What the huh?

Am I myopic, or are the Mariners actually 3½ games out of first on the first day of August? And only one win shy of hitting the .500 mark? Wha happun'?

It looks like the AL West might actually be in a position to wrest the title of “Three Stooges Division” away from the NL West this year. Unless, of course, Oakland conjures up their traditional September 12-game winning streak, like they seem to do every year.

Barring that, it might actually be entertaining to see which team stumbles into the playoffs. And if it happens to be the Ms, I won't know whether to pop a magnum of champagne or just bludgeon myself with the bottle.

Bring the heat

We're now up to one full week of serious (for Seattle) heat, and I love it. Granted, a month of this would drive me nuts. But several days of unbroken 90° highs is just what the doctor ordered.

For one thing, the lawn has stopped growing. Hah! Your evil reign of smug verdurousness is over! Ding dong the grass is brown!

Also, the cats have melted. They now exist as flat pools of fur about an inch deep and three feet across, legs splayed out like amoebic pseudopods. This development brings with it a certain tranquility to the household, although it can be annoying to have to scrape molten cat from your shoes when you misstep.

Mainly, though, I love the euphoria that accompanies this kind of heat. It slows you down and encourages frequent siestas. It's not too hot to laze about outdoors, maybe take the dog around the block once or twice, but heavy lifting is inadvisable.

Tequila in the afternoons, watermelon in the evenings. My kind of summer.

Summer fodder

I should be noodling on Deadwood right now, as that's the only “active” show this summer that commands my attention. Battlestar, Big Love, Green Wing, Smallville, and Rome are all in hibernation — so the more reflective moments of my day should be devoted to the contemplation of exactly how much it would suck to have your eyeball pulled out by Dan Dority.

But thanks to Popwatch (via Maus) I find myself returning to the only show that even remotely challenges Deadwood for the mantle of Best Show Ever. Some industrious soul cobbled together this huge Lost map that pretty much endossiers (I just made that word up, because I'm now an unemployed editor answerable to no conscience but my own) the show's whole suite of conundra.

I love this stuff. It reminds me of “Myst” a little, because anyone who played that game will remember having to keep pages and pages of notes, including hand-drawn maps, doodles of cryptic symbols, and strange riddles to decipher. And if the minds behind this map-based consolidation of their Lost notes were enterprising as well as industrious, they'd be charging us a quarter a peek.

The days are just packed.

Today, I bought a box. And then I alphabetized my comic books.

It's Miller Time.

Freedom on the rocks, with a twist

News flash! The Department of Homeland Security's National Asset Data Base (which lists U.S. sites that are “vulnerable” to terror attacks) includes a Midwest bourbon festival. It also includes a petting zoo, popcorn factory, and flea market. It does not include Times Square or the Statue of Liberty. Your tax dollars at work.

It would seem the dastardly enemies of this great nation have finally figured out what makes us tick. And they aim to hit us where we live.

So drink your bourbon. Otherwise, the terrorists win.

Bitter is the new sour

There's a new bottle in my life, and we're really hitting it off. Her name is Campari.

I've flirted with Campari now and then over the years, at various cocktail bars that serve up tarts (like the Paradigm Shift at Oliver's). But, despite all those pleasant one-drink evenings, I never brought her home.

That oversight has finally been rectified. My bar has now found its missing piece (just like the scene in The Glenn Miller Story where Jimmy Stewart finally discovers his elusive “sound” by switching the lead from trumpet to clarinet).

I've long been a fan of the bracingly sour, and now it seems sour alone doesn't get the job done. With Campari, you get a whack-upside-the-head dose of bitterly sour. On a really hot day (in Seattle, anything over 80° counts), try a tall glass of grapefruit juice with gin, Campari, and a squeeze of lime. It'll make your face implode.

Unfortunately, Campari and bourbon don't get along at all. But that's OK — there are often people in your life that you just have to keep separated. And bourbon will always be my Sweet Baboo.

Utilitarianism

On these fine summer days, I'm doing a lot more walking — usually with the hound in tow — and lately I've been noticing how much my pockets jingle, crackle, and clink from all the small necessities I pack along. I think it's time to bring order to the chaos. I need a utility belt.

I've been shopping around, and rather than go for one of those clunky, military-style Boba Fett belts, I'd prefer the sleeker, elegant classic Batman look:

So what goes where? I'll tell you:

A. Shot of bourbon (Maker's Mark, 2 oz.)

B. 1 Greenie, 2 Pup-peronis, assorted mini-treats

C. iPod ear buds

D. Neutrogena SPF-30 sunblock spray

E. Roll of blue poop bags

F. Emergency/backup shot of bourbon

G. String cheese

H. MedKit: Excedrin, Blistex Herbal Answer

I. Roll of fivers*

*I'd make it a roll of twenties, but Linus and I often stop at the comics shop on the way home, and I'm liable to empty that cylinder every time.

Great Caesar's Ghost

Saw Superman Returns yesterday (and I'll get this off my chest first: it's a great 2-hour movie unnecessarily inflated to 150 minutes — a little trimming and tightening would have done wonders). Otherwise, a fun and highly gratifying movie.

I don't believe I've seen any movie that treated its source material with this much affection. And in this case, “source material” means both the comic books and the original Superman films. The movie is teeming with small details that are gifts to Superman fans — from the opening credits to the familiar final shot of Superman flying towards the horizon.

My favorite touch, though, surfaces when Superman rescues an out-of-control car. Holding it over his head, he sets it down gently, front-end first, and for a brief moment we see echoes of what to comic-book fans is an unmistakable image:

The cover to Action Comics #1 — Superman's very first appearance.

It's one of those very subtle, blink-and-you'll-miss-it moments, but it made me wish I could rewind-and-pause the film.

The whole movie is filled with little gems like that. And that affectionate attention to detail makes it worth sitting through the extra 30 minutes of superfluous fluff.