If You Don't Wear a Belt...

No, this is not poo. It's dark graphite, similar to the kind used in No. 2 pencils

In furtherance our continuing coverage into the competetive and often deadly world of pencils, the following report on the inventor of the No.2 pencil was recently published by "Graphite Monthly"

By: jazzwalk

Simon Adirondack (S.A.) Caraballo hasn't always lived in a mansion on Lake Tahoe; Indeed, the man once known to his friends and "Light Writing Lou" was voted by his high school class 'most likely not to succeed." However, in a remarkable turn of events, Mr. Caraballo went from being a nobody to being one of the wealthiest men in the Graphite industry.

"I remember it well" Mr. Caraballo recalled. "It was 1984 and I...I mean we, Mike [referreing to Michael Scantron, See Vol.2 Issue 9] and I were on a graphite intensive backapacking trip when we stumbled upon some really dark looking graphite. At first I thought it was lead" he laughed, "can you even imagine?"

That is where the joy for one began and the horror for another was only starting to commence. Mr. Caraballo knew the power of being able to write dark, or rather, the horror of not and immeidately claimed the grahite for he and mike. "I told mike, this is the big one, this is the one that's going to make that facacta machine of yours a million dollar idea. But mike wouldn't listen. he told me that people don't want to write dark, it's too hard to erase and the machine could get confused. I told mike, look, i didn't get the name "Light Writing Lou" for nothing. I think I know a little bit about the subject. He wouldn't listen, he just told me he wished he could erase me from the earth and stormed off. that's the last time we spoke. "

Since S.A. Caraballo's graphite discovery came after mr. scantron's he decided to name his pencil, the no. 2.

... your pencil fall down

Dinner and a Movie?

A.O. Scott after seeing License to Wed


Sorry, I know it's been a few days...and it's going to be a few more. However, in my absence I thought you might enjoy A.O. Scott's review of the movie License to Wed...He didn't like it.


In “License to Wed,” Ben and Sadie, a perfectly nice-seeming, personality-free couple (John Krasinski and Mandy Moore), meet at a Starbucks, fall in love and decide to marry. I’m sure you’re as happy for them as I am. But wait. An obstacle lies between them and wedded bliss in the unctuous, smiling person of Robin Williams, who plays a minister with definite ideas about what it takes to make a marriage work.

What it takes is for Reverend Frank, as he is known, to harass, browbeat and humiliate the intendeds (Ben in particular) for three weeks, until they are ready to call it quits. Only if they can survive his brutal training course in matrimony — which starts with a bloody nose for the would-be groom and includes a hidden microphone in the bedroom and twin robot babies programmed to throw tantrums and soil diapers — will poor Sadie and Ben have what it takes to persevere till death do they part.

As for myself, I will confess that the only thing that kept me watching “License to Wed” until the end (apart from being paid to do so) was the faith, perhaps misplaced, that I will not see a worse movie this year. Come to think of it, the picture might be useful in certain circumstances, much in the way that Reverend Frank’s training program is supposed to be. If the beloved with whom you see “License to Wed” can’t stop talking about how great it was, you might want to cancel the nuptials. Or, if it’s too late for that, call a lawyer.

Slickly directed by Ken Kwapis from an incoherent and derivative script by writers whose anonymity it may be kinder to protect, “License” contains not a single emotionally credible or comically revealing moment. Instead it is a fabric of clichés, from Ben’s best buddy, Joel (DeRay Davis), whom marriage and fatherhood have rendered completely stupid, to Carlisle (Eric Christian Olsen), Sadie’s metrosexual confidant and a pale approximation of the character played by Owen Wilson in “Meet the Parents.”

Also in the background are Christine Taylor, doing her best in a nastily conceived role as Sadie’s bitter, boozy, divorced older sister, and Josh Flitter as Reverend Frank’s young sidekick. Young Mr. Flitter, the designated irritant in “Nancy Drew,” here does his utmost to prevent Mr. Williams from being the most annoying person in the movie. Remarkably, he succeeds, since Mr. Williams shows impressive restraint (or perhaps just fatigue) when it comes to breaking out the funny accents and rapid-fire non sequiturs.

The terribleness of “License to Wed” is not really Mr. Williams’s fault, in any case. A job is a job. But it is sometimes hard to tell whether Reverend Frank is meant to be one of his creepy, villainous performances (as in “One Hour Photo” or “Insomnia”) or to belong in his much larger gallery of twinkly, warmhearted menschen.

Here is a clergyman (Frank’s high-churchy denomination is not specified, maybe for fear of protests) whose only companion, day and night, seems to be a prepubescent boy. (“Reverend Frank is everywhere,” the youngster marvels. Ick.) The good pastor seems a bit too eager to ask “our little Stacy” what she likes to do in bed. He also launches into a mini-tirade at one point about Sadie’s supposed “liberal college” and “bisexual roommate.” Surely this film is a scabrous, cynical satire of religious authority run amok.

Surely not. It is only the latest attempt by a Hollywood studio to pander to prurience and piety in a single gesture, and to avoid giving offense by treating all possible factions of the public equally, which is to say like idiots. Ben, quite reasonably objecting to Reverend Frank’s intrusiveness, is portrayed as selfish and clueless, while Sadie’s cheerful acceptance of the minister’s wisdom is evidence of her own. And Frank is wrecking their happiness only for their own good, pretending (one guesses) to be a vile caricature conjured from a cesspool of atheist calumny in order to steer his lambs onto the path of righteousness and decency.

And so, by the end, Sadie and Ben have been compelled toward some astonishing revelations: She is a bit of a control freak; he is kind of a slacker. They need to communicate better. By all means, let them. I think I’ve made myself clear enough.