Tomorrow is the begining of the newest Buy a Friend a Book Week!

This is not a plea for more books. No, this is me asking you to buy one of your friends a book next week for no good reason because it's good for the karma; because there's nothing more awesome than a friend saying "this is an awesome book. Read this."

If I could give you a book, I'd give you "Red Sky at Morning" by Richard Bradford, a coming-of-age tale set in northern New Mexico during the last year of World War II. Even though we're now sixty years removed from that Sagrado, it still stands as a beautifully rendered portrait of my state and the people.

And if I could give Adam a book, I would give him a new copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee, because he is the only person I know who didn't read it in the eighth grade and my copy is from the eighth grade and is kind of falling apart at the seams from my annual readings.

What book would you give me?

I've talked about the sentient iPod phenomenon a few times, so it probably shouldn't surprise me when the pink pod picked up on my bummer of a mood and has kept me in poppy Fountains of Wayne tunes all day.

Bless its pink little soul.

Dear Say-rah, the secret shower slurper; With all of your coffee-drenched wisdom, can you point me to a decent bean?

Um, are you in Albuquerque?

No.

Are you near a Starbucks?

That's like asking "are you breathing?"

Go get a pound of the peaberry. It's a jittertastic medium roast with a nice mild flavor. It's not half bad. In fact, I'll go ahead and say it's pretty darn good, which is high praise for Dear Old Starbucks.

And how'd you know about my shower coffee habit, anyway?

First, I should preface my comments by saying I'm not a fan of American open wheel racing or oval racing, so I'm coming at this as an outsider to the sport, but a racing fan nonetheless. And reading over my comments, I see that I'm doing the girl thing of softening my argument's impact with indecision and rhetoric, but God forbid I offend anyone of my nine readers.

...

I am sorry Paul Dana is dead. I'm sorry the bright young journalism talent who turned down Autoweek to pursue his petrol-soaked dreams is gone. I am so very sorry he's left behind a wife and a family. I'm sorry he's left his league bereft.

I am sorry.

But watching the tape of his crash over and over, I can't understand the senselessness of his death. To whit: why the hell didn't the guy lift? How the hell did he ignore the yellow flags? Why did he blow off the spotters telling him there was a massive shunt on the track ahead? Why didn't the slowing, diving traffic around him tip him off that it might be a good idea to let up off the throttle?

I could rattle off the platitudes of a a racer's protocol for being in the seat: the mental clarity beyond a normal shlub's sobriety, an acumen of attention that can sift through all of the information and make the smartest, fastest, safest decisions about track conditions. I could toe the party line of life and death split-second decisions made at 200 miles an hour, life lived at the redline.

But dude, even the first time novice H-stock autocrosser knows to friggin' lift when there's a caution thrown.

The tiny Bob Varsha that lives inside my head comes up with a list of possiblities for what happened: Maybe Dana was lost on the track and thought the crash was behind him. Maybe he wasn't as stable as he could have been and a sudden change in acceleration would have sent him into the wall as well. Maybe his tires were threatening to break loose. Maybe he had an imminent suspension failure. Maybe his radio wasn't working. Maybe he didn't know where to look for the yellow caution lights. Maybe he was color blind and thought those yellow flags were blue pass flags. Maybe he saw the spinning cockpit coming from the right and thought he was out of danger.

But then I watch a replay of the tape and all I can do is shake my head and mutter rookie mistake.

I was there when Ralf Schumacher went into the wall at Indy for the 2004 USGP. I saw how fast those flags dropped for a full-course yellow. I saw how backmarkers a half-lap behind the shunt slowed immediately, how fast the safety car was out, how fast the remaining drivers queued up behind it.

(And I still think they should have black-flagged that damn race along with last year's farce, but that's another post.)

I wonder if Dana's death will shine a light on the pay-for-play arraingments some drivers have across the sport. I wonder if teams will revise their practices of accepting just about any driver who can pony up a couple of fat-wallet sponsors regardless of talent. I wonder if maybe I'm being too harsh, if this crash had nothing to do with Dana's relative inexperience at the top level, if I'd react the same way if -- God forbid -- a similar tragedy happened between two experienced drivers in F1.

I don't have an answer. But I can't stop thinking of the rookie's mistake.

HAH!

Bucky: 1
Weather: 0

(Thanks to Adam for relinquishing the Civic today!)

(Also, it's raining!)

It's Monday.

Monday means putting the jeans away until Friday.
Monday means I've been on a two-pot coffee buzz since 9 a.m.
Monday means at least a four hour stint at the coffee shop.
Monday means staring at a blank computer screen, trying to puzzle out the pictures in my head into words on the page.
Mondays means a new iTunes playlist.
Monday means I'm pulling a news shift at work.
Monday means I hit the caffeine crash around six.
Monday means I don't have any money for the Coke machine.
Monday means the pink iPod is out of batteries.
Monday means my only contact with Adam throughout the day is a series of three minute phone calls where one of us complains it's A) Monday and B) we're tired. Not much gets said on Mondays.
Monday means coming home on Tuesday morning, climbing into bed, pulling Adam out of deep sleep and pushing him into a disturbed REM cycle, where he'll be trapped in nightmares that involve lots of kicking on his part that will send me to the upstairs couch for refuge and a semblence of five decent hours of sleep by 3 a.m.
Monday means I'm back at work ten hours after I left.

Ooof.

Still it's not all bad. I lugged the iBook to work, which means I have iTunes, and I swiped Adam's earbuds for the duration, which kick total ass. They fit all my criteria for headphones: they have clear sound, they muffle ambient noise at low volume and they fit comfortably in my ear. I might not give them back.

Lots of kitchen time today. Chocolate Guinness cucpakes with peanut butter frosting, salsa, guacamole and fajitas. Good times.



Salsa and guacamole is Adam's forte and I hope you don't think I'm saying the New Mexican condiments are a gender line in our house. If anything, the salsa/guac gig is his way of staking a claim on "native" status. Really, I try not to mention he was born in Kansas and moved here when he was two while my family's been here since before statehood. He gets this look in his eye, the one that means he died a little inside. So I let him have the salsa and guacamole rights in our kitchen and leave it at that.

Besides, he always looks so happy making it, and it's damn fine salsa, too. Salsa made for natives by a native.



The Chocolate Guinness cupcakes were my thing today. I don't know. I read about a new cupcake joint on the other side of town on the Fix last week, mentioned it to Adam who hinted that it's been a mighty long time since anyone made him a gourmet cupcake and somehow Gwyneth chimed in that I made a fine Guinness cake once and then talked about a friend's chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting and suddenly these cupcakes materialized in the kitchen.

Between you and me, I'm awfully proud of them. Adam has eaten four as of this posting, hunched over each and ever one, clawing at anyone invading his cupcake territory. In this house, that counts as a success.

So, there might be an issue with the e-mail on my main page. No, I'm so totally not doing this for attention. Really. It's just that my mother-in-law said "did you get my e-mail?" this afternoon and, in the future, I'd like to not make this face:



The "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about, and again, I'm really sorry about seducing your son. And I'm not avoiding you, really. I didn't get your e-mail. Seriously. Sorry. Seduced your son. I'm guilty, guilty, GUILTY!" face. I hate making that face. Especially since my mother-in-law loves me and never had any reservations welcoming me into the family.

Anyway, here's my request to you, dear reader. Keep me from making that horrid face again. Run over to the main page at Sarah Wolf.com and find an e-mail link and just drop me a line. Say "hi" or write a 50 word essay on why Target (off) Brand products suck, or tell me what your go-to bottle of wine is. Anything! Just, let me know if that link works.

And I'll promise to write back, sans face.

There's a whole species of fish that cause delays.

My thoughts and prayers are with the members of the Bernalillo County Sherrif's Department and with the family of the slain deputy.

A new construction has slipped into my venacular and it's driving Adam insane.

"Yeah/no." Say something, anything that requires a response and I'll preface my comments with "yeah/no."

Adam: If enemy forces wanted to torture me, all they'd have to do is fit me for contacts. I hate contacts. I hate anything taking up the real estate of my eyeball.
Sarah: Yeah/no. Why do you think I'm always running to dig eyelashes out the second they fall in?
Adam: ...

Adam: It's like flag-to-flag races just aren't exciting anymore.
Sarah: Yeah/no. Like back when we were mad for Ferrari in 2002, it was cool, but now...
Adam: Yeah? No? Make up your mind, woman!

Adam: Could you set up the coffee?
Sarah: Yeah, no. I'm on it capt'n.
Adam: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!

He claims the yeah/no phenomenon has encroached on my vocabulary in the last month or so, and he hates it. Of course, he likes to make me insane with his recent co-opting of the very annoying pronunciation of "across" with a bonus t. He's not from Jersey and I'm not indecisive, so what's going on?

In the case of the yeah/no, I believe it evolved with help from my laziness. Work with me here. In the beginning, there was "Yeah, you know" (or "yeah, I know") which turned into "Y'know," (a phrase my agent hates) which turned into the "yeah/no" we know today, an economical statement allowing the listener freedom of interpretation or a ticket to wife-icide.

I am trying to excise it, so feel free to bust me on it.

And as the neighbor's marveling over my two bookcase best of collection, and asking me if I've really read all of them, I can only think about the books stacked on top of books in the office closet because we ran out of shelf space and floor space.

Another instance of the iPod's evil tendencies came on Saturday when we opened the windows to air out the room and try to come down from our contact highs. The next door neighbor kids were riding their bikes and big wheels in front of the house, under the supervision of their extremely evangelical Christian parents. The iPod decided it was the perfect time to dish up "Fuck the Pain Away." The kids were promptly packed back inside, away from the bad people.

Later I turned to Adam and asked him, "Do you ever just kind of expect the real adults in the neighborhood to knock on the door and, like, ground us? Or call our parents and complain about the ruckus?"

He didn't even have to think about it. "All the time."

Living room redo GET!









Still left to do:
Hang art
Make roman shades for the windows (red?)
Sort out the lighting issues
Take better pictures of the joint

I'm kind of freaked out by all the grown up cordination, the art that's going up, and the lack of cinder block bookshelves. It's a lovely effect, though. I hope the adults who live here don't mind us.

"So I have eight friends on MySpace."

"So?"

"So one of them is Fountains of Wayne."

"...you're very odd, sir."

Conversations from the paint job:

Adam: We're going to listen to the Big Mix on my iPod. Over forty-eight hours of totally awesome selections designed to rock, rock and rock some more. It is awesome.
Sarah: It's whiny boy pop and monster ballads supplemented with the entire Pearl Jam catalog, isn't it?
Adam: Ooooooh! Did I tell you I got the two new singles from iTunes? Worldwide Suicide and Unemployable. Love the new Pearl Jam.
Sarah: ...
Adam: ...
Sarah: ...
(There is a lot of eyebrow raising here)
Adam: Hey! Whiny boy pop?! I don't listen to "whiny boy pop." I'm insulted you'd even say that. Look, I'll just put it on random, okay?
(Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus starts)
Adam: Next.
(Love Bites by Def Leoppard starts)
Adam: Next.
(Flavor of the Week by American HiFi plays)
Adam: Next!
(Evenflow by Pearl Jam starts)
Sarrah: Q.E.D.
Adam: Okay, but for the record, I put some U2 on here for you, so there.

Later

Adam: So what's the difference between Whiny Boy Pop and emo?
Sarah: The Whiny Boys are far to poppy to be emo. The emo boys would just scowl and play some speed metal covers of the Cure. Oh, and then whine about how Daddy didn't love them.
Adam: Living in the suburbs is messing with your head again, isn't it?
Sarah: Have you seen the kids that live around here?

Even later

Sarah: Okay, I'm just about Big Mix'd out. How 'bout I throw a movie into the DVD player?
Adam: Give it until the next song.
Sarah: "It all hinges on the next song."
(Denise by Fountains of Wayne plays)
Sarah: Damnit.
Adam: HAH! The Big Mix comes through again!

It went on like that for twelve hours. It was truly amazing how big Adam's big mix is. I bow to his mixing abilities. It's like living with Nick Hornby, without the soccer fetish.

(World Cup! -- Adam)

At one point, we had a long, involved conversation about the intelligence of iPods. We decided that Apple is embedding each iPod with sentient programming, allowing it to listen in on conversation, hear idle song requests ("You know what would be cool? That counting blue cars song."), connect wirelessly to the internet and stealth download said song, so it can totally fuck with its owners' head.

Must have been late afternoon.
I could tell by how far the child's shadow stretched out...

Neither one of us has a copy of that song. Neither one of us can remember the band's name. But within three minutes of mentioning it, Adam's iPod dished it up as part of the Big Mix. It followed that up with "Shiny Happy People" after a brief back-n-forth, and, after a discussion of how "I Remember You" was the ultimate seventh grade dance song, there it was.

I don't know whether to smash the iPod with a hammer or worship it as a minor musical deity.

More tomorrow, including pictures.

Hey, all you people! For the next week, Codename Bisquick is not to be mentioned. Do not speak of Codename Bisquick. Ix-nay on-ay e-they Isquick-Bay. Don't even think of Bisquick or Bisquick-derived products, m'kay?

And for the love of god, don't bring it up around me.

We'll talk again next Friday, maybe.

Until Blogger shakes out some server issues, I won't be updating.

Those crazy nuts lazing around in Generation Y told me I needed to get my X butt in gear (and wow, that's fun with Google, right there) and get a MySpace page together.

Okay.

At some point, I guess I will have to put up a photograph and get requests from pervs in Ohio asking me to do it with a goat in my best pair of shoes, or whatever sort of debauchery happens over there, but for now, won't you be my friend?

The Exciting Conclusion is now up.

And, if you need a refresher from how we got here, we've got

What I think of as the prologue.
Part One
Part Two

And The Ruby Minx Valentine's Day Special. Kind of like the Star Wars Holiday Special, but without the singing wookies.

WHEN IS THE EXCITING CONCLUSION TO THE DARK AVENGER????!!!!ELEVETYONE!!!11!!!

Tomorrow. By "tomorrow," I mean March 15, 2oo6. And also, by "tomorrow," I mean I might get around to posting the exciting conclusion to the Dark Avenger.

And by "I," I mean "Adam."

FORGET THAT BUNNY STUFF!!!! MORE HARRIET NOW!!!!!!

Next week, pet. Next week.

FUNNY STORY! PICTURE SPAM! KABLAMMO!



"You gonna eat that?"

Since I got up at 8:45 this morning, I have:

1) Showered and dressed
2) Sat through two news cycles and surfed my list of usual suspects
3) Made the bed
4) Unloaded the dishwasher
5) Tidied up the house
6) Finished and put away the laundry
7) Readied the coffee maker for tomorrow morning
8) Played with the ferrets
9) Put the ferrets to bed in time for the mid-morning snooze
10) Loaded the last week of pictures onto the computer
11) Uploaded some of those shots onto Flickr
12) Sketched a plan for the backyard
13) Played hostess to my parents, showing off the changes we made to the house over the weekend
14) Read two chapters in Mary Doria Russell's The Sparrow
15) Written this post and edited it twice

And it's barely noon.

I'm wondering if Adam secretly traded Splenda in my morning coffee with crystal meth. Let's see if she can tell the difference!

What lesser shows would save for a season-ending cliffhanger, the Sopranos puts right at the front. Jesus.

And speaking of Jesus...is it "Big Love" because of the three wives and seven kids, or "Big Love" because of the size of Bill Paxton's Viagra-induced erection? And seriously, I did not need to see his package three times.

Big Love does show some potential: the wives' internal squabling, the eldest's daughter's struggle with her faith and family, and oh, let's not forget the possible murder-happy mother and the father-in-law from hell. I don't how the writers will walk the line between drama and melodrama; given the subject matter and the network, it might be tempting to amp up the histronics within a few episodes.

Your thoughts? On either or?

Discuss in the comments.

I knew it was going to be an awesome Formula 1 weekend when, during the first 15-minute round of qualifying, the racing gods gave me Kimi Raikkonen's full tranny/suspension failure. I laughed like an evil maniac for a good three minutes. Adam gave it a lusty "HAH!" but I had to cackle. F1 was back, and in a good way.

The new qualifying format's brilliant. I like the old school free-for-all. I like the fuel regulations. I like watching the drivers fall into place without the mental gymnastics of the flying lap qualifying. It was exhilerating to watch the Saturday session and be excited for the race, instead of being a touch bored.

My hat off to the FIA for that one.

Going into qualifying, I wasn't sure about the new V8s (or, in the second Red Bull team's case, the restricted V10s) or the new aero packages, but after qualifying, I came away convinced it will still be a good season. The engines, while not having that same brutish note as the V10s, sound good. The aero packages are interesting-looking at the very least, especially when they're ripping themselves to pieces.

(Really? I'm not going to tire of playing that image of Raikkonen's crash for at least a week. It's just very "Welcome back to F1. Here's something you've missed: a McLaren eating itself.")

And then, oh, man. The race. Was. Exciting. And I don't even know how much of it can be chalked up to changing tires, though that battle for first between Alonso and Schumacher, setting the tone for the season, I think. Upstart verses seasoned veteran, and it was decided in the pits.

And then, Raikkonen did his normal 19 place climb to the third step of the podium, and looked completely hung-over afterwards, which, well, we can't ask for two catastrophic suspension failures in one race weekend, I guess.

I was disappointed Jensen Button didn't hang onto that third position, but he did struggle during the opening laps of the race, it looked like, and I wonder if Rubens Barichello would have passed him if his third gear hadn't dropped out halfway through.

And then there was Montoya, just plunking away in fifth place, with none of the glory or recognition of his teammate. How long do you give the guy in the sport before he picks up and walks away entirely? A season? Two?

Mark Webber's sixth place finish pleased me, of course. I'd rather like to see him on the podium again, but sixth is admirable after the dreadful season last year. Jack Villanuve's flameout made me smirk. Can't you just imagine Frank Williams ringing up Mario Theisan and singing the Suck It Song?

Yeah, me too. And DC passing Heidfeld just underscored it.

Nico Rosberg aquitted himself quite well for a rookie, dotcha think? Williams needs another technical driver, especially after switching to the Cosworth power plant, and I expect Rosberg will be able to give his engineers the feedback they'll need to improve the car over the year. And, as much as it pains me, I expect he'll be out-performing teammate Webber before the mid-season mark. The kid is just fast.

My one quibble with today's broadcast was the zero coverage of Scott Speed's debut, but I suppose we can mark this up to the world feed. How is some local director in Bahrain supposed to know a house in Albuquerque wanted to see the second Torro Rosso car?

Still, I'll hand it to Speed, he did well out there. He beat the Toyotas in what is basically a Minardi. And I'll hand it to Red Bull, their American Driver Search wasn't a bunch of hype, but has put a California kid behind the wheel of an F1 car.

Malasyia, my favorite circuit on the calendar, is on Saturday night. The drought's over, thank god.

(Editor's note: Salty language ahoy!)

Albuquerque can bite my shiny metal ass.

Okay, let me expound.

So, tonight, I was zipping home on Paseo when suddenly "cur-WUNK!" followed by the equally ominous "wussa-wussa-wussa-wussa." My steering wasn't heavy, but the racket. Oh, the racket. I thought I'd blown a tire.

Here's what ran through my head as I came to this thought: Fuck, I've blown a tire. FUCK. I don't have a flashlight. Fuck, my phone's out of batteries. Fuck, I really think I've blown a tire. Don't brake, just coast. Fuck, it sounds like my front left. Fuuuck, how the hell am I supposed to change that? I don't want to die on Paseo. Fuck.

Yeah, I tend to think a little blue.

For the uninitiated, Paseo del Norte is a six lane stretch of expressway that connects the northeast and northwest corridor of the city. Between Jefferson NE (just north of the Journal) and Coors NW (just west of the river), it's an unbroken ribbon of highway. Without shoulders, really. Oh, and with a sixty mile an hour speed limit. Which most Duke City drivers take as a suggestion.

But I had made it to the bridge, which is wide enough to accommodate a stranded car, flipped on the hazards, waited for a break in traffic, and checked on the tire.

The tire was fine.

Just fine, in fact. For a minute, I thought I was imagining things. But, by the glint of oncoming traffic's headlights, I saw it. The wheel well lining had decided to come loose and was flapping around. I pulled. It had no give. I tugged. Nothing. I put my full weight behind it and yoinked. Nada. I thought, Hey! No biggy. It's plastic. It'll be fine. I'll drive to the nearest parking lot and fix it my own self.

Got back in the car, waited for another break in traffic, turned off the hazards, pulled off the bridge and made it another thousand feet before the world ended. First the lining decided to flap around. Okay, that's freaky. But then it decided to wrap around my wheel and fuck with the steering. While making a noise that Hollywood tells me means "body trapped under car."

Pull over again, hit the hazards again, wait for another bubble, and check the tire. Amazingly enough (to me) it was fine. I got ahold of the plastic and managed to pull it from around the wheel, but I didn't want to continue driving with the plastic flopping around.

Popped the trunk and checked the tire kit. All I had was the jack and the lug wrench, which I pulled out for what? I'm not certain at this point.

But picture it: your favorite car chick, stranded on the side of Paseo, standing behind her car, holding a blunt object while trying to figure out how to rip this liner off her car with a lug wrench in heavy traffic. Now picture her getting honked at by some ass in a white, late model Ford F150. Now picture that white, late model Ford F150 taking a "playful" swerve at her. Now picture her running back to the safety of her car, fastening her seatbelt (like that's going to do any good) and freaking the fuck out.

My cell phone cooperated for this:

Adam: Hello?
Me (crying): I'm stuck! On Paseo!
Adam: Oh, poogle, it'll be okay. I'll see you in awhile.
Me (crying harder): I'm stuck! My car! It's broken! The wheel liner came,
Adam: You have to speak up, I can't understand you. Your wheel's broken? Just change the ti
Me: No it's --

And the phone, she dies again.

I waited on Paseo for another half an hour before Adam turned up (he drove all the way to Jefferson -- 12 miles from our house -- and flipped around to make sure he didn't miss me). In that time, I was passed by the following:

Three APD cruisers
Three Bernalillo County Sherrif's Deputies
Two ambulances
and
Two tow trucks
And so many fucking yellow-ribbon-Jesus-fish-wearing SUVs and minivans that I lost count.

Nobody stopped.

I had my hazards on. I had my dome light on. I was clutching the steering wheel and trying not to freak out. Not a single person decided to pull over.

By the time Adam turned up, I had decided that if he didn't show (which, wha? This is Adam we're talking about here) I would wait until 11 p.m. or so, and then climb under the car and yank; traffic would be down and I'd probably have a better chance at survival.

But Adam did turn up. He check the wheel, rolled his eyes, whipped out one of his many scary knives, cut it loose and dumped it in my passenger seat. "Go home," he ordered. "Go home."

Now here's where I let you all in on a little secret: I'm not Totally Tough Girl. I held it together until I got into the house, but when Adam started in on, "I thought I'd taught you better," I just fell apart. I bawled. I sniffled. I called my mommy.

Eventually I calmed down and related the above account. Adam listened and conceded that yeah, he'd probably freak out after the honk-n-swerve and watching Albuquerque's finest pass by without a second glance. But still, I think he's ashamed of the way I handled myself.

Adam: If this ever happens again, just drive.
Sarah: But I was afraid of damaging the tire or the wheel.
Adam: ...
Sarah (timidly): Tire or wheel?
Adam: You could destroy all the tires and all the wheels on two of the cars, and we'd still have enough to keep all three vehicles in shoes.

This is true. Right now we have a dozen tires in the garage, a full set in the living room, a set in the spare room, and a couple in the loft. You'd think I would have remembered that on Paseo. He also mentioned that ripping off parts of a car while in motion is "making the car faster."

Oh.

I'm not proud of what happened, because I should have maintained my Totally Tough Girl composure and driven home. But, it's going to pass. Hell, it's already turning into a funny-ish story. By the time all the Miata guys show up, I can sell it as a "look at how stupid and flighty I can be! Everyone laugh at me" yarn.

Still, for right now, after sitting in my car for forty-five minutes as traffic streamed by? After watching APD and BCSD not give a shit? Not even bother to render aid?

Albuquerque can bite my shiny metal ass.

Ah, March is here. You can tell because the wind's kicking up and blowing the mesa into the swamp cooler, but I don't mind because Sunday is Christmas at WMD HQ.

Stay with me; I'll talk you through this.

In the spirit of that holiday, Sunday will kick off in the wee hours of the morning with the running of the Bahrain GP, the first Formula 1 race of the season. The Tivo's been programmed, the wing order's in and I. Can't. Wait. I can't wait to see how the new knockout qualifying shakes out. I can't wait to see how the new teams look on the track, and see who will be the front runners and who will be the back markers. I'm anxious for Scott Speed, the first American in F1 in over a decade, to make his debut in the Torro Rosso car.

I NEED TO KNOW IF FERRARI WILL BE BETTER THAN MIDPACK!

And oh, doggy, I want to see how Rubens handles the new Honda. Man.

You know you want to watch, if only to hear those new V8 engines running and see if Jacko turns up in a sequined abaya. Speed's got the feed. Come back later on Sunday and we'll discuss.

But that's not all, of course. The HBO gods smile upon us and reward us for our 21 month-long wait with new Sopranos episodes, and follow that up with the new polygamy-themed Big Love. There will also be discussion here of both on Monday.

I should probably warn you that there's a distinct possibility I could OD on seratonin from all this culturery pop goodness. It'd be a good way to die.

Part two of Dark Avenger: Genesis has been posted on the main page.

This year, the state of New Mexico bought us pillows. Boy did they go all out for a couple of twentysomethings in Albuquerque. No plain jane, duck-filled sacks for us, which a lesser state like Missouri might offer. No sir. The great state of New Mexico saw to it that we were issued two memory foam and microfiber poli-filled techno comfort jobbies, because the state of New Mexico is all about comfort, especially after the continued energy rebate debacle.

Thank you, New Mexico! I needed another excuse to sleep like the dead, and you gave it to me.

Thirty seconds after Jack opened that envelope...

"Wait a minute. Crap won?"

"Crap won."

"I don't believe it."

"It's friggin' true."

"No. It's not. Back it up. See how Jack's got this smirking 'gotcha!' look on his face?"

"He always looks like that. Hell, he probably has his face Botoxed into that position."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

"No, seriously. Fuck. What brought this on?"

"A strong last-minute campaign coinciding with the DVD release. Plus, I mean, really. Which can middle America deal with? Cowboy romance or racism?"

"I don't know anyone from middle America."

"Which can the neighbors deal with? Cowboys in love or the Civil Rights Act of 1964?"

"We've got to get out of this neighborhood."

"Seriously."

"But, I mean, how could Crap win? It was a movie for rich white people afraid of their gardeners and housekeepers! I wasn't spoiled, but I was yelling all the friggin' plot-twists at the screen!"

"And who was spouting the hack dialogue before the character?"

"That would be you."

"If I'd put anything like this up for critique in college, I would have been booed out of the room and kicked out of the program."

"Four out of five pretentious college students agree, it's Crap."

"Fuck. Seriously. Are we that protected?"

"..."

"..."

"Remember that one time, we were on that trip..."

"Yeah. Even the cows were white. Fucking unnerving."

"We're never leaving Albuquerque."

"Never."

"Ever."

"This is like the first time I'm not depressed by it, either."

"Crap won?"

He's making me a tinfoil hat.

I'm not supposed to know what he's up to. I'm supposed to stay upstairs and work while he is mysterious downstairs. In fact, I'm under orders. "You stay here," he says, handing me my power cord. "You stay and pretend like you're Rapunzel confined to a second story walk-up. Okay? Do not come downstairs."

I listen as he putters through the house. The door to the garage opens and shuts. He pulls something out of one of the kitchen cabinets. And then there is the unmistakable crinkle of alumnium foil and WRRRRAUUUUGHPT! of duct tape.

He's making me a tinfoil hat, and if that isn't love, I don't know what is.

There's a new Dark Avenger posted on the main page. It's the first chunk of an exciting three-part series to be posted through out the next week. It's awesome. You'll love it. Especially if you're Adam.

"How would your biopic go?"

"I dunno. How do you see it going?"

"Well, first, they'd have to cast a slightly hotter, slightly younger version of you. So, like I'm thinking Kate Hudson's son, Ryder."

"Isn't he still in training pants?"

"You're gonna need about another thirty years to season before we can start filming. Right now you're in the formative years, at the height of your performing and drug addiction. But I'm getting ahead of myself."

"What comes first?"

"First we have the sepia-toned flashback to your poverty-stricken childhood in the cotton fields of Mississippi --"

"I was born in Wichita."

"--Fields of Mississippi, where you were forced to endure abuse at the hands of...help me out here."

"A bible-weilding revivalist who told me the Jews killed Jesus?"

"Ooooh, good brain-storming."

"I wish."

"But! You were raised by your beloved Jewish grandmother, and you lived in fear that when after she died (because oh, she was sick, you can tell by all the gray pancake makeup), she'd burn in hell."

"Where are my parents?"

"Dead in a tragic disco inferno. And, in reaction to this senseless slaughter of a happy couple, your grandmother forever outlaws disco music. But you, you have a burning passion to make people dance!"

"No I don't."

"..."

"Seriously. No dancing."

"Dance or no biopic."

"I can make the people dance."

"So, then, title card and flash forward to you grown up. Grandmother's dead. You're married to one of your ex-girlfriends, and she doesn't want you to pursue your dream of making people dance. She wants you to work as an accountant for her father. Also, she's pregnant."

"Of course she is."

"And we'll never really have mention of your kids again. Just establishing what you have on the line before you're given your big break and go out on tour."

"Big bus wheel turning?"

"Absolutely. And then, of course, one night, you'll meet me AND one of your band members will introduce you to the joys of nose candy."

"Cocaine?"

"Advil Cold and Sinus. You will have a crippling addiction to allergy medication."

"Oooh! So in a later scene, will it show me mixing Nyquil and Dayquil?"

"In a kleenex strewn room, with a red nose and puffy eyes. And I will come in..."

"Wait, who's playing you?"

"Apple Paltrow-Martin."

"Niiiiiiiiiiice."

"Hells yeah. Anyway, I'll come in and give you the Oscar speech about cleaning up for your friends, your family and your fans."

"And then rehab scene!"

"And the last title card will come up as you're performing on stage saying you went on to sell 100,000,000 million albums and became one of the country's best-loved artists."

"Even though nobody's heard of me."

"The end."

"Pearl Jam song over the end credits?"

"Absolutely."

"I smell an Irving!"