That title is both inaccurate and unfair. There is something definitely American in the wholehearted embrace of whizbang technology in Scott Phillips' The American Woodshop. And there is nothing at all unpatriotic about the show or its host. They are both Red-White-and-Blue through and through. But, man, both the show and the host annoy me until the cows come home driving a tricked-out Caddy SUV.
Some of it is born of envy, I happily admit. The man's workshop probably cost three or four times more than my house to build. The woodworking machinery alone probably is worth more than my house right now. There is nothing un-American about envy, either. But what really turns me green is the waste.
I have a rum gut, so it doesn't take much to get me queasy. The way this guy runs through wood is truly American. He takes some beautiful salvaged wood, wood that is a century or more from the tree, and turns it into pure crap. And he just tosses away enough wood to make any other woodworker cry.
On one show he took a 6X6 walnut beam, saved from a demolished 19th Century barn -- (so the real dimensions were almost at the nominal), and planed it down to four-by. Then what did he do? He chopped it into foot-long lengths, and shaved off the outer half-inch of each block to make the sides and ends for some walnut drawers! And threw away the rest. He couldn't make eight sides from one block? No, of course not. That would be both economical and sensible. That's pretty bad, isn't it? Don't get your bowel strangulated. There's worse. How did he make the drawers? Dovetails perhaps? Box joints? Nope. Super Glue.
Speaking of dovetails. The gauge of a workman's skill is his dovetails. That's one of the maxims of woodworking. They print it on T-shirts. So, it's practically a tenet. You know that Scott Phillips is about to sin against it with all his might whenever he recites it religiously. Craftsmen make dovetails with a saw and chisels. Some do it by eye, others do the layout with a bevel and square. I'm no master carpenter. My dovetails always have irregularities, and sometime even a gap that needs to be filled with a sliver of wood. But they are honest, hand-made, workmanlike dovetails. Scott Phillips does them with a thousand dollar jig and a power router. The only skill involved in making his dovetails is in locking down the wood in the jig.
Give me Roy Underhill any day. He might be a fundamentalist, but his work is authentic, in every sense.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
The Postal Service and Me.
June 25, 2010.
Inside the mail box, atop the familiar glossy invitation from a local car dealer to "Scratch and Win," there is an unusual piece of paper. It is slightly off-white and printed with green lettering. It is a form. At the top are two drawings of mail boxes, such as you might see lining the streets of any suburban or rural road. One is forlorn and rather decrepit. The other is spruce and chipper. They might be pictures of the same box, one drawn in some happier time, when life seemed full of hope and promise, the other, after years of toil and weather, in it's old age, filled with despair and dark thoughts of death. The legend asks, "Which one looks like your mail box?"
The implication, of course, is clear.
The form is designed to register complaints about the state of one's mailbox, with two columns of check boxes, each box accompanied by a curt description of some possible potential grievance. "Your box is not an approved box." "The door needs attention." "Box must be located so carrier can serve it without leaving vehicle." "Your box is not waterproof." "Your box should be raised (blank) inches." CHECK.
The check mark is further annotated, in an impressive cursive script, at the bottom of the form. "20. Other faults. 'Box must be 42 " from road to bottom of box.'"
First thing to do, obviously is look at box. It's old. The house it serves was built in the 1960s, and is located in a rural subdivision in North Central Florida. Cattle and horses are still being raised nearby. The roads are kept paved by the homeowners association. There are five houses on a street about one half mile long. Two of the other houses are contemporaries of this one, while the other two are products of the early stages of the recent housing boom/bust. Beyond this house, the electric power line extends one more pole and then ends abruptly at vacant lots that run to the end of the street. It is, as I say, rural.
One of the things I noticed shortly after buying the house 15 and a half years ago was the number scratched into the dull aluminum of the mail box. It is a date, 1972.
So, for 38 years, the box has stood by the side of the road, faithfully discharging its Postmaster Approved duties, through hurricanes and hundred degree temperatures in the summer and freezing temperatures and gale-force winds in the winter. It has been there almost since the establishment of the U.S. Postal Service in 1970. Richard Nixon was president, running one of the most corrupt administrations in American history. Every month back then about 1,000 U.S. service men were being killed in Vietnam. Ah, good times.
Now, the box is an outlaw. OK, it's thirty-four inches from the road surface to the bottom of the box. So what? It's been there 38 years. Nobody has complained about it in the last 15 years. Why now?
July 1.
My weekly trip into town. 18 miles round trip. Everything I need to do for the week, that cannot be done at home -- grocery shopping, banking, prescription filling, gassing up the car, everything, has to be done that one day. It's that way every week. One day a week, for two hours. I decide to add something to the usual to-do list: Visit the Post Office and ask about The Notice.
The first clerk I speak to throws up her hands and says, laughing, "You aren't going to talk to me about that!" The two other clerks also laugh. She does take The Notice. After reading, she gives it her best shot, basically repeating what is on the page. She then tells me that the Postmaster is not here, but I can speak to the Supervisor, if I want. I want. She goes away into the back of the building and, in a minute of so, the Supervisor walks to the counter.
He reads The Notice. He explains, using pretty much the same wording as The Notice. I inform him that the box has been there 38 years. "Why is it so important now to raise the box?" He explains that the Postmaster has been trying for three years to get boxes in the area up to Standard. He has sent out notices. The Supervisor has driven around and sent out notices. I object that I have received no such notice prior to The Notice. The Supervisor says that the previous notices were given to the Carriers. Perhaps, he suggests, the Carriers, for their own reasons, did not deliver them. This time the Postmaster has personally put The Notice in my box. I suggest that the fact that the box has worked just fine for THIRTY EIGHT YEARS indicates that there is no need to change it now. I further suggest it is not exactly good public relations, when the Postal Service is running a 6.7 billion dollar annual deficit, to waster time and money antagonizing customers. The Supervisor demurs, but says that the Postmaster, his boss, makes the final decision. He, the Supervisor, cannot reverse the Postmaster. He gives me the telephone number and the name of the Postmaster. I should call that afternoon. I observe that it sounds unlikely that the Postmaster will change his mind. The Supervisor offers that, on occasion, the Postmaster has been known to reverse himself. I wish the Supervisor a Happy Independence Day.
That afternoon, I call the Post Office, hoping to speak to the Postmaster. "This line is busy," the voice of Ma Bell informs me. I try again later. "This line is busy," Ma Bell repeats. I give up.
July 7.
The Federal holiday is over. I am, like the country, a year older. Sheer coincidence, but I am feeling not happy. The Notice has been a magnet for my eyes and thoughts. I have been stewing. I decide that, failing to meet the Postmaster in person, and being unable to reach him by telephone, the Devil's instrument, I shall write a letter. I write a letter. It is brief. I enclose photographic evidence of the date on the box. I argue that the simple fact of long usage is sufficient to demonstrate that the box is serving its purpose adequately. I make the deficit point. I am courteous but firm. I mail the letter.
July 9.
Deadline day. Nothing.
July 10.
D-Day plus one. Nothing.
July 12-16.
Nothing. I begin to notice Nothing.
July 17.
I put a letter in the box. At the end of the day, it is still there. Perhaps I missed the Carrier. She sometimes arrives early.
July 19.
I put the letter in the box. Early. At 3:00 p.m. it is still there.
I call the Post Office. Surprisingly, I get through. I ask for the Postmaster.
We go over the familiar ground again. By now, I am a bit annoyed. I point out that there are others, perhaps hundreds, of mailboxes on the route, many of them much lower than my own. The Postmaster suggests that the owners of those boxes will be noticing that they, too, are not receiving their mail. I suggest that this is highly irresponsible, as there are people who depend upon the U.S. Mail for their pensions, their medications, who pay their utility and mortgage bills through the postal service. Is the Postmaster willing to put the incomes, homes and even the lives of those people at risk? Apparently, so. It is not his fault. When I reach the end of my arguments, the Postmaster is unmoved. I play what I believe to be my trump card.
Why did he not reply to my letter of protest before discontinuing mail service?
"You didn't include your telephone number. I couldn't reach you."
I burst out laughing.
The Postmaster could not reach me without my phone number.
I had to apologize for my outburst, but I was still laughing when I hung up.
The Man had won again.
Inside the mail box, atop the familiar glossy invitation from a local car dealer to "Scratch and Win," there is an unusual piece of paper. It is slightly off-white and printed with green lettering. It is a form. At the top are two drawings of mail boxes, such as you might see lining the streets of any suburban or rural road. One is forlorn and rather decrepit. The other is spruce and chipper. They might be pictures of the same box, one drawn in some happier time, when life seemed full of hope and promise, the other, after years of toil and weather, in it's old age, filled with despair and dark thoughts of death. The legend asks, "Which one looks like your mail box?"
The implication, of course, is clear.
The form is designed to register complaints about the state of one's mailbox, with two columns of check boxes, each box accompanied by a curt description of some possible potential grievance. "Your box is not an approved box." "The door needs attention." "Box must be located so carrier can serve it without leaving vehicle." "Your box is not waterproof." "Your box should be raised (blank) inches." CHECK.
The check mark is further annotated, in an impressive cursive script, at the bottom of the form. "20. Other faults. 'Box must be 42 " from road to bottom of box.'"
First thing to do, obviously is look at box. It's old. The house it serves was built in the 1960s, and is located in a rural subdivision in North Central Florida. Cattle and horses are still being raised nearby. The roads are kept paved by the homeowners association. There are five houses on a street about one half mile long. Two of the other houses are contemporaries of this one, while the other two are products of the early stages of the recent housing boom/bust. Beyond this house, the electric power line extends one more pole and then ends abruptly at vacant lots that run to the end of the street. It is, as I say, rural.
One of the things I noticed shortly after buying the house 15 and a half years ago was the number scratched into the dull aluminum of the mail box. It is a date, 1972.
So, for 38 years, the box has stood by the side of the road, faithfully discharging its Postmaster Approved duties, through hurricanes and hundred degree temperatures in the summer and freezing temperatures and gale-force winds in the winter. It has been there almost since the establishment of the U.S. Postal Service in 1970. Richard Nixon was president, running one of the most corrupt administrations in American history. Every month back then about 1,000 U.S. service men were being killed in Vietnam. Ah, good times.
Now, the box is an outlaw. OK, it's thirty-four inches from the road surface to the bottom of the box. So what? It's been there 38 years. Nobody has complained about it in the last 15 years. Why now?
July 1.
My weekly trip into town. 18 miles round trip. Everything I need to do for the week, that cannot be done at home -- grocery shopping, banking, prescription filling, gassing up the car, everything, has to be done that one day. It's that way every week. One day a week, for two hours. I decide to add something to the usual to-do list: Visit the Post Office and ask about The Notice.
The first clerk I speak to throws up her hands and says, laughing, "You aren't going to talk to me about that!" The two other clerks also laugh. She does take The Notice. After reading, she gives it her best shot, basically repeating what is on the page. She then tells me that the Postmaster is not here, but I can speak to the Supervisor, if I want. I want. She goes away into the back of the building and, in a minute of so, the Supervisor walks to the counter.
He reads The Notice. He explains, using pretty much the same wording as The Notice. I inform him that the box has been there 38 years. "Why is it so important now to raise the box?" He explains that the Postmaster has been trying for three years to get boxes in the area up to Standard. He has sent out notices. The Supervisor has driven around and sent out notices. I object that I have received no such notice prior to The Notice. The Supervisor says that the previous notices were given to the Carriers. Perhaps, he suggests, the Carriers, for their own reasons, did not deliver them. This time the Postmaster has personally put The Notice in my box. I suggest that the fact that the box has worked just fine for THIRTY EIGHT YEARS indicates that there is no need to change it now. I further suggest it is not exactly good public relations, when the Postal Service is running a 6.7 billion dollar annual deficit, to waster time and money antagonizing customers. The Supervisor demurs, but says that the Postmaster, his boss, makes the final decision. He, the Supervisor, cannot reverse the Postmaster. He gives me the telephone number and the name of the Postmaster. I should call that afternoon. I observe that it sounds unlikely that the Postmaster will change his mind. The Supervisor offers that, on occasion, the Postmaster has been known to reverse himself. I wish the Supervisor a Happy Independence Day.
That afternoon, I call the Post Office, hoping to speak to the Postmaster. "This line is busy," the voice of Ma Bell informs me. I try again later. "This line is busy," Ma Bell repeats. I give up.
July 7.
The Federal holiday is over. I am, like the country, a year older. Sheer coincidence, but I am feeling not happy. The Notice has been a magnet for my eyes and thoughts. I have been stewing. I decide that, failing to meet the Postmaster in person, and being unable to reach him by telephone, the Devil's instrument, I shall write a letter. I write a letter. It is brief. I enclose photographic evidence of the date on the box. I argue that the simple fact of long usage is sufficient to demonstrate that the box is serving its purpose adequately. I make the deficit point. I am courteous but firm. I mail the letter.
July 9.
Deadline day. Nothing.
July 10.
D-Day plus one. Nothing.
July 12-16.
Nothing. I begin to notice Nothing.
July 17.
I put a letter in the box. At the end of the day, it is still there. Perhaps I missed the Carrier. She sometimes arrives early.
July 19.
I put the letter in the box. Early. At 3:00 p.m. it is still there.
I call the Post Office. Surprisingly, I get through. I ask for the Postmaster.
We go over the familiar ground again. By now, I am a bit annoyed. I point out that there are others, perhaps hundreds, of mailboxes on the route, many of them much lower than my own. The Postmaster suggests that the owners of those boxes will be noticing that they, too, are not receiving their mail. I suggest that this is highly irresponsible, as there are people who depend upon the U.S. Mail for their pensions, their medications, who pay their utility and mortgage bills through the postal service. Is the Postmaster willing to put the incomes, homes and even the lives of those people at risk? Apparently, so. It is not his fault. When I reach the end of my arguments, the Postmaster is unmoved. I play what I believe to be my trump card.
Why did he not reply to my letter of protest before discontinuing mail service?
"You didn't include your telephone number. I couldn't reach you."
I burst out laughing.
The Postmaster could not reach me without my phone number.
I had to apologize for my outburst, but I was still laughing when I hung up.
The Man had won again.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
Winner of the Tom Toles Obama Birthday Cartoon Contest
Tom Toles of The Washington Post, Pulitzer-prize-winning Tom Toles, conducted another of his cartoon caption contests, this time to supply a caption for an editorial cartoon commemorating President Obama's 50th birthday. The winner is here. Four out of the top ten finalists is not bad, either.
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Greatest Woodworking Tool Ever.
It slices, it dices, it juliennes, it purees.
The Stanley "55" Plane, the Universal Combination Plane, "A Planing Mill Within Itself." The height of 19th Century manual tool invention, the Stanley 55 combined a shelf-full of molding planes with rabbet, plow, dado, filletster, match, beading, sash and slitting planes. It is certainly the most versatile hand tool ever created, and, when properly adjusted, the most useful. It is, also, unfortunately the most intimidating tool imaginable.
An elaboration of the Stanley 45, which was already an advanced combination plane (above), the 55 looks like a something from a modern steam punk fantasy.
The two fences make the plane formidable, but, although Stanley recommended that both fences be used whenever possible, the 55 could be used most of the time with one fence on the left side.
It could even be used for most purposes without the "tower", the adjustable center bottom, or skate, which provided a third supporting surface for the cutters or plane irons used in making moldings with both convex and concave profiles.
The fact that the plane could serve so many purposes meant that it had to be set up properly when the purpose changed. The adjustments were many, and precision was not only possible but necessary. This precision capability/necessity led to some people calling the plane finicky. They compared it to the dedicated molding planes, which, at most, had one adjustment, that for depth. While not really a fair criticism -- after all the plane was doing the work of a dozen or more planes, it has had the effect of giving the plane a reputation for being difficult to use. Use is seldom a problem, in fact. If the plane is reduced to only the necessary elements for the particular purpose at hand, the actual number of adjustments needed is small. Once they have been made, the plane will cut even a complex molding profile quickly and easily.
The Stanley "55" Plane, the Universal Combination Plane, "A Planing Mill Within Itself." The height of 19th Century manual tool invention, the Stanley 55 combined a shelf-full of molding planes with rabbet, plow, dado, filletster, match, beading, sash and slitting planes. It is certainly the most versatile hand tool ever created, and, when properly adjusted, the most useful. It is, also, unfortunately the most intimidating tool imaginable.
An elaboration of the Stanley 45, which was already an advanced combination plane (above), the 55 looks like a something from a modern steam punk fantasy.
The two fences make the plane formidable, but, although Stanley recommended that both fences be used whenever possible, the 55 could be used most of the time with one fence on the left side.
It could even be used for most purposes without the "tower", the adjustable center bottom, or skate, which provided a third supporting surface for the cutters or plane irons used in making moldings with both convex and concave profiles.The fact that the plane could serve so many purposes meant that it had to be set up properly when the purpose changed. The adjustments were many, and precision was not only possible but necessary. This precision capability/necessity led to some people calling the plane finicky. They compared it to the dedicated molding planes, which, at most, had one adjustment, that for depth. While not really a fair criticism -- after all the plane was doing the work of a dozen or more planes, it has had the effect of giving the plane a reputation for being difficult to use. Use is seldom a problem, in fact. If the plane is reduced to only the necessary elements for the particular purpose at hand, the actual number of adjustments needed is small. Once they have been made, the plane will cut even a complex molding profile quickly and easily.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Googlenopenolifeatall.
Google is reportedly working on a solution to the problem, created by Google, and first recognized by Gene Weingarten, "humor" columnist of The Washington Post, of the evanescence of original phrasing in the English language.
In the past, a writer could invent a neophrase, a new sequence of words, and it would linger in the literary atmosphere, perhaps for years, as something unique. Then along came the Google spider and soon phrases were being sucked up into the interwebs at the speed of cyberthought, their lifeless carcases cataloged almost the instant that they hit the electronic fly-paper in the personal computer. Phrases that were not caught in Google's virtually infinitely-fine silk sieve became more and more rare and more and more short-lived (not to mention, more and more strained). Gene Weingarten recognized this fact, and coined the word googlenope for the phrase, enclosed by quotations, that returned no hits in a Google search. The word "googlenope" was itself a googlenope only briefly.
Now Google has attacked the problem with its trademark™ brutal force, and come up with the WhatNow® (Weingarten heuristic automatic thesaurus-like natural omni-phrasing wanker), a computer program that does nothing all day but create new English language phrases that can be stored in Google's computer banks, thereby rendering the googlenope extinct. "This is not a swipe at Mr. Weingarten. We are merely protecting our intellectual property," said Google's Sergey Bryn. The googlenope is predicted to have a googlenopenolife at all in the future.
In the past, a writer could invent a neophrase, a new sequence of words, and it would linger in the literary atmosphere, perhaps for years, as something unique. Then along came the Google spider and soon phrases were being sucked up into the interwebs at the speed of cyberthought, their lifeless carcases cataloged almost the instant that they hit the electronic fly-paper in the personal computer. Phrases that were not caught in Google's virtually infinitely-fine silk sieve became more and more rare and more and more short-lived (not to mention, more and more strained). Gene Weingarten recognized this fact, and coined the word googlenope for the phrase, enclosed by quotations, that returned no hits in a Google search. The word "googlenope" was itself a googlenope only briefly.
Now Google has attacked the problem with its trademark™ brutal force, and come up with the WhatNow® (Weingarten heuristic automatic thesaurus-like natural omni-phrasing wanker), a computer program that does nothing all day but create new English language phrases that can be stored in Google's computer banks, thereby rendering the googlenope extinct. "This is not a swipe at Mr. Weingarten. We are merely protecting our intellectual property," said Google's Sergey Bryn. The googlenope is predicted to have a googlenopenolife at all in the future.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Sherlock: The Blind Wanker.
I estimated in the previous post that this Sherlock had about 50 percent of the brain wattage of the real Holmes. This week I am revising that estimate downward by another 50 percent. This Sherlock makes the odd observation when it suits the plot, but when it is auctorially necessary Sherlock is conveniently blind. Three times during the episode Sherlock misses important clues that are right in front of him, in one case literally right in front of his nose. He does not see the jade hairpin in Lukis' PA/lover's hairdo, even though he is looking over her shoulder as she is working at her computer. The real Holmes would have seen and recognized the importance of the pin, especially as Sherlock was already aware that Lukis had been killed for stealing from someone on his most recent trip to China. Sherlock misses the partial translation on the photo of the graffiti. Even more egregious, in a lame PC bow to the "need" to make the female love-interest more than simply a Victorian victim, he is shown up by Sarah, Watson's latest candidate for the next Mrs. Watson, who points it out. And, then, while he is standing not twenty feet from the doorway of 221B, Watson and Sarah are abducted from the flat by Tong members who walked in by the front entrance!
Nothing, however, can compare to the idiocy of the earlier culmination of the search for the elusive witness, Soo Lin, the young Chinese woman who can provide the secret of the cipher. Having stressed the importance of finding her before the agents of the Tong can silence her, Sherlock and Watson track her back to the museum where she has concealed herself. Then, during the vitally important questioning of her about the cipher, they are interrupted by the evident arrival of the assassin. What to do? What to do? WWSHD? Well, the logical thing to do would be to fortify the room and protect their witness. Lure the assassin to them, where he might be trapped. That is what the real Sherlock Holmes would do. So no chance of this Sherlock doing it. Instead, run, run like the northwind out of the room, leaving Watson to hold the unfortified position. And what is Sherlock's plan? To dash around aimlessly while the killer shoots at him. Naturally, the killer is hopeless at shooting. And none of his shots actually cause any damage to the museum or its exhibits. They just make ping-zinging noises. And then, to top off the idiocy, Watson decides that it is more important to "help" Sherlock, by also running out, than to stay and to defend their witness. (Which, after all, is what they came to do.) How is he planning to help? He's a soldier. We have seen him shoot a man. He must have come out armed, right? No, of course not. The real Watson would do that, but this is not the real Watson. He's not even the wooly-headed Nigel Bruce, who always went armed into trouble. Watson's plan is the same as Sherlock's, to dash around aimlessly. It's a consistent plan, to be sure. The natural result is that the witness, alone and unprotected, is murdered. Brilliant! They couldn't have done better to further the plot, the plot of the Tong, that is.
And speaking of the Tong plot, really? They suspect one of three people of stealing the jade pin. So their strategy is to vandalize a museum, a library and a bank, leaving graffiti? Really? They cannot simply grab them, as they did Watson and Sarah? What does the graffiti accomplish, except to expose them to public and official scrutiny? And speaking of grabbing Watson and Sarah, really? They have observed Sherlock and Watson, and they don't know which is which? All Englishmen look alike? The Tong has never heard of the internet? Granted, Google might be censored in China, but Sherlock has a website, and his picture has been in the news online and in print. So, really, they don't know what he looks like? And even assuming that they couldn't do an online search, Moriarty sponsored their entry to the UK. He didn't send them a massive dossier on Sherlock? Really?
We need hardly mention the ludicrous and numerous Clouseau-Kato hand-to-hand battles in which Sherlock engages throughout the episode. The one in the tunnel while Sarah is waiting to be impaled by the Mwahaha villain's (the sham Fu Manchu General Shan) catapult bolt is remarkable for its silliness. (And repetitiveness, being a duplicate of the earlier strangulations.) And the Mwahaha villain's impression of Dr. Evil is spot-on. As Seth Green might say, "Just pop a cap in his ass!" And when she actually tries to shoot Holmes, what is his counter? To tell her that the muzzle velocity of her gun when calculated against the curvature of the walls of the tunnel will likely result in a dangerous ricochet, which might harm one of her henchmen. HUH? It's gibberish. What the hell does the curvature of the walls have to do with the travel of the bullet away from her? And what does one wounded henchman mean in the great Tong scheme of things?
Is this really the 21st Century's best effort at updating Holmes -- a buffoon in a parody of The Pink Panther? Yes, so it appears.
Verdict: Sinking fast.
Nothing, however, can compare to the idiocy of the earlier culmination of the search for the elusive witness, Soo Lin, the young Chinese woman who can provide the secret of the cipher. Having stressed the importance of finding her before the agents of the Tong can silence her, Sherlock and Watson track her back to the museum where she has concealed herself. Then, during the vitally important questioning of her about the cipher, they are interrupted by the evident arrival of the assassin. What to do? What to do? WWSHD? Well, the logical thing to do would be to fortify the room and protect their witness. Lure the assassin to them, where he might be trapped. That is what the real Sherlock Holmes would do. So no chance of this Sherlock doing it. Instead, run, run like the northwind out of the room, leaving Watson to hold the unfortified position. And what is Sherlock's plan? To dash around aimlessly while the killer shoots at him. Naturally, the killer is hopeless at shooting. And none of his shots actually cause any damage to the museum or its exhibits. They just make ping-zinging noises. And then, to top off the idiocy, Watson decides that it is more important to "help" Sherlock, by also running out, than to stay and to defend their witness. (Which, after all, is what they came to do.) How is he planning to help? He's a soldier. We have seen him shoot a man. He must have come out armed, right? No, of course not. The real Watson would do that, but this is not the real Watson. He's not even the wooly-headed Nigel Bruce, who always went armed into trouble. Watson's plan is the same as Sherlock's, to dash around aimlessly. It's a consistent plan, to be sure. The natural result is that the witness, alone and unprotected, is murdered. Brilliant! They couldn't have done better to further the plot, the plot of the Tong, that is.
And speaking of the Tong plot, really? They suspect one of three people of stealing the jade pin. So their strategy is to vandalize a museum, a library and a bank, leaving graffiti? Really? They cannot simply grab them, as they did Watson and Sarah? What does the graffiti accomplish, except to expose them to public and official scrutiny? And speaking of grabbing Watson and Sarah, really? They have observed Sherlock and Watson, and they don't know which is which? All Englishmen look alike? The Tong has never heard of the internet? Granted, Google might be censored in China, but Sherlock has a website, and his picture has been in the news online and in print. So, really, they don't know what he looks like? And even assuming that they couldn't do an online search, Moriarty sponsored their entry to the UK. He didn't send them a massive dossier on Sherlock? Really?
We need hardly mention the ludicrous and numerous Clouseau-Kato hand-to-hand battles in which Sherlock engages throughout the episode. The one in the tunnel while Sarah is waiting to be impaled by the Mwahaha villain's (the sham Fu Manchu General Shan) catapult bolt is remarkable for its silliness. (And repetitiveness, being a duplicate of the earlier strangulations.) And the Mwahaha villain's impression of Dr. Evil is spot-on. As Seth Green might say, "Just pop a cap in his ass!" And when she actually tries to shoot Holmes, what is his counter? To tell her that the muzzle velocity of her gun when calculated against the curvature of the walls of the tunnel will likely result in a dangerous ricochet, which might harm one of her henchmen. HUH? It's gibberish. What the hell does the curvature of the walls have to do with the travel of the bullet away from her? And what does one wounded henchman mean in the great Tong scheme of things?
Is this really the 21st Century's best effort at updating Holmes -- a buffoon in a parody of The Pink Panther? Yes, so it appears.
Verdict: Sinking fast.
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