According to a news story on MSNBC.com, “Tiny insect brains can solve big problems.“

If you’d like to see what “The Prisoner” really looks like, click here.

The new one doesn’t even have cool theme music, let alone Patrick McGoohan’s penetrating glare (which I practiced for hours back in high school).

I’m not the only one seeing more people in restaurants. In another good economic portent, even the restaurants in Indiana are showing signs of life.

 As a fan of the original series, which spoke so directly to my rebellious teenage self, I was looking forward to the remake of “The Prisoner” running on AMC this week. Sadly, it’s unbearably bad. Really, truly, tediously, awful. I would go on about why, but this fellow has already enumerated all the reasons, with one exception:  There’s nothing at stake. No stakes = no conflict = no story. In its place:  dolorous music accompanying logy acting. If there are terrorists in the village, I’m rooting for them.

The New Oxford American Dictionary’s Word of the Year is, fittingly, “unfriend.”

I used to have this very close friend. He was a big part of my circle for years. He and another friend and I smoked cigars together and went to Mexico together and did theatre together and did all sorts of things together. Great times.

Then he fell into a deep conversation with an actress at one of my parties and soon after they moved in together and then he drifted away. Which happens. I understood it then and I understand it now.

I did try to maintain the friendship, though. I mean, I have other friends who suddenly have love interests who remain my friends. And shouldn’t that be what you want for your friends? If not, maybe you’re not such a friend.

So I would call him and he’d sure-sure me, but then not call me back or not show up. The final straw was in 2004 when I was at the launch party thrown by Nike for the Rockstar energy drink. They took over the Music Box (aka The Henry Fonda, home of that recent Devo concert) and threw open the taps and bottles and generously dispensed appetizers. The rooftop speakeasy provided a great venue to smoke cigars and take in the night time buzz of Hollywood. So I got on my cellphone and invited my friend because I knew I could get him in and because I knew he lived close by — in Hollywood, mere blocks away. He said great, thanks for the invite, he’d be right over. An hour later I called him back and he answered his phone at home and then I knew it was the last time I’d be talking to him.

Me: “You’re still there.”

Him: “Uh… yeah. Sorry.”

Me: “I called you an hour ago and invited you and you said yes and now I call you and you’re still home. So you’re not coming.”

Him:  “Yeah. Sorry.”

Me: “No. It’s okay. I get it. I got it.”

Him:  “No. It’s not like that.”

Me: “Yeah. I think it is.”

Five years went by.

Two Fridays ago I got a call on my cellphone. It was him. “Hey, it’s [name here]. Uh… I’m going to call you at your home number too.”  Five seconds later, my home phone rang and he left a message there too. Asking me to call him.

So here’s what I’ve done:  Nothing.

Oh, I’ve been tempted to text him and say I’m going to call him right away, and then do nothing. But that seems petty.

As soon as I told our third friend that our former friend had called, he said, “He wants something.”

When I told my playwriting group this story, a friend in the group immediately said, “He wants something.”

Wants something as in, wants something that will benefit him. And that’s my thought too.

I deleted both messages and forgot about it until five minutes ago when I thought I’d post it here for posterity. And, who knows — maybe he reads this blog.

Earlier this week, my friend-since-college Paul alerted me that he’d shipped a gift from the wilds of New Jersey I once haunted. All week long, via emails and text messages, we’ve played a guessing game that went just like this:

Me: “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

Him: “No hints. You’ll have to wait until Friday.”

Me (not known for my patience, and channeling Peggy Cass): “Is it bigger than a bread box?”

Him: “Yes, it is bigger than a bread box.” (So much for “No hints.”)

Me: “Is it heavier than a chicken?”

Him: “No more hints, it will ruin the surprise. You’ll just have to curb your curiosity for a few days. (If that’s possible.)”

Me: “Is it perishable?”

Him (unable again to keep to his pledge of “no hints”): “It could last several years.”

Me: “Is it cremains of Joe’s old clients?” (We have a mutual friend who went out of the funeral business. We sometimes speculate about, um, lasting obligations.)

Him (still, you’ll note, giving hints): “No. You might be able to guess one item in the box but not the other. I’m going to sleep now, so more info tonight.”  (I think he meant no more info tonight, but that didn’t daunt me.)

Me (emailing back immediately): “Is it something one might use in the home?”

Him:  “It could be used in or outside the house.”

Me: “Is it a chainsaw, or a pound of twenty dollar bills?” (Both of which I could use inside or outside the house, the latter to bribe small children. The former, according to many low-budget films produced since the 1970’s, to dispense with small children.)

I received no reply to that one.  I started to think:  Maybe I guessed right. Maybe it is a pound of twenties. Which would be useful. (I already have a chainsaw.)

Then, on Friday, I got this email:  “So did the package I sent arrive?”

And here was my reply:  “Dunno. I’m out of town on biz ’til Monday.”

The smoke I smelled while driving down to Palm Springs was coming out of Paul’s ears.

The new “Bad Lieutenant” movie by Werner Herzog — starring Nicolas Cage (of all people). I was already eager to see it, but this piece in the LA Times further tantalizes me. Some choice excerpts:

• “…Roger Ebert  [observed]: ‘Cage is as good as anyone since Klaus Kinski at portraying a man whose head is exploding.’ “
• “Almost impossible to classify, the film is a glorious mess: part ‘CSI’-style police procedural, part over-the-top B-movie and part surrealist character study in flamboyant dissolution.”
•  “Still, for all its sleazy, loony brilliance, doubts about the film’s ability to connect with a mainstream audience linger.”

Let’s see… Herzog, Kinski, messy, surreal, sleazy, loony, brilliant, and possibly uncommercial. I can’t imagine missing this.

Thursday night I was in Burbank.

Friday night I was in Palm Springs.

Tonight I’m in San Diego.

Here’s what I haven’t seen in any of those cities:  signs of a recession, at least with restaurants. In fact, the restaurants are packed. In Palm Springs I dined at a Fleming’s Prime Steakhouse and stayed at a Waldorf Astoria. Both were busy. Tonight I met friends for drinks at the Gossip Grill in Hillcrest, then two of us ate at The Fish Market on Harbor Drive. Both of them buzzing. (The Fish Market must have been busy, because my waiter forgot first the extra horse radish I wanted for my oysters, and then the second drink I wanted. My dinner companion nicknamed him “Goober.”) Then we went to a dessert place and it was so mobbed we couldn’t get in. Instead, we went to a gelato shop; they just opened a second cafe and are looking to launch a third.

So I do think the economy is improving. Unfortunately, it’s a jobless recovery. We need more people employed. But in the meantime, I’m glad to see so many restaurants thriving.