Bill Bailey: Who discovered that a pigeon's arse could suck out poison?

Stephen Fry: It goes back to Pliny the Elder.

Alan Davis: Oh, not him again.

In other news, I have been doing Project365.

"...and [Sextus] was further elated when a cow spoke with a human voice, as they say, and bade him lay hold of the task before him, and when he had a dream in which a bull that had been buried in the city of Tucca seemed to urge him to dig up its head and carry it about on a pole, intimating that by this means he should conquer. Without hesitation, then, especially when he found the bull at the place where the dream said it was, he took the initiative by invading Africa."
- Cassius Dio XLVIII.21.2-3, translated by Earnest Cary

Though mortally aware that by this act o' linking I am only fulfilling his estimation that most blogs exist only to parse the internet for others, I have been reading some of Warren Ellis' columns over at the Suicide Girls website and was given particular pause by his tribute to Philip K. Dick (his one on how American broke sex is also worth a read). This same week the professor in my L.A. Crime Fiction seminar related this entertaining and complementary anecdote regarding Raymond Chandler's writing process on The Blue Dahlia. While they're both good tales in and of themselves, they also offer strikingly contemporary counterpoints to the assertions put forward in Stephen King's On Writing (which I read this past Christmas) that writing should not be romanticized as an act of extra-personal inspiration. While one might question the romance of paranoia or alcoholism, at least one of these two authors apparently believed his ideas came from somewhere without, and by all accounts (or at least Ellis') went loony trying to come to grips with the reality of his imagination. Chandler strikes me as too much of a cynic for such flights of fancy, but, like Dick, his story operates to confirm the impression we might wish to form of the author based on the writing we consume. I guess you might call that his legend. And while the part of me that has flailing aspirations to a kind of creativity wants very much to believe in King's view of the creative process (much simplified here), I also cannot help but find such legends irresistible. Unfortunately, such romance does apparently little to boot my own sorry behind into any kind of a gear. Perhaps I should try the bourbon.

While I'm parsing away, I also enjoyed both these two videogame-related items (both via The Grumpy Gamer).

By now, the fact has (probably) finally sunk in that Heath Ledger is dead and gone, having succumbed to a supposedly accidental overdose of prescription medication. What really struck me about the whole incident is the degree to which it completely eclipsed the similar passing of Brad Renfro some weeks earlier. Here was a kid who was being touted as the Next Big Thing and playing opposite Academy Award winners long before Ledger first strapped on his leather codpiece for Roar, and yet his death merited hardly a drop in the ocean compared to the torrent of popular coverage that of the latter received. I don't have any great insight to offer regarding this phenomenon. It just demonstrates what a peculiarly different trajectory the careers of each ultimately took.

In a similar vein, I was also saddened to discover only very recently that John Spencer passed away a couple of years back. I grew up watching him on L.A. Law, dearly loved his turn as Sean Connery's antagonist in The Rock, and was becoming convinced he was the perfect casting choice should they ever choose to bring Agent Graves to the silver screen. Of course, this shocking revelation was a result of my recent infatuation with The West Wing, a rather excellent television drama, which I'm only glad I missed the first time around because I can now enjoy it without interruption. The prevailing opinion is, of course, that President Bartlett is based to a great degree on Bill Clinton, and certain aspects of his character certainly complement the picture I formed of him while reading Richard Clarke's Against All Enemies. Both portrayals make me want to cry tears of frustration that America's last president was an object of fun because he liked to read so much. Moreover, while I'm not so fatuous as to buy into the patriotic rhetoric of the show without reservation, it fills me with a deep sadness that the current administration has tarnished, perhaps irreparably, many of the virtues for which this country could once at least claim to stand. I guess I must just seek some small comfort in the tender arms of Bradley Whitford. Would that he could embrace the world! (Perhaps he could! Who's up for going HGH hunting south of the border? It just might work...)

While we're discussing serious issues, who is responsible for the sudden infiltration of whatever 'aioli' may be onto every menu I read, and how are they controlling our leaders' brains?

I have been back in Los Angeles for a couple of weeks, and had still yet to break ground on a new year of erratic posting to this blog. I was keeping a short list of reflections and ruminations for the inaugural missive of what we're calling the '08, but many of them now escape me, and, being as averse to true organisation as I inevitably always prove, I imagine this will become something closer to a stream of consciousness (that forgiving euphemism for 'incoherent rambling').

One thing that occurred to me as I soared once more o'er the Atlantic in one of Mr. Branson's aluminium love-children (replete with all its blue LEDs), is that I spent an inordinate amount of what was the '07 on or waiting for airplanes. My general fatigue and revulsion, brought on both by this final odyssey and the accompanying revelation, was tempered only somewhat by the discovery that we had been blessed by the company of Dolph Lundgren on our humble flight (a discovery made in the immigration queue - our seats were far too cheap to catch a glimpse of Drago whilst in the air). Since June 2007 I had flown to England, thence to Venice, back to England, back to LA, then from San Diego to Columbus, Columbus back to LA, LA to Baltimore and back (via DFW), LA to Connecticut (by way of New York and Providence), and then once more to England for Christmas. In light of this record, I believe I can perhaps be forgiven for being sick of airports (and even the magical Flyaway bus), and am somewhat heartened that I have just over two months before I must confront the maelstrom of modern travel once more.

Whilst in England for Christmas, I had the good fortune to receive (amongst other kind gifts) Terry Pratchett's latest opus, Making Money. Much as Cory Doctorow had led me to believe, this was another example of Pratchett at the top of his game, and I was reminded again why, when pushed, I find myself compelled to nominate him as my favourite author. I love the way he plays with the English language, exploiting and befuddling the meaning of words and syntax at every turn, and that though a frighteningly intelligent man, he's never above going for the obvious pun when it's worth a chuckle. On a related note, I finally saw both Volver and Strictly Ballroom, much to my ultimate enjoyment and enrichment as a human being. If someone had told me about the extent to which Time After Time featured in the latter, I'm sure I would have been sold long before...

Returning home after a long break as we did presents its own perilous adventures. In this case, the contents of particular tupperwares left to pursue their own devices in the desolate confines of the refrigerator. My greatest fears went unrealised when I finally mustered the courage to address the remains of Giada de Laurentiis' vegetable bolognese, and was greeted with nothing more noxious to the human senses than very cold rigatoni and mushrooms. By contrast, the disposal of a container of what I was told used to be soup, suspiciously benign by all accounts, proved a far more chilling encounter. In that brief second after I tore off the lid, and even as I consigned the gelatinous blasphemy to the final embrace of the In-Sink-Erator®, I swear that something looked at me.

I also went to Vegas a couple of weekends ago. There are pictures.

So like a complete idiot I tagged the last post with 'Heroes' and 'Veronica Mars', without passing comment on the marvellous televisual happenstance. Faithful readers will recall my dismay at Ms. Mars' cancellation, and my plan to plug the hole it left in my life with the newly-discovered Heroes. And now Veronica is in Heroes. The plug just got very meta. I was going to suggest (in an uncharacteristically crude fashion) that I had found the bread for a Matthew Sandwich, but on reflection I think Kristen Bell looks disturbingly waif-like as pictured. Giant head! Giant head!

Still, such a sandwich is entirely more palatable than this:

It sounds like there's a death metal band playing a Halloween concert at the middle school over yonder, to which I say: awesome.

I've been quiet for a little while, but was spurred into action by the horrendous news that Fox is going to have a bash at remaking Spaced for American audiences. Are they really that devoid of creativity? And when are they going to realize that in sanitising such programming for network television (which they will always do) they rob it of the charm that made it popular in the first place? Learn a lesson from the Men Behaving Badly debacle!

I saw The Darjeeling Limited this weekend. It meandered a little towards the middle (much as I had expected), but may well prove to be my favourite of Wes Anderson's movies. Of course, I still need to see Bottle Rocket. Watching what he was able to produce in more exotic locations, I decided I really want to see Anderson take on some kind of old-school spy movie. His cinematography and dialogue is eminently suited to the oeuvre. If I wasn't so enamoured of 007's new direction, I'd advocate for him adapting one of Ian Fleming's novels. I also watched Zodiac on DVD. Excellent movie.

Part of the reason I have been so quiet is that I have been celebrating the fact I passed the Greek exam! Now I am free to read as much P.A. Brunt (yay!), Fergus Millar (woohoo!) and German (ugh!) as I desire.

I guess I am honour-bound to observe that England's World Cup dreams were brought to a (sadly) rather unspectacular end the other week. It was a thrilling tournament (at least for me), and watching them claw their way to the Final through sheer force of will was most inspiring. I could go on about unfortunate injuries and players not performing to their potential, but in the end South Africa just proved the better team. It's a shame they couldn't put us away with a little more style, but there you go.

And for the record, the internet has everything.

For your consideration (and thanks in no small part to Halo 3's amazing Theater and File Share features):

Beau and Andrew's Mongoose getting struck by my Spartan Laser.

Beau and Andrew after their Mongoose gets struck by my Spartan Laser.

Who's your daddy now? That's what I thought.

The Gravity Hammer is great fun, the Energy Sword is still deadly, and Master Chief still reigns supreme. Just remember, Beau: that Elephant is MY HOUSE!

This is pretty damn funny.

Yesterday I descended once more upon the Fox and Hounds to watch England's rugby travails whilst sipping draught London Pride (and enjoying a plate of bangers and mash), and finally the boys in white and red gave me something to be hopeful about. After witnessing the shockers against France, USA, and South Africa (and Robinson's injury in that last match) I had serious worries about England even making it to the knock-out stages. Thankfully, they showed a lot more spirit and drive in the game against Samoa, refusing to bow their heads even when a questionable try brought them worryingly close to disaster. Some cynics get tired of the near-religious belief in Johnny Wilkinson's ability to lead England to victory, but his presence in this match (and his absence in the prior outings) really showed. Finally England showed some cohesion and fluidity in the half-back area: Andy Gomarsall cleared the ball well at the breakdown, and between them Johnny and Olly Barkley kicked tactically and accurately, enabling the team to build some dangerous momentum at times. Sackey finally produced some big finishes, and Martin Corry's second try was fantastic. I'm still not sure if we've got what it takes to keep the Webb Ellis cup, but hopefully England can build on this performance to put in a decent showing in the tournament over all. 44-22! Bring it on, Tonga!

Lisl and I were walking up our street, past the Prospect Studios and the regular line of showbiz trucks, when we noticed that the names on the doors were, for once, very familiar to us. David Aceveda...Dutch Waggenbach...Danny Sofer...that's right! They're filming The Shield on our street. Which is a funny coincidence, given that I was going to link to this great story on blogging.la anyway.

In other news, Halo 3 drops tomorrow (or at midnight tonight, depending on how fanatical I decide to be). This is perhaps the most entertaining article I have encountered relating to this momentous occasion. Meanwhile, Stephen Fry reveals that he is even more awesome than any of us knew.

Did I mention that I'm typing this post on my new laptop? UPDATE: Lisl and I have since realized that the main vehicle entrance of Prospect Studios has always doubled for the exterior of the Barn. You see Talmadge in just about every episode. Nice.