I want to start by thanking Cat for putting her virtual finger on something that had been pulsing in my brain but I hadn’t been able to see clearly or articulate. She commented:

The Printculture Committee on Experimental Vehicular Transport is sending a probe vehicle out on the roads of Connecticut and Massachusetts, equipped with two tires, a water bottle, and a flashing red light (just in case). According to the latest reports, sunshine is predicted and suburban gardens will continue to flower with dogwood, azalea, and rhododendron. We'll file updates, commentary and pictures as news occurs.

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(May 29) Success: the green bike with baggage racks, rechristened for the purpose the Mass. Rover, has been from New Haven to Northampton and back in a two-day jaunt. The Rover's sensors were mainly tuned to assessing the likelihood of making this trip entirely on a dedicated bike trail-- within any of our lifetimes, that is. More about this prospect below: first, some olfactory impressions.

A series in which I retell from memory the plot of some film, novel, or other narrative sequence.
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These were my favorite books when I was young. I don't exactly remember how young, but somewhere between 8 and 12, I suspect. Along with Tolkien, they set me off on a lifelong love of Dungeons & Dragons-style fantasy literature, one that probably culminated in the period of time I spent playing EverQuest. I remember them fondly.

The first in what I anticipate will be an ongoing series in which I dispense unsolicited advice and opinions on traveling with young kids, based solely on my own meandering experience.

“Can I have your zip code?” The cashier asks me while sneaking a glance at her watch. “I live out of the country.” “Oh!” she says, momentarily interested. “Where?” “Korea.” “Oh.” [Not that glamourous, is what she’s probably thinking. Or: Why would anyone want to live there?] “How long a flight is that?”

To be frank, I could never say no to a skank.
I’ve known many virgins. As lovers they stank.
I’m not one to rue the wine I once drank;
For most of my fun there’ve been skanks to thank.
     Loose-limbed, leering, slinky and lank --
     I prize the bad pupil who’s courting a spank.
     No thought how dank the dungeon, how ripe or rank,
     When I ask why not — -- — I just draw a blank.
Oh, the vigor they’ll show in turning your crank
cold days when old wiring just needs a strong yank.
See them now raise the flag that else might have sank!
Skanky is love you can take to the bank.
     I know that the wise man will stay home and wank
     but try and catch me saying no to a skank.

A series in which I retell from memory the plot of some film, novel, or other narrative sequence.
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The “oeuvre” of Judy Blume because I can't, honestly, remember enough about the plot of any single Judy Blume novel to spoil it for you. What follows are memories of highly memorable sequences from a few of her novels, all of which I read at least twenty years ago (and by twenty years ago, of course, I mean, last week).

Last week, Printculture commenter Babykong, searching for reasons to turn away from the blinding light of my summary of Watership Down, whose photon-drenched penumbra had laid bare the furthest reaches of his conscience, requested that the blog give him material that would be a little easier on his soul: something, for gods' sake, on the current election. Well, here it is.

Today we offer, in memory of the parties that erupted all over Paris upon Mitterrand's election in May 1981, an icon of sociality in the form of a Printculture Mount Rushmore. After the jump.

Imagine, for the moment, a utopian scenario. In languages A and B, for every word in A there can be found a corresponding term in B. Translation goes forward smoothly and everyone is happy. Indeed, philosophers such as Donald Davidson assure us that ultimately this is the way languages work: translation is always possible, though it may not be word-for-word or easy. The key word is “ultimately”: we don’t always have time to wait for “ultimately.” As we go on translating happily from A to B, sooner or later a word will come up that refers to a particular circumstance of the climate, flora, fauna, customs or arts of country A, for which no precise equivalent in country B for the moment suggests itself—and this is the case where one says, “The thing they call sherbet, or amok, or kismet, or sharawadgi.”

A series in which I retell from memory the plot of some film, novel, or other narrative sequence.
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(Last week's part 1). As I said, the rabbits have adventures. They are fleeing, and searching for a new warren. At a certain point they find shelter in a warren populated by sleek, healthy rabbits. These rabbits behave profoundly unnaturally.

At a party a few months ago my friend Tom told me about his attempt to bike to Everest Base Camp. After flying into a small Sherpa town the area was hit by an unseasonable and record-breaking blizzard. The two-man party never even got on their bikes. Instead, they joined stranded climbers and locals and spent the time shoveling snow off the roofs in the village to prevent collapse. After that they dug out enough of the runway to allow a helicopter to land.