Virgil

That's Two More Hours They Owe Me

If you're considering going to see Mr Brooks, starring Kevin Costner, I can tell you that it falls short in the areas of direction, acting, camerawork, costumes, set design, editing, and mixing. Even the lighting was weird, for which I bellieve the Key Grip must ultimately bear some responsibility.

Having said that, the basic story was kind of interesting, although the script, unfortunately, was pretty bad as well. I recommend that you read one of those reviews that tells you the whole plot instead, and save some time and money.

I'm still trying to figure out why I went in the first place, since I find Kevin Costner boring , Demi Moore annoying, and Dane Cook—I can't for the life of me understand how anyone can be around this guy for more than ten minutes, let alone work on a film with him for months, and then subject the rest of us to his face, voice, and personality.

Nothing personal, of course. I mean, I'm sure he's a nice guy. Actually, to be honest with you, I'm sure he's a dick. I don't know why, exactly. I'm not trying to be mean. Really. Some people just look like dicks, and Dane Cook looks, sounds, and acts like a dick. Not a penis, mind you, but a dick. An annoying, smug, selfish dick who's always "on" and never, ever shuts up.

So there it is. I don't wish him ill. He's just a dick, and I simply happen to believe that it's important to acknowledge that fact, and to honor it, in celebration and empowerment of his otherness.

It's the only way we'll ever achieve a lasting world peace

Shout-Out To My Pepys

This is the diary of samuel Pepys
These are the bits of his life that he keeps
This is his treasure, which grows as he sleeps
This is the snake in his trousers, which leaps
As does his heart, as he strives
And his career, as he thrives
Gentlemen, if you value your wives
Note his gargantuan sexual drives
Look to your duelling swords and knives
Whatever you do, for the rest of your lives
Keep your wives away
From Samuel Pepys

Back in the 1660's, shortly before I was born, a penniless 30 year old assistant (and cousin) to Edward Montague, Earl of Sandwich (ancestor of the inventor of the sandwich) began to keep a meticulous daily diary, in shorthand.

He started at the right time; the 9 year span of the diary covers the dissolution of Cromwell's parliament, the return to the throne of Charles II, the fire of London (which wiped out an enormous section of the city), the plague the following year (which killed perhaps a third of the population), and smaller daily events, many of which involved him seducing the wives of his many friends.

He was a lover of business, money and music, and an obsessive sex addict, sometimes dropping in on two or three women in a day, before hurrying home to check on his wife in a fit of jealousy, and then writing graphically about the trysts in a multilingual code.

Somehow, through all this drinking, partying and womanizing, he rose to become the Secretary of the British Navy, which I personally find very, very encouraging.

I've been reading his diary for the last year; it covers the years 1660-1669, in 9 volumes, and it's terrific.
There's even an online version of the diary, where they post one entry per day.

Why am I telling you all this?

Because I'm going to be in London this summer, and am hoping to drop in on him for a visit. Of course I wrote to him beforehand, to let him know. I haven't yet heard back, but I'm sure he's expecting me. Don't bother with the whole "he's been dead for 200 years" schtick; I've heard it before, and I'm afraid I'm forced to respectfully disagree.

Anyway, if there's anyone from British history you'd like me to say hello to while I'm there, let me know.*

*Actual historical figures only, please; let's not be silly about this.

Tough Cookies

If you're still rooting for Barry Bonds, you might want to take a closer look at the photo on the left, to see the kind of damage that steroids, human growth hormone, and testosterone supplemments can wreak upon an innocent troupe of Girl Scouts, who were only trying to become strong enough to sell their little cookies. I'm not sure how they got the guns. Probably a previously unreported side effect.

Also, to anyone wondering why they were foolish enough to pump their bodies full of such awful stuff in the first place, I'd invite you to take a look at what kind of cookies they have. Anyone who can smile while holding a box of Girl Scout Cookies that is not full of Magic Mint cookies is obviously not in full possession of their faculties in the first place and should be monitored. Or chained. Or beaten.

If you can get the gun away from them.

Ways In Which I Am Not Virgil Tuttle

The phrase "let me make something perfectly clear" is one of the surest indicators that you are about to be lied to vigorously, usually by a professional liar such as a lawyer or politician, but that fact notwithstanding, let me make something perfectly clear:

I am not Virgil Tuttle.

This is Virgil Tuttle.

It's true that the name of this blog is Virgil. Lots of things are named Virgil. Cars, for instance. Greek Poets. Turtles.

It's also true that I'm fond of the name Tuttle. It sounds like a word you'd use to describe a turtle with a small motor attached to it, if there were someday a need for motorized turtles, such as an excellent new way for kids to enjoy the company of amphibians without having to suffer the company of slow amphibians (patent pending, so don't even bother)

Furthermore, I, like Mr. Virgil Tuttle, have grey hair, although I do not wear mine in a ponytail, since I believe that a greying, balding man in a ponytail looks like he's unwilling to admit that humans age. No offense to Mr. Tuttle, but it's a very tough look to get right, unless one is a brilliant but solitary, righteous but taciturn, carpenter who never speaks, even to small children. Or a biker. Or, I suppose, a Viking.

Finally, although I (like Mr. Tuttle) choose to represent myself, I do so one day at a time, in real life, not in the woodpaneled confines of a court of law. Happily, I have no immediate need to appear before a judge, since turtles are currently unable to bring charges against humans for motorizing them against their will.

I do fall asleep in a lot of bathrooms, though. On that point, Mr. Tuttle and I are in perfect harmony.