Earlier this year, my world-traveling friend Doug Hackney took a long-distance view at the major candidates for president in his home country and did an assessment of each. Like most soothsayers, Doug got a lot wrong — but what he got right rings with insight, particularly with regard to the Democrats. A few samples:

• Hillary Clinton: “The candidate of the Borg… and the message so far echoes the Borg: ‘Resistance is futile, you will be assimilated.'”
• Dennis Kucinich: “Says what he believes and believes what he says. Especially the part about the UFO. Has a very limited grip on reality.”
• Barack Obama: “America really needs re-branding. … Barack Obama would be the best re-branding imaginable at this point in history.”

And finally, and most tellingly, Doug called John Edwards “a charlatan.”

That simple word has stayed with me all seven months since Doug wrote it. Because I was jealous. Doug had nailed the word I’d been searching for. As surely everyone else can see now, John Edwards is a charlatan.

Here’s why Doug thinks he’s a charlatan:

“In the last few years I’ve spent a lot of time around people with little to nothing. Their collective net worth probably wouldn’t pass 1/1000th of one percent of John Edwards’ multi-million-dollar net worth. John Edwards is running as the candidate of the poor, the downtrodden, the people with little to nothing. From what I’ve seen from being around these people, the only thing John Edwards has in common with them is that he’ll tell them anything they want to hear to get their vote. He’s a classic political charlatan. Luckily for us, he’s not the anointed one this year.”

What is a charlatan, exactly? It’s “a person practicing quackery or some similar confidence trick in order to obtain money or advantage via some form of pretense or deception.”

Like using your wife’s cancer as the backdrop for your first campaign video while you’re booking “consulting time” with another woman.

(And just to be clear — the relationship with the other woman is between Edwards and his wife. Repeatedly lying about it while asking us to believe that you weren’t doing it while she had cancer and while asking us to believe you didn’t father a child with her — that’s asking us to double down on your ponzi scheme.)

I could go on in further fashion detailing Edwards’ behavior and tactics in this scandal, but Mickey Kaus has already done that for me. I will say, though, that I’m thrilled to see Edwards go down in flames this way. I’ve never been so alarmed at any event as I was at the 2007 California State Democratic Party Convention, where Edwards threw out one crowd-pleasing and self-serving slab of meat after another and the people in the pit gobbled it up, no matter how wildly impractical, dangerous, and wrong it seemed. I felt like the only Jew at the Nuremberg Rally.

Twenty-five years ago, my then-five-year-old niece Lesley came to stay with me overnight at the house I shared with my then-girlfriend (now wife) Valorie. This was something that most of my nieces and nephews did, once their parents decided they no longer cared about our “living in sin.” I walked Lesley to the Ocean City shoreline and bought her a big hot pretzel, and as the little girl stood by the railing on the beach side of the boardwalk and prepared to take her first bite of that pretzel, a grimy seagull flew down, clamped onto it and flew off with it, leaving her shaken and sobbing.

When A Flock of Seagulls no-showed on Tuesday night it my reaction wasn’t quite that bad, but it was close.

Yes, the other acts played — Naked Eyes, ABC, Belinda Carlisle, The Human League — and they were great. But once again a seagull flew off with my pretzel and left nothing behind but hurt and anger. No explanation, no announcement, nothing.

Some years ago, when the U.S. was freshly mourning its lost innocence and bad music filled our airwaves, four lads from England arrived with offbeat haircuts, a look that was endlessly copied, and a sound we hadn’t heard before on the radio.

I speak, of course, of A Flock of Seagulls.

I saw A Flock of Seagulls (calling them just “The Flock” or “The Seagulls” won’t do) in a daylong show at Philadelphia’s JFK Stadium in the early 1980’s. They were opening for Robert Hazard and the Heroes, who were opening for Blondie, who were opening for Elvis Costello, who was opening for Genesis. In other words, they were the last-billed act. They stepped on-stage in the bright daylight, started their first number, and were immediately pelted with bottles. I couldn’t understand why — sure, they looked (and sounded!) different, but what was wrong with that? And it was a good different. A few short weeks later, “I Ran (So Far Away)” lit up the singles charts and dance floors — even of the formerly disco clubs — and everyone loved them and said they always had.

Tonight, for the first time in about 25 years, I’m going to see A Flock of Seagulls, along with other (almost as-) cool members of the Regeneration Tour: The Human League, Belinda Carlisle, ABC, and Naked Eyes. To say that I had — and have — CDs by most of these bands is a given.

One thing hasn’t changed. Despite their innovative look and sound, A Flock of Seagulls still can’t get any respect. On the box-office window of the Gibson Amphitheatre at Universal Studio (where the show is, tonight), and on the tickets themselves, the billing is as follows: “Regeneration Tour: The Human League / Belinda Carlisle / more.” Still, that’s somehow fitting. Twenty-five years later, A Flock of Seagulls is still more.

If you grew up in the northeastern U.S., you remember the laughably bad Carvel Ice Cream commercials, with badly ad-libbed voiceovers by founder Tom Carvel. Whatever happened to Carvel and his frosty creations?

Evidently, Cookie Puss (above) and Fudgie the Whale live on in 500 Carvel Ice Cream Stores around the U.S.

But founder Tom Carvel’s dream of leaving $80 million to small non-profits died with him, and the story of how that happened will melt your heart. It’s a tale of greed, skulduggery, and possibly murder.

Schlitz beer is returning, and I have one bit of advice for its brewers: Make it better.

As the story linked above notes, Schlitz was pretty bad, at least in the incarnation I remember. It tasted so bad and was so cheap to buy, that my father drank it. That’s how bad it was. The only beer I remember him preferring was Black Label, and that’s because it was even cheaper and even worse. Schlitz tasted like the can it came in, with rust added; Black Label tasted like the can and whatever died inside it.

I have no intention of switching from my occasional Newcastle, which I fully switched to when Anheuser-Busch bought out Rolling Rock and screwed up its formula — even while nervily retaining the slogan “Same as it ever was.” But if or when I run into Schlitz someplace I’m going to try one, just to see if I can keep it down.

One of the great pleasures of going to the theatre in Los Angeles is becoming reacquainted with wonderful character actors you grew up watching on TV and subsequently forgot about.

A few years ago I saw my friend Aram Saroyan’s play “At the Beach House,” which I knew starred Orson Bean. And it was a treat seeing Mr. Bean — er, not that Mr. Bean — onstage. The surprise was coming across Dena Dietrich in one of the other roles. Yes, she had a career on stage and television, but my generation remembers her more for this:

She was utterly delightful in Aram’s play.

Tonight I went to see a couple of other friends in the appropriately titled “My Old Friends” at the Victory Theatre in Burbank. Appearing in one of the roles was the terrific character actor Malachi Throne. Name not ring a bell? Mr. Throne played Robert Wagner’s boss on “It Takes a Thief,” which debuted in 1968, and, along with what IMDB pegs at 100 other television roles, played Commodore Mendez on the “Star Trek” two-parter “The Menagerie.” Here’s a picture.

Throne has a deep, rich, unforgettable voice. His performance tonight as a man who realizes he’s built nothing in his life was simple, touching, and true. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him on stage again, but I was glad to luck into him tonight, and told him so afterward.

(Hey, as an aside: Given Malachi Throne’s “Star Trek” work (including on “Next Generation”), this seems like a perfect news bit to be on my friend Larry Nemecek’s soon-to-be-renamed blog.)

As I reported here, the Los Angeles Times recently canceled its book section and its opinion section (which had been cohabiting like bad roommates recently anyway), the real estate section, the automotive section, and the magazine. While I was at the San Diego Comic-Con, the final Sunday Times with these sections appeared, wrapped with an editorial message that no one I know buys. To paraphrase:  “while we’re downsizing, we’re still going to be better than ever.” While acknowledging that it would be difficult for them to say anything else — other than the noble thing, like “This is a retreat and we’re saddened and ashamed” — this sentiment is so unbelievable it leaves my trust in the media even further diminished.

Tomorrow the first Sunday Times without all those sections will arrive on my doorstep. I’m not sure what I’m going to read in it. I suppose I’ll flip to the back of the front section to see what remains of Opinion, and I’ll take a look at the Calendar section now retitled “Arts & Books” to see how much book has squeezed out art, or vice versa. Or maybe I’ll subscribe to the Sunday New York Times, which has wisely done a major media buy in the area, aimed at people like me and like all the locals who’ve recently told me that if the LA Times doesn’t have a book section, it also won’t have them for long.

While we heretofore loyal readers scratch our heads and figure out how little newspaper still qualifies one as a major newspaper, we can take comfort in something new that the Los Angeles Times has added. That’s right — even in an age of cutbacks, they’re looking to expand coverage into vital new areas.

Click here for their new and much ballyhooed database of dog names in Los Angeles County.

It turns out that “Princess” is the most-registered dog name in Los Angeles County. And it turns out that there are 24 (!) other dogs in the County sharing the name of my dog, Gem.  I found this unsettling, knowing as I do that she is definitely one-of-a-kind, but was relieved to see that she’s the only Australian Shepherd in LA with that name. So I am vastly relieved.

I know that the LA Times’ new dog-name database will have snobs in other cities with other metropolitan daily newspapers howling in derision — people in cities like New York and Washington, DC — but I think they’re barking up the wrong tree. There are only so many dollars and man hours to go around at the LA Times. If I want to learn about books, I can walk into any mall and see what’s in that little window of the Borders Express, and if I want to know opinions about important issues, I can just listen to what the government tells me. But how else would I find out how popular my dog’s name is?

I think my friend Larry Nemecek’s name is fine. It’s his blog that needs a new name.

Larry is acknowledged as the world’s foremost expert on “Star Trek.” (Note to my modest friend Larry: “Who acknowledges you as that? Me. So there.” Me, plus all the people who put his book “The Star Trek Companion” on the New York Times bestseller list, plus all the readers over the years of his other books and magazines, including “Star Trek Communicator.”)

Larry is smarter than I’ll ever be about “Star Trek.” Perhaps too smart: He’s named his new blog about all things Trek “Check the Circuit.”

Huh?

Oh, yeah. Larry informs me that that is the very first line of dialogue ever spoken on “Star Trek.” (It’s in the background in the first scene of “The Cage” and is spoken by Mr. Spock.) Of course.

Like me, you might think this reference too arcane for a) anyone under 45, and b) anyone who also has other interests in life. Both of which would disqualify 99.9999% of the people I expect to be seeing the new “Star Trek” movie when it comes out. Or, as I like to think of them, new people who might become interested in my good friend Larry’s blog.

So I entreat you: Help me come up with a new name for Larry’s blog.

Ideally, it should reference “Star Trek.” (Which, sorry Larr, “Check the Circuit” doesn’t quite do.) Larry is widely known in his field, and he deserves a great blog name. Anything less and he should just pick one of the two blog names I suggested:

• “LarryNemecek.com”
• “Fred.”

It’s 5 ’til 2 a.m. Monday morning, and we just got back from the Con, after almost five full days of great fun (and after not one, but two freeway detours on the way home).

Much more to say about the Con, and several screenings we took in, but later. Right now:  bed.

Two years ago when we spent two hours waiting in line Thursday morning to gain admittance to an event we had already paid for, and for which we had our bar-coded admissions, our group determined that thereafter we would come down early on Wednesday for Preview Night. Available only to people with 4-day admission, Preview Night seemed an ideal solution:  Breeze in, get badged, check out the exhibit hall for a bit, then off to eating, drinking, poker, and such forth. Perfect. And last year that worked.

This year, everyone else had the same idea.

We approached the front of the San Diego Convention Center and were immediately struck by the size of the line: about four across, and stretching down the block. Our first debate was where the line began (or ended). Finally I picked a direction and started walking and everyone followed. We passed Convention Hall A, then B, then C, then D, then E, then F, and on and on, past all the letters, then past the park, then past all pavement, then we wrapped around, then we noticed that all the lines snaked back and forth, so everything we had passed was actually four times in length, as we continued to wrap around, and finally found ourselves behind the convention center. If the Con maxes out at 125,000 paid reservations (as it does), surely every single one of those people were in that line. We were dumbstruck. Everyone else was dumbstruck as well. No one had ever been in a line this long, this big, this hard to comprehend. Each of us was like an individual grain of sand on the beach.

Theories arose as to what would happen when some of us wouldn’t get in. After all, badge pickup was announced as ending at 8:30. We discovered that when it was 6:30 and we were halfway between the supposed front of the line and, well, oblivion. I told my son that if whoever was producing this event was smart, they would extend badge pickup, even if that meant paying union overtime to Elite (the crowd-control people). Consider the opposite:  Telling people that badge pickup was closed and running the risk of a very large and very angry crowd — and then compounding the potential problem of Thursday morning when the rest of the 125,000 people would arrive. We were weighing the pros and cons, and what we would do — stick it out? give up? — and whether or not we’d get into the premiere screening of the ballyhooed new J.J. Abrams show “Fringe,” when, astonishingly, the line started moving at hyperspeed. I have no idea who did what, but within minutes we were inside and picking up our badges.

In the day plus since then, I’ve been repeatedly impressed with the management of this convention. It’s a (large) non-profit, manned almost entirely by volunteers, with a volunteer board of directors, and all of those people are doing a fine job of dealing with an enormous crowd and doing it efficiently and with great sensitivity. At one point today I accidentally broke through one line and into another (I got confused about where the line wrapped around) and one of the volunteers stopped me and turned me around. When he saw me again a few minutes later, now in my proper place, he apologized. I said, “That’s okay. I wasn’t trying to cut. I just didn’t know which way to go.” But still he was apologetic in what could have been a trying and stressful situation.

Last night on the shuttle bus when I got up to get off at the Ralphs supermarket stop, the young guy in front of me made way for me and my large bag of con stuff to get by. “Thanks,” I said. “No problem,” he said. “It’s the Con. We have to be courteous.”