I thought I recognized the name of the author of the NYT travel article Annie Wagner mocked just now. And Amazon.com confirms that yes, indeed, I do recognize David Laskin's name.

David Laskin is the author of a great book about The Partisan Review (and Mary McCarthy, Edmund Wilson, Robert Lowell, Jean Stafford, and Elizabeth Hardwick, and their various doomed marriages) called Partisans: Marriage, Politics, and Betrayal Among the New York Intellectuals.

He's also the author of the sentence: "Nobody walks more than three blocks in Seattle, except to air the dog or power around Green Lake." (It just had to be repeated.)

Yesterday, like today, Christians and Muslims were killing each other in Iraq, and Jews and Muslims were killing each other in Lebanon. Yesterday, unlike today, was also the 350th anniversary of Spinoza's excommunication from the Jewish community in Amsterdam. These were the words that excommunicated the philosopher:

Cursed be he by day and cursed be he by night; cursed be he when he lies down, and cursed be he when he rises up; cursed be he when he goes out, and cursed be he when he comes in. The Lord will not pardon him; the anger and wrath of the Lord will rage against the man, and bring upon him all the curses which are written in thr Book of the Law, and the Lord will destroy his name from under the Heavens...

The Amsterdam synagogue excommunicated Spinoza because of his "relentless application of reason" on the nature of God, religion, and human beings. Writes Rebecca Newberger Goldstein:

The Jews who banished Spinoza had themselves been victims of intolerance, refugees from the Spanish-Portuguese Inquisition. The Jews on the Iberian Peninsula had been forced to convert to Christianity at the end of the 15th century. In the intervening century, they had been kept under the vigilant gaze of the Inquisitors, who suspected the 'New Christians' of carrying the rejection of Christ in their very blood. It can be argued that the Iberian Inquisition was Europe's first experiment in racialist ideology.

Spinoza's reaction to the religious intolerance he saw around him was to try to think his way out of all sectarian thinking. He understood the powerful tendency in each of us toward developing a view of the truth that favors the circumstances into which we happened to have been born. Self-aggrandizement can be the invisible scaffolding of religion, politics or ideology.

Against this tendency we have no defense but the relentless application of reason. Reason must stand guard against the self-serving false entailments that creep into our thinking, inducing us to believe that we are more cosmically important than we truly are, that we have had bestowed upon us - whether Jew or Christian or Muslim - a privileged position in the narrative of the world's unfolding.

Spinoza didn't believe in an afterlife but instead a God who was in the world completely. For him, God was everything, every action, every thought, every word. But positing God as "the all" meant that God was both good and evil, killer and creator, lover and hater. Writes Genevieve Lloyd in Spinoza and The Ethics:

Spinoza introduces a constantly changing God -- the ultimate subject of all crimes and infirmities. Such a God...must be full of contradictions. Since there is no other agent or subject of properties than this one indivisible substance, he must hate and love, deny and affirm contradictory things. From the standpoint of morality, this God is an abomination, producing in himself all the follies and iniquities of humankind. All those who say that Germans have killed ten thousand Turks must speak falsely unless they mean that God, modified as Germans, has killed the Turks. All the phrases by which one expresses what men do against one another will have no true sense other than that God hate himself, asks favours of himself and refuses them, persecutes himself, kills himself, eats himself, calumniates himself, throws himself on the scaffold, and so on. Having reduced God to the most perfect simplicity -- to the unity and indivisibility of substances -- Spinoza must attribute to him the most infamous extravagances that can be conceived, infinitely more ridiculous than those of the poets concerning pagan gods.

From Spinoza's God emerged Hegel's Geist; from Hegel's Geist emerged Marx's dialectical materialism; and from Marx's dialectical materialism emerged the end of history and the last man. God is all to nothing.

Hey New York Times, next month's Vanity Fair says you're making yourself look foolish trying to appeal to dumb suburbanites around the country and abandoning your Manhattan devotees. Posh, said I.

And then I read this Seattle travel article. Of course, it's so, so obvious to get offended over a tourist's view of your own real estate, but the tone of that piece is just off the charts. Is there a clearer illustration of the bizarre NYT hybrid of suburban Martian and provincial Manhattanite than this sentence?

"Nobody walks more than three blocks in Seattle, except to air the dog or power around Green Lake."

Chuckle, chuckle, stupid, barf. AIR THE DOG??????

Note to self: Next time you go fishing for blue marlin off the coast of Bermuda, make sure to wear some Kevlar.

When he saw a companion on his boat hook a giant fish during a sea angling contest, Ian Card was delighted.

Next second, the scene of triumph turned to horror - as the 14ft blue marlin leapt out of the water across the vessel and speared Mr Card through the chest with its spiked bill.

The impact of the 800lb fish knocked him overboard into the Atlantic off Bermuda.

Then, with a thrash of its tail and with the 32-year-old still impaled and bleeding profusely, it dragged him underwater.

Terribly injured, he somehow stayed conscious as he struggled to pull himself free of the marlin's 3ft razor-sharp spike before he drowned.

You too can be a person of leisure when you rent an electric boat down on Lake Union. You can drive yourself around the lake and look at the all the houseboats and the city skyline and the parks and other people's boats and the sky and the water. There is a nice table, so you can bring snacks and cocktails. The boat is completely silent, letting you listen to music and have great conversation with friends. Highly recommended.

With the coming of Sound Transit Light Rail in mind, I direct this passage from "Victorian Detective Fiction" to the publisher of The Stranger, Tim Keck:

The Strand Magazine was launched in 1891 by George Newnes, an editor who had already experienced considerable commercial success with the periodical 'Tit-Bits. Newnes' acute business sense, combined with a kind of public paternalism (perhaps best exemplified in the 'Tit-Bits Insurance Scheme', whereby the next-of-kin of anybody killed in a railway accident could claim insurance if the deceased had had a copy of Newnes' magazine with them), suggested that the new magazine was guaranteed at least a degree of success, as well as providing the reading public with what Newnes described in the first issue as 'cheap, healthful literature'.

The future can learn much from the past.

Malicious propane tanks and identity theft are one thing, but now it looks like the prayer warrior is facing an even more serious threat:

August 1, 2006

Dear Prayer Warrior,

Please pray for the protection of my family.  There was a threat against my life, but not just against me, but "where I live."  Pray for a protective hedge around my home, and that my wife and children will feel safe and secure.

Your Pastor,
Hutch

The New Yorker's fascinating and provocative article on Wikipedia led me to the site's phenomenally detailed page on Scrabble, "a popular word board game in which 2-4 players score points by forming words from individual lettered tiles on a 15×15 game board." On this page we find: Scrabble history (original name: "Criss-Crosswords"; original manufacturer: Alfred Mosher Butts); various rules for challenges (although unsuccessful challengers forfeit their turn in the US, the British, Irish and Australians follow a much looser standard, "in which no penalty whatsoever is applied to a player who unsuccessfully challenges"); and acceptable words, a topic of much hot contention among Scrabble-playing Stranger writers. (Some of us insist that obscure two-letter words such as ae, ch, ug and xu are legitimate because they appear in the Scrabble Dictionary; others maintain that the fairest form of play is one in which players use only words whose meanings they actually know. There's also information on the highest-ever US game (770); references in literature, TV and film; and incredibly obscure strategies and tactics, including a bizarrely complicated mnemonic device known as anamonics. Have fun!

I meant to post this in the midst of last week's small dog appreciation frenzy, but I was busy doing stuff. Like my job. But I still want to brag about how I have the cutest dog ever. Her name is Lucy. She's a corgi. And yes, she still has her tail.

Awe, puppy!

Charles (singing): "I don't want to be the source/the source of your divorce."

Charles sure loves Mikey Dread.

According to a scientist, turning invisible may be possible in the future.

No word yet on flying.

I told him I'd tell them.

800-pound giant tire flip? 260-pound steel log lift? 530-pound farmer's carry? Arm wrestling? Plus beer?

This year's Strongman Contest begins at 10 am. Sounds like an excellent Block Party pre-func.

I've always been curious about khat, the mild stimulant popular in East Africa and the Arabian Peninsula. But before I could get my hands on any, the fuzz has gone and busted our local khat-smuggling ring.

I realize that an art critic may never recover for posting something called "Best Reality Show Challenge IN HISTORY," but my zealous loyalty to small dogs must have an outlet.

BECAUSE THERE ARE 13 SMALL DOGS ON PROJECT RUNWAY RIGHT NOW. TUNE IN, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

I can not write more right now, for fear that I may miss views of their little faces. (Annie, Christopher, Eli, you know what I mean here.)

I am the world's biggest tiny (and embarrassing) dog fan. I am not remotely interested in recovering from this fanaticism. I already liked this show as the only real national conversation about design, however incomplete, but now that doggie sweaters are on the table, I will be a fan forever.

I'm less concerned about whether state-sanctioned gay marriage will threaten families or the bedrock of civilization or whatever than I am about whether it will inspire homos to start punching me in the face. In Massachusetts, where the marriage parity question is in serious flux, the gays are feeling their oats and oppressing straights. And, even worse, Jamaicans!

In one serious incident a man was charged with assaulting a woman who signed a petition to ban same-sex marriage in Massachusetts.

Granted, I'm not likely to be caught signing petitions, but you know how violence spins out of control. Like in the Middle East. And video games. I don't know about the other straight people in this office, but I'm getting a little nervous.

to: Editorial
from: Charles Mudede
subject: an afro comb
i want to file a complaint. because there are not enough black people in this office, i'm unable to borrow an afro comb. my hair is a mess; i forgot to comb it this morning at home; now i'm in the office and no one has the same type of hair that i do. just look at me. it really is unfair.

from: Tim Keck
Time for a Jerry Curl.

This video has it all: advice on surviving a mugging, follow-along exercise routines, fashionable options for wearing bandanas. Also, the hottest dance track of the summer!

After reading an informative essay on Spinoza's concept of God (the One substance), which in many ways is not that different from Hegel's concept of God (the main difference being that Hegel historicizes God, or geist), I received this email letter from a publicist:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

TTO: Charles Mudede, Associate Editor Stranger

What Would Happen If You Died Tomorrow?

Bloomfield Hills, MI-July 26,2006-Have you told your loved ones all they need to know about your personal history, your life, your final wishes? Would they know where to find the necessary paperwork documenting your insurance policies, investments and bank accounts? Would they be prepared to make medical, financial and legal decisions according to your wishes? Would they understand the life you lived and the legacy you would like to leave behind?

_Grant Me My Final Wish: A Personal Journal to Simplify Life's Inevitable Journey_, written by Renata Marie Vestevich, makes recording your answers to these questions a gratifying experience. A guide to the practical and vital matters that death brings to the forefront, _Grant Me My Final Wish_ gently assists readers in recognizing and expressing their innermost desires.

Beautifully designed and clearly laid out, this journal compassionately helps readers to consider large issues and small details. It addresses such topics as organ donation, important people to notify, and care of beloved pets. The book also gives readers space to share special memories, messages and photographs with family and friends.

The end of life is a fact for everyone, and no one knows when or how it will occur. But Vestevich offers a chance to celebrate life, approach its end with peace of mind, and ultimately, make saying good-bye easier for those who pass and those who are left behind.

About the Author:
Renata Marie Vestevich, a business owner in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, knows firsthand the chaos and confusion that can overwhelm survivors when a loved one passes away. When Vestevich was 17, her father died suddenly from a massive heart attack, leaving behind his 39-year-old wife to raise six children alone. Years later, at age 34, Vestevich's sister-in-law lost her courageous battle against cancer. These experiences, as well as her professional involvement with cancer patients, have inspired the author to create this personal, compassionate and practical guide no one should be without.

Vestevich, just because you know a few dead people doesn't make you an authority on the most difficult of all human realities--death. In fact your book--its vapid themes, its empty goals--proves you know less about death than most people (and some animals--one would learn more from Hegel's grass-eating cow than from all of your words put together). Please leave the king of all subjects alone and use your little intelligence to have a little life.

We're so fat that Xrays no longer penetrate our bodies.

More and more obese people are unable to get full medical care because they are either too big to fit into scanners, or their fat is too dense for X-rays or sound waves to penetrate, radiologists reported on Tuesday.

With 64 percent of the U.S. population either overweight or obese, the problem is worsening, [said] Dr. Raul Uppot, a radiologist at Massachusetts General Hospital. "We noticed over the past couple of years that obesity was playing a role in our ability to see these images clearly," Uppot said in a telephone interview.

So I was riding the 43 into work today and there was a gaggle of pre-schoolers in back on their way to Miller playfield. They were wearing matching tie-dyed shirts that hung past their knees and telling jokes.

"Knock-knock."
"Baby cookies!"
"Who's there?"
"Stop sign!"

Baby cookies?!? I think I'm in love.

So I went to La Push this weekend to escape the dreaded once-a-year Seattle heat wave. Here are some things you can do on the northwest Washington coast:

1. Drink a really cold beer while sitting on the beach.
2. Watch your dog try a sip of saltwater, shake his head, and then stare down the ocean as if it had purposefully assaulted him.
3. Sleep in your brand-new tent that is much too big for you and enjoy its spaciousness, because, really, who the hell cares how much it weighs when all you're doing is driving to the campsite anyway?
4. Eat at the River's Edge restaurant and try one of the homemade (really) pies — this weekend featured apple, Marionberry (which always makes me think of the other Washington), and peach.
5. Watch the sun go down over the sea stacks and listen to the keen of the wind as it blows in from Japan bearing the scent of cherry blossoms and salt and sake.

A weekend was not long enough, but I felt refreshed upon returning to the city. Where do you go when you need a little time away?

A little love for Fnarf from a reader...

So, which Stranger writer is Fnarf (on the Slog boards)? Brad Steinbacher, maybe? He seems too knowledgeable and insightful about local events to NOT be an area writer. c.f. this thread

If he's not a Stranger writer, he ought to be. When does he get a column?—Ivan

Fnarf isn't a staffer, Ivan, and Brad Steinbacher is way to busy cleaning up the messes I make around here to post as much in the comments as Fnarf manages to...

Now in critical condition.

Vietnam (and the nightly news) brought (edited) war into American living rooms. Iraq (and YouTube) are bringing (unedited) war onto American computers:

(Thanks to Andrew Sullivan.)

Brendan, you should visit Austin. Not only are they kinder towards (and more appreciative of) their music scene, they love the bats too--they even have a statue of one:

I cannot, however, testify to the strength of their theater scene.

I love bats. I really, really love bats.

Perhaps because of my grandfather, in southern Virginia, who was always working on some kind of construction project so he always had small chunks of wood, usually sweet-smiling pine, lying around that, at dusk, he would toss straight up into the air, where a dozen bats were circling, and three or four would sense the chunk of sweet-smelling pine and chase it down to the ground. "Fishing for bats," we called it. We would sing out, as we tossed the chunks of sweet-smelling pine into the crepuscular sky: "Bat! Bat! Where you at?!"

Or perhaps because of a house I stayed in on the coast in a hot, foreign country, that had a broad, second-story veranda overlooking an overgrown courtyard and the nearby hills that would've had sagebrush had they been in America—a veranda where you could sit in the twilight and eat something fresh you just bought from a local fisherman and bread and olive oil and drink wine and talk to a pretty young woman visiting from a different hot, foreign country and watch the bats (hundreds of them) who lived in the eaves of the building come out, at first in ones and two and threes and then in dozens, circle the courtyard a couple of times, then head out for a night's hunting, skimming above the sagebrush-less hills.

Bats are excruciatingly romantic.

But King County Public Health has, once again, brought the insidious hand of fear into my world with a press release about the dangers of bats, five to ten percent of which, in King County, test positive for rabies:

A recent human rabies case: In 2006, a Texas teenager awoke to find a bat in his room. Public Health in Texas was not contacted and the bat was not tested. The teenager did not seek medical care until symptoms of rabies appeared, at which point it was too late to receive preventive treatment. Sadly, the teenager died of rabies about five weeks after exposure to the bat.

My innocence is dying slowly, by the death of a thousand cuts. Thanks to King County for taking another slice.

The rest of the press release follows, below the jump.

Continue reading "Bat, Bat, Where You At?" »

Actually, Christopher, Hezbollah is the Arabic phrase for "Party of God." (In this sense, a more accurate English transliteration would be Hezb-Allah.)

Still want to give little girls that name?

Don't you think Hezbollah—stripped of its associations (machine guns, martyrs, jihad)—would make a beautiful name for a little girl? I know several people who've had baby girls in the past few months, none of them named Hezbollah. Nor does it appear on this list of the most popular children's names for 2005. It's not a name anyone considers. But consider it. "Time out, Hezbollah—go sit over there." "Hezbollah is the best-behaved girl in the class." "Hey Hezbollah, what's that all over your shirt?" It rolls off the tongue. The sound of it makes me think of an undulating field of flowers.

This woman didn't name her son Hezbollah, but she did name him after one of the long-range missiles Hezbollah is using against Israel.

For the record, a quick internet search for definition of Hezbollah reveals that it doesn't mean undulating field of flowers. It means: a Shiite terrorist organization with strong ties to Iran; seeks to create an Iranian fundamentalist Islamic state in Lebanon; car bombs are the signature weapon. I got that definition from this website. Click on that link and notice the ads by Google above and below the definition. One of them is—can this be a joke?—"Meet Jewish Girls" followed by "View Profiles, Email, Chat & IM Join Now & Get 3 Months Free!"

This Saturday, 826 Seattle will be having a fundraiser. Here are the details:

826 Seattle Variety Show!

Come see the musicians, jugglers, and young comedians at the Phinney Neighborhood Center for the first-ever 826 Seattle Variety Show! Coconut Coolouts, The Bad Things, Lillydale, and The Trashies will be performing. Further distractions include an old-fashioned cakewalk, a cupcake-decorating station (featuring irresistible Cupcake Royale treats), and the Sonic Boom Celebrity Dunk Tank. Bring your friends. Bring the family.

Where: Phinney Neighborhood Center, 6532 Phinney Ave N (65th and Phinney)
When: Saturday, July 22, noon-5 p.m.
Cost: $6

Besides the fact that 826 is a ridiculously good cause, the Trashies are an amazingly fun band, and you've waited your entire life to finally see an "old-fashioned cakewalk" (not to mention that, like me, you have no idea what an "old-fashioned cakewalk" is), I have a more self-involved reason for posting this. I will be in the dunk tank from 12:30 until 12:50 p.m. I am incredibly excited about this--I think it was the job I was born to do. if I get dunked more than the other dunkees, perhaps a secret carny recruiter will see me for the closeted sideshow barker that I am and I will get to run away with a carnival, marry a woman named Placenta, and become the proud father of 5 sets of Siamese Twins. Please. Help me achieve my dream.

If you're ever in Nebraska—and I hope you never are—don't camp at the Lake Minature State Park. Windy, hot, flies everywhere, mud-bottomed lake, and, uh, filth. Broken bottles, empty beer cans, dirty diapers, and I swear to God I saw something on the beach that could only have been a used colostomy bag.

So anyway, we got up early and made for the exits—Wyoming was just 40 or so miles away. But Nebraska wasn't through with us. Our left front tire came apart on a few miles from Scottsbluff, Nebraska.

Sigh.

The tow truck came.

And soon we were at a tire place somewhere in the middle of nowhere that, as is the case in the United States these days, looked like it could be anywhere. I once listened to a lecture given by an urban design critic who said—and I paraphrasing here—that, "...the United States is the wealthiest country in the history of the world and it has the ugliest built environment in the history of the world.â€� It's too freakin' true.

Three hours and a hundred bucks later we were in Casper, Wyoming, where we just finished touring the downtown core. We enjoyed visiting the Dick Cheney Federal Building (here's a better view of Dick's place), viewing the public art (loved this huge mural on the main drag—that boy is the only person of color we've seen for days), and marveling at what has to be the coolest bank building I have ever seen. The banks tower dominates the skyline here and it's is so freaking cool that I about wet myself when I saw it. Can't you just picture Angie Dickinson bursting from the building, gun in hand, in hot pursuit of some miscreant? Here's the tower at sunset. Some parts of America are still beautiful despite our best efforts to destroy the place.

America! Fuck yeah!

(Yeah, yeah: This post is really dull and it's only of interest to my mother—maybe not even to her—and I've wasted a good deal of scarce and precious space here on the Internets with this long post and Beruit is burning and we're havin' a heatwave and how dare I? So sue me.)

This past weekend marked the annual STP bicycle ride, an epic (at least it felt that way to me) 204.5-mile journey from the Emerald City to the Rose City. More than 9,000 hardy riders took to the highways, byways, and breakdown lanes of a course that was touted as mostly flat (true, with a few notable exceptions), scenic (ditto: see, as counter-example the industrial Portland suburbs), and fun (which, I guess depends on how you define fun).

It was pretty, with the temps in the low '80s and the verdant farmland of Lewis County (who knew?) in particular providing a gorgeous backdrop to the seemingly endless miles between Chehalis and Castle Rock. The hills weren't too bad, even for someone like me who had fallen woefully behind in his training regimen. [Note: it's also hard to complain too much about the hills when I passed on one particularly long one a man riding a hand-cranked bike, a man riding a modified Big Wheel, and a man riding a goddamn UNICYCLE.] And there was that feeling of accomplishment as I rode through the triumphal archway, greeted by literally dozens of cheering fans.

I should mention the food. Despite eating anything and everything within reach, I was perpetually famished. The peppy rest stop organized by REI in Kent did much to assuage my hunger with their delicious pre-cut bananas and peanut butter pitas, as well as some great mid-'90s radio-friendly hits ("Hey Jealousy,â€� "One Headlight,â€� etc.). And I can almost feel good about recommending the Spicy Chicken Crunch Wrap from Taco Bell — its layers of flavor got me through some tough miles. Even the pancakes at the official breakfast in Centralia were delightfully fluffy and vanilla-scented despite being in frightfully short supply. I am also now a connoisseur of Clif bars, though I never want to see one again for as long as I live.

To sum up: Although at times it was heart-crushingly difficult to get back up in the saddle after an all-too-brief rest stop, I'm happy I rode those miles. I am. Really. One word of warning, though, for those seduced by thoughts of acres of spandex, yellow jerseys, and gentle, undulating terrain: It's nearly 24 hours since I last sat on my bike (now posted on Craigslist in case you're interested) and I still can't feel my ass.

Earlier: "I'm eating spice drops from Rite Aid for breakfast. I am not a foodie."—Annie Wagner

Just now: "I'm a feminist. Ramtha isn't."—Annie Wagner
Then Charles: "I'm a feminist too."
Someone else: "Really, Charles?"
Charles: "Well... you know how in anthropology there are behaviorists? In my world there are beaverists—I'm a beaverist."

Ah, Ramtha. Remember Ramtha?

I was in Olympia this weekend, where they can't forget the 35,000 year-old Lemurian warrior because he resides inside a South Puget Sound woman named JZ Knight. (The Z stands for Zebra.)

So this weekend, the Olympian did a special report (part 2, and 3, and 4) on JZ and the Ramtha School of Enlightenment. Sadly, there's little investigative journalism. (JZ has apparently been pursuing a program of careful public relations, and she invited the Olympian to visit an introductory seminar.) There are, however, some funny pictures:

Blind archery!

And some choice quotes:

Christie, who is the music technician at Ramtha's School of Enlightenment, recently began using her [telepathic] skills with the state Lotto game. "I've consistently seen two out of six numbers, just about every time," she said. "(Eventually) that number will move to three, then four. Then the big one will hit."

Also revealing: "38 percent [of Ramtha's students] earn an annual income of under $20,000." It costs about $1,500 per year to maintain your active membership at the school.

In a cheerier side of the South Puget Sound, here is a picture of a portion of the door of the state legislature. It portrays a clear cut:

We're on the brink of World War III but, hey, I'm on vacation.

We stopped for the night in the Quad Cities—Davenport, Bettendorf, Rock Island, Moline—on the Mississippi. Walking along the river after dinner we heard cheers coming around a bend in the river. We walked on and found a tiny ballpark on the Iowa side of the Mississippi in Davenport. The Swing, a farm team for the St. Louis Cardinals, was playing the Beloit, Wisconsin, Something Or Others. The park was tiny and beautiful, you could see the river from our seats, and a game was the perfect antidote to a long day spent in a hot car.

Unfortunately we couldn't get a decent beer. Only Bud was available in the cheap seats. You could get better beer in a bar just behind our seats—but that bar only served people holding tickets to the park's luxury suite. Yes, luxury suites at the Quad Cities Swing. Luxury suites in the tiniest lil' ballpark you ever did see. Here's a picture of my boys watching the game from the dirt mound/levee that protects the park from the Mississippi...

That's the whole damn park. And those black boxy things hovering over the seats? Those are the luxury suites, where the good beer is served. Sheesh. You just can't escape the tyranny of luxury suites anymore. Is there any place in this country where the class war isn't raging?

The Swing—er, the Swingers?—was behind/were behind four runs at the bottom of the ninth inning, but the mighty Swing rallied. They came from behind to win six runs to five. There were fireworks, and everyone left happy. On our way back to our hotel I spotted a historical marker. I'm a sucker for historical markers, so I crossed the street to read it. Here's a blurry picture:

And here's a clearer picture:

Yes, children. On this spot in Davenport in 1895, in a building that's no longer on this spot, Daniel Palmer performed the first chiropractic adjustment. Sends a chill right down your misaligned spine, now doesn't it?

In 1982, I saw this city on a movie screen and, at once, more than badly desired to be in it, to live and die in it. Today I found this image: The city that first appeared in the movie Blade Runner is now in reality Shanghai.

America's favorite rock-star chef Anthony Bourdain is reportedly stranded in Beirut following Israel's bombing of the international airport and blockage of all ports.

Still, he seems to be making the most of it: "This is a party town," Bourdain told the New York Post. "Everyone in this city is [bleeping] gorgeous."

Full report here.

Attention, out-of-town readers: The Stranger's publisher, the esteemed and affable Mr. Tim Keck, was so charmed to learn that Slog has a legion of far-flung readers that he wants to mail you a little bit of Seattle as a thank you. Since he doubts you've seen the pretty print version of our newspaper, Mr. Keck is offering to personally send you a Stranger hot off the press, along with new music from awesome local labels Sub Pop, Cake Records, Blue Disguise, and Barsuk.
If you are one of the outside-Seattle-proper readers who responded to my original post, and you'd like a thank-you present, here's what you need to do:
Send the name and (hidden) e-mail address you used on your original "Where Are You" comment, as well as your real name and physical mailing address, to giftme@thestranger.com. The first 100 people to respond will receive a little packet of Stranger-style love in the mail.
Don't worry: We'll delete your name and address immediately after we send your gift, and we won't add you to any mailing lists. And no, you proud and quirky Fremontsters are not eligible.

File this under Why Didn't I Think of That, or That Goddamned Brilliant Bastard.

A Canadian man was handed the keys to a three-bedroom house Wednesday, exactly a year after he offered a red paper clip online, asking to trade it for "bigger or better" things.

In his latest trade, Kyle MacDonald, 26, swapped a bit role in a Hollywood movie for a house in the small Western Canadian town of Kipling, Saskatchewan.

When he started his quest with the paper clip, MacDonald said getting a house was his goal.

He traded in the paper clip for a fish pen and eventually moved up to an afternoon with rocker Alice Cooper before snagging the Hollywood movie role in his 14th trade.

The choice role he had to trade for his brand new house? A walk-on in Corbin Bernsen's latest, "Donna on Demand."

I got half a bag of Rainier Cherries in here. Who wants to trade? The bidding starts at 3 avocados.

In the glossary of David E. Miller's recent study of new and green directions in regional architecture, Toward A New Regionalism, there is a description of this thing:

A Living Machineâ„¢ is:

a wastewater treatment system composed of a series of tanks teeming with plants, trees, grasses, algae, koi and goldfish, tiny fresh-water shrimp, snails, and a diversity of microorganisms and bacteria. Each is a different mini-ecosystem designed to or break down waste. The process takes about four days to turn mucky water crustal clear, It is chemical free and odor free (except perhaps for the sweet fragrance of flowers).

The only problem I have with this machine is that its mini-ecosystem sounds like the condition for breeding bilharzia rather than producing fresh water. But my knowledge on such matters is limited to a few classes in high school. Maybe it's good to drink what this machine makes and bad to put your foot into it.