Department of What Really Happened

This morning a family of tourists -- mom, dad, three girls and two boys -- passed me walking east on M Street, at just before 7AM as I was on my way to the New York Avenue Metro.

I admit that I may, possibly, be engaging in racial profiling when I say this, but there is absoultely no way this gaggle of corn-fed fanny-packed honkies was going in the right direction. I gave their patriarch an arch look to that effect, which was rebuffed. I even heard the oldest of the girls say, to no response, "Dad, it says 'Northwest' in the book."

Of course it says Northwest in the book, Dad. Because there is nothing north of H Street and east of North Capitol in your book, with the possible exceptions of Galludet University and the old Washington Coliseum, where the Beatles played their first U.S. show, and which is now a recycling transfer station and parking lot.

I did consider, after more than a block of distance had passed between us, going back to tell them all or some of this. But I was running a little late and the sun was almost up and it was possible, however unlikely, they were badly negotiating an attempt to locate the National Arboretum, which is only a brisk two-and-a-half mile walk up New York Avenue from the Metro stop.

Nothing too terrible was going to happen to them, probably. And they would manage to see a bit of D.C. on foot that is generally observed, even by longtime residents, as a blur from the interior of a locked car, and have a hot one for the folks back home in Red State.

Doctor, Play Thyself

I'm ashamed to say that a phone call from my mother moved me to tear open the yellow polybag containing the Washington Post's Sunday circulars, coupons and comics to read "Maybe...We Should Feel Shame," by Dr. Joyce Brothers in this week's Parade Magazine.

The cover is a grab bag of nightmares from the cultural abyss: a goo-drenched "Fear Factor" contestant, Paris and Nicole in air-hostess drag, Janet and Justin, and an angry Ron Artest being restrained by a teammate.

Inside, Dr. Joyce makes the argument that the self-esteem pendulum has swung so far in the direction of reflexive affirmation that as a society we've lost our standards. Further, a revival of shaming, at home, at school and in the public sphere would stem our collective drift toward a culture that is insensate to all but the basest experience.

I'm all for that. And I'm going to start with Dr. Joyce Brothers, who writes:

The thrill of becoming 'famous' may be brief; the realization that one appeared gross to millions of viewers, not so brief. Perhaps we're creating a subset of of people who will suffer from a new type of disorder: 'Post-TV Appearance Syndrome.'

Tsk-tsk, Dr. Joyce. You have much to answer for. Please make public remonstrations or remit apologies for each of the following:

"The Mullets" playing "Herself" in episode: "Grudge Match" (episode # 1.5) 7 October 2003

"Felicity" playing "Judge" in episode: "Miss Conception" (episode # 4.4) 31 October 2001

"Ally McBeal" playing "Herself" in episode: "Those Lips, That Hand" (episode # 2.18) 19 April 1999

"The Nanny" playing "Herself" in episode: "The Ex-Niles" (episode # 5.5) 29 October 1997

"Melrose Place" playing "Herself" in episode: "Amanda Unplugged" (episode # 4.9) 30 October 1995

"Melrose Place" playing "Herself" in episode: "Dial M for Melrose" (episode # 4.8) 23 October 1995

"Melrose Place" playing "Herself" in episode: "Let the Games Begin" (episode # 4.7) 16 October 1995

"Baywatch" playing "Doctor" in episode: "Deep Trouble" (episode # 5.19) 1 May 1995

"Married... with Children" playing "The Judge" in episode: "Sue Casa, His Casa" (episode # 5.3) 7 October 1990

"The Howard Stern Show" playing "Herself" 4 August 1990

"ALF" playing "Herself" in episode: "Tonight, Tonight: Part 2" (episode # 3.5) 24 October 1988

"ALF" playing "Herself" in episode: "Tonight, Tonight: Part 1" (episode # 3.4) 24 October 1988

"CHiPs" in episode: "Fun House" (episode # 6.19) 13 March 1983

"CHiPs" playing "Herself" in episode: "The Spaceman Made Me Do It" (episode # 6.3) 24 October 1982

The Bob Hope Funny Valentine Special (1981) (TV)

Oh, God! Book II (1980) (as Joyce Brothers) .... Herself on NBC

"Project U.F.O." playing "Dr. Siginaw" in episode: "Sighting 4021: The Superstition Mountain Incident" (episode # 2.9) 7 December 1978

Battle of the Network Stars (1976) (TV) .... Herself

Embryo (1976) .... Herself ... aka Created to Kill (USA: reissue title)

"Match Game PM" (1975) TV Series .... Panelist

From the Annals of Standards and Practices

Advertisers had a tough time tailoring their spots to the New Uptightness for this year's Super Bowl, but none tougher than domain registrar GoDaddy.com.

Ad Store managing partner Tim Arnold revealed just how tough in an article published in the Feb. 21 issue of MediaWeek. After submitting storyboards of their spot poking fun at last year's halftime unpleasantness, Arnold received a series of telephone calls from Roland McFarland, senior standards and practices executive for the Fox Network, demanding, among other things, that the GoDaddy spot not contain "revealing cleavage" and "be in good taste." According to Arnold, the following exchange took place on one of these calls.

Arnold: "I can assure you this commercial will be consistent with the levels of good taste established by your own network's programming."

McFarland: "Actually, it's going to have to be better than that."

Wire Fraud?

I didn't intend to use this space as a means to settle grudges or hurl unsupported allegations at my enemies, but as my good friend Hoffman says: "God forbid any of us have a bad lunch and not have a forum to gripe about it."

It is in that spirit that I must protest what I feel is a violation of the honor system among the players of the HBO-sponsored trivia game for devotees of "The Wire," the greatest crime drama ever.

The game itself is as good an online quiz as you could ask for. The interface is simple. The scoring is based not only on the number of correct answers but on how fast they are answered. You get three chances to pass a quiz -- a minimum seven out of 10 correct -- before it is locked to you for 24 hours.

However, the answers to each round are available to all who pass. It may be that certain individuals, unhappy with their spots on the leaderboard, are collecting the answers, signing up under new user names and retaking the quiz with answers at the ready in order to answer more quickly and improve their standing.

What proof do I have?

None.

None except that provided by the intersection of my superior attitude and my shaky grasp of statistics.

To wit: I was holding steady at between 100 and 150 out of approximately 10,500 entrants, peaking at around 64, which is not bad.

As of this writing, with the addition of just 200 more contestants, I have dropped to 194 in the rankings. So either I was passed by a quarter of the new contestants, a number of contestants who had neglected to complete all the quizzes finally did so, or there are malefactors at work malefactiating.

I suppose there could be some DVD promotion or contest or news article that might explain my decline in the rankings, but I doubt it. I could simply be happy to be among the top two percent of scorers. Still, I can't help but think how much better I would feel if I were in the top six-tenths of one percent, and how much better it would be if folks didn't cheat and lie over nothing. Like they say on the show: "That is the game."

But I agree with what Omar (pictured above) said as Det. Bunk Moreland mused, "A man must have a code."

"Oh, indeed," said Omar, "Indeed."

The Original "I Didn't Do It" Boy

Fine art isn't funny; at least not "ha-ha" funny.

Art can be droll, witty, impish and even absurd, but rare is the work that elicits doubled-over hysterics in the viewer. Then there is Domencino's 1626 oil painting "The Rebuke of Adam and Eve," which hangs in Gallery 33 of the National Gallery of Art's West Main Floor.

The painting depicts the original gotcha moment: God appears as a bearded ancient with a flowing gray beard and clad only in shimmering blue silk tunic, arranged just so to reveal a broad, hairless chest and quite a bit of leg. He's accompanied by a quintet of cherubim who are wrapped in what appears to be a cloak of royal velvet. His hand is extended in mid gesture, about to clench into a fist, like an umpire readying to eject a calumnious manager.

Adam, already hiding his shame with fig leaves, is slightly hunched, and his shoulders are shrugged in the universal sign for "I didn't do it." He's not pointing at Eve, not exactly, but it's clear from the roll of his eyes and his outstretched palms, that he's offering a kind of "You-see-what-I-have-to-deal-with-down-here?" to The Creator.

Eve, red-haired and apple-breasted, is similarly trying to refocus The Lord's gaze, in her case, to the snake that is slithering away into the crotch of a tree.

Nowhere in the National Exhibition catalog text does Philip Conisbee, the Gallery's senior curator of European painting, let on that Domencino's work is the most howlingly funny work of art in the museum's collection. Click on the image above and judge for yourself.

Suggested Cooking Times

"They need to be boiled only as long as it takes to say two Our Fathers."

Bartolomeo Platina
"Ravioli in tempo de carne"
De honesta voluptate (1475)

Stairway to Health Bread

...after second rising, gently transfer dough to loaf pan, or pat into a round and place on pre-heated pizza stone...bake at 450° for three full Stairways... N.B. whistling flute solos may cause cracks to form in loaf.

Star-Spangled Bran Muffins

...place muffin tin in 325° oven. Doff toque, if wearing. Sing anthem four times at full military attention with hand over heart... For best results, do not prolong vowel sounds at higher elevations.

Pasta Layla

...stir gently, taking care not to trip over cord or upset amplifier stack... Top with parmigiano-reggiano and freshed-cracked green peppercorns and let stand while concluding solo. Sprinkle with a chiffonade of sage and serve.

Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lo-Fat Fudge

...once blended, transfer fudge to wax paper-lined 9-in. baking pan. Dust with remaining confectioners sugar and place in refrigerator. After four Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands, check to see if fudge has set. Cut into squares with a plastic spatula and let stand at room temperature for an additional Lady before serving.

American Pie Pie

Not recommended.

Tech Buzzwords That Will Never, Ever Enter the Language, Part One

Pooberry \ pü-ber-e\ n, pl pooberries (2005) : an e-mail sent by a supervisor, via Blackberry, that was, in the estimation of the recipient, composed during a protracted act of defecation.

M-V-P? M-V-P?

With Jose Canseco's admission of steroid use, his career accomplishments are being called into question by sportswriters, fans, and at least one angry player who feels he was robbed of an award that was rightfully his.

Former Red Sox left fielder Mike Greenwell asked a Ft. Myers News-Press reporter, "Where's my MVP?" Greenwell added, "[Canseco's] an admitted steroid user. I was clean. If they're going to start putting asterisks by things, let's put one by the MVP."

Greenwell's argument is that since he finished second in the MVP balloting and since Canseco admitted he cheated, the award naturally should devolve to him.

If Greenwell's so eager to open the books, then let's open the books.

1988 was a good year for The Gator. He averaged .328 over 590 at-bats, hit 22 home runs, 39 doubles and batted in 119 against just 38 strikeouts. But he did it all on a solid hitting, division-winning team batting two slots behind hitting machine Wade Boggs, who posted a ludicrous .476 OBP for the season.

Kirby Puckett is your 1988 MVP. Playing center field for the 91-71 Minnesota Twins, he prowled one of the most cavernous outfields in the business, batted .356 (good for second place behind Wade Boggs' .366), hit 24 home runs and drove in 121. Puckett slugged .545 for the year. Canseco, for all his vaunted power, didn't fare that much better at .569. Greenwell, the MVP runner up, slugged .531.

While Greenwell bested Puckett in the OBP department, .416 to .375, and struck out many, many fewer times, it's pretty clear from the numbers, especially as crunched into "win-shares," Puckett's was the better season.

Brand Me -- Crunchy and New

You've got to be something special to rate your own candy bar. Reggie Jackson ruled the bench during the New York Yankees' Bronx Zoo era. Baby Ruth was the first born daughter of President Grover Cleveland. Even Hershey and Wrigley had to incorporate to get their names on the wrapper.

Maz is merely your humble and apologetic correspondent, but is special just the same.

Eat your hearts out, you bastards.

Thank Heaven for Passive Aggression

I recently read Tim Guest's "My Life in Orange," a memoir of growing up in the cultish communes of the Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh. The book has caused a considerable stir in Osha, which is the post-Bhagwan incarnation of the group, sort of like what the Landmark Forum is to Erhardt Sensitivity Training.

In short, Guest grew up from ages 3 to about 10 or 11 in various communal settings, left pretty much to raise himself in an environment that might be charitably described as well-intentioned neglect, while his mother busied herself with the work of spreading the Bhagwan's message around the world. Guest's book is mostly evenhanded, told though the literary device of the child's eye -- a trick that doesn't work if you lard the text with an excess of editorializing. Toward the end, however, Guest relies on the historical record of the Bhagwan's downfall -- criminal charges, infighting, flight from arrest and all that -- which sets his version at strict odds with the Osha version.

How does the spiritually centered book reviewer administer a smackdown while retaining his or her inner serenity? Thusly:

"Tim was rejected by his mother and spent much of his time at Medina living like an orphan. His problems were compounded by the fact that he was an extremely intelligent child, living in a commune where many, but not all, members interpreted 'no-mind' to mean possessing a mind that was childish and primitive. He also had no feeling for spirituality, meditation or Osho.. Why should he? So when the other kids broke his big Star Wars toy given to him by his father in California, and an adult told him the answer was to 'let go', this was just torture. To say such things to a secure child who leans towards spirituality, as some of the other children did, is one thing. To say it continually to an insecure child who needed his toys because he did not have his mum, probably amounted to emotional abuse. He did not trust most of the teachers at the school, and many adults at Medina hardly ever listened to him. Some would insult him by saying things like
"'Earth to Yogesh...Do you read me?'
"For all this Tim was and is justifiably angry."

Nancy Drew: The Mystery of Pirate's Cove

Girl detectives are hot. Nancy Drew, as portrayed by Pamela Sue Martin, is among the hottest. Her feathered hairdo cuts a wide swath across her face, putting her suspicious brown eyes at the center of every shot. She often wears a sort-of modifed riding jacket and valour bell-bottoms. She's hotter still when on the trail of a Steve McQueen-knockoff villain who's done up in tight jeans, an Irish cable-knit sweater, and a startling array of suede outerwear for a man who, it turns out, has spent three years on the run from the FBI.

Most of the Sapphic mystery has been bleached from her worshipful sidekick, George Fayne, but the bumbling Ned Nickerson, resplendent in his tight turtlenecks and coaster-sized spectacles. makes up for it with his brusque manner around Nancy and his frequent attempts to scold Nancy's oddly permissive father, Carson Drew. (How permissive? He encourages Nancy to spend the night in a possibly-haunted lighthouse with a handsome professor of para-psychology.)

The Glen Larson script does justice to the original, which I read, and remember as one of the better Nancy Drew novels (a good Hardy Boys to start with would be The Mystery of the Green Ghost). I'm pretty sure that the lighthouse at Point Reyes in Marin County was asked to do double-duty as a remote New England outpost. (The strange part about that was the ocean was shot as though it were the Pacific, occupying the left-most portion of the screen -- a bizarre and idiotic custom the origins of which I would be curious to know.)

The only part worth recounting is in the opening scene, where Nancy, Ned, George and some dude from a beach party they were attending take a midnight speedboat ride to see if the flying fish are flying. They see an unexpected illumnation from the long shuttered lighthouse and wheel the boat around to inspect only when Ned squeaks, "Hey! That's private property!"

Shown for free at the Library of Congress with the original 1977 commercials: Kodak paper, Nestea (plunge and all), Oscar Meyer, Dr. Pepper, Bounce (back then they had to sell consumers of the very idea of dryer-based fabric softening) and a Lorne Greene ad for Goodwill Industries in which he shakes hands with a bunch of disabled Americans being shipped out on a bus to Yosemite to repair discarded wristwatches and old toasters -- a practice that, I'm guessing, has been since discontinued.

Moderation -- the 10 percent solution

Torre del Bardo
Tuscany
90% Sangiovese, 10% Cabernet Sauvignon
12.5% alcohol$10.99

In his 1964 address accepting the nomination of the 1964 Republican convention in San Francisco, then Senator Barry Goldwater famously said, "Extremism in the pursuit of liberty is no vice." Then, right after that, much less famously: "moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue."

I do not find it that odd that the first clause of Goldwater's syncretic peroration be so well-remembered and the second half not at all: the first placed him squarely in the Birch wing of the party; the second would have earned him a soul hug from Eldridge Cleaver.

As Alberto Gonzalez will tell you, "Moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue" is no longer an applause line, although the lead-in kills as much as it did 41 years ago. Yet the phrase leaps to mind as I sip this eight-year-old "Super-Tuscan."

The "Super Tuscan" appelation is a clever bit of marketing meant to evade the truth such wines thusly labeled cannot be sold with the government Denominazione di Origine Controllata (D.O.C.) seal of approval. While this may smack of unnecessary bureaucratic regulation, let's remember that the practice was meant to codify to some extent viticultural practices in effect since the 12th century.

Sangiovese is the dominant grape in D.O.C.-approved Chanti Classico. The 19th century method of production encoded in D.O.C. regulations calls for the sangiovese to be blended with a combination of other, less flavorful grapes, both red and white. The Super-Tuscan label arose so that inventive vintners could mix and match to their hearts' content, and damn the law.

This inexpensive Super-Tuscan is sold under the Indicazione Geografica Tipica label, an intermediate category that puts it above table wines rushed to market with unsavory fermentation enhancements but not bearing the elite provenance of the D.O.C. There is nothing per se inferior about I.G.T. wines. In fact, there are many great Super Tuscan's that blend the region's native Sangiovese grape with innovative combinations of Pinot Noir, Cabernet and Syrah.

This bottle is not among them, although the fault lies less in the moderation of the sangiovese with cabernet, but rather with the notion of expecting justice from an $11 bottle of wine. Perhaps a little past its prime, the promised oak notes fail to materialize on the palate. There is an pleasingly earthy aroma that does not pay off in the tasting. The fruit is muddied and indistinct, although the biting flavor does promise to undercut the acid of tomato-based dishes. Enjoy it alongside a nice stew or else just save it for pizza night.

Introducing Reviews of Italian Wines for Republicans

Since the heady days when the French were portrayed as the enemies of freedom in the popular press, and as actual furry, wriggling weasles in the New York Post, Republican oenophiles have been lurching across the same sort of wilderness occupied by Newt Gingrich when he was a lowly backbencher representing the Georgia Sixth with nothing but a dream, a PAC-fueled war chest and a strangely incongruous central-Pennsylvania accent.

As any proud wearer of a Chinese-made Old Glory lapel pin knows, drinking French wines with fellow Republicans is an invidious inviation to be Swift-Boated out of the corps. The 2004 elections didn't provide any succor for these thirsty reactionaries, as California, Oregon, Washington, New York and basically every other state that is capable of producing a drinkable bottle of wine went for the Democrats. Internationally, riojas have been off the list since the Spanairds let the terrorists win their 2004 elections. Australia and Argentina could turn any minute. New Zealand is a non-starter. I don't even know where to begin on South Africa.

So does that mean the red state gourmand need consign himself to a lifetime of choking down Lone Star lager with his steak and potatos? Not necessarily. While Italy, long the butt of jokes arising from its unfortunate participation on the Axis side of the Second World War, and its only-dropped-once infantry rifles, is indisputably part of "old Europe," and, indeed, Old Rome, the present situation makes Italy worth a second look.

The only functioning western theocracy still thrives within its borders. Their Prime Minister, Silvo Berlusconi, is a self-made media mogul who rose from humble beginnings as a vacuum cleaner salesman to become the owner of his nation's largest book publisher, Mondadori; a daily newspaper, Il Giornale; and its most prominent football team, AC Milan. In 2004, Forbes estimated his net worth as north of $10 billion U.S.

And the man has stones. He signed into law a provision exempting himself from criminal prosecution as long as he held the Prime Minster's office. This was done, it was widely assumed, because he had committed crimes worthy of prosecution.

And the icing on the cake? The 3,000 Italian troops serving in Iraq -- the third largest military commitment after the U.S. and Britain. So watch this space. In the coming weeks and months I will offer my take on Italian vintages availble in the D.C. area, with an eye to drinkability, menu-parings and ROI.

Italian Wines Reviewed for Republicans

Introduction

Torre del Bardo
Tuscany
90% Sangiovese, 10%
Cabernet Sauvignon
12.5% alcohol
$10.99

Why Apologize?

Didn't know it was loaded.

Forgot to eat before your party.

Could have sworn she was pregnant.

Had eggs for breakfast.

Didn't know you were so uptight

It sure didn't look antique.

Was pretty sure she knew I was seeing someone.

It was just a figure of speech.

Was ninety-nine percent sure I'd dreamt that.

It was a double-dog dare.

Didn't know you were Polish.

It smelled okay when I put it on.

You two know each other?