Based on the promos, I’ve been to trying to decide whether “Drive” will turn out to be a terrific, edge-of-your-seat, action series or a complete piece of contrived poop that is so ridiculous that any suspension of disbelief is nigh on impossible.

So, tonight I shall watch the pilot episode and report back.

First impression: that Volvo wreck was pretty darn impressive.

Final impression: Hmmm. It’d be better if didn’t inject inappropriate moments of camp and near-comedy, while also trying to be dark and enigmatic.

…and that something is PZ Myers.

Related: I once had a dream in which the road was blocked by a mountainous pile of football equipment, backing up for miles, with the stranded people trying to climb to the top.

I think PZ’s story is better.

* Apologies to Robert Frost.

It’s been a day of simple, hearty food in the WWR household.

For lunch, we had my oft-mentioned Beer Cheese Soup with fresh-baked bread from our bread machine. The sausage was a Polska kielbasa; the cheeses were extra sharp cheddar and colby jack; the beer was New Belgium Brewing’s Fat Tire. The verdict was: tasty!

Dinner was a basic Finnish dish: Lihamakaronilaatikko, or - in the correct language - a macaroni and beef casserole. I decided to look up some Finnish dishes, as my Finnish friend Petri is in San Francisco for the next 7 days, and I was supposed to be out there too, partying with him, Angie, and my fellow Finnophile, Wendi. Alas, flights were too expensive, and so here I sit raising a glass of wine in their honor. Maybe two glasses. Three tops.

Now, off to get the kids ready for bed and then settle in for a night of mindless television and such with the Mrs.

ABC News’ Terry Moran says:

Don’t feel sorry for the guy who survived his house burning down, because some people don’t survive. It’s not like he needed that house anyway.

Or something equally silly.

What can we do about people like Evelyn? Can we ship them off to the planet Prude n’ Stupid? Speaking about the dropped charges in the Duke non-rape case, she blathers:

Perhaps these young men were not guilty of any crime, but they are far from innocent. If they choose to have a party, drink to excess (illegally?), hire women to strip and then have sex with these women, then they deserve to suffer the consequences — even if these consequences involve false allegations. False allegations are only some of the consequences of drunken casual sex. It’s about time that they learn this very hard lesson.

That’s right, because they may or may not be virgins, they deserve to be (a) falsely accused of rape, (b) tried in the media and by the “group of 88″ uber-liberal dirtbags at Duke, and (c) run the risk of having the rest of their lives ruined over youthful indiscretions.

Evelyn Dibben, here’s hoping you’re sterile and that you have not cursed the world with any offspring from your clearly defective gene supply.

Dead, at age 84.

He became a bit incomprehensible politically towards the end - not that I didn’t get his point, just that his reasoning always seemed a bit more like “nutty uncle” than “insightful artiste” - but his novels will line the Classics shelves for decades hence.

Perhaps I will take down a Vonnegut from the shelf tonight and read until I drift to sleep…

OK, not so live of a recap.

I’m watching it on the DVR and it’s down to Phil, Haley’s boobs, and either Sanjaya or Curious George. Who will it be?

Wow, Sanjaya lives to abuse music another day.

I’m worried now - Haley’s physical assets could pale in comparison to Phil, despite his startling portrayal of Powder, and so far as Curious George goes - well - everyone loves a monkey.

Observation: Once again, Jennifer Lopez offers absolutely nothing of original value to the contestants, other than the chance to guess how many hands they would need to caress her booty. The fact that Sanjaya referred to her advice as “amazing insight” should be telling enough.

But, yo, dog, that booty. That’s hot. You know, if Randy was writing this. Yo.

Final Result: I will, from this night forth, be able to write these reviews with both hands on the keyboard.

I hope you Sanjaya fans are happy. And that you suffer painful bacterial infections of your nether regions.

Ahhhh, tonight’s singing legend, coaching these young pups to greatness, is the one and only Jennifer Lopez - J-Lo! - an actress/singer best known for having an ass that might take three hands to hold with the proper respect.

Four, maybe, if you’ve got little lady hands.

On with the show…

Melinda Doolittle: Good singing, but it didn’t do much for me. Sounded like a James Bond theme song (hell, maybe it was, I must admit I wasn’t paying that much attention as the kids are splashing in the bath and I don’t care to try the “American Idol defense” if they drown).

Lakisha Jones: Jennifer’s advice to her was to “ride the rhythm.” Sister, that’s how we ended up with baby #3 on the way.

As for the performance, certainly not her best. Randy is on crack. Paula appears to have left the crack at home this week (when she leads with the wardrobe comment, you know you’re in trouble). Simon is Simon.

Curious George:: When they spend more time on the guitar dude playing some Santana licks than on the singer, you know this just isn’t your night. Why did he start so low? That was painful.

Randy’s an idiot, still on the crack. Paula just borrowed some of Randy’s crack. Simon must have caught some of that secondhand crack smoke.

Haley Scarnato: Last week was yabos; this week is gams. Smart move waiting until next week for focus on the bottom, what with J-Lo around.

Phil Stacey: Sounds like Michael McDonald, with a wee bout of constipation.

Jordin Sparks: Good lord, has Jennifer Lopez offered anything of value to these contestants other than to impersonate a female Randy (with a delightful hiney)?

Harmless performance. Dull. Not nearly as aggressive and saucy as this vocal demands, but what can you expect from a young woman like Jordin Sparks, who is 27 feet tall.

Blake Lewis: Best performance so far, if you overlook the hat.

And, I admit, that’s difficult to do.

Sanjaya StillAroundForAnotherWeek: Damnit, those puppy dog eyes of his are going to keep him around another week, I swear. And it almost did not suck.

See you tomorrow night and next week…

When Mrs. WWR and I first found out we were expecting #3, all of a couple of weeks ago, we sat down and attempted to figure out how far along we were. She had only just started showing noticeably, and with Fiona and Ewan she was showing around eight weeks.

OK, that was one clue.

We thought about those nights in the last few months where perhaps our human desires overwhelmed the daily stress of work and family and the minute-to-minute tension of “24,” not to mention the anxiety caused by the odd seasonal breaks in “Heroes” and “Battlestar Galactica.”

I think if you have a hard time figuring out when you conceived, it’s because you either have sex too often (if there is such a thing) or not often enough (which most certainly there is). Given that we’ve been married over nine years, I leave it to you to guess which was the cause of our conceptual confusion.

So, after a careful consideration of the facts before us, we decided we were probably 8-12 weeks into the pregnancy, which would give us our newest family member sometime in late October / early November. Plenty of time to put money aside to buy a larger car for Mrs. WWR, a little extra to cover the copay on the delivery, etc. No problemo.

We can do this!

Alas, there’s an old military saying, translated from the writings of Prussian Field Marshal Helmuth von Moltke:

No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.

Not that little fetus “Sanjaya” is the enemy, of course, but we had our first encounter with him / her today via the invisible magical waves of ultrasound (each of which is directed and reflected by the loving hands of Jesus, no lie).

They measured the head. They measured the torso. They measured the waist.

The arms. The legs.

The machine gurgled and clanked and spit out a number:

23

As in, 23 weeks. Not eight. Not 12. No, 23.

Change in plans. The October / November baby just became an August 7 baby.

S’pose I better get down to the family room and start scouring the sofa for loose change.

Hey, how about that? The site finally got a (somewhat) new look.

Sure, same color scheme. Same globe-crushing monkey (with larger, fat-tongued cousin). Same odd fascination with non-human primates (yes, including creationists).

But, you know what?

The content is now going to be 107% better than before*.

No. Lie.

Special thanks to Dorkafork for the new digs and to Kaf for the offers of assistance. My incredibly limited and ever-shrinking readership rocks somethin’ a-serious, yo.

You are, in the words of the Instapundit, very “chill.”

* By my calculations, that means I have to say “boobies” and/or “yabos” approximately two more times each month to hit that mark. It’ll be difficult, but I’ll give it the old college try.