I just approved about two weeks worth of back comments. I apologize for the delay in getting to them — for some reason, I wasn’t receiving the appropriate email notifications.

I’m stuck with a bit a connundrum - do I allow open blogging and then see the blog mobbed with spam, do I force my friends to get TypePad accounts just so I can authenticate their comments, or do I have a moderated comment system?

Alas, I’ve got to stick with the moderated system, flawed though it is. I’ll make sure to check more often in the MoveableType backend from now on.

Has it almost been a full year? Every memory of life before my daughters came into being seems a tragedy. How could I have ever lived without them?

I just got back from seeing Richard Linklater’s “A Scanner Darkly,” adapted from the book by Philip K. Dick. The reviews have been mixed, so I expected not to like it, but was instead pleasantly surprised. Using the same kind of “animation over live action” style pioneered in Linklater’s “Waking Life,” “A Scanner Darkly” follows an undercover narcotics agent played by Keanu Reeves, who must ultimately narc on himself. This is the kind of science fiction film that simply doesn’t get made anymore — one which attempts to comment on modern life using a sci-fi concept to highlight our own failings. In this case, we see a near-future hell where literally everone is under constant surveillance and more than twenty percent of the population is addicted to drugs, including the cops.

I won’t say much more, but those expecting to spend an hour and a half watching animated versions of Keanu Reeves, Woody Harrelson, Winona Ryder and Robert Downey JR. strung out on drugs and talking nonsensically are absolutely right. What Linklater movie doesn’t contain some hapless meanderings? But the plot, such as it is, has its own delightful puzzles to work out, that culiminate in an expected, though still satisfying twist and final musing on the lengths governments will go to fight evils of their own creation.

Watching the film, I couldn’t help but think of our own post-9/11 dystopian society. It’s strange to think that with endless war (on drugs, terrorism, etc.), oil shortages, and apocalyptic mutterings from the evangelicals that control the government, that we now live in a world that is beginning to resemble the bleak futures once depicted in science fiction. Perhaps that gives “A Scanner Darkly” its own special resonance, being only one step away from non-fiction.

Last weekend I had the non-pleasure of playing the demo to the new XBOX 360 shooter “Prey.” Wow, what a snooze. Although it does some cool things - like enable you to walk on walls and the ceiling, or travel through portals instantly to vastly different environments - it is mostly just a retread of all the old 90’s scifi shooters. The levels aren’t designed to seem real or lived-in, but are instead merely an amusement park created for the sole purpose of giving the player a place to mow down hordes of generic cybernetic aliens.

If you strip away the portals and the zero-gee wall walking, you end up with what is essentially the original Quake or Unreal. The weapons aren’t even terribly exciting - they feel hollow and fake, unlike the satisfying weapons found in games like Call of Duty 2, Halo and Half Life 2.

I’m happy to say that the demo did its job, ensuring that I will never purchase Prey. And take my word for it, it isn’t even worth your network resources to download that 1.2 gigabyte demo, free though it is. Be kind to your ISP - use their precious non-neutral pipes for something more important, like downloading the latest series of Doctor Who episodes, the season finale of which deserves a blog entry in its own right.

Besides wasting my time on terrible XBOX 360 demos, I’ve also been working on my application package for grad school. I’m getting closer, inch by inch. Only 12 pages to go, before my submission is complete. And then it’s back to Alberic Heresies #3, Le Corneille Noir, and a revision of the zombie play I wrote for the New Playhouse in Frederick, MD.

Life is busy, but it may get worse (or better, depending on your point of view), since it’s looking more and more likely that Tina, the girls and I will be moving in with my mom, some 70 miles from work. This means lots of time on the train to write and read, to activities that compete for my precious 1.5 hours of free time a night. Maybe I’ll actually accomplish something, as I contribute to the gradual destruction of the earth through the selfish use of fossil fuels. I hate that I may become a long distance commuter, tying up 6 hours a day in transit, but at this stage, with our finances stretched to the limit, and some $24,000 a year spent on daycare, we really have no other choice.

It hardly seems necessary to refer to NBC’s “The Office” as “the American version,” anymore. We’re now two years into the series, and it has definitely evolved into its own creature. Ricky Gervais’ original seems a distant memory now, and in many ways, I think the American version surpasses its British forebear in almost every regard.

Watching NBC’s marathon of season two episodes last night, I’m struck not only by how real the show is, but how humane it is. Although the British show was complex and painfully real, it tended to view its characters with contempt. David Brent didn’t grow into a sympathetic character until the Christmas special, and Gareth was always portrayed as a sociopath. In contrast, Michael Scott, while being an asshole and boob, also has a sympathetic side, a humanity that David never had. Like David Brent, Michael desperately wants to be liked, but there’s a pathos to his character. There’s something infinitely relatable and sad about how Michael clings to his boss, Jane, a woman who he hooked up with just once, but clearly has feelings for, despite the contradictory attraction and repulsion Jane has for him.

The only element of the show that retains much of the flavor of the original is the Jim/Pam relationship. Unlike the sudden and pat resolution in the UK Christmas special, though, we see a long and natural evolution from their flirty friendship, to Jim’s awkward revelation of affection in the season two finale that we never really had in the BBC version. Dawn and Tim become a couple in the series finale, because it’s what the audience wants. And although there is some catharsis in the fact that they do get together, the two seasons of the UK show seemed determine to keep them in limbo forever, like in a classic sitcom. Jim’s revelation to Pam evolves more naturally as part of the overall season two arc, and there is no moment during the second season when the audience doesn’t know that something will happen between them. Good or bad, change in their status quo was inevitable.

I was particularly struck last night in rewatching the scene where a confused and overwhelmed Pam talks to her mom on the phone about Jim. She is elated by his revelation, but also terrified of the consequences. Her mother, unheard by the audience, asks her if she loves him. “I think I do,” Pam replies.

She is both vulnerable and empowered by finally admitting her feelings to herself. But how she chooses to deal with that revelation remains to be seen. Which is what’s so great about the show — that its characters, like people in the real world, make such terrible mistakes when presented with two choices. And the consequences of those choices lead to classic comedy, as well as moments of awesome tragedy.

Yesterday, I had jury duty. When I found myself sitting in the jury box during the opening hours of jury selection, with the judge rattling off an indictment containing 17 counts of such crimes as obstruction of justice and assault, I felt that terrible sinking feeling that I would be held hostage in the courthouse for weeks. When the attorneys listed the names of the witnesses scheduled to be called, weeks turned into months. I was gripped by panic. How would I escape?

So I hatched a daring, desperate plan.

The first failed pre-emptive action occurred when each member of the jury pool was called to the bench and asked various questions related to the case and potential hardship. When it was my turn, I explained to the judge sitting atop her high throne (who incidentally looked an awful lot like the actress who played the guidence counselor/therapist on the late WB show “Felicity”) that my 11-month twins precluded my involvement in the trial. This, of course, resulted in a contemptuous chuckle from Her Grace, who would hear none of it. Then the lawyers got to ask their questions.

The defense attorney had an important one: “It says here that you’re a web developer. What does that mean exactly?”

Perhaps he thought I was like a spider, spinning web through some mysterious biological secretion, or maybe he imagined me working in a factory where web-like rubber mesh was produced for the U.S. Army in Iraq.

“Why is this relevant?” asked Minerva, the goddess of wisdom.

“Uhm,” stammered the defense attorney. Clearly his JD was well-earned.

“Why do you need to know what he does?”

It was never clear. Personally, I think he was curious, probably having never heard of the Internets. I was more than willing to fill him in on the intricacies of content development, content management systems, and PHP scripting, but never got the chance. Her majesty sent me back to my seat with assurances that I would not be dismised, even though the poor defense attorney was confused about my source of income.

As the hours of jury selection dragged on, I grew more impatiant and antsy, alternating between fidgeting in my seat and trying to take a nap. I found reading impossible, knowing that I would soon be assigned to this terrible eternal jury. So I executed a plan I’d formulated earlier. I began staring at the defendent.

I projected waves of telepathic energy at her. “Why did you plead innocent, when you are so clearly guilty?” I projected, my thoughts burrowing into her skull. Or at least, that’s what I pretended they were doing. Basically, I was just giving her dirty looks, hopefully not to be misinterpreted as a threat, but generally hostile to her case. The way she looked away when she noticed my gaze indicated that something good was happening.

Once the potential jurors were all interviewed by the court, the trading and cutting began. People around me in the jury box were sent to the courtroom, replaced by others from the pool. Each time a juror’s number was called to leave, I begged the fates that I was among the lucky. But for three waves of cuts, I was not.

“Don’t take it personally if you’re not included in the jury,” the judge said.

I wanted to say that I would take it as a triumph, but I kept my mouth shut.

Finally, I noticed the defense attorney lean in to whisper to his client, and I could read the words on his lips: “Is there anyone you don’t want on the jury.” As he mouthed this to her, her eyes pointed straight at me and locked with mine. She muttered something to him, he nodded and headed back to the bench, handing his final list to the clerk. I held my breath. Three more numbers were called — including mine, lucky number 900. I almost applauded, but thought it would be better to maintain my composure. My gambit had worked. I had successfully convinced her that I was not a fair juror. I was a free man.

No more jury duty again for two years. And with any luck, I’ll be living outside the city and never, ever be called upon to do my civic duty again.

The PBS kids show Boohbah was, I suspect, created by aliens intent on preparing young humans for the impending invasion. There’s no other way to explain how my girls become such perfect little couch potatoes when it comes on. Today, Rachel walked up to the screen, placed her hand on one of the chubby, creepy aliens and very distinctly said: “Boohbah.”

When the aliens come and our children are more than willing to collaborate with their fascist rule (along with “Brother and Sister” and “Mrs. Lady”), we’ll know why.