“Gays can’t have kids — other than going to the abandoned kids store and getting one or two, or borrowing sperm from someone with more sperm than brains — so by definition they’re out of the marriage game.” –John Gibson, Fox News (via Wonkette)

Ah, yes, the old argument that the purpose of marriage is to have kids, therefore gays shouldn’t be allowed to marry. Which begs the question of whether heterosexual marriage without children should be outlawed also. (Hey, John, you wouldn’t happen to be Catholic, would you? I assume no condoms or birth control in your house, eh?) Perhaps the marriage license should stipulate that the document becomes null and void if the couple does not bear children within the first five years of marriage. Of course, if a couple is physically incapable of bearing children, they can always head down to the “abandoned kids store”. Soon, the Abandoned Kids Store will be overflowing with stock–there’ll probably be a 2-fer-1 sale! Because once abortion is outlawed again, that’s where they’ll ship all those kids whose moms couldn’t afford to take care of them, or who got raped, or who were smart enough to recognize that they weren’t parent material. The Abandoned Kids Store: because life is precious.

Once again, I found myself spending the weekend in the company of a particularly nasty viral strain. My head and chest are filled with an eldritch effluent typically depicted in horror films as either extraterrestrial or supernatural in origin. Tiny miners chisel away at my joints with pickaxes. My lymph nodes have capitulated and begun hatching an escape plan. My eyeballs hurt.

Nevertheless, it was from either a madness of being confined to the house or a biblically-forbidden love of my vehicle that I decided that I must wash my car. The recent week has been typical of March in Minnesota: 40 one day, below freezing and snowing the next, 50 the day after that. People think that I have been out off-roading, judging by the massive splotches of mud strewn up the sides and over the roof of my car. And it got that way while parked.

Normally, I would have taken my car to the place where it’s dragged down a conveyor belt through a series of big, sudsy, revolving brushes, then hand-wiped dry by a pair of Mexicans until the vehicle glows from an inner light.

But that place is across town, and I didn’t want to drive that far. Instead, I went to the nearby stop-&-rob, where they have an automated contraption that, for the same price as the other, basically gives your car a swirly. It does an ok job, but not so good that I will wail and gnash my teeth and rent my clothing as soon as some soccer mom’s minifan throws a spray of dirty water upon my fender.

So anyway, I pull up to the automated box thing outside the car wash door and I try to feed it a fiver. It doesn’t take it. I smooth out the bill, try it again. Nada. For a moment, I think about going somewhere else, but by now I’m realizing that I really never should have left the house at all, and I just want to get this done and go home.

I drive around to the stop-&-rob entrance, &, coughing, snuffling, unshaven, garbed in sweats, shuffle inside. I ask for a car wash, and–what the hell–upgrade to a premium for a buck more. As I’m paying the kid behind the counter, I mention that the dollar-feeder thing on the box outside isn’t working. He mutters something about it being disconnected because they have to charge tax on the wash or something.

I don’t know what made me say what I said next. Perhaps it was general crankyness from being sick; perhaps it was rebellion against the socio-economic system that dictated that they couldn’t just round down the price of the car wash a stinkin’ 42 cents so patrons could use the dollar bill feeder.

I said, “I was just hoping not to have to come in, ’cause the doctors say I’m still contagious.” [koff, koff, into the back of my hand]

The kid pauses from filing the money away in the till. “With what?” he asks warily.

“They’re not sure. They’ve pretty much ruled out yersinia pestis, because the growths in my arpits are a different color, and it’s been a week and I’m still alive. [koff, koff] But they think it might be a related strain.”

The cash machine chitters as it prints out the car wash ticket.

“You’re kidding, right?”

I peer at the kid over my glasses so he gets the full effect of my red-rimmed eyes and give him my best “I’ve been working on the railroad all the live-long day” look. “I feel to crappy to be funny.” [koff, koff]

The kid doesn’t hand me the ticket, he pushes it across the counter at me.

“Have a nice day,” he says, a bit meekly.

“I’ll try,” I say, as I take the ticket and turn to go. “But I’m really not looking forward to the kidney transplants.”

*which, coincidentally, is equal in rank to “Clean that up!” on the list of useless things to say to a cat.

Just a note to say that I added a vintage typewriter ephemera section to Machines of Loving Grace. Lots of old typewriter-related postcards and print ads.

I saw some information this morning which made me want to claw my eyes out:

After traveling to Hell and back in “Constantine,” Keanu Reeves is ready for his next journey.

The 40-year-old actor is in negotiations to star in the long-gestating adventure film “The 8th Voyage of Sinbad,” according to The Hollywood Reporter.

The project centers on the notorious rogue and thief Sinbad, who, with his loyal crew, are marooned off the coast of China in the 8th Century. The comrades begin a perilous quest for the Lamp of Aladdin and get mixed up with an empress, fight fantastical monsters and take on a Chinese general.

“Fast and the Furious” director Rob Cohen is in talks to helm the Columbia Pictures project.

Cohen’s other directing credits include “XXX,” “The Skulls,” and the upcoming “XXX” sequel and “Stealth.” He will be honored on Friday, March 17 as the ShoWest 2005 Director of the Year.

There are so many things wrong about this story, not the least of which is Rob Cohen being Best Director of Anything. Keanu as Sinbad? They’re kidding, right? By coincidence, I’ve been watching the DVD re-releases of Ray Harryhousen’s films, including Golden Voyage of Sinbad, Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger and 7th Voyage of Sinbad. Keanu is no Sinbad. Sinbad is someone who should strike fear into the hearts of pirates, who should make ladies swoon and mythical beasts cower in his presence. Most of the time, Keanu just looks confused about his next line.

You know–you just know–that the producers of this film had a meeting, and in this meeting they said, “We must have Keanu Reeves for this role! No one else will do! Only Keanu can bring to the screen the rugged sophistication and rogue panache that is Sinbad!” And you know that at least half of the people in the room had to have agreed.

Granted, Sinbad movies have always been high on the camp factor, driven more by special effects than acting prowess. But casting Keanu as Sinbad is an insult to camp. If I were casting a modern Sinbad film, I’d choose The Rock, or Colin Farrell, or even Johnny Depp (he do look good in the sea cap’n garb, don’t he?). The key thing is that each of those actors would bring a sense of fun to the role. Keanu is going to try way too hard and it’s going to be an embarrassment to watch.

Teresa Wright died on Sunday. She was 86. Despite never becoming the household name that other actresses such as Veronica Lake, Katherine Hepburn, Lillian Gish or Claudette Colbert became, Ms Wright was a Hollywood legend. She remains the only actor to be nominated for Best Actor Oscars for her first three films: The Little Foxes, The Pride of the Yankees and Mrs Miniver (for which she won). She is perhaps best known for her roles as a hometown girl who reluctantly falls in love with a married WWII veteran in best-picture-winner The Best Years of Our Lives, and as the psychologically-ensnared niece of serial killer Joseph Cotten in Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt. Shunning the growing commercialism of Hollywood, she turned town the role of Joan of Arc (it went to Ingrid Bergman) and disappeared into a quiet retirement. Her last role was as Matt Damon’s landlady Miss Birdie in 1997’s The Rainmaker.

Ms Wright to me captured an innocence and strength that made her stand out beyond even Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn. Her best roles were when she was playing The Girl Next Door, because she was the girl next door. However, she was never played as dippy, or flighty, or dependent, as most Girl Next Door roles dictate. She was the girl you wished really did live next door. Whenever I watch The Best Years of Our Lives I find myself shouting at Dana Andrew’s hesitant, henpecked character, “KISS HER, YOU FOOL!” Ms Wright brought humanity to the screen, a quality that remained just a fingerbrush away from her soft-lensed glamour counterparts.

A treasured possession of mine is the signed photo of her that sits on my shelf of Special Things. It’s probably just an autopen signature, not the real thing. But there are some illusions you just don’t shatter.

–After a way-too-expensive weekend in the Cities* I sat down and did some much-needed updates to Machines of Loving Grace. Most of the changes are subtle design improvements. I added a few typewriters I’ve recently aquired, redid the thumbnails, made the font size consistent throughout, re-ordered the machines into chronological order, and placed each page’s entries in a table to make the spacing more consistent. At some point I’d like to replace the old scanned photographs with digital camera pictures. The digicam pics seem much sharper and brighter. But that’s for another weekend.

–McDonald’s has shamrock shakes! I shouldn’t. They’re so unhealthy. I really shouldn’t. I’m trying to lose weight as it is. But…but…but…

–Found a great book called Shadows Over Baker Street. It’s an anthology of stories about Sherlock Holmes confronting Lovecraftian horrors. Neil Gaiman & Barbara Hambly are among the contributors. I can’t wait to read it.

–I would like to take this opportunity to reiterate that I hatehatehate driving in Minneapolis.

*I really must have the folks at Uncle Hugo’s/Uncle Edgar’s cut me off after a certain point. Like maybe when the first basket gets full.

The best bookstore in the world is closing its doors–in all five buildings–at the end of the year. Mr. McMurtry says that the number of customers is dwindling, and he’s getting too old to keep up the business. It may open again…someday. If I had the millions that it would probably require, I’d buy the place from him and run it myself. I’ve always wanted to own a bookstore, and Booked Up is exactly the type of store I’d have, with a few modifications. Its five buildings each house their own genres, but beyond that the books aren’t in any particular order. It’s the perfect environment for browsing. The heady scent of aged paper fills the air. Rare and obscure literary gems await discovery somewhere upon the towering shelves. If you’re lucky, you might spot Mr McMurtry himself shelving or pricing books.

Booked up has two disadvantages: it’s not very easy to get to, unless you live in nearby Wichita Falls. Otherwise, the nearest large town is Dallas, 100 miles away. You have to be a pretty dedicated bibliophile to make a special trip there. The second disadvantage is that you can’t buy their books directly online. There is a request form that you can fill out if you’re looking for a specific item, but that doesn’t quite cut it. There is a large market among serious collectors if Booked Up’s rare volumes were more easily accessible. Mr McMurtry has some seriously rare books among his collection, many beyond the reach of my pocketbook, that true bibliophiles would love to know are there. The real money in the used book gig is to be had in collectible volumes: rare, antiquarian, first-edition, signed, and limited-edition. If you don’t push that part of the business, you aren’t going to do much better than break even.

But I digress. Booked Up will be greatly missed. It’s the flagship in the dwindling fleet of quality independant book stores. I already had a trip to there planned for May. I’d better make the best of it.