Today is Festivus, the bizarre Christmas-alternate holiday which seems to be gaining in real-world popularity, though many foolishly believe it was invented by “Seinfeld’s” Frank Costanza. I believed that too, until I read Allen Salkin’s fascinating article in The New York Times about the holiday’s true provenance:

The actual inventor of Festivus is Dan O’Keefe, 76, whose son Daniel, a writer on “Seinfeld,” appropriated a family tradition for the episode. The elder Mr. O’Keefe was stunned to hear that the holiday, which he minted in 1966, is catching on. “Have we accidentally invented a cult?” he wondered. …

Both Dan O’Keefe and his son bless the variations. The original Festivus was constantly in flux.

“It was entirely more peculiar than on the show,” the younger Mr. O’Keefe said from the set of the sitcom “Listen Up,” where he is now a writer. There was never a pole, but there were airings of grievances into a tape recorder and wrestling matches between Daniel and his two brothers, among other rites.

“There was a clock in a bag,” said Mr. O’Keefe, 36, adding that he does not know what it symbolized.

“Most of the Festivi had a theme,” he said. “One was, ‘Is there a light at the end of the tunnel?’ Another was, ‘Too easily made glad?'”

Read the whole shebang.

Nomah has been re-signed, according to Cubs.com. And for only one year. Great deal. Now go get Walker and minimize the Neifi factor.

UPDATE: Walker signed as well for one year with a $2.5 million option, AP says. Great stuff. Unless he gets injured, there’s just about no way he won’t start the vast majority of games at second base next year. And with the Tony Womack bullet dodged and Patterson’s leadoff ability seriously in doubt, Walker may wind up at the top of the order where he belongs. We shall see.

This leaves outfielder/possible Sosa trade and closer as the big moves yet to be made.

This site is so very disturbing in so very many ways. If you’re a sucker for mid-1990s era god-awful Web design, animated gifs galore, background MIDI music, obscenely large families and unusual religious beliefs, then the Cronshaw family Web site is a must-see.

Perhaps most disturbing is Matthew Allan’s Fun House. Is it a girl with a boy’s name or a boy who looks like a girl? Your guess is as good as mine.

Via MozillaZine, I happened upon a Web site for software developers called the Interface Hall of Shame, “an irreverent collection of common interface design mistakes.”

The site features screenshots of bad from different software programs accompanied by a critique of some kind. Some of the material here, like the sections on tabs, visual elements and terminology were of limited interest to me as a nondeveloper, but the sections on interface stupdity and illogical error messages are at times tear-inducingly funny. Here are some favorites.

Ah, the circle of life:

Options galore?

How comforting!

Apparently they are, to judge by this advertisement spat out by Google’s advertising algorithms, as spotted in a Gmail message which contained my post about an odd-looking exhibit at the new American Indian museum in Washington, D.C.

This comes fresh on the heels of Google News’ big scoop on Dubya’s arrest by the Canucks for war crimes.

Bonus trivia: A good name for a neo-’80s type band would be Algorithmics.

Should anyone be surprised that the two songs topping Rolling Stone magazine’s list of 500 greatest songs of all time? They are the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” at No. 2 and Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” at No. 1. Ahem, what’s the name of the damn magazine, people?

Naturally, as a Dylan fan I think the editors made an excellent choice with their top pick. I’ve now been to 19 Dylan concerts and have heard “Like a Rolling Stone” more often than any other song in concert — 13 times. You’d think that by now I’d be sick of hearing it. But while some performances have certainly been better than others, the song never fails to draw me in.

Whether Dylan’s voice is in form or not on a given night, he seems to always keep something in reserve for the song, which usually comes in the encore. By the time he gets to that first chorus and belts out the question,”How does it feel?” it never fails. The song is that good, that gripping, that urgent, that important, after nearly 40 years now.

Of course from one chorus to the next Dylan varies the timing of how long he draws out the “feel,” so you can never sing along, unless you don’t mind going too long or too short. You’ve no choice but just to listen, to appreciate what he’s doing, and enjoy the hell out of the song.

That’s just the way he wants it.

UPDATE: Here’s an interesting column in The New York Times by a former Columbia recording executive who takes credit for saving “Like a Rolling Stone” from the trash heap by getting it played at a trendy nightclub, giving it buzz the higher-ups were wise to heed. I’m a pretty serious Dylan fanatic and I’ve never heard or read this story anywhere, which makes me wonder whether it isn’t at least slightly fabricated to make the author, Shaun Considine, look far-sighted.

We have this magnet to the left on our refrigerator here at home, as except for a break following my recent injury, I usually do the dishes. It’s funny, but is it true? While my exhaustive search did not confirm a counterexample to this bit of marital folk wisdom, common sense would indicate that it couldn’t possibly be true. What better time could there be to shoot one’s husband than while he’s doing the dishes?

The sink usually faces away from the center of the kitchen so his back is turned, meaning he can’t see his murderous wife pointing the gun. The water is running, meaning he can’t hear her deadly approach. Isn’t it, in fact, the most opportune time for a wife to shoot her husband?

The only possibility I see to explain why there might not be a recorded instance of such a shooting is that if a wife is really intent on shooting her husband, she might as well wait until he’s finished doing the dishes. Why interrupt him as his doing his last husbandly duty? She’d shoot him just as he’s drying his hands or something.

Surely, after dragging her husband out to the garage, hefting his body into the trunk of the car, dumping it into the river, disposing of the pistol, cleaning up all the blood and those tiny bits of brain that everyone knows are such a pain to get at, doing the dishes is probably the last thing wifey wants to deal with.

So perhaps it is accurate to say that no husband has been shot while doing the dishes, strictly speaking. As they say, a wife’s work is never done. Even when she’s made herself a widow.

UPDATE: To answer your question: No, I haven’t been getting enough sleep lately.

Anyone who has ever ridden the el in Chicago on a regular basis has at least one funny or unusual story to tell. It’s kind of your reward for putting up with the misery of day after day of sitting next to strangers.

Now someone, Jonathan Messinger actually, has taken it upon himself to gather our stories together on a Web site called This is Grand: Stories of Chicago’s Rapid Transit. Here’s one I’ve picked at random from last August:

LET’S TAKE A POLL by Cecilia Wong

On the morning commute, somewhere between the Sheridan and Grand stops on the Red Line and 8:37AM – 9:05AM.

ADDISON
Young African-American man steps on, stands to address a well-crowded train and begins very precise, if not robotic, rant on Jesus.
YAA: (rant rant rant) God is all-powerful and loves us, but he also knows that he will teach us a lesson if we stray from him. I see everyone and I’m not afraid, because the flesh is just flesh, and I know Jesus will see and judge me
for who I am.
(Rant continues loudly.)

BELMONT
Older Black Man wearing a soft, correctional leg cast (thus far riding in silence) stands up to challenge YAA.
OBM: Young man, do you know what you are talking about? That shit you’re spouting? Pure European myth. M-I-T-H. You see the Pope? Do you think he in Europe knows what I am going through with my spirit in here (points to chest)? A black man in Chicago? You better shut up, all that’s coming out your mouth is pure myth. White man’s myth. M-I-T-H. (Keeps berating YAA, YAA keeps fighting back with his beliefs.)

NORTH/CLYBOURN
By the hand of fate (or God, maybe), a Priest walks onto the train and smack-dab into religious controversy.
OBM: (To YAA, pointing to Priest.) And you see this man right here?
I bet he’s gay.
YAA: (Looks speechless at OBM. OBM continues loudly.)
OBM: That man right there is gay! I bet you he is. I think we should take a poll. Everyone in here should vote on whether this man is gay! (points to priest, motions to a lady covering her ears and a woman smirking uncomfortably standing nearby.)
Priest: Yes, please let’s take a poll to decide whether I’m gay or not.(Younger White Male pipes in, takes aim at OBM.)
YWM: Will you shut up? This man has spent his life helping people here, and you just feel the need to insult and harass him for no good reason?
OBM: I think you’re gay too!
YWM: (Scoffs quietly.) Fine. I’m gay too.
OBM: And you know how I know you’re gay? I spent 20 years in the penitentiary and saw all these white boys getting it on.
YWM: Oh? You were in jail for 20 years and I’m gay?

GRAND
My stop. I’m quite certain that I’ll get flicked with some verbal diarrhea from OBM as I’m forced to walk right through the flying-accusation zone to get off the train. Luckily, the holy war rages on and there’s no time to stop me and I step
off, scotch-free.

Happens all the time! The site includes many other stories by various contributors. You may submit yours too.

UPDATE: There is another site along these lines called CTA tattler. I actually read about it today in RedEye while I was … riding the el. Hey — it was better than looking out the window!

A Denver high school band caled Coalition of the Willing is under fire from conservatives for deciding to play Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War” at their school’s talent show:

But some students and adults who heard the band rehearse called a radio talk show Thursday morning, saying that the band’s song ended with the call for President George W. Bush to die. Threatening the president is a federal crime, so the Secret Service was called to the school to investigate.

Fortunately, the school’s principal is standing behind the students and the Secret Service apparently backed off after taking a copy of the lyrics, which of course call only for an unnamed “master of war” to die, not Dubya. Dylan has been called “ahead of his time,” but it would be a feat even for him to call for the death of George W. Bush more than three decades before he even became governor of Texas.

Curt Schilling can be a blowhard, but just take a look at these photos — not for the squeamish — to see what was underneath the bloody sock.

Interior Desecrations offers a peek at “horrible homes from the brass age of American design” — the 1970s.

Note: This post was written using my Logitech io Personal Digital Pen. Originally, the underlined words were hyperlinked in HTML but I’m letting that slide this time around.