Pat Robertson reminds us why bad things happen to good (or innocent) people, like the people of Haiti. You guessed it:  It’s God’s punishment.

This is the fortune I found today in my fortune cookie from Wokcano. In case you can’t read it, here’s what it says:

You will always live in interesting times.

Although, to paraphrase Wallace Shawn in “My Dinner With Andre,” I don’t believe the fortune cookie has any mystic powers, I was nevertheless stunned to see this. While I didn’t expect an accurate fortune, I certainly never thought I’d get a famous and ancient curse.

I’ve written here many times of my long-standing dislike of John Edwards. (You can find some representative samples of my loathing here.) So I wouldn’t say that the excerpts I’ve read from “Game Change,” the new book about the 2008 presidential campaign that portrays Edwards as a shallow toad, are exactly revelatory. What is new is the attack on his wife for her culpability. I don’t know that I agree — hey, she was battling fatal cancer while, well, being married to him — but at least it’s a new line of attack.

I never count anyone in politics completely out — let’s remember, Marion Barry got re-elected after getting convicted; Herbert Hoover and Richard Nixon got partly rehabilitated during their ex-presidencies; lately I’m seeing Eliot Spitzer serving as some sort of pundit on television; and there seems to be a “draft Cheney” movement afoot, which truly beggars the imagination. Nevertheless, I’m hopeful that we’re done with John Edwards. For good.

In November I started weight training again at the gym after almost two years off resulting from an injury. I had torn a ligament in my left arm trying to do tricks on one of my kids’ scooters; that took more than nine months to heal, and so I took up running for a while. (Including doing a marathon in Amsterdam.) But now, finally, I’m back to weightlifting three times a week. There’s still an unsettling internal twang in my left arm, but I’m trying to ignore that.

There’s a stereotype about weightlifters that they aren’t very bright. I’m not sure it’s fair, even if they do get to be governor of California. But today I wondered.

I was doing deadlifts of 75 pounds. (Pleasure remember:  I’m working my way back into this.) Three sets of 10 reps each. A guy next to me asks if I mind if he borrows one of the 45 lb weights near me so he can slot it onto his barbell. I don’t mind at all, because I’m not going to be using that 45 lb weight today, tomorrow, or any time in the foreseeable future. Then he comes back and asks if I’ll spot him. He’s getting set up to do standing barbell presses. He’s about my height (5’10”) and generally humanoid shaped — not disproportionate like this — so I’m especially astonished to see what he wants me to spot him on:  I see seven 45 lb weights on each end of the barbell, plus the 45-lb barbell itself, which leaves me quickly calculating that he’s about to lift 675 pounds.

“Can you spot me?” he asks again.

I look at him. “You do see what I’m lifting, right?” I nod in the general direction of the tinker toy I’ve been lifting. I’ve been mulling over moving up to 80 pounds, and he wants me to cover his ass if he starts to slip with 675.

“Yeah, but all you have to do is stand behind me and if I start to fall back, just push me forward.”

I have pictures of his starting to fall backward — and then succeeding, crushing me right through the floor like something out of a Looney Tune. Nevertheless, for reasons I cannot imagine, I agree to do this. So I stand behind him and he drafts two other guys to stand on each side, and all of us agree that none of us can do anything if this stunt goes haywire.

Then I notice one last thing I think I should mention.

“You sure about this? Because the barbell is bending.” Which indeed it is. I don’t know what its load capacity is, but it’s starting to look like the axle on a much-played-with Matchbox car. He decides to proceed, and I back way the fuck up because now I’m imagining shards of steel sproinging out from a shattered barbell and shooting into my eyes. He manages to get the load up off the rack and replace it twice with no problem. The third time, he’s almost unable to get the right end back into the hook and all of time slows down as three far more averagely built guys try to look useful when actually they’re panicking. But then he slots it and everyone is relieved and I go back to what I’m doing with my Minnie Mouse weight set while debating who’s stupider:  Him for attempting this feat, or us for spotting him.

Then I see him ask a girl with him to take a picture of the barbell he’s just lifted, with all the weights still on it. She dutifully takes the picture from a few different angles. I can’t resist saying to them both:

“Um, you didn’t do that right.”

“What?”

“The photos. She took photos of a barbell loaded with weights. What you wanted was a  photo of you holding the barbell loaded with weights.” When this didn’t quite sink in, I explained that I could take a picture of a car and tell people I had carried it around town, but no one would be impressed. They would want a picture of me actually carrying the car. Then he understood.

So then he asked all of us to spot him again so he could get the picture right. But everyone begged off.

Enjoy.

This video shows you can’t just go singing opera in public, or more people might start to decide they really like opera.

Some years ago I made my living as a freelance writer.

While I still make my living as a writer, this column reminds me why I’m glad I’m not counting on freelance magazine and newspaper revenue any more.

By the way, one of the low rates listed in this column comes out to six cents a word. I recall getting paid one cent  a word by The Comics Journal (or a bounteous $25 for an interview) — and constantly having to cajole and threaten to collect that.

Last year, Google released the Android platform for smartphones.

Now it’s releasing the Nexus One phone.

This is not sitting well with the estate of an author who wrote a book about a bounty hunter pursuing androids of the Nexus-6 model class.

Last night I saw “The Bad Lieutenant, Port of Call: New Orleans.” It was enormous great fun. In fact, leaving the theatre, I couldn’t remember the last time I had such a howling good time at the movies.

I wasn’t alone in this. Sometimes you’re fortunate to see a movie or play or concert with the right audience, an audience that absorbs the moment and bounces it back in the playing area, creating a feedback loop that heightens the experience. Although the screen and the theatre at the Beverly Center are small — not much larger than many living rooms, and smaller than most in Bel Air — that smaller venue probably benefited the screening. It was like a dozen Werner Herzog fans got together for a movie night. This audience laughed along with every bit of trademark Herzog weirdness and made it a better experience than it would have been watching the film alone at home.

And the movie is weird. Delightfully so. Closeup shots of iguanas are run against contextually mismatching blues music. A dead spirit breakdances. The bad lieutenant menaces uncooperative old ladies, molests spoiled young people on dates, and snorts every volatile substance in sight. Nicolas Cage’s energetic performance is literally twisted, as uses his character’s recent back injury as an excuse to hunch around the entire film like a scarecrow stuck crooked on his post. This is the most fun Nicolas Cage has had in a movie since his foray with the Coen brothers 20 years ago, and it reminds us of how much presence and promise he once had. The movie is filled with charms:  great character parts for Brad Dourif and Jennifer Coolidge and Fairuza Balk; a completely iconoclastic way to use music that would be wrong in most cases but which utterly supports and lifts every scene; and a thrilling nervy looseness that lends the entire film a sense of excitement that leaves us wondering what could possibly be next?

This movie calls to mind what great B movies used to be:  Fun; weird; unexpected. I didn’t realize I was missing that sensation until I came across it again. And here it was.

I got a Google alert that someone has added me to the Wikipedia page of “Living people.” It’s a good category to be in.