BOO!

OF PUMPKINS AND PAINTBALLS

It's fall, which means it's time for our family's annual trip to the pumpkin patch out in the country. Well, not so much in the country anymore--it's now surrounded by a gaggle of vinyl-clad Northern Virginia McMansions, all with extensive decking so their owners can enjoy an uninterupted view of the moon bounces, the plentiful parking, and all the cheerful examples of copyright infringement the proprietors have plastered on everything that isn't orange and/or organic.

Still, it's fun. Pumpkins, moon bounces, slides, hayrides, and, this year, shooting at targets with a high-powered rifle equiped with a sniper-style scope.

No, really. Okay, so it's paintball, but it still seems like an odd choice for the under-6 crowd.

Now don't get me wrong -- I'm not one of those freedom-hating, Dear Leader-mocking types you see all over the blogosphere. I learned to fire a rifle in high school ROTC (don't ask), and have, in the course of undertaking journalistic research, participated in a paintball battle pitting our hardened newsroom of seasoned reporters against a bunch of Shenandoah Valley locals, who brought their bulletproof vests, automatic paintball rifles, and boundless enthusiasm to the match. I still have the welts to prove it.

At the same time, though, at a pumpkin patch? It's a bit embarrassing. Especially when I caught myself shouting at my daughter, "NO! AIM FOR THE HEAD! NOT THE CHEST--THE HEAD!"

Or not.

MY NEW CAREER...

...as a film reviewer. Scroll down to the review entitled "A stunningly prescient rumination on Euro-American relations," and enjoy.

The balcony is closed.

YEAH, BUT OTHER THAN THAT, DID WE GET ANYTHING WRONG?

A classic correction from The Washington Post:

A Sept. 21 item in the Metro in Brief column about a woman fatally shot in Prince George's County and a child who was wounded incorrectly reported the woman's age, the child's sex, the child's location at the time of the shooting, and the street on which the shooting occurred. A correct account of the incident appears in today's Metro in Brief column.

Guess the editors were busy fact-checking the Page One story about the all-you-can-eat steak.

THIS JUST IN: CULTURE IS DEAD

I wouldn't believe this if I hadn't read it myself: Evidently piqued at the thought of his wife being groped by a treacherous Frenchman, our august president wrote her this lovely, nuanced poem:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Oh my, lump in the bed
How I've missed you.
Roses are redder
Bluer am I
Seeing you kissed by that charming French guy.
The dogs and the cat, they missed you too
Barney's still mad you dropped him, he ate your shoe
The distance, my dear, has been such a barrier
Next time you want an adventure, just land on a carrier.

Awww... They're just like two schoolkids, aren't they? I'm going to try calling my wife a "lump in the bed." Then I'm going to try getting used to sleeping on the sofa downstairs.

THE MOVIE OF THE YEAR

When critics use that phrase, it's usually hyperbole. For us, it's literal.

Ever since we had our first child, we've seen exactly one movie -- no more, and no less -- in the theater each calendar year. Between the relative scarcity of babysitters, and the desire to do something other than sit in a dark room when we're lucky enough to find one, we just don't go to the movies much any more. In fact, we haven't been the movies yet in 2003.

Good thing, too. Had we already squandered our movie for the year, we would have had to wait for this to go to video.

WHO NEEDS THE NYT SUNDAY BOOKS SECTION?

My well-documented love for this comic meets my penchant for fair and balanced book reviews.

Maybe we should pass this title along to Mssr. Limbaugh.