For Father’s Day we went to Lowbrow, a great little neighborhood eatery. They have a burger called “The Fire Breather” which is rubbed in chili, has a smoky chipotle mayo, and some jalapenos to drive home the point. The waitress comes over.

She’s wearing a Che shirt.

Sigh. So: either she knows he was a killer and thinks it was neat and romantic and all that, or she doesn’t know, and in either case she doesn’t think it’s in the least bit polarizing, and to some people is might be like wearing, oh, Bush or Reagan NONIRONICALLY. I have no problem with people wearing a Che shirt; it’s a handy tell. But when you’re in the business of extracting tips from your customers and building goodwill for the restaurant, it’s probably not a good idea. I’m sure the restaurant frowns on employees wearing political statements, though. Which is what makes it all the more depressing. Because obviously it’s not regarded a political statement.


Earlier went to Jamba Juice with my daughter, because she wanted the Juice of the Jamba. I’d never had one before. Four bucks a throw. Given the economic climate, this is like someone running a 1932 selling lemonade for $30, but they seem to do okay; lots of people believe these things are Healthy, because they contain spirulina and spinach, and I’m sure they’re better for you than a Shamrock Shake. There was some slippery little things that kept going up the straw, which gave me the impression I was ingesting rabbit testicles.

Then to Whole Foods, which opened next door. Never been in one. It’s an alternate universe, where all the children’s cereals have killjoy boxes devoid of grinning oversugared mascots; Clifford the Big Red Dog was as close as they get. There was a big display of soap with interesting aromas, and because it was not described as “artisanal” I stopped and we sampled the various scents. There was Frankincense and Myrrh, which should sell well with parents who think highly of their children, and I thought “not bad,” but I have no idea what F&M smells like in the first place.

There was a car in the parking lot:




Then we came home and I took a nap to compensate for getting up early, and afterwards read some of my Father’s Day present: daughter got me a Batman graphic novel based on the drawings of Hugh Ferris. It's amusing, if full of anachronisms; set in the 30s, I don't think people said "doofus.

Kem Roomhaus is the arrogant European architect, and gosh, you think he's based on this fellow?


I’m not one of those people who insists that Sherlock conform to my preexisting parameters, but there are limits. He cannot be a woman, for example. Retrograde and sexist though this may seem, I am equally stern on the concept of turning Nancy Drew into a boy. He cannot be married; he cannot speak in slang; he cannot be a relaxed fellow full of bonhomie, just as likely to spend the evening at the theater enjoying a musical as he is likely to sit home playing his favorite instrument, the accordian. You can tweak the character, update him, shave off some minor quirks and add others, but you can’t ignore the core of the character. You might have a fascinating, delightful figure, but it won’t be Sherlock.

Aloof; scientific; theatrical; inquisitive; manic-depressive; auto-didact; good with his fists if should come to that; fiercely loyal to a few; obsessive; secretive; possessed of a certain cold charisma, not unlike hard butter.

So. I watched “Game of Shadows,” the second Tony Stark go-round. I liked the first one. Robert Downey Jr. is fun when he’s having fun. I didn’t like the second Iron Man, but he has such an immense reservoir of goodwill from the first - as well as the come-back-from-the-depths story - that I look forward to the third. It was gratifying to see a smart Watson; London was convincingly depicted; the Holmes-O-Vision sequences where he extrapolated the imminent course of events was a nice touch. I looked forward to the second . . .

. . . and once again I find myself saying I give up on modern movies. The dialogue in the first few scenes - “don’t fill up on bread,” “Dinner and a show” and other anachronistic touches - made me roll my eyes, but these things can be overlooked if everything else works. Alas. Bad Irene Adler. Bad SuperSherlock set piece right away. Bad acting, for God’s sake - weightless eye-popping eyebrow-twitching funny Holmes, yes that’s the ticket. Nothing meant anything. Nothing mattered. Boom. Slo-mo. Boom. Joke! Boom. Flashback setup, oh, you ingenious devil, Boom! And so on. Oh, hey, gypsies now. Some sort of face-shaving plot. Boom!

The last scene with Moriarty was absolutely grand. It was wonderful. The last third was worth it, I suppose, but by then I’d banged off a series of tweets on the matter, and if you’re getting up to tweet throughout the movie, it’s a sign you may not be particularly engaged.

But it’s hard for me to engage in anything nowadays, for a protracted period of time. This may be a function of the internet’s diminution of my attention

WOAH funny gif of a girl falling down the stairs

Sorry; I was saying something? Anyway. Whatevs.



One more thing. She drew the Father's Day card and put it on the iPad. I love it. The little thing next to her is Pretzel, the hamster.



I asked later: why is Mom's hair black? Her hair is red.

"It's reddish black."

Doesn't matter. It's sweet.



New Matchbooks! Here. Have a grand day, and I'll see you around. Remember, Lint is back up.

Tomorrow: BIG FREE THING. Stay tuned.







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