A Guy Named Renfield

We were visiting the farm in New Jersey where my wife used to work, and we passed the Poison Ivy sign on the nature trail. I read aloud what it would say if I had written it: "Poison Ivy can be easily identified by the rough, waxy texture of its leaves, as well as its bitter taste."

And when I say the plot is stupid, I mean it’s more than just “Star Trek bad”. No one involved put more than two seconds of thought into how black holes or time travel might actually work. The science has always been a little flimsy in this franchise, but usually when they wrote themselves into something that might seem nonsensical the TV show could always be counted on to throw some magic wand at it in the form of “warp fields”, or “calculations”, or even “miraculously, it worked”. But this is J.J. Abrams’ Star Trek, where science does not even warrant a nod and a wink.

Fortunately, it has always been the characters that made Star Trek such a lasting American icon, and here their recast counterparts are used to their fullest. It is a treat to watch all the beloved characters interacting with each other. The action, spirit, and whimsy of the original show has truly been recaptured (for the whimsy, sometimes even too much.) The film opens with an attack on Kirk’s father’s starship by a vastly superior vessel, and then follows Jim Kirk as he grows up as a juvenile delinquent and cajoled into joining Starfleet. We meet several of the other characters along the way, including the Deforrest-Kelley-channeling Doctor McCoy, the incredibly hot Uhura, Harold- I mean, Sulu, the cast-for-his-voice-only Chekov, and the fabulous Zachary Quinto as a perfectly recreated Mr. Spock.

Events unfold in a way that will have diehard Trekkies scratching their heads, but halfway through the film there is a wonderful scene on the bridge of the Enterprise where they all realize they are dealing with time travel, and therefore the timeline and all their actions and destinies have changed from what they were meant to be. It could not have been more direct if they had looked right at the camera and yelled “Things are different! They’re gonna stay different! Deal with it!”

Unfortunately, right after that scene the audience is informed of the entire story behind the plot by a foreshadowed guest star. The problem is the flimsy story he gives falls right into that paper-thin plot development I was complaining about above. Seriously, the explanation for what is really going on will have small children asking “But if he has a time machine why doesn’t he just…?”

Still, there is enough here to keep fans and first-timers happy. The story may be bad, but that’s okay. The characters were always the real story anyway, and the one they tell is rich and exciting.

We don't follow any particular sport, but when there is an event the whole world is watching my wife and I like to join in. Personally, I just get a feeling of camaraderie and participation with a huge number of my fellow humans as we all watch the Olympics or World Cup or whatever. Actually, I guess it just makes us followers with the rest of the sheep. Either way, I'm sure Geico, Nike, and Budweiser appreciate the phenomenon.

So we turned on the Masters and caught the final round and Angel Cabrera's winning putt. Good for him. As I watched the interviews of the competitors as they got eliminated one by one, I couldn't help but notice a certain... pattern to their physique. Tiger Woods aside, there did not seem to be many participants who exemplified the sport of golf as an actual source of calorie-burning exercise. My wife put it succinctly when she said, "I've seen bowlers who were more ripped than these guys." Considering the final result, maybe Tiger should split a case of Natty Boh with Angel as they smoke cigars in front of the TV.

For birthdays or other special occasions, I like to create puzzles for my wife to find that will give her clues as to where her gift is hidden. When I have the time, I like to make puzzles that lead to other puzzles, so that she will really have to work to find it. (That can get tricky, let me tell ya.) Here is the latest one I gave her:

End of the Man From UNCLE’s title


Hammer to the second power


Element #15


Upside-down schwa


Pirate hearsay


Three-way intersection


Beginning of an Irish end


You


Operatic solo, minus the vowels


Single Morse dot

Bertha's is one of those institutional restaurants: it's been around since before the gentrification of Fells Point, its quaint charming atmosphere stems from the original wood floors and the maze created by fitting the restaurant into the original living space, and its known for a simple specialty: mussels. It's that last reason why I've never liked them much.

The problem with the mussels is that they come with a variety of different sauces you can order. It's a problem because they are dipping sauces served on the side. Mussels are great served on a broth, so even if you choose a style that will last through your entire bowl (garlic butter extends far enough, but the Spanish style is so thick you use it up after two bites), there is still nothing to dip your bread into, and that's half the joy of messy seafood. They have solved this problem by offering daily mussel specials, with the mussels actually cooked in a broth. The last time I was there i had some that were cooked in a medley including Old Bay, and they were magnificent.

The real special shout out is for the fact that they are the only restaurant in Baltimore -as far as I know- that serves their Guinness at room temperature. Well, cellar temperature they call it, probably to avoid trouble with the health inspectors. They do the same thing with their house bitter, which has a wonderful flavor and would not be as smooth served chilled. I'm surprised more places don't use that trick, including the Irish pub they sit practically cattycorner to.

I was reminded of an incident last summer. I was picking basil from our garden, and suddenly felt a sting on one of my fingers. I immediately ran inside to the kitchen.

“What’s good for a bee sting?” I asked my wife.

“Use the meat tenderizer,” she replied.

“I’m not going to whack my hand with a mallet,” I said incredulously. “It hurts enough already.”

Of course, she meant the meat tenderizer in the bottle on the spice rack…

I had heard about this Irish pub in Timonium a while ago and had always wanted to try it out. Timonium usually means a trip to the Corner Stable for spare ribs, but we had gone there a few days before so were able to justify trying someplace new. While we had meant to especially do so, our menus were whisked away before we remembered to find out how to pronounce the restaurant’s name or discover its meaning.

The beer and food list are standard, exactly what you would expect and want from an Irish Pub. Guinness, Harp, and some other Irish standards were on tap, so I ordered the Sam Adams seasonal. The food we ordered was standard if not memorable: Gaelic steak, an overly salted Shepherd’s Pie, and Fish and Chips. The last deserves a special mention. “Fish and Chips” usually connotes finger food, or at least multiple pieces of fish breaded and fried and served with what Americans would call steak fries. Their version involves one entire fish filet resting on top of a large portion of regular french fries. Both were well cooked, just not the dish I was expecting, and is it wrong that in an Irish Pub one of the most traditional of basic dishes was oversimplified?

They have not skimped on the décor, and that deserves a special mention of its own. They tried incredibly too hard to make it look like the designer’s version of an Irish Pub. The outside is built up to make it look like an Irish village street front. No problem, there, and I think it’s kind of clever although it makes finding the front door something of a chore. Inside, there are nice wooden floors, at least one fireplace, and far too evenly done stone walls. Between those uniform stone walls, the polished wood, the medieval weapons on the walls, and the light fixtures made from antlers, one quickly realizes that one is not in a quaint pub but rather some sort of hunting lodge for rich weirdoes.