Thoughts on the Evitability of Mitt and the Mutability of Newt

(As I write this, Newt Gingrich just won South Carolina in a convincing fashion, spanking the dollar-regurgitating Romney machine with a rolled-up newspaper. Of course, newspapers aren't as thick as they used to be. I've been posting at PJMedia in the Comments section, usually picking a fight with anyone who loftily declares the nomination of one Mitt Romney as "inevitable." I'll summarize some of my thoughts here....)

Yesterday, Philip Klein of the Washington Examiner tweeted: “The theoretically electable candidate isn't very electable & the theoretically conservative one isn't very conservative.”

That’s a good and quite amusing description of Romney and Gingrich.

I had actually written off Newt long ago, which shows you how much I know. If Newt can get this far, without an organization, without money, without the blessing of the Republican National Committee, and with all his backroom betrayals, ex-wives, global warming commercials with Nancy Pelosi, weasely little eyes, high-pitched voice and irritating smugness... well, imagine where he'd be now with only half of all that baggage.

As for the other guy, I think you can stick Mittens in a cedar chest for the summer, he’s done. If he can’t win with all that cash and half of Washington on his campaign payroll, plus the endorsement of the RNC and even National Review -- to me, it says he’d be a great Republican candidate if only there were any actual Republicans who liked him. Too bad for Mitt that Democrats can't vote in the Republican Primaries. Though you should never actually say that to a Democrat, he'll take it as a challenge.

No doubt, Mitt's problems with the conservative base are a plus in the eyes of the RNC, who in the past have been known to let their dislike of conservatives show. In years divisible by four, the RNC likes to ask, “Can we not run a Republican and just say we did?” They’d really rather run a Democrat, only Joe Lieberman won't return their calls and Zell Miller is too conservative. If the RNC issued currency, Arlen Specter would be on the dollar bill. Maybe Larry Craig would be on the $3 bill.

But the RNC appears to harbor no love for Newt, who is just not satisfied with keeping Republican snouts in the trough, but occasionally says or does something alarming -- like, e.g., he's been known to disagree with liberals on... something, I forget what.

Which is to say, Newt doesn’t mind agreeing with liberals either. I figure he’ll treat conservatives the way he’s treated his ex-wives, vowing love and respect until death do us part. But then he'll get caught flying Air Force One to that shack outside LaGrange, hooking up with the sleaziest mascara-dripping liberal he can find, and wearing cowboy chaps. And when caught, he'll explain to you convincingly how your own dirty mind is playing tricks with you. You'll be ashamed of yourself. Look at CNN's John King. When King played the open-marriage gambit on Newt, the explosion of righteous indignation from the unrighteous ex-Speaker of the House went way past 8.9 on the Richter scale, past 9.9, past even 10.9, all the way up to Jimmy Swaggart-point-nine. Newt had everyone in the auditorium, including John King, hating John King for asking the question.

The greatest debate never staged would be Newt vs. Newt. It would be like watching the Tasmanian Devil chase his own tail. If anyone can talk his way into the White House, it’s Newt. Of course, it’s two-to-one that he’ll talk himself out of the White House instead.

But Newt does the one thing mainstream Republicans can never bring themselves to do: he looks liberals square in the eye and fights. That goes a long way with conservatives who too often get the feeling that their own champions are too embarrassed to be seen with them. The only times GW Bush ever squared off against someone like that, it was against his own base.

Merry Christmas, 2011

Merry Christmas 2011!

Okay, time for a break in the Republican debates. Time will tell whether the GOP is a worried mother admonishing us to put on our Mittens, or a witch turning the party into a Newt. We don't need to worry about that now. The politicians we have with us always, and if they had a favorite Christmas carol, it would surely be I Ponder as I Pander. The burning question is, have you ever noticed how much life is like a roll of paper towels? When your towel roll is young, the world is young, and you can use up sheets like you have all the paper in the world to look forward to. But as time advances, each sheet that gets used and tossed makes a more significant dent in the size of the roll. To us, Christmas seems like the culmination of each year, when we pause our routines long enough to appreciate the year that has past and to gear up in a hopeful way for the year to come and the challenges it will bring. We find ourselves taking more and more care about how we tear off the next sheet.

It has become a yearly event for my buddy Ray Crenshaw and me to spend a few days in Arlington, VA, every March for the Eastern Trombone Workshop. Maybe my favorite thing in the whole world is to walk into a room full of trombone vendors, like a kid in hydrogenated-fatty and processed-sugary candy shop, wishing I had Bill Gates' credit card. My mom bought me my first professional-quality trombone back in '72 -- $390 for a Conn 88H tenor trombone. The ravages of time and inflation have raised that price to about $2000, but in the interim period we have seen the rise of the custom instrument makers, with prices pushing $8000. The biggest mistake you can make, if you're not Bill Gates, is to play one of these expensive trombones -- if you have a Chevette budget, best not to test-drive the Lexus. At the other, more Chevettish end of the market, a Chinese manufacturer made a first appearance. I played their bass trombone, on sale for $1000 -- not bad. But then I wanted to play it again an hour later. Just kidding. Their booth was manned only by the owner, who spoke no English, and his beautiful daughter, who spoke English but not Trombonese. They were largely ignored, and I felt a little sorry for them. I wonder how long before they own the entire industry? Someday, perhaps. But in the meantime, they could learn something about marketing from the German makers; they just hire an intense New York salesman who negotiates like Billy May shoving the world's very last Veg-O-Matic down your throat. And that's not all. The most memorable workshop was given by two LA studio trombonists, telling us how much fun it was to work with John Williams (lots) and how much demand there is for contrabass trombones (think of a bass trombone on a steroids-and-spaghetti diet). According to these two, trombone players are the only studio musicians who enjoy having lunch with others from their own section. Over one lunch, a violinist asked if she could join them, and she did. But after five minutes of conversation, she exclaimed, "Wow, you guys are hard on each other!" One of them smiled and replied, "Ma'am, we're trombone players; the knife always goes in the front."

This past April, Debbie and I took a mini-vacation in Philadelphia -- Debbie loves history and has always wanted to see the places and artifacts -- the bronzed baby-shoes, so to speak -- of our country's infancy. We met our friends Kevin and Ann Schmalz there and we all stayed in a downtown hotel, walked everywhere, and tried to take in all the sights. We visited Independence Hall, where the First Congress took place, miraculously without any ethics violations, and the Liberty Bell, which is everything it's cracked up to be. And Betsy Ross' house is still there, for those whose interests are flagging. We also took the time to visit something called the Mutter Museum, which displays medical tools -- and curiosities -- of the past, many of which were quite disturbing in an Addams Family kind of way. It certainly makes you appreciate antibiotics and cosmetic surgery. Philadelphia's food was great, though. We found the best cheese steak on the planet at the Famous 4th Street Deli, and the best ice cream too, at Bassetts' in the Reading Terminal Market (dark chocolate ice cream!). Walking past the Curtis Institute of Music, we applauded one of the trombone students while he was playing an etude -- he sounded great, and waved to us through his window. We also heard the sad news that the Philadelphia Orchestra had filed for bankruptcy. Not enough rich blue-haired ladies or enough young fans. Times are changing. We spent our last afternoon in a South Philly bar, and entertained the bartender to no end when we described our home town, Virginia Beach, as "the Redneck Riviera." He even tried to defend our own honor, but finally gave up when we told him about the time we ate at a nice waterfront restaurant about twenty feet away from a tractor pull.

We took another mini-vacation in August, traveling to South Carolina to see our friends Ray and Sonja Crenshaw and, with them, to visit Charleston. On our way into Charleston, we were hit by one of the worst thunderstorms we've ever experienced, not knowing whether we'd be drowned or electrocuted. In Charleston, we ate at a little cafe called the Hominy Grill, where I sampled a regional dish called "Shrimp and Grits", which could also as justifiably have been called "Bacon and Cheese." Though a breakfast dish, it went well with the "Hops and Barley". Our hotel room displayed the signature architecture of the Old South -- tall ceilings with ceiling fans, louvered doors, chandeliers, detailed woodwork, and mosquitoes ( "Bzzzz, y'all!"). The houses tend to have a doorway at the street, with a long walkway leading through a small courtyard to the actual house. A friend of Ray's owns such a house in use as a bed & breakfast, and gave us the cook's tour . The house was hundreds of years old; the guest rooms in the back were once slave quarters. Heard lots of historical commentary, a fair amount devoted to "damn Yankees." Though the horse-drawn carriages do look terrific in the brochures, truth in advertising should demand that the pictures somehow communicate the aroma. But it does add color to the cobblestones. Charleston is a colorful city -- indeed, a beautiful city, and we plan on going back again soon, probably after the next grits harvest.

We thank the Lord for our good health, but we had a couple of scares this year. Debbie called me at work one day and told me she was having symptoms similar to a heart attack -- shortness of breath, numbness in her shoulders and upper arms, wooziness. I work only five minutes away from home, so I rushed home and her symptoms had gotten much worse. We live about a ten-minute drive from the hospital, so we got into the car and I was going to drive us there as quickly as possible, legally or not. But as we passed by the local fire/rescue station, Debbie tried communicating to me that she might faint before we make it to the hospital. But what she got out was, "I don't think I'm going to make it."  Aaack!!!! So, panicking, I pulled into the fire/rescue station and let the professionals take over. One of the rescue workers looked at me and asked, "She's the one having a heart attack!?" The good news is that Debbie's heart is healthy as can be -- she had suffered something called "vasovagal syncope", which can mimic a heart attack's symptoms. So thankfully, with apologies to Billy Joel, we didn't trade in our Checker for a cardiac-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack. But you ought to know by now. Then just a couple of days later, she was getting chummy with a very friendly local kitty, but then the cat turned and bit her. And then disappeared. There aren't many cases of rabies these days, but we didn't know that cat and haven't seen him since. So, Debbie took a series of rabies shots, which thankfully are not as painful as they used to be. For a couple of weeks, I was calling her "Shotsie". She felt pretty sheepish, but I say much better rattled than rabid, and better to have syncope than get sympathy.


Our big cat, Buster, was not so fortunate this year. He was never healthy, and apparently had suffered some sort of a stroke last May. Buster was a very needy cat, requiring constant reassurance. He didn't so much sit in your lap as commandeer it -- which could be a problem, as he weighed 22 pounds and could put your toes to sleep. He adored both Debbie and our other cat Gabby, but he was the fat nerd and Gabby was the prom queen -- each new scheme to get her attention was met with feminine disdain and feline indifference. Prone to melancholy, Buster always brightened up instantly whenever anyone (Debbie, me, you, the mailman, the Jehovah's Witness folks) paid attention to him. After Buster was gone, Gabby wandered around the house caterwauling for days (the perfect word for it, really), wondering where her tormentor was -- sometimes I think cats are almost as complicated as we are. Gabby noticed, as we did, that a little bit of brightness had been lost.

So then, here we are, back to the Christmas season again, getting ready to tear off another sheet. It's only fitting that we ponder on the brightness He has brought into our lives, giving us hope that we will not drown in sin. That's God's Christmas gift to us. The world may at times overwhelm us with wickedness and sorrow, but we will win, and all because unto us a Child is born, a Son is given. Have a blessed Christmas and a wonderful New Year.

Bully for You

Interesting article at PajamasMedia about the real way to deal with bullies at the other end of the link.  Apparently, Lady Gaga is not just someone who wears meat to her gigs.  She is perfectly capable of being ridiculous on other subjects.

The article touched a nerve in me, making me recall my days in high school, having to deal with a daily shower of shinola for being the fat kid.  And that was just the kids, don't get me started on the phys ed coaches...

Anyhow, interesting article.  As Reformed Trombonist, I posted a response there, am reproducing it below...

As Jean Shepherd wryly said in the classic movie, “A Christmas Story”, in the world of boys, “you were either a bully, a toady, or one of the nameless rabble of victims.”

Bullies of any sort make me steam with a white-hot passion. It’s been forty years since I was in high school, but to this day the memories still smart. If I could change only one decision I had ever made in my life, I would go back to my high school band and give a knuckle sandwich to the senior who had ruined my entire ninth-grade year. Yes, I too was an easy mark — a fat kid who just wanted to get along with everyone. (Apparently, there’s something very satisfying about picking on the fat kid — I don’t know what that is, but I did get to share in the experience.)

The justice behind giving a fat lip to a bully is something many women just don’t seem to get. [Note:  judging from several of the other responses, this was probably unfair.  Apparently, some women do indeed get it. -- Lee]  Since the schools are essentially run by women’s sensibilities, it never surprises me, but always disgusts me, when I hear about some school where the victim gets the same punishment as the bully when he fights back.  Challenge it, and you get to sit in the reviewing stand for the Parade of the Bromides. E.g., “Fighting is wrong, period.” And the ever-popular, “Violence never settles anything.” Pardon my French, but bull-loney. No one believes that hitting a bully is the sort of “Let’s save the world!” grand cosmic-justice solution that gives liberals a tingle up their leg. Rather, it’s a modest but effective conservative solution to an age-old problem — namely, man’s inhumanity to man, junior edition. It’s all about making the world a better place, one miserable bully at a time.

At my high school, at least once, justice was served with a cherry on top.

In my eighth-grade band class (our high school was 8-12), there was the saga of (I’ll call them) Joe and Dino. Joe was our best trumpet player, but he was a trouble-maker of the worst sort. Not a big guy, just mouthy and bullying when he thought he could get away with it. And Dino was his favorite mark. Dino was a big kid, still sporting some “baby fat”, but was so clumsy and spastic he almost seemed mentally retarded (which he wasn’t). Though he was a head taller and much larger than Joe, Dino just wasn’t aggressive, and Joe loved to ride him mercilessly — constant mouthing off, shoving, etc. Well, a couple of years passed, and what happened to Dino was no less dramatic than watching a chrysalis sprout into a butterfly — by the time he was sixteen, Dino looked like an NFL tight end. I’d guess he was about six-four, probably 240 pounds, and chiseled. For the most part, Dino was still a big Twinkie on the inside, but not completely — Dino’s attitude was slowly changing, too. Unfortunately for Joe, Joe’s wasn’t. It was inevitable. We all kept wondering, when is Dino going to do it? And then one day, it happened — the news spread all over school that Joe had bullied Dino one too many times. The evidence was splattered all over the hallway. I would have given a hundred dollars to have seen it. The next year, Joe transferred to a different high school. I’m still hopeful that the experience made him a better person.

It would be an interesting psychological study to follow bullies and their victims into adulthood, to see how their personalities developed. How many of the bullies experienced a moment of self-awareness and came to their senses? How many of their victims overcame their cowardice later in life? And what were the consequences for those who didn’t? Maybe there are some happy endings there, for both. Redemption is a beautiful thing.

But I doubt it works out that way in every case. A couple of years ago, my brother started working at the local mill again after many years of living and working elsewhere. He asked me, hey, you remember so-and-so? This particular so-and-so had once been the most feared bully at our high school. I said, yeah, what’s he like now? My brother answered, “Like a sad old drunk.” A year later, so-and-so’s name was in the obituaries, not even sixty.

At the end of life, wouldn’t it be awful to be remembered as the worst bully at your high school? I guess even bullies deserve some compassion.

Difference Between Men and Women, Installment 11672

Men are concerned with the way high-fidelity speakers sound.

Women are concerned with the way high-fidelity speakers look.

This appears to be an immutable truth. Guys want big, awesome sounding speakers the size of your living room wall. They want amplifiers that weigh seventy pounds and put out 300 watts per channel. When Jim Morrison sings about Texas radio, or Anton Bruckner is spinning out one of his glorious symphonic ideas, guys want it to rock the house.

Women, on the other hand, prefer stereo speakers the size of a pair or earrings, powered by an amplifier you can hide under a Longaberger basket. To a woman, stereo equipment should arguably be heard, but never seen. This is one reason why Bose is so popular. To most guys, it sounds good enough, and it will blend in nicely with a woman's living room decor.

But for some of us men, Bose is not enough. This built-in conflict of interest makes for some, shall I say, interesting discussions in the course of a marriage.

To a woman, the following conversation makes perfect sense.

Husband: "Sweetheart, Sam has an old pair of AR 19s for sale, he's only asking $400. Is it okay with you if I buy them?"

Wife: "How big are they? Do you really need another pair of speakers? I think the old ones look fine."

However, reverse the parameters and the following conversation is best to be avoided:

Wife: "Sweetheart, I found a new wall hanging and bought it for our living room. It was only $400."

Husband: "I think the old wall hanging sounds fine."

The Abolition of Men

Below is my response to a book review of Kay Hymowitz's Manning Up: How the Rise of Women Has Turned Men Into Boys.  The review, in my opinion an insightful one, was by Dr. Helen Smith, a psychologist who is well-known as "The Instawife" to readers of Glenn Reynolds' Instapundit web site.  However, Dr. Helen's review is not from a Christian perspective, but a professional one.  My response, as always, is from the Reformed perspective:

Anyway, here is my response:

As with most problems in this world, we have a sad situation brought about by poor theology. Or, perhaps more precisely, the failure of Western Christian nations to teach good, stout theology.

Feminism is the direct result of men’s selfishness and weakness. Women need to be loved and cherished. It is their due, and they know it. If men will not love them and cherish them, women shall get their revenge the best way they know: by beating men at their own game. What we have today, in government, in the workplace, in the popular culture, is that women are exalted and glorified, while men are derided and ridiculed. Women have gained the upper hand and are reveling in it.

Paul cemented his reputation among feminists as a woman-hater when he wrote that wives should submit to their husbands. How silly and forlorn that all sounds today. But what Paul wrote immediately after that somehow gets lost amidst the thunderclaps of indignation: Paul instructs husbands to love their wives as Christ loves the Church — that is, willing to lay their lives down for them. It’s a two-way street: as women need to be loved, men need to be respected. It is their due, and they know it. If women will not respect them, men will get their revenge by stealing women’s purity and exploiting them at the most base level of animal function. If men are to be accorded no more respect than opportunistic wolves, then let’s howl.

What we have here is an untenable situation. As George Gilder wrote in Men and Marriage, each civilization faces a continuous invasion of barbarians — namely, their own children. For channeling the potentially destructive power of young men into constructive endeavors, nothing beats a family headed by a husband (who should be providing a daily example on how to treat women in a godly way) and cared for by a wife (who should be providing a daily example by showing their young boys the rewards of responsibility). Without such training, young men shall seek respect on the streets, and in the bars and boudoirs. Our prisons are filled to overflowing with such men.

As Glenn Reynolds likes to say, a situation that can’t be sustained won’t be. Christianity has failed to teach these truths, and so Islam beckons these young men with half of it. As it did for so many years, Islam would crumple like a wad of cellophane against a strong West with a robust Church that was less concerned with being trendy and more concerned with teaching sound theology. But that West has been dead for over a century. Meet the new, improved, atheistic, feminist West. When you’ve lost the young men, you’ve lost. I give us a generation, two at tops.

Be sure to read Kay Hymowitz's extended pout in the Wall Street Journal, the gist of which is that the dissolution of society doesn't go with her new outfit.

Lee's Martini Recipe

Here we go, for liquid paradise:

1 1/2 shots of a very good gin
1/2 shot of vermouth
two inch strip of lemon rind

Mix gin and vermouth in shaker filled with ice

Shake shake shake
Shake shake shake
(Shake your booty)
(I'm dating myself)

Shake until your hands cannot stand how cold the shaker has become. For me, that's about 256 shakes.

Pour gin and vermouth into a martini glass.

Twist the lemon rind over the martini glass contents and then toss it into the mix.

If you're especially ambitious, twist another lemon rind onto the rim of the martini glass.

Voila. Fluid Nirvana.

My good buddy Jay, bass trombonist with the Omaha Symphony, taught me how to make a martini. But I don't make it the way he taught anymore. Jay likes an extremely dry martini. Essentially, he merely coats the ice with vermouth and then tosses out any residual vermouth before adding the gin. He also sometimes "shakes it naked", i.e., without any vermouth at all. I have tremendous respect for Jay in practically all areas of expertise, and in particular his expertise in mixology. But I have since learned that I prefer a less dry martini. Gin and vermouth are two drinks that are quite rough by themselves, but which smooth each other out. (On the opposite end of the spectrum, Manhattans -- a mixture of sweet vermouth and whiskey -- are rough, even though the components are quite smooth by themselves. Go figure.)

There seems to be some controversy on what, exactly, constitutes a good gin. If money is no object, I prefer Beefeater. Jay introduced me to Beefeater martinis, and I have never found a better gin. However, Beefeater is very pricey -- here in Virginia, it's about $45 per 1.5 liter bottle. Ouch. I save the Beefeater for guests. For everyday martinis, I use good old Seagram's, which is less than half the price and pretty darn good. (Debbie actually prefers the Seagram's; it's a milder flavor, but still fairly complex.)

Some folks are Bombay Sapphire Gin partisans. Don't want to start a fuss or anything, but I don't get it and never will. When Jay taught me the art of the martini, he stressed that Bombay Sapphire was every bit as well-respected as Beefeater. So, not too long afterward, Debbie was out of the house, and so I decided to stage a private taste-test. I had one Beefeater martini, and then one Bombay Sapphire martini. I didn't like the Bombay martini, but I had to make sure, so I had another. Not at all happy with the results, I called Jay to register my displeasure. He wasn't home, so I vented on his answering machine. The next time I saw Jay, he told me, "I wish I had saved that rant, I could have made a million bucks with it." Then, in his best Foster Brooks voice, Jay verbally reproduced my message: "Jayyy, thish ish Lee. I'm here to tell, you, hiccup, Bombay Sapphire makesh an infeer... inferrioorrr martini!"

I've experimented with gins a bit. Hendricks is a recent newcomer. It's half again even more expensive than Beefeater. Very hoity-toity. I like it okay, but to me it tastes like a gin made for people who don't like gin. Part of the charm of gin is the in-your-face herbal fisticuffs. In that regard, Hendricks is a relative sissy on a shelf full of brawlers -- it acts like it's ashamed of being a gin and would really rather be a vodka. Most of my experimentation has been at the low end of the market, in search of a gin that can compete with Seagram's. Haven't found one yet. Gins in that sector of the market are manufactured for gin & tonics. Or British sailors. Gordon's Gin, for example, is an excellent gin for a gin & tonic, and cheaper even than Seagram's -- but is a bit violent on the martini sipper's superior palate. If I say so myself.

I've also experimented with dry vermouths. Don't bother. Martini & Rossi's Dry Vermouth, at about $9 a bottle, is almost twice as expensive as the competition -- but in truth it appears to have no competition. Buy the M&R. Don't waste your time on inferior vermouth.

The Taxonomy of the Chick Flick

My lovely wife of almost 28 years, Debbie, likes a good chick flick once in a while, so it is inevitable that I am irritated once in a while. I guess she thinks there's more to life than gangster movies and Steelers highlights.

But the term "chick flick" is seldom qualified or quantified for us. Can the rules of chick-flickdom be codified? What follows here is my best attempt; I'm sure a more perceptive film critic could do a better job, and please feel welcome to add your own codicils in the "Comments".

1. Chick flicks feature actresses who are not too beautiful. I call it the "Meg Ryan" rule: any actress more beautiful than Meg Ryan can't make a living in chick flicks. Needless to say, Catherine Zeta-Jones would go broke if she had to act in chick flicks. Hit the bricks, Nicole Kidman, that porcelain skin and those long shapely legs won't do you any good here. Go make some more vampire movies, Kate Beckinsale. Cute is good. Pretty is okay. Beauty is not. Sandra Bullock, not Charlize Theron. Kyra Sedgwick, not Scarlett Johansson. And for you old-timers, Audrey Hepburn, not Sophia Loren. Chick-flick heroines must be "girl-pretty", a term coined by a buddy of mine. A woman is "girl-pretty" if girls think guys ought to find her attractive, but don't. It's easy to determine which girls are girl-pretty. If a woman were to catch her husband checking out pictures of Reese Witherspoon online, which is highly unlikely, she would compliment him for having good taste. However, if instead she were to catch him sneaking peeks at Jayne Mansfield's considerable decolletage, he'd get a lecture on the destructive effects of Internet porn. Reese Witherspoon is girl-pretty; Jayne Mansfield would have starved before landing any part in a Nora Ephron screenplay aside from evil villainess/bimbo. And the director would make certain to cover her chest.

2. Chick-flick heroines have usually been done wrong by a man. Divorced. Abandoned. Husband. Lover. Lecherous boss. Drooling teacher or professor. Mistreated. Or worse, underestimated. In "Legally Blonde", all bases are sufficiently covered by having an ex-lover *and* a professor/boss mistreat *and* underestimate the virtuous heroine.

3. Chick-flick heroines attract losers, but are not attracted by losers. However, sometimes the loser successfully conceals his losing qualities until the denouement. The scene where she tells off the loser is usually the second most important scene in the movie.

4. The chick-flick heroine is the smartest person onscreen and can usually see everything more clearly than any other character, except her own love life. Until she figures it all out. Figuring it out is nine-tenths of the plot.

5. Often the intelligence comes across as withering sarcasm, and only the virtuous male romantic lead is able to withstand it all stoically and with good cheer -- up until the scene where, against all odds, or reason, or good sense, he confesses he's fallen head over heels for the castrating termagant. Some chick-flick film makers like to propagate the myth that the bitchier the woman, the more virtuous and desirable the man she ultimately captivates. "You've Got Mail" and "Kate and Leopold" are chick flicks cast in this particular mold. A man would have to be out of his mind to be attracted to the protagonist feminist-castrator characters portrayed in these movies (played to perfection by Meg Ryan in her post-cute phase), but this sub-genre of chick flicks attempts to sustain faith in the existence of the hypothetical man who finds bitchiness irresistibly sexy. And why not? Somebody has to keep hope alive for the millions of women in Georgetown and San Francisco who imagine that they're just one apoplectic snit away from finding Mr. Right.

6. She's a brave woman facing the challenges of life on her own terms, and overcoming them on her own terms. She's almost always a professional of some sort -- usually a journalist or publisher or editor, or some other brainy profession that isn't too wonkish or geeky. If she is a techie geek, however, of course she's better at it than all her beta- and gamma-male geek eunuch buddies, who unanimously acknowledge her as "the best", even though it's effortless for her, whereas they've sacrificed everything -- social skills, relationships, a life -- to get where they've gotten.

7. The trappings of royalty never hurt. "The Princess Diaries" movies have proven that. Talk about effortless virtue.

8. It's great if the chick-flick heroine ends up marrying the rich guy (even better if he's royalty, too, but rich is usually good enough) -- but it's for love, of course. Everyone knows rich guys (and princes) are, in our egalitarian world, no more desirable than a sanitation worker -- but why take any chances? And be he a prince or rich businessman or idealistic lawyer, it's only after he acknowledges how puny he is compared to her, and how empty his life would be without her, that he wins the fair but choosy maiden. That's the first most important scene in a chick flick.

In my opinion, and for what it's worth, the best chick flick ever made was "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" -- but it broke most of the rules listed above. Except for rule 1.