American dynasty

This Web site says everything you need to understand about the 2008 presidential race.

Hardscrabble Rockford

The Rolling Stone just published an engaging article about the federal government's quixotic pursuit of "home-grown terror suspects." It points out that this colossal waste of resources is only resulting in a string of trumped up charges against Arab pizza delivery drivers and video-store clerks with militant Islamic leanings. It's a good read, so check it out.
The reason I noticed it is because the writer, Guy Lawson (an investigative journalist who usually writes for GQ) focused on the Derrick Shareef case. If you'll recall, he's the loser that planned to "bomb" CherryVale Mall during the holidays by dropping two grenades into a garbage can and "speed-walking" away. Um, yeah.
Did I mention that he planned to acquire these grenades from an undercover FBI agent who was willing to trade them for a set of stereo speakers? At what point do you start to get suspicious that your terrorist plot is just a set up? Maybe when you haven't got a single c-note to your name and the "arms dealer" is willing to exchange explosives for your speakers?!! Man, if it were that easy to get guns and bombs, I never would've made it past 13 years old.
But the best part about reading these kinds of articles is the cheap shots that hotshot writers take when they parachute into Rockford and zip out the next day. From the article:

Finding a meaningful target to blow up in Rockford isn't easy. A hardscrabble town in the middle of America, the place is not much more than an intersection of interstates and railway lines, with little of note that might attract the attention of terrorists. So Jameel suggested the main attraction in town: CherryVale Mall, a sad-sack collection of clothing stores and sneaker shops on the outskirts of Rockford.

Tell me what mall in America isn't a "sad-sack collection of clothing stores?" Apparently, Mr. Lawson failed to stop by Machesney Park Mall.

Sharing food

Yesterday I went to visit Abby and Andrew, my sister and brother- in-law, in Chicago. My brother Ben came along too. Last night we at an Ethiopian restaurant, a new experience for me.
All four of our entrees were served on a single platter. Andrew and I had lamb, Ben had chicken and Abby had a vegetarian combo with spinach and lentils. Instead of silverware, the food is eaten with injera, a flat bread that resembles Swedish pancakes, but has a sour taste from the yeast. The trick is scooping up a stewed dish with injera and getting it to your mouth before you drop food on your white shirt.
We sat at a meshob, a low table that was woven like a basket. It wasn't much bigger than the endtables that hold lamps at either end of a couch. The meal was delicious and followed by a pot of strong Ethiopian coffee. I really enjoyed the food, but unfortunately, it revolted against me later. The curse of a weak stomach.
The whole experience makes me think of a friend who is in northeast Africa right now. Perhaps you've enjoyed an intimate meal around a meshob already, Josh.

Yes, we're calloused and cynical

UPDATE III: I've been forced to split my winnings because another staffer had Gordon Hinckley, leader of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. He died Sunday evening. Curses, foiled again.

UPDATE II: I've just been awarded my winnings, which I miscalculated. I still get $60 because Sunday counts as the end of the week in Alex's reckoning (he keeps the pool). I also forgot that he pays the entire winnings in $1 coins, which now commemorate our 4th president, James Madison. I now have a Scrooge worthy stack of gold coins.

UPDATE: Suharto's dead! He lingered until Sunday, which boosts my winnings to $66. If nobody else's wager keels over this week, I'll get the whole pot! Thanks, vile dictator.

This new blog offers a peek into a long and unseemly reporter tradition: Betting on the death of celebrities. In our newsroom, we call it the Dead Pool.
Yes, it's horrifying, but when you're confronted with senseless deaths, lying politicians, power-hungry leaders and all other manner of human darkness on a daily basis, you get rather calloused yourself.
So why not make a game of it? For $13, I bet that blues legend (and diabetic) B.B. King, despotic Zimbabwean president Robert Mugabe or Indonesian tyrant (and ventilator patient) Suharto would kick off sometime this year. If they do, I get a payout. Right now, Suharto is on his deathbed. If he dies before Sunday, I get $60.

Noir I ain't

My noir kick has accelerated. I got a 5-disc DVD set of film noir for Christmas. I also joined Netflix at the cheapest rate to get access to every noir flick ever made. So far my favorites have been D.O.A., The Big Sleep and Double Indemnity.
Here's something I've discerned about the genre. Most follow a template: regular guy with dull job meets a titillating woman who pulls him into a seamy underworld of crime. He could be an accountant, a mechanic, an insurance salesman. She's often married or otherwise attached. In that respect, they're morality plays because the protagonist always faces major consequences for his sexual indiscretion. The movies were also cleaned up for the Hollywood censors of the '40s and '50s; the pulp fiction story lines that they were based on were a lot smuttier.
Anyway, thanks to my Netflix membership (just $4.99 a month!), I can watch these babies all the time.

Heart of darkness

Part of the important work I do here at the Partially Caffeinated Institute (besides leading a crackerjack team of maverick researchers who pioneer groundbreaking developments in advanced caffeine consumption) is keep you informed about what's going on with the rest of the blogosphere. Last summer I pointed out that one of my friends had quit his government engineering job to tackle a massive home remodeling project.
Now, he's continuing his adventures by taking a one-way flight to Cairo to embark on a six-month long odyssey through The Dark Continent. We used to ride our bicycles all over creation -- literally for miles and miles through the county -- so his wanderlust comes natural.
Josh: Just don't 'go native' on me. The horror, the horror.

Name that frog

Having a four-year-old means having all sorts of strange conversations. Here's one Nicholas and I had over breakfast this morning.
Nicholas: Dad, can you get me a frog?
Me: What kind of frog?
A green one.
A real one?
Yeah. I'll name him ... Nuffie.