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I looked at the Huffington blog, the 48-car celebrity freeway pile-up, and I suppose which makes me a “looky-loo” in Michelle Malkin’s eyes. (No slam on her, but I really hate that phrase; I can’t say why, either. It just bugs me. I hear some prim 40s-style matron clucking disapproval. Don’t be a looky-loo. And what does it mean, really? To observe? If so, then we’re all looky-loos, inasmuch as we process photons striking our optic nerves. I can see advising someone not to be a looky-loo if you were concerned about the Heisenberg Uncertainty principle – don’t observe that particle! You’ll change its state! But otherwise, no, I don’t understand. Maybe it’s meant to refer to gawkers, the sort of people you can imagine standing around an accident in 1952 – pimply losers, neighborhood bullies, crass gum-snapping young ladies without breeding or deportment, the sort of urban extras who lived their lives without the expectation that they might gain notoriety or fame in some fleeting yet life-changing way. Today everyone thinks they can be famous, and consequently it means nothing to be known. Back then the gulf between the ordinary person and the big faces on the screen or the newsstands was so great that no one expected to be famous or important. So when something happened – an accident, a fire, a visiting star – you stood close, you looked, and in looking you drew a small measure of importance. That was as close as you’d ever get.) And I’m not impressed.

By the Huffblog, that is. Depends on who writes in the future, I suppose – but who cares why Hillary Rosen can’t figure out how to get stuff on her iPod? Who cares if the wife of the guy who brought us Power Rangers wants nationalized pre-school? (The day I listen to anyone connected with Saban lecturing me about children is the day I listen to some named Hanna or Barbera lecturing me about the nuances of backgrounds in animation.) That’s the big problem with blogs, of course: who cares what X thinks? It all depends on the quality of the thought, the uniqueness of the product, the value added. In the blogworld, a celebrity name adds no value whatsoever. If the blog’s good, the celebrity may earn some blogcred (oh, Lord, shoot me now for that one) for not sounding like someone who just emerged from the isolation tank of LA culture. But I really don’t care what Larry David thinks about John Bolton. I care what Larry David thinks about the itchy tags on shirts that scrape your neck, because I know that he can make a 12-part TV series that revolves around that detail, and George Will can’t.

We’ll see. In a way blogs are the refutation of the old joke: “The food’s so bad here.” “Yes, and such small portions.” Dole out crap in large amounts all day and you don’t guarantee traffic; eventually people will tired of poking through the heap with a stick looking for diamonds.

Somewhere in there, there’s a metaphor.

I’d refine it if I had the time, but this is the dreaded FOUR COLUMN MONDAY. Finished the morning column; got Gnat off to school after a lackluster lunch. She watched a little TV, and informed me with great excitement that the Care Bear movie is on tonight; can you record it, please? I will. It’s the Journey to Joke-A-Lot, or something like that. As long as it’s not a Christmas Carol ripoff. The other day while watching the Veggie Tales movie, she said “Hey, this is like Mickey’s Christmas Carol.” Same idea: ghosts of Easter Past, postlapsarian capitalist sees the light. Yesterday Disney had a Pooh Easter special – yes, yesterday – and she said “Hey, this is like Mickey’s Christmas Carol.” Same idea: Rabbit is visited by spirits, realizes the True Meaning of Easter, which has something to do with eggs and a nice party. I’m waiting for someone to Dickens up Arbor Day.

Boy! You there! Is that sapling still sitting in the Bachman’s yard?

The big one, sir?

Yes! Here’s a Sacajawea dollar! Go buy it and bring it here and there’s another one for you! Oh, it’s not too late! It’s not! Now to buy Tiny Tim a crutch made from recycled plastic milk jugs, so as to ease demand for medical devices mad from endangered hardwoods. (Dances jig.)

And why was she watching TV in the middle of the afternoon? Because it was cool outside, because my wife was planting and weeding and needed her to be distracted, because I was suffering some sort of mild catarrh and did not feel very interactive, as they say, and because she was just in the mood to strip down to her underwear, stand on her head on the sofa and watch TV. We all have days like that. I ended the day with bad TV myself – “Ocean’s Eleven” was on. The original, which isn’t very good but has its moments of historical interest. (Sinatra first appears wearing a fuzzy orange sweater, which he pulls off; he could pull anything off, but mostly because you don’t even think about thinking that he looks stupid in that. You might be right. So what? Would it be worth it? You don’t even have the guts to point out how silly the sweater looks, do you. Of course not. Okay, blow.) I’d never seen the opening credits, which were a typical Saul Bass animation. Marquee lights count from one to 11, and every other number we get the name of a star. The band plays Nelson Riddle’s Ocean’s 11 leitmotif, but in a different style for each actor. It’s swingin’ for Frank. For Dino it’s mandolins, because he’s, you know, a guinea. Jeez. For Sammy Davis Jr., it’s as soulful as a Harlem summer night! For Peter Lawford, sturdy British brass. If there had been an Asian character, no doubt he’d get rinkytinky rickshaw me-so-solly instrumentation.

I don’t remember what Joey Bishop’s version sounded like – probably played entirely by second violins.

Gotta roll – more tomorrow. New Fence.