Bill and Ted’s Excellent Cereal

Overall Rating: 73

A gimmick cereal that, by rights, out to stick around. It’s probably significant, though, that although Bill & Ted have been around as characters for several years, the cereal didn’t appear until the characters went into an animated TV show. This does not bode well for its staying power, so enjoy it while you can. And if you know what’s good for you, don’t read the ingredients list.

Image from the Institute collection

Appearance

Excellent. For once, no pretense to representation. The cereal is rectangular, with roughly circular cutouts in each piece. It is carefully neutral in colour, a light brown that reminds one of the beige carpets so popular in suburban living rooms. The neutral cereal admirably sets off the wildly coloured marshmallows that permeate the product in a number of less-than-tasteful pastel shades. The overall effect is colourful without being shocking. You could wake up to something like this without doing retinal damage. (The marshmallows, by the way, are supposed to represent musical notes. They more or less succeed at this. Marshmallow is obviously easier to work with than the flour paste of which most cereal is made.)

Texture and Taste, Dry

Good initial crunch, but with little follow-through. This may be an advantage, as it likely prevents mouth-damage from all those sharp edges. Certainly one can consume this product with less fear of injury than is the case with Prince of Thieves (see previous Sucrophile). The marshmallows are very weird, and have to be experienced to be believed. Note that cereal marshmallows are not at all like their toast-it-over-the-campfire cousins. Cereal marshmallows are dessicated little shriveled lumps of almost pure sugar, and are the textural equivalent of the classic bully: they  put up a strong front but vanish when the crunch comes. B&T marshmallows have a very brief, very strong resistance and crunchy mouthfeel. The second their integrity is shattered and they encounter saliva, however, they essentially evaporate, leaving a slightly chemical tang and the overpowering sensation of pure sweetness. The flavours are not particularly complementary. The cereal is actually quite delicate, with a nice balance of sugar and cinnamon flavour, with a graham-cracker finish. This is strongly at odds with the heavily sweetened, floral finish of the marshmallows. The result is often confused taste buds and the nagging feeling that becoming physically ill might be preferable. If you must eat this dry, it’s best to pick and choose, separating the two components. This isn’t as hard to do as one might think, and it can prove a useful gauge of how the sugar level in your bloodstream is affecting your hand-eye coordination. And people complain that kiddyrot cereals have no socially redeeming values!

Texture and Taste, With Milk

Texturally, something of a muddle. Neither component makes its presence known clearly, and the result is a vaguely defined crunch that dissipates fairly quickly in milk. If you can isolate the marshmallows, though, you’re in for a treat. They become even more complex, texturally, when milk is added. There’s a bit of a softening of the outside, but the milk doesn’t penetrate far. The result is a sort of triple effect: a hint of soft marshmallow followed by a good stiff resistance to the bite, followed by that cataclysmic shattering into pure sugar rush. The admixture of texture and flavour is not a total loss, however. Where it disappoints in terms of texture, this product more than satisfies in terms of taste. (If you can develop a taste, that is, for heavily perfumed sugars. It’s no problem for Sucrophile, we assure you.) The sugar of the marshmallows is much more dominant in the moistened cereal than it is in the dry, and the result is a breakfast that’s almost schizophrenic: mild cinnamon flavour alternating quickly with hysterical bursts of sweetness. It’s easy to eat several bowls of this without thinking; afterward, even religious programs and infomercials are entertaining.

Conclusion

For a really good time, pick out the marshmallows from this and combine them with a box of Prince of Thieves cereal. Eat several bowls and listen to your blood-sugar compounding  like the Russian* inflation rate. Just be sure you’ve made out your will first. [June 1992]

*For contemporary readers, substitute "Venezuelan". Also, isn't an actual phone booth not, like, the greatest cereal-box prize evahr?

Dixie's Land 2.6

[Concluding chapter two]

“I know that you are frustrated, Charles.”  Uncle James handed him a glass of brandy, then poured another for himself.  After leaving the meeting they had retired to the rooms Uncle James used when he visited Richmond.  On the mantel, a small clock chimed once.  “But you can contribute to your country in many ways beyond fighting her enemies on a battlefield.”

“I could better contribute by serving with the Texans,” Stewart said, “if I’m not to be allowed to serve the Confederacy in the field.  I’ll be wasting my time in New Orleans.”

Uncle James shook his head.  The older man was in his early fifties, but still looked fit and trim.  Save for the gray hair at his temples, he could have been a man in his thirties.  Unlike too many wealthy planters, he had not allowed himself to soften through self-indulgence.  He drank in moderation; he did not lay his hands on the female slaves.  He remained devoted to his family and, if anything, he worked harder now than he had when Stewart was a child.

"You shouldn’t think of it as a waste," Uncle James said, getting to his feet.  He took a careful sip from his brandy glass.  "You should be thinking of how to turn this experience to your advantage.  Look at the long view, boy.  Armies are political creatures, almost as political as legislatures.  Do a good job in New Orleans, no matter how distasteful you may find it from a personal point of view, and there’s no telling how high you may rise."

Dixie's Land 2.5

[Continuing chapter two]

Sitting on the bed in his hotel room, Stewart gazed at the uniform hanging from the back of the door.  As the colors blurred, he asked himself—again—if he was doing the right thing by his country and that uniform.  Five weeks ago he had stood, feeling small and awkward as Uncle James had said, “Gentlemen, this is my nephew Captain Charles Stewart,” to a group of unsmiling men who stared at him with what looked like predatory hunger.  “This is the young man about whom you’ve heard so much.”

The very day Stewart had been told of his assignment to the treaty commission, Uncle James had summoned him to this dark, imposing mansion without saying a word as to why.  Worse, the men seemed to be meeting in secret: the mansion, on the hill just up the street from the Confederate White House, was mostly dark when he entered it, and Stewart had been convinced that he was not meant to know what transpired in this place.

"Charles,” said Uncle James, “I'd like you to meet your host, Senator Preston Brooks.  Congressmen John Floyd, William T. S. Barry and Charles Faulkner, Senior.  And you may already have met General Hugh Mercer."

Now more nervous, if that were possible, Charles shook the proffered hands and tried to project calm.  Senator Brooks, though young, was one of the nation's most influential politicians outside the cabinet; his temper was legendary.  And while Stewart hadn't in fact met General Mercer, he'd certainly heard of the general during the long months in which Stewart had appealed in vain to return to duty; Mercer was a high-ranker in the Quartermaster’s Department.

Dixie's Land 2.4

[Continuing chapter two]

It felt wonderful to be outside in the twilight.  Yes, the air still smelled of the river, and Stewart knew that the thin breeze blowing up St. Peter Street wasn't really going to cool him much, if at all.  He didn't care.  He was free of be-medaled mob in the Cabildo, and at the moment that was all that mattered.

A poster across the street caught his eye; it looked like a playbill.  He crossed over, enjoying the feel of stone under his feet.  In Richmond, he'd have been in mud up to his ankles.  The poster was indeed a playbill; what's more, the small, tasteful sign above it proclaimed this building to be a theatre.  Now that he saw it, though, there was something odd about the playbill.  In the second that it took him to realize what that oddness was, a feminine voice confirmed it for him:  "I'm afraid you won't find much to enjoy here, sir.  The St. Peter Street Theatre performs only in French."

"So I see," Stewart said.  He turned to face the speaker.  She was small, the top of her head perhaps reaching to just above his shoulder.  Slender, too; he thought he might be able to span her waist with his hands.  In the fading light he couldn't make out many details of her face, but he thought he saw an aquiline nose—could she be French?—and dark hair, the ringlets framing an oval face.  "And how could you tell that I wouldn't understand French?"

"You're in uniform, sir.  I have yet to meet a soldier who's interested in anything French, well though some of the officers may speak the language."  She came closer, examining him with a frankness that was a bit unsettling—as was the realization of just how young she looked.  "That's an interesting uniform.  You're one of the Confederates, aren't you?  The ones negotiating a treaty or something?"

"Guilty as charged.  Captain Charles Stewart, Virginia State Militia and Confederate States Army, at your service."

"I'm Pauline Martin," the woman said.  "Normally, I don't accost gentlemen in the street, but I thought you might be in search of theatrical entertainment.  I'm an actress, you see.  I'm appearing in the new show at Placide's Varieties on Gravier Street.  It’s a pretty good show, if you like to laugh.  I could probably get you a reduced admission tonight."

Stewart stared at her.  She seemed to be in earnest, and he had no idea of what to do about that.  Women didn't accost men in the street—ladies didn't, at any rate.  Women might, if they were what his aunt had once referred to (in a tone that had made the capital letters audible) as That Sort of Woman.  He hoped that wasn’t the case here.  Well, most of him hoped it wasn't.  The problem was those parts of him that didn't care, or, worse, were threatening full-fledged rebellion against propriety.

A sudden memory burst in his mind: as a boy, seeing Mrs. Poe on the stage.  Edgar Poe might be praised as one of the world’s great writers and actors, but it was his mother Stewart remembered.  To his nine-year-old self she had seemed the most beautiful person in the world.  She’d been in her late forties then, but some kind of magic had erased the years from her.

Eventually propriety won, but just.  "I'm sorry, Miss Martin," he said.  "Much as the theatre interests me"—I hope that wasn't too obvious—"I am expected back inside the Cabildo.  Perhaps I shall see you perform later."

"I’d like that," she said.  "A pleasure meeting you, Captain Stewart."

Stewart watched Miss Martin continue down the street and turn left into Nelson Square.  He walked back to the front of the Cabildo; from here he could see figures clustered in the gloom of the square, and he tried to spot the tiny form of Miss Martin among them.  Wishing now that he'd had the kind of courage Patton ascribed to him, Stewart took a last deep breath of river-soaked air, and went back to the reception.

* * * *

Herding Commas

I am reading a history text from Cambridge University Press, and even by British standards I'm finding the use of commas in this book frustrating if not infuriating.

I understand that the British approach to commas is, well, different. Those folks appear to be terrified of semicolons, as a result of which they go more than a little bit nuts with comma splices, creating sentences that in many cases don't just run on, they lurch and stagger about like a Universal Pictures mummy with a bad case of the jags.

It's worse than British norm with this book, making me seriously wonder about the editors who worked on it (the author's an academic and therefore past worrying about)*. We don't just have comma splices here; we have hordes of commas seemingly dropped in at random, apparently introducing parenthetical or subordinate clauses, only to run away giggling when we look for closure. In a text in which meaning is already difficult to discern because of the complexity of the subject, this punctuation madness is enough to cause sleeplessness in the reader.

The overwhelming impression I'm getting is of a population out of control. And last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, the following Public Service Announcement played in my head:

Ampersand Who's Who

[audio]

Cue: Theme music

[title]

The Comma

[announcer]

From the earliest days of written language, the comma has roamed the vast plains and woodlands of the English language. Once, this modest and unassuming animal served humankind well, providing the sort of break that makes written language approach the rhythm of speech and thus retain comprehensibility.

Of late, however, the comma population has exploded beyond the ability of humans to control it. Now hordes of commas compete with other, less-common forms of punctuation for sentence-space, resisting all efforts to reduce their numbers and increase readability.

It is believed that the explosion in the comma population is due to the near-extinction of the comma's only major predator, the colon. The colon and its near-relative, the semi-colon (excreted when a colon  kills and eats a comma) are being starved out by the refusal of modern writers to use them, and of writers and editors to even try to understand their place in the ecology of written English.

To learn more, or to help restore the balance of nature, please contact your local department of English studies.

*Either the author or the editor—or, most likely, everybody involved in the book—seems to have been under the impression that the US journalist Nellie Blye was a male person. The mind reels.

Dixie's Land 2.3

Previous    First

[Continuing chapter two]

The second-floor gallery of the Cabildo was crowded with uniformed men and be-gowned ladies.  As if it hadn't already been warm enough, a battalion of gas lamps had been lit in an attempt to cut the late-afternoon gloom.  Stewart surreptitiously raised a hand to wipe sweat from his forehead; since the hand was already soaked, all this did was shift the moisture so that it collected in his hair to join the trickle running along the line of his jaw and down his neck.

"Do you think we're going to be introduced to him?" Patton asked in a loud whisper.

Dixie's Land 2.2

Previous    First

[Continuing chapter two]

"This place is fantastic,” Patton said.  He waved at a seemingly unending sequence of warehouses, the stone buildings a pale grey, their wood counterparts painted oxblood or dark green.  They were walking at their leisure in the general direction of the Cabildo, the governor-general’s winter residence, where an official welcome that couldn’t be avoided was supposed to take place, in the presence of Governor-General Lord Byron himself.  “Look at these crates, Stewart –- there’s things here from just about everywhere in the world.”

"Including Mississippi and Alabama," Stewart said.  “I thought we’d been refusing trade with any country that hadn’t recognized our independence.”  As if to prove his point, they passed huge bales, clearly cotton, whose labels proclaimed them as having come from just upriver, in Mississippi.

“Don’t be so sour, Stewart,” Patton said.  “This just means you can’t keep a good businessman down.”

“Look out!” a voice shouted, just as someone drove a shoulder into Stewart’s side.  Cursing, Stewart slammed into Patton and they fell sideways into the unyielding wall of a warehouse.  A second later a huge bale smashed into the spot where he and Patton had been standing.

Don't Give Up Your Day Job

There's been some discussion lately about writers' incomes. A couple of months ago the Writer's Union of Canada released a survey claiming that their average writer's income was down 27 percent from what it was three years ago. (And the average they provided was under $10,000 Canadian, or horrifically under the minimum wage.) Earlier this month John Scalzi and Cory Doctorow both had pieces up concerning a recent US Authors Guild survey on the same subject.

"I could be happy as a writer, if I could just get over this
tremendous passion for money."

Both of these gents have pointed out that the US survey isn't very good (I haven't been able to find data on the Canadian survey, only news reports based on its press release), and I will add that there's more than a little bit of vested interest behind both surveys.

But the point I want to make about this (which of course Scalzi already has) is exemplified in the title of this post. Nobody should really be expecting to make a decent living—or any sort of living at all, really—from writing fiction. Unless they are John Scalzi and Cory Doctorow, of course.

I know a fair number of writers, and count many of them as friends. Of these friends, only Cory could be said to be supporting himself with his fiction—and Cory also derives income from Boing Boing and from speaking gigs (and all the more power to him).

And there is nothing wrong with this. Dr. Johnson may have been speaking the truth for the 18th century when he wrote "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money," but you'll note he did not specify how much money. We should not be basing our expectations on the performance of the top one percent of writers any more than we should base them on the top one percent of any field.

It always surprises me how many people don't seem to have absorbed this lesson. I suppose ambition is a good thing. But it's not so good when ambition leads you to self-imposed poverty, something I have seen all too much of. There can be a modus vivendi between ambition and comfort. In the next few days (amidst all the other goings-on here) I want to discuss that modus in a bit more detail.