Travel and toddlers.

They go together like nitro and glycerin.

On Friday, we took the pilgrimage to my parents' for the extended weekend. Didn't quite beat the Great Metro Detroit Holiday Traffic Exodus, unfortunately. It turned what should have been three hours into five plus. Within twenty five miles of our goal, The Boy™ said he wanted to go home. I muttered "Fine--here's your coat and a map." Heather gave me The Look.

A piece of wisdom in child naming: if you name your son after your father, your dad will permit said child to commit murder or other high crimes, all with an indulgent smile.

A good time was had by all, and surprisingly we got a swim in as it proved to be much warmer than predicted. The water was still spring-icy, but all the more refreshing for that. It was a five-cousin riot, but all the kids were well-behaved. Dad was able to use his new multiburner Uber-Grïll to feed the hordes, the Jet Ski was deployed and I received early birthday presents (more on that later).

The trip back was faster (read: better timed on my part), with the only problem being a harsh sun beating down on the right side of the vehicle. That made it difficult for Rachel to sleep, and I had one of those irrational moments when I wanted to rip the sun from the sky and stomp it for making my daughter cry.

Oh, and the vacation parish has backslid. Badly. More on that later, too, as it involved a pernicious use of the laugh line "dialogue."

Should I be happy that the 'Stons shot 38% and only lost by five?

Or very, very worried that their offense is so AWOL that the Detroit office of the FBI should be looking for their ability to hit a frigging mid-range jumper instead of Hoffa?

OTOH, today's sign of the end--the Tigers at 31-14.

It's been so long we don't know what to say or how to act.

"Guns don't kill people. Jack Bauer kills people."

Great lists of facts about the more-lethal-than-influenza hero of 24.

[Via Disputations.]

Two word review of this season: "Uh...what?" Came very, very close to shark-jumping this year.

Last DVC Post.

(1) So it's a blockbuster. Quelle suprise:

"If you make people think they’re thinking, they’ll love you; but if you really make them think, they’ll hate you." —Don Marquis

[Great quote I just stumbled across, courtesy of Dan Simmons. Interesting, if flawed set of essays from him, but I'll leave it for others to deconstruct.]

(2) Best Nuclear Bombing of that bestseller, via that indispensible handbook of theocrats and "Christianists" everywhere, The New Yorker:

There has been much debate over Dan Brown’s novel ever since it was published, in 2003, but no question has been more contentious than this: if a person of sound mind begins reading the book at ten o’clock in the morning, at what time will he or she come to the realization that it is unmitigated junk? The answer, in my case, was 10:00.03, shortly after I read the opening sentence: “Renowned curator Jacques Saunière staggered through the vaulted archway of the museum’s Grand Gallery.” With that one word, “renowned,” Brown proves that he hails from the school of elbow-joggers—nervy, worrisome authors who can’t stop shoving us along with jabs of information and opinion that we don’t yet require. (Buried far below this tic is an author’s fear that his command of basic, unadorned English will not do the job; in the case of Brown, he’s right.) You could dismiss that first stumble as a blip, but consider this, discovered on a random skim through the book: “Prominent New York editor Jonas Faukman tugged nervously at his goatee.” What is more, he does so over “a half-eaten power lunch,” one of the saddest phrases I have ever heard.

Should we mind that forty million readers—or, to use the technical term, “lemmings”—have followed one another over the cliff of this long and laughable text? I am aware of the argument that, if a tale has enough grip, one can for a while forget, if not forgive, the crumbling coarseness of the style; otherwise, why would I still read “The Day of the Jackal” once a year? With “The Da Vinci Code,” there can be no such excuse. Even as you clear away the rubble of the prose, what shows through is the folly of the central conceit, and, worse still, the pride that the author seems to take in his theological presumption. How timid—how undefended in their powers of reason—must people be in order to yield to such preening? Are they reading “The Da Vinci Code” because everybody on the subway is doing the same, and, if so, why, when they reach their stop, do they not realize their mistake and leave it on the seat, to be gathered up by the next sucker? Despite repeated attempts, I have never managed to crawl past page 100.

[Hat tip: Amy Welborn.]

Yes, I saw that heavily-hyped movie this weekend.

And I strongly recommend it--Over The Hedge is pretty funny.

Better than the last hyped animated feature the children dragged us to (Chicken Little, which was OK, but not as good as advertised).

My kids especially loved Hammy the Squirrel (voiced by Steve Carell). There's a bit involving slow-mo near the end that is hilarious.

Go. See.

Time for a whiplash segue.

From levity to sleeplessness: as in real theocrats to worry about, not the Christian punching bags offered up by MSM.

Two stories from Iran:

(1) Letters from Mahmoud--first the President, now the Pope. Yes, it has a precedent.

(2) Iran's Parliament has passed a law requiring the country's Jews, Christians, and Zoroastrians to wear badges and/or distinctive clothing.

That's all. You can go back to worrying about intelligent design and Pat Robertson now.

[UPDATE: Apparently the latter item proved to be inaccurate.]

It's the Easter season, so that means the veritable coprocopia of "Christian Origins" twaddle is running three shifts.

More concrete evidence that "religious studies" in academia is quite the freakosystem, indeed.

[Cardinal] Egan took issue with a U.S. News & World Report magazine story on a controversial new book called "The Jesus Dynasty: The Hidden History of Jesus, His Royal Family, and the Birth of Christianity," by a religious studies professor at the University of North Carolina, Charlotte. The book by James Tabor claims that Jesus was the son of a Roman soldier and that he wanted to establish a worldwide dynasty led by 12 tribal leaders, with his brother James, rather than Peter, as its leader.

[Cue Krusty the Clown groan:] "Oyyyy..."

I hereby announce My Controversial Jesus Claim for 2006: Tabor is wrong--Jesus was the first Shogun of Japan, and the original lost text of the Gospels establishes this. Christ was called "sensei," not "rabbi." In that passage of John where he was writing in the sand, Jesus was actually diagramming the whoop-ass karate moves he was going to lay on the Pharisees if they didn't let that woman go.

Moreover, neither Peter nor James were intended to be his successor. That honor went to Simon the Zealot, who was also a Ninja--the coolest Jewish Ninja ever.

In fact, Simon was so totally sweet as a Ninja that all the other apostles got jealous and made sure the so-called canonical gospels never showed him saying anything or using his Ultimate Ninja Powers. Check it out for yourself.

OK, where can I go to pick up my doctorate now?

[Thanks to Jeff Miller for the link.]

A question from my Much Better Half.

Why are they called the gnostic gospels? They don't read like the canonicals--i.e., they aren't narratives of the life/ministry of Christ.

So how did they get the title "gospel"?

Prayer request.

Especially from the St. Blog's Stirling Fan Club:

Steve Stirling's wife, Jan, has a bad case of pneumonia, and it has required surgery to help drain and address certain areas. Things are looking good so far, but all prayers and good thoughts are welcome (and that's a quote).

For my Mom.

Thanks for everything you have done and still do for me and our whole family.

Thanks for putting up with the antics of a couple of honyocks like me and Doug (especially) during our teen angst/delayed launch-from-the-nest years.

Thanks for welcoming Heather into the family like a daughter.

Thanks for spoiling Madeleine, Dale III and Rachel absolutely rotten.

And thanks for always being there.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

[P.S. Thanks for always accepting late cards with joy....]

The Ringo Starr of Airport Fiction Explains the Thrust of His Magnum Opus.

In the magisterial USA Weekend, of course--nothing but the most intellectually challenging of fora for our man in New Hampshire:

Now, before you read this as an author's disclaimer for any differences between the book and the movie, let me assure you it's all there -- the Louvre, Saint-Sulpice, Chateau Villette, Westminster Abbey, Rosslyn Chapel, the codes, the sacred feminine, and the quiet invitation to think about faith, religion and history with a fresh, open-minded perspective.

The quiet invitation to think about faith, religion and history with a fresh, open minded perspective?

Can't you just smell the smarm?

Then again, when it hits you at fire-hose strength, you might be a little numbed. Even the nostrils.

Just remember that piece of disingenuous tripe the next time someone you know is mugged. It's not a violent robbery, it's simply the perpetrator's quiet invitation to think about crime, the redistribution of wealth and closed-head injuries with a fresh, open minded perspective.