I usually don’t mention when celebrities pass on--I mean, I’m sorry for the friends and family of Don Knotts, but it’s not like I was personally waiting around for a sequel to The Ghost and Mr. Chicken--but the death of Octavia Butler got to me.

Butler was a science fiction writer.  Unfortunately, people were often introduced to her books through the much-taught Parable of the Sower, which I feel is preachy and not as interesting as her other work.  (The sequel, Parable of the Talents, is a little better.)

Her best work is anything but simplistic, politically correct pablum.  I personally love the Xenogenesis trilogy, beginning with Dawn, about an alien race that comes to pick up the pieces after a nuclear war.  Although the story can be read as a metaphor of racial subjugation, it’s never simplistic and there are never easy answers.  Butler seems to be saying that yes, someone is the slaver and someone is being enslaved, but why does the enslaved become enslaved?  Is it because they have no choice, or because there something in it for them?  What are the effects of the relationship upon the slaver?  And what happens when they change places?

On a less cerebral note, it’s also the absolute coolest depiction of an alien culture I’ve ever read.

Many of the same questions are asked in Kindred, about a woman who is repeatedly sent back in time to 19th century America.  Also a good book, although it needs more aliens.

I did a little research on Butler when I taught Dawn as part of a freshman writing class a while back.  She never married or had kids, and lived a hermetic life in Los Angeles.  She appeared to only write speculative fiction, using metaphor to explore the topics and issues that obsessed her. She died at age 59.  I’m sorry that I can’t look forward to any more of her stories.

Wiretapping and invading other countries is lame. We should just declare a Jihad on Jihad.

The Jidahists would say, “We’re going to war for what we believe and we’re not stopping until all of you are dead.”

We’d say, “Back at you.”

“No quarter asked, none given until our righteous fury sweeps over you like hellfire.”

“Right, we’re doing that too.”

“Stop repeating what we’re saying.”

“Stop repeating what we’re saying.”

“STOP IT.  Screw this, we’re going to protest a bunch of cartoons.”

“So are we.  We’re taking to the streets to protest the last fifty years of Marmaduke.”

It’s time for another edition of Oscar the Grouch and a look at this year’s Best Picture nominees:

Munich.  This is the only one I haven’t seen, and I don’t want to.  But I always liked the song lyric from M’s “Pop Music” which goes “New York London Paris Munich everybody talk about pop music.” Which is a very meaningful line to me, because I’d rather talk about pop music than another attempt by Spielberg to be all serious and political.

Capote.  Hey! You know what’s a really gripping and worthwhile book?  In Cold Blood by Truman Capote.  Hey!  You know what’s a real snoozefest of a movie?  Capote, about Truman Capote writing In Cold Blood.  How did they screw that up?  Sure, I like Seymour Hoffman’s performance--and then there’s Catherine Keener.  I’d like to put a bumper sticker on my car that says I’M KEEN FOR CATHERINE KEENER. And people would come up to me and ask “Is Catherine Keener running for office?” And I’d just smile enigmatically.  And then that would be yet another person who makes a mental note never to talk to me.

Good Night, and Good Luck.  This movie brought me to tears: a poor, well-meaning senator being torn to pieces by a bunch of bullies in the press.  The “black and white” in which the movie was filmed mirrored the “black and white” I felt in my heart as Joe McCarthy was pummeled and stomped on by the progenitors of people like Bill O’Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, and Larry King. Reporters are a bunch of sinister Star Chamber cabal evil types.  What’s the frequency, Kenneth?

Crash.  This searing look at racism in society taught me that you can be best friends with your underpaid housekeeper, that racist cops can act heroically at times, and that even people who don’t think they’re racist can get scared and shoot black people.  That’s...deep.  I’d say something funny about it, but McSweeneys took care of that for me.

Brokeback Mountain.  This was a good movie, but director Ang Lee’s last film, The Hulk, was one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen.  It’s difficult to go between extremes like that.  I wish directors could simply recognize they’re about to make a bad movie and then a good movie, so they can combine them into one movie in order to make the whole experience a bit less jolting.

For example, wouldn’t it have been possible for Jack to turn into the Hulk whenever he felt a little funny around Ennis?

JACK:  It ain’t nobody’s business but our....our.....ARRRRGGGHHH!

Ennis: Jack, you’ve transformed into a big green metaphor for our repressed sexuality and hence our wasted, squandered, tragic lives!

JACK: HULK BORED BY SYMBOLISM.  HULK SMASH.

(Army eventually gangs up on Jack and blows him to bits with a missile.  Ennis goes to Jack’s parents’ house to collect the remains.)

JACK’S FATHER: You’ve come here to what?

ENNIS: Collect the remains, sir.  Jack’s last wish was to be buried up on Hulkback Mountain.

JACK’S FATHER: Well, suit yourself.  He’s out back.

(Ennis walks outside and stops short--there’s five gigantic dump trucks on the back lawn.)

JACK’S FATHER: See, we cremated him while he was still in Hulk form.  Good luck getting all those ashes up your dumb mountain, mumbly boy.

See? It automatically makes both movies better.  I’m tearing up here.

The other day I passed a tax service.  They had a sign in the window that said “We specialize in hard to find deductions!”

I got very excited, because I had no idea you could make a living at that.  I collect hard to find deductions as a hobby, but I never thought about doing it full time.

I think I could pull it off, though.  Here’s an example of some of my recent finds:

If you work with someone who frames a “Who’s Who in America” certificate in his or her office, you need to immediately terminate all professional association with that individual.

Although it’s a crime in some quarters to argue with the wisdom of Jedi masters--well, my quarters, anyway--it’s not true that “There is no try; there is only do, or do not.” There is still a huge gray area across the entire continuum which I have termed “procrastination.”

If you’re having a friendly conversation with a vendor, but that vendor then ends the conversation with “Thank you for visiting with me!”, then you know that the person is not actually friendly or happy that you visited with them but rather a serpentine representative of the deepest circles of Hell.

The convention wisdom is that airlines can’t get back at you like waiters can; it can’t, for example, spit in your food.  But remain wary.  If an airline is unhappy with the people aboard a certain flight, it will wait until it’s almost ready to unload the passengers--which is after you’re no longer allowed to listen to your iPod--and then pipe in post-Lion King era Elton John through the speakers.

Banana Republic used to have good clothes, but the quality has decreased in direct proportion to rising prices.  It’s like the designers have just stopped caring. Five years from now, they will offer a spool of red and white thread for around $300.  This will be “casual wear” shirt to be worn with an accompanying “casual blazer” spool of black thread.

I figure I can sell each of those deductions for about $20 each.

There’s so many dumb people in the world that it can get overwhelming, so I think from now on I’ll narrow it down and focus my ire on a select group of people: archaeologists.  Because apparently they’re the dumbest people in the entire world.

They just found a new tomb in Egypt, the first such discovery since Tutankhamen’s tomb was discovered 84 years ago.

And where was the new tomb discovered?

Sixteen feet from the tomb of Tutankhamen!

I can see these guys talking to each other, 80 years after the opening of King Tut’s tomb:

“Hey, you know, we should probably get around to finding another tomb at some point.”

“Yeah, but where?”

“Well...maybe we should start looking around where they found King Tut?”

“Whatever, shovel boy, if that’s what gets you going.  You have fun with your ‘archaeology’ thing--I’m going to practice fighting Nazis and running away from giant boulders.”

I slowly regain consciousness and prepare for a flight change at 2:30 a.m.

WOMAN NEXT TO ME: Did you sleep the whole flight?

ME: I sort of nodded off and on, but yeah, pretty much.

WOMAN: Amazing.  You even slept through the turbulence?

ME: (still half asleep) Gerbil incident?

WOMAN: What?

ME:  What gerbil incident? What is this, college?

WOMAN: No!  Ha!  Turbulence.

ME: Oh.  Right.

WOMAN’S HUSBAND:  Actually, honey, I do believe you said “gerbil incident.”

Tommy Tutone: “Jenny, I got your number, I don’t think you mind—867-5309.”

Jenny: “I wouldn’t have minded, except you shared it with the world and now every jerkoff with a phone calls me.  Thanks, assbag.”

---

Dexy’s Midnight Runners: “Come on, Eileen.”

Eileen: “Okay.  Wait a minute—who are you, again?”

----

Starship: “Sara, there’s storms brewing in your eyes.”

Sarah: “Jesus, I had a loose contact—get over it, drama queen.”

---

Steve Perry: “Oh Sherrie, I should’ve been gone.”

Sherrie: “Agreed.  Fortunately, that single expedited the process.  Hope you’re having a nice…Journey.”

---

Michael Jackson: “Billie Jean is not my lover. She’s just a girl who claims that I am the one--but the kid is not my son.”

Billie Jean: “In retrospect…thank God.”

Yesterday The Other Greg caught me after a meeting and said “What are you doing tonight?”

I said, “Oh, probably going to the gym and then going home and watching Gilmore Girls.”

I have a bad habit of saying things which are true without thinking first about what I’m saying.  I realized that I should catch myself and say “You know, outside of work I’m actually a pirate.  Tonight I intend to join up with my mateys and sail up and down the coastline finding villages to plunder and pillage--”

But The Other Greg cut me off and said “How would you like free tickets to see Coldplay?  You can get a premium parking space and hang out in a VP booth and drink free beer and wine and eat free food.”

I’m not the biggest Coldplay fan, but that all sounded like fun so I said “Sure.”

But then I wondered what the opening act was.  I figured with my luck it would be a Wilson Phillips reunion tour. But when I looked up the show online, I discovered that the opening act was Fiona!

I loves me some Fiona Apple. Not only do I have all three of her CDs, but I had this dream this one time where we did some stuff and I’m sure it wasn’t just my subconscious but what would happen if we actually met.  As a result, I know that in real life she’s really nice and cool.  At least, when she’s not strung out on heroin.

So anyway, I went to the show with my friend Lori and we hung out in the VP suite.  And during the opening set, I studied Fiona very closely with my binoculars.  Why? Because I have a theory that you can truly tell the worth of an artist by how they react when they sing their biggest hit.  For example, Elton John sings “Your Song” like he’s being embalmed.  And how did Fiona react when she sang “Shadowboxer” for about the 1,000,000th time?  Let me tell you: she was totally into it.  As a 28-year old woman, she threw her heart and soul into a song that she recorded when she was nineteen.

Boo-yah!

So, thanks, Fiona.  You can shadowbox me anytime.

And Coldplay?  They were pretty good, I guess.  I didn’t really bother to look at Chris Martin when he was singing “Clocks” for the one millionth time--but I can tell you that I felt like I was hearing it for the one millionth time.  Thanks for stopping by, Chris!  I think I hear Gywnneth calling you, so bye!  And hey, on your way out, do you think you can see if Fiona can come back out to play?