So there I am, minding my own late-night business*, and out of nowhere some political writer for The Nation, guesting on The Colbert Report, mentions Moonlite Bar-B-Q in Owensboro, Ky.

Holy cow. My mouth started watering instantly.

I should leave this to Owensboro native Dewayne, but for those not in the barbecue know, Owensboro claims its 'cue is best (though, of course, the folks there would never call it "'cue."). And in Owensboro, Moonlite is king. Before I lived in Owensboro, I didn't care much about barbecue, but Moonlite changed all that. The very first time I had the chopped mutton sandwich, and chased it with chocolate cream pie, it was the road to Damascus, baby. Conversion City.

Lately, I found a decent Memphis-style barbecue place here in San Fran, Big Nate's, and it put a little caulk in a West Coast culinary void I had learned to overlooked. Especially since the place delivers. It's good, but it's not mutton, and it's not Moonlite. Nothing is. Take it from a couple of liberals.

Well, don't take it from me, 'cause I might stick a fork in your hand.

-----

* No, not that.

By all appearances, the following is real. See for yourself at Breath Capture:

Everyone is born with it. A desire to be near the ones we care about most. And we find ways to remember them when they're away. A lock of hair. Letters. An old photo. And now there's Breath Capture™. Capture the breath of a loved one or friend and keep them close. Forever.

That's right: have the one you hold most dear breathe into a small test tube, as if he has been pulled over for DUI; seal his stolen soul; and slap that puppy on a plaque for your wall. (Or hang it from your ears.) Because nothing says "I miss you" like staring at an invisible substance distinguished from other invisible substances by being imprisoned in glass (or clear plastic; the site doesn't say).

And you can get the tube monogrammed, in case you forget whose carbon dioxide you're ogling.

It's genius, I tell you. How did we ever manage to remember loved ones without being prompted by Pyrex?

As if the product name weren't enough, some sinister overtones are provided by the "Instructions" page, which closes with:

Note: You may want to insert a a [sic] lock of your friend's hair into the tube before capturing their breath.

Nah, that doesn't reek of black magic.

Man, I hope against hope that this is a prank. If not, I weep yet more for mankind.

Also if not, would any of you be interested in investing in my Precious Mementos Toenail-Clippings Organizer?

Overheard from a couple approaching behind me on the sidewalk this morning:

"And the second band was a Muppets cover band."

What explains the press corps' exuberance for Apple in general and the iPod in particular? After all, the portable video player isn't a new product category—Archos, RCA, Samsung, and iRiver got there months and months ago. The excitement can't be due to the undersized screen, which measures only 2.5 inches diagonal, or the skimpy two hours of battery life when operated in video mode. As I paged through a Nexis dump of the V-iPod coverage, I searched in vain for a single headline proclaiming "Apple Introduces Ho-Hum Player" or an article comparing the V-iPod's technical specs to those of competing brands. At least the techie readers of Engadget, free of the Apple mind-meld, recognize the V-iPod as a deliberately crippled by copy protection, low-res, underpowered video appliance that is merely Apple's first try in the emerging market of video players.

Dear Jack Shafer of Slate: Thank you thank you thank you.

I know, I know, it happened years ago, but tonight was the clear confirmation: Wheel of Fortune has run completely out of puzzles.

(Why yes, I have started going back to the gym. How'd you know?)

The category: ON THE MENU. The answer: LOCALLY GROWN COFFEE.

So, when was the last time you saw "Locally Grown Coffee" on a menu? Or did I just miss an important detail? Is it, in fact, Colombian Drug Lords week on the Wheel?

Later, in the category SHOW BIZ, the wall full o' letters eventually spelled out APPEARING ON THE COVER OF ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY. I guess they didn't have room for BEING DEPICTED ON THE FRONT PAGE OF ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY MAGAZINE. Dudes, stars don't "appear" on covers, they make them.

C'mon, they might as well just string random words together. DRINKING PINK STUMPS. BIG HANDS OF PECANS. CLOCK TUMORS. These would all make fine time fillers.

I feel bad for them. I'd let them have at the whole Name of the Act slate, but I know the decrepit Middle Americans the show leeches its fading lifeblood from wouldn't have it.

Still, things could be more pathetic. Like thirty minutes later, when I was coming back home after picking up big containers of spicy dinner goodies (for replacing all those lost calories), and I saw two girls, quite drunk already at 8 p.m., in front of the snobby appetizer restaurant Andalu, trying to pick up the valet.

I guess they wanted a free spin.

At Peet's this morning, the tall young man at the register takes my order, and then, for the first time, starts a conversation with me.

"Did you watch much TV in the '80s?"

"I'm afraid so," I say. I don't know where this is going. I braced for a mention of an unfortunate physical resemblance to some washed-up supporting actor. Though I can't think of who that might be.

"Do you remember the theme from Mr. Belvedere?" he asks. I shake my head. I think about mentioning that the reason I don't remember it is because I've never watched Mr. Belvedere, but I don't.

I am not prepared for the subsequent outburst of amazement from Coffee Boy.

"Nobody does!" he shouts.

He says he's asked and asked, and no one knows it (including him). His mom thought she remembered, "and she tried to sing a little bit of it, but it just like evaporated. It's one of those songs that just doesn't stick."

Of course, it's on the Interweb (here's the MP3, via the ad-intensive Sitcoms Online), and it's no wonder no one remembers it. You've heard catchier dirges. Bearing the weirdly Elizabethan title "According to Our New Arrivals," it's a limp little thing that for some reason opens and closes with an approximation of a harpsichord solo.

But, again, I never watched the show. Was it set in an assisted-living speakeasy during the Holy Roman Empire? 'Cause that's the vibe the theme gives off.

The tune, such as it is, was voiced by Leon Redbone, best known for filling out the last ten minutes of Saturday Night Live back in its infancy. Ah, remember the mid-'70s, when SNL just had to pad out the last 30 minutes as opposed to, say, 90?

Overheard, a man on a cell phone walking down the sidewalk. Based on his tone of voice, only the second sentence of the following was meant to be a joke. The rest was a clear case of as-a-matter-of-fact-I-can't-hear-you-now.

"A cherry event? What, you help someone pop a cherry?"

(Pause)

"Oh, a chariot event."

(Pause)

"A charity event."

-----

So, in the finest American tradition, I tried to correct one extreme with another, and follow my big blogging lapse with a daily regimen. And it lasted, what, a week and a half? Just like whenever I start "going back to the gym." (Oh yeah? Tell me, how long do your resolutions last, punk?)

Still, goal achieved: for better or worse, I'm blogging again. Or so it would seem.