor interrupted the story to announce that tiny people of a proper size for riding small flying rodents into battle most likely really existed at some point! He insisted, in the capital letters typical of old comic books: “THE ELVES, THE BROWNIES, THE LEPRECHAUNS, THE FAIRIES, ALL MAY BE FANCIFUL RECOLLECTIONS OF A RACE OF TINY HUMANS! CHARLES FORT WRITES OF THEM.” Naturally, I was interested to run across this use of Charles Fort's captivating ramblings as evidence. I always thought Charles Fort would be a big deal on the “blog,” though he has never ended up in even 10 “posts” so far, after all the “blog’s” horrible countless years of thankless and unwanted existence. You remember Charles Fort, of whom it was once recorded on a book flap that he "collected and published reliable accounts of colored rains, living things falling to earth, unknown objects in space and in the oceans, people who have mysteriously appeared and disappeared." Charles Fort, to whom Tom Wolfe casually alluded: "Cassady began fibrillating the vocal cords, going faster and faster until by dawn if he had gone any faster, he would have vibrated off, as old Charles Fort said, and gone instantly into the positive absolute. It was a nice weird party." Charles Fort, whose glowing owls inspired the owls in my own second book. Charles Fort! That’s what I wanted to say. I wanted to say Charles Fort. Oh! In conclusion – and you will have to pardon me in advance for blue language on a level such as never, in my memory, has been attempted on the “blog” before – I watched THE DISORDERLY ORDERLY again, and as I was looking it up afterward in Fujiwara’s excellent monograph, I ran across Jerry Lewis’s defense of the puppet sequence from THE ERRAND BOY, which, having grown wise over the years, I now welcome with arms open wide. In fact, I’m ashamed of some of my earlier “posts” in which I seemingly apologize for Jerry. Back in those days, I just wanted everybody to like me! Now I don’t care anymore. So, Fujiwara interviews Jerry, who says of the part of the movie in which he, Jerry, cavorts tenderly with (if I recall correctly) a flirtatious, languorous ostrich puppet and enjoys maudlin interactions with a little finger-puppet clown… Jerry, who says of himself, actually, “We call that a director with steel balls.” And I was like, you know what? He’s right!

McNeil Defeats Centenarian

So, I just saw this New York Times headline: "This 105-Year-Old Beat Covid. She Credits Gin-Soaked Raisins." I haven't read the article, because who needs to read the article when you have a headline like that? I would, however, like to point out that McNeil was telling us about the curative powers of gin-soaked raisins on this "blog" well over a decade ago ("click" here).

Famous Fiery Skull Head

I thought I'd take this opportunity to talk about three movies, yes, three big hot up-to-the-minute entertainments that the whole world is talking about right now! 1. GHOST RIDER. Dr. Theresa and I watched GHOST RIDER. I could not help but note that the title character's famous fiery skull head set off a sprinkler system. Now, as you know, my cigarette lighter book contained a whole section about sprinkler systems being set off, and I certainly would have included this moment had I viewed it in a timely manner, if only for the novelty. 2. BOYS' NIGHT OUT. Hey! Remember when McNeil observed that every 60s movie had an obelisk in it? I was only too happy to confirm that Tony Randall stood next to an obelisk in BOYS' NIGHT OUT (see above). Furthermore, it was the SAME OBELISK that McNeil previously observed in DON'T MAKE WAVES and Dr. Theresa and I saw in AGENTS OF SHIELD, the latter of which is a TV show from present times (?), and not a 1960s movie, so I'm sorry I brought it up. 3. DEAD RECKONING. Recently, Dr. Theresa and I watched DEAD RECKONING, which takes place mainly on the Gulf Coast, the region whence I was spawned. During one scene, an attempt was made by the art department at Columbia Pictures to drape some Spanish moss artistically here and there in some tree branches, an attempt I appreciated, as it caused me to realize and exclaim, "I haven't seen Spanish moss in a long time!" And then I remembered how everyone down there loved to grab a person at every opportunity and shout in their face, "Did you know Spanish moss is related to the pineapple?" You cannot walk down a street on the Gulf Coast without someone telling you the little-known fact that Spanish moss is related to the pineapple. Why, I used to do it myself when I lived there! And I guess I am doing it now. You're not going to believe this, but Spanish moss is related to the pineapple. As I sat there during the exciting climax of DEAD RECKONING, thinking about such matters, I began to doubt myself. Spanish moss doesn't really seem to be related to the pineapple. Maybe I misheard! Maybe I misheard one hundred thousand times. So I googled for two seconds and found an article with the headline "Spanish Moss Is Related to Pineapples." That headline wasn't messing around!

Ghosts Are Dancing In Space

"Eugenia smiled, her eyes sparkling, as if a small butterfly with golden wings and diamond eyes were flying around inside her head..." That's my kind of writing! It's from POSTHUMOUS MEMOIRS OF BRAS CUBAS, by Machado de Assis, translated by Margaret Jull Costa and Robin Patterson. I have no other place to note it, so I note it here. As long as I'm here, I could tell you about a little email exchange that McNeil and I had recently. I told McNeil about BLESSED EVENT, a movie from 1932, which, I noticed while watching it recently, contains a passing allusion to television. A character ponders whether Dick Powell's sex appeal will translate to television, and another character makes a joke, which I paraphrase here: "Sex over the televison? It'll never catch on!" And I was filled with astonishment, as I often am, for no good reason. I was astonished, specifically, that the audience for BLESSED EVENT in 1932 would have been expected to know what television was. Well, right away, McNeil found a wikipedia page for a 1932 televison series called THE TELEVISION GHOST, which was just a guy dressed as a ghost for 15 minutes a week, telling you a story about how he got murdered. It seems to be legit, and of course I trust McNeil, but I could find scant secondary sources supporting its existence. When I checked the New York Times archives for "Television Ghost," I found that the august institution never saw fit to report on it. The combo of words did bring up articles with interesting headlines from the appropriate time period: WIZARD SCIENCE IS ANNIHILATING SPACE (that one had the subhead "Airplane, Televisor, and Radiophone are Signs of Wonders Yet to Come") and HOW TO EXPLAIN THE UNIVERSE? SCIENCE IN A QUANDARY and RADIO IMAGES AND 'GHOSTS' ARE DANCING IN SPACE. When I looked up the broadcaster of THE TELEVISION GHOST (the station W2XAB) I did find reviews for some of their contemporaneous programming, such as when Mayor Jimmy Walker (pictured, above) literally (I think) lifted a curtain from the "sensitive photoelectric cells, or radio 'eyes,'" to reveal George Gershwin playing the piano, among other entertainments. Anyway, then McNeil sent me an article about a machine they have over there in China that heats itself up to ten times hotter than the sun. What could go wrong? The next day or so, McNeil and I ended up in a lenghty, discursive disagreement (?) about Bogart and Bacall's house keys, and what hidden meaning we could draw from a photo we saw of them. When asked whether it was our most pointless discussion to date, McNeil announced his intention to "crunch the numbers" on that.

Occasional Small Consignments of Bananas

When I was in Atlanta this weekend, my sister and brother-in-law and I kept seeing a headline that had a funny yet mournful ring to it: "Chiquita Banana Dies." They really meant the woman who did the voice of the Chiquita Banana in a popular animated commercial, to which I "link" you here. Please watch it. It's the best commercial ever, a mini-opera and PSA all in one. Plus it sells bananas! You will note that the banana arrives in an ocean liner with a singular purpose: she has "come to say [that] bananas have to ripen in a certain way." All that distance! Just to say that! What a journey! What an idealist this banana is! The commercial first appeared in 1947, and the citizens of the United States - or so the executives at Chiquita Banana seemed to think - required a lot of banana education, which made me wonder when bananas first became popular in the U.S. There was some talk of googling, but I insisted I'd look it up properly in my OXFORD COMPANION TO FOOD when I got home. And I did! "During the 19th century occasional small consignments of bananas were sent by fast ships... Early varieties had not been bred for keeping qualities, so the fruit had to arrive in little more than a fortnight and was an expensive luxury. But all this began to change in the 1870s, when two American entrepreneurs began to ship bananas from the Caribbean to New Orleans, Boston, and New York." But here's the most amazing thing! "As bananas ripen they give off ethylene gas. Most fruits do this during ripening, but bananas produce an exceptionally large amount... A banana put in a lidded box with green tomatoes turns them red. It also helps a hard avocado to ripen overnight." Bananas are magic!

HIDE JEWELS IN SANDWICHES

Hey! I was researching my cigarette lighter book when I came across an old newspaper article about "44 unset diamonds concealed in a cigar lighter." I don't think I'll use it - my book is about cigarette lighters, not cigar lighters! - but there it is, just for you. The article bore the irresistible headline "HIDE JEWELS IN SANDWICHES" and began, "Sandwiches spread with gold pieces or diamonds and eggs spiced with unset gems have been successfully used by international smugglers." It also contained this choice sentence: "While the officials were vainly searching his baggage, they were struck by the fact that he was ostentatiously but rather nervously devoting himself to a huge sandwich."

SINATRA HIT BY EGGS

I still don't like this book about Sinatra. But I'm still reading it, so credit where credit is due. I just read the part where this kid named Alexander J. Dorogokupetz is sick of all the girls loving Sinatra so much, so he goes to a Sinatra concert and pelts him with raw eggs: "'I vowed to put an end to this monotony of two years of consecutive swooning,' Dorogokupetz said... 'I took aim and threw... it hit him... his mouth was open... I felt good.'" I don't know whether that last series of ellipses is from the original newspaper account or comes courtesy of the author. If that's the author's edit I have to acknowledge his skill. "I took aim and threw... it hit him... his mouth was open... I felt good." That's the best prose in the book so far! I thought I was reading Céline for a minute, and in fact throwing eggs at Frank Sinatra is something a Céline character would do. Maybe the credit goes to Alexander J. Dorogokupetz. The author also has the good instinct to quote the headline SINATRA HIT BY EGGS, which sounds like something from a Frank O'Hara poem... or at least has the punch of LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED! from that one Frank O'Hara poem. "I took aim and threw... it hit him... his mouth was open... I felt good."

Please God Not a Quirky Preamble

So I read the article. You can't judge an article in the New York Times by the cloying rhetorical question in its headline! And the concert under review sounded really good, so I was ashamed. But then I reached the last two paragraphs, the first of which contained this sentence: "With his customary menagerie of plush toys at hand, he paced the room, singing softly while rubbing a pealing tone on the rim of his cognac goblet." Say it ain't so! And in the next paragraph the guy performs "a quirky preamble." Much of the good will built up during the early part of the article was thus sorely taxed.

Jeepers Creepers

"Where Better to Play a Theremin Than on a Boat?" cloyingly inquired one New York Times headline still seared onto the surface of my brain. Today's headline boldly poses that even more cloying rhetorical question, "What’s an Avant-Garde Evening Without a Poet and Plush Toys?" What indeed, New York Times, what indeed. I'll tell you exactly what an avant-garde evening without a poet and plush toys is: worse than the foulest garbage. If I ever arrived at one of my avant-garde evenings and discovered there were no poets or plush toys I'd throw myself down an elevator shaft.

Two Things I Don't Care About or Apparently I Do

"Winner Declared in Chimpanzee Art Contest," goes one headline in today's New York Times: a headline to set your teeth on edge with whimsy and invite no perusal of the accompanying story (though see also). Which reminds me, this phrase was tucked into the New York Times the other day: "rump-shaking among dancing bears." (See also.) I almost told you but then I didn't but now I did. ("Click" here for a related story about two things I didn't "google." And for further contemplation of the hoary dumb old "Why, a chimpanzee could make better art than some of these so-called modernists" gag, which I am not sure has any bearing on the article, avoiding it as I did, "click" here. Ha ha, I know you won't "click" there. You never "click" anywhere. How I hate you!)

Soft Irritation

A headline from the "Home & Garden" section of today's New York Times: "The Case for Miniature Llamas." What is this feeling I have? A soft, almost comforting irritation? A more fluid experience, swinging between mild bemusement and nearly physical revulsion? I get it a lot from New York Times headlines, whatever it is. Is it the person I imagine, reading the New York Times in a breakfast nook and calling into the other room, "Honey, we simply MUST get a miniature llama"? No... why should I care whether or not this person I just made up wants a miniature llama? Or that he is drinking tea for breakfast instead of coffee? Is this a class thing? Do I hate people with breakfast nooks? Or any kind of nooks? Is it nooks I hate? Nook. That's a funny word. Nook. Nook. Or is it the intellectual that the headline writer fantasizes, stroking his goatee and musing, half to himself, "Hmm, this article makes a good case for miniature llamas"? Is it the retired crank on the manual typewriter, composing a strongly worded rebuttal to the editor at this very moment ("There is a very good case to be made for miniature llamas, but unfortunately, this is not it. What the author fails to recognize...")? Is it that I am secretly a combination of all three of these hypothetical people? I think it's just the headline. I know it's just the headline, because I didn't read the article. A certain precocity? Is it preciously deadpan? "The Case for Miniature Llamas." Maybe I have mental problems. Nook.

Eye Miseries

Reading another old comic book, this one from 1968. You can see the actual cover above. It's Captain Marvel, yes, but not the REAL Captain Marvel for whom I have oft professed my love. This is a cheap, fake, knock-off Captain Marvel put out by Marvel Comics, although he really was a captain (in the Kree army) and his given name was Marv-Ell (I think), and his publisher was Marvel, so when you really think about it... What? What's that? You're not reading this anymore? Neither am I! But anyway, there is a two-page spread crammed with tiny rectangular advertisements in this here Captain Marvel comic book. One grabs my attention with its big bold headline: "Eye Miseries?" it ominously inquires. On the opposite page I am promised "YOU CAN HAVE A HE-MAN VOICE" - all I have to do is send my name, address and age to the "PERFECT VOICE INSTITUTE" of Chicago, Illinois. Below the eye miseries ad is one that says "IDEAS? WE PAY YOU. SEND US YOUR IDEA ON ANY SUBJECT, THE WILDER THE BETTER..... IT COULD MAKE YOU RICH."

I Hate Myself, New York Times

"Where Better to Play a Theremin Than on a Boat?" asks a headline in the Arts Section of today's New York Times. Oh no, I thought: I am going to read this article. The skin-crawling whimsy of that headline dovetailed so precisely with my interests and encapsulated my love-hate relationship with the Arts Section of the New York Times. Or do I mean my love-hate relationship with MYSELF? Does the gross, precious New York Times Arts Section hold up a horrible mirror to my own empty soul? I guess so!

I'm Done

Like what am I supposed to "blog" about? Reading yesterday in the New York Times about a cabaret performer named Meow Meow? Of course there is a cabaret performer named Meow Meow. Well there was an obit today with a headline that described the deceased as "fitful." That's no good in your obituary headline. And the other day there was an obit of a guy whose claim to fame was telling Elvis Presley to stick to truck driving because he'd never make it as a singer. It took up his whole obituary, pretty much! Reminded me of this other obituary ("click" here).

Poop Vigilante

I am sorry to mention poop again so soon, but how can I resist when I see the gnomic cabaret critic Stephen Holden using the word "poop" - in its scatological sense - in today's New York Times? Naturally - naturally! - I decided to do a search of the Times to see how often the word has appeared. Over 6,000 hits! Of course, sometimes it has another meaning, such as in a review of a restaurant called the Poop Deck, which is a terrible name for a restaurant if you want my advice. (See also.) But here is a sentence from the first search result to pop up: "I was calm as Ms. Nunose explained all of this while applying the poop powder, prepared and flown in from Japan." Ms. Nunose! Applying poop powder! In the New York Times! Headlines which follow closely on the first page of New York Times search results ("sorted by relevance" - ha ha, relevance!) are "A Mystery Vigilante Paints Dog Waste" and "Poop Is Funny, But It's Fatal."

If You Know Me At All

You know I have been spending all of my spare time looking up Walter Tetley and the guy who did the voice of the Lucky Charms leprechaun on the "internet." And why wouldn't I? That's how I found "The Walter Tetley Web Page." "Click" here for "Chamber of My Mind," the section that details, in part, a camping trip the author of "The Walter Tetley Web Page" enjoyed. "Click" here for details of a six-page letter the author of "The Walter Tetley Web Page" received from Chris Allen, the woman who did the voice of the cartoon character Hoppity Hooper. "I started writing when I was about nine years old," she says, adding this charming detail: "I wrote cowboy stories and mad love stories which I knew nothing about..........I kept writing away.........just for my own fulfillment..........until much later I started receiving payment for some of these things. I did comedy material........" (These startlingly extended ellipses may be Allen's, though the author of "The Walter Tetley Web Page" deploys them elsewhere, so I kind of think they're his.) She goes on to tell about writing for Bob Hope. "This first job was.........with four other MEN COMEDY WRITERS who were tops in the field, who looked at me like I had rocks in my head........I mean.........how dare this girl.......still in school..........try to compete with four top MALE writers?" The "internet" has everything! I checked the Behemoth Who Will Never Be Named Here for its usual fascinatingly inane customer comments, this time on the biography of Walter Tetley. I liked this one for some reason: "I purchased this book to find out more about Walter who is my 2nd cousin, once removed, ie we share the same great great grandfather." The "internet" has lots of ideas about why Walter Tetley was an adult who never achieved puberty, some more horrific than others. Check out his wikipedia page and see how quickly you can spot the most horrible rumor, or don't. Don't. To take your mind off it, here's an ecstatic review of the autobiography of the guy who did the voice of the Lucky Charms leprechaun. Headline? "A MAGICALLY DELICIOUS AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTOR." And wait! Here is a news story about him conceived and written in an incredibly annoying way. Sample: "The Lucky Charms leprechaun is not Irish. Someone get my shillelagh!" Ugh. The leprechaun is quoted as saying, "I never got free cereal. But they gave me lots of green money." Also: "I had the luck of the Irish to get that part." I'm confused. Speaking of things that are on the "internet," a student in my scary story class was looking for a particular work of H.P. Lovecraft and came across the homepage of a guy who bills himself as "vampire, poet, fire breather." I mentioned as much in class. "And sword swallower," the student reminded me. Megan Abbott (who is reading at Off Square Books tomorrow!) sent me the imdb bio page for a model named Jinx Falkenberg (pictured), which, according to Megan, "somehow seems to encompass the change in the culture in the last 75 years," up to and including HOARDERS! McNeil wrote to tell me that there's a lunch box museum in Columbus, Georgia, the "web" site of which - as I discovered - is crushingly disappointing. "Click" on the history of The Lunch Box Museum and you will see that there is no history of The Lunch Box Museum. Okay, I think that's everything on the "internet."