Why do running shoes have toes now?

Sure, we didn't evolve to wear shoes. Sure, some of the shoes we wear make us distribute our weight funkily, and strike too hard on the heel.

This is no excuse to wear doofus shoes.

And this goes triple for people who wear the damn things when not running. They look insane.

Why is there that piña colada song?

It's not the worst song ever. There are definitely worse songs, like perhaps the Russian one from Eurovision 2006, with the whitewashed ballerina who climbed out of a piano.

But. Red tape? RED TAPE? What the hell.

Why isn't Juliet a Montague?

Has it ever occurred to anyone else that "Juliet Capulet" distinctly lacks euphony?

This has always bothered me.

Why does my new laptop have a second "alt/option" key instead of an "enter" key?

You may say that no one used the "enter" key, but I used it, so you would be wrong.

Why is the fiction in the New Yorker always the same?

And why is it always second-rate, ersatz Dorothy Parker?

Here is a summary of every single story: two people are or were in an unsatisfactory relationship; perhaps they merely had an unsatisfactory sexual experience; there is substance dependency or perhaps merely emotional problems; at any rate, the point-of-view character is invariably afflicted with crushing self-doubt; no resolution occurs.

If these so-called authors had Miss Parker's knack for a felicitous turn of phrase, these stories would still pall. But it is the rare writer who does.

Perhaps the short story provides insufficient scope for innovation. Perhaps the attempt would merely irritate. But it's 2011, and nobody you want to talk to hangs out at the Algonquin anymore.

Why do all screen adaptations of Jane Eyre miss the point?

Yes, the point is stupid, but if you're going to make a film of a book, maybe you should, you know, make a film of the book.

The point is that Jane is so honest and virtuous and passionately in love with Mr. Rochester that, even though he is not handsome (and is a bigamous weirdo) and St. John looks more or less like the Apollo Belvedere, she rejects St. John and goes back to Mr. Rochester. Here are some helpful summary points:

1. Mr. Rochester is ugly.
2. St. John is gorgeous.
3. St. John is an over-bearing twit.

Now, ugly people don't appear in films, except British films. So you could accept a merely average Mr. Rochester. But even in British films, we generally do rather better than average. In the adaptations I have seen or considered, we have: Ciarán Hinds, Timothy Dalton, Toby Stephens, and Michael Fassbender. Their St. John counterparts are, in order: Rupert Penry-Jones, Andrew Bicknell, Andrew Buchan, and Jamie Bell.

Ciarán Hinds is much too good-looking for Rochester, but a great deal less good-looking than Rupert Penry-Jones, so that's a solid start. However, because these people can't capitalize on the success into which they have stumbled, they give poor Mr. Penry-Jones an appalling haircut and make him too nice. Thus missing the point on St. John, although not as aggressively missing the point on Jane.

Timothy Dalton played James Bond, and is therefore definitionally too sexy for Mr. Rochester. Andrew Bicknell is now reduced to playing parts like "Prison Ferry Pilot" in The Dark Knight, and that's not secretly "Apolline Prison Ferry Pilot." So whoops.

Now, Toby Stephens. Toby Stephens is chiefly remarkable for being so gorgeous that he probably ought to be kicked. He is not a very good actor, but he has an excellent profile (even when there are diamonds in his face, which there actually never are). One laughs out loud in the scene where Jane tells him he is not handsome. Andrew Buchan is the sort of person who plays rough, honest village types; one might plausibly cast him as Adam Bede. Fumble there, too.

Michael Fassbender is, for his part, not offensively beautiful, but compared to Jamie Bell he comes off quite well. We all thought Jamie Bell was going to grow up cute when we saw Billy Elliot, but when it came time to make Nicholas Nickleby he was Smike and not Nicholas, so.... There are a million young and gorgeous blonds out there. Also there is hair dye. Come on, people.

(Why have I seen so many Jane Eyres when I hate it so much? Because I am fond of the type of actor who makes dubious period films. We all have our crosses to bear.)

Why is everyone on the internet a guru?

Do you need advice on where to put that apostrophe? I can help you. Which fork to use? There, too, I can assist. Which pocket square goes with that tie? I'm your man.

But I cannot advise you on your life, because I am just some bitchy girl on the internet with a moderate grasp of her own limitations. I seem, however, to be alone.

Everyone else on the internet is chock full of authentic experiences and will throw them at you whether you want them or not. They know what life is like, because they have a vocabulary comprised largely of swearwords and a good quarter-century under their belts. They also know many inspirational quotes, from the banal ones we all know (Schweitzer, Mother Teresa, you know the kinds), to ones they appear to have fabricated from the decomposing brains of Jack Kerouac.

It is apparently "real" to tell your reader on the internet that he (or more generally she) is a special snowflake for whom the world would be cosmically fulfilling if only they would follow your advice, which is often nebulous or banal. It is especially "real" if you sprinkle profanity all over your authentic, truth-telling blog.

These people are deeply tiresome. Self-help books are also deeply tiresome, but at least they have an editorial process and sometimes are even written by authors with some actual expertise.

I'm not saying you have to have a diploma to give good life advice; I merely suggest that you might want qualifications other than your vastly inflated ego.

Why doesn't Sky Captain understand reflections?

I know what you're saying. First, that Sky Captain came out a million years ago and is hardly current. Second, that Sky Captain was completely terrible, and reflections do not factor greatly in that assessment.

Well, I was just watching The Aviator (again, not exactly news), and was naturally put in mind of this other excellent film featuring airplanes and fedoras.

Polly is suspicious that Joe messed around on her in Nanjing. When confronted with Angelina Jolie with an eyepatch and a fleet of flying aircraft carriers, she is certain. (As are we all. I mean, come on. Lies and stupidity or flying aircraft carriers--not much of a choice.)

She is, however, convinced that Joe loves her really when she sees the fuselage of his 'plane reflected in a pond. It says "Polly" (given some distortion) in the water.

Then we pan to the 'plane. Which says "h-11od." Now, if you rotate "h-11od" 180 degrees, you get something like "Polly." You do not get this if you flip it. You get something like "ylloq." Which might be Welsh, but certainly isn't "Polly."

These are the perils of making a film that is entirely fake.

Why does the verb "to hector" mean what it does?

You know who is not particularly notable for being a bully? Hector, son of Priam.

In fact, he is the closest thing you will get, in antiquity, to a reluctant gentleman-soldier type. He is mean to three people: his useless brother, Paris (who is useless); his unfortunately correct commoner twin, Polydamas (which is awkward); and his avowed if dying enemy, Patroclus (who has it coming). He spends the rest of his time fighting a war that is neither his fault nor of his choosing, playing with his small son, and being tender to his wife.

Is he out of his depth? Yes. Should he take everyone's advice and retreat within the walls? Probably. Was that really necessary to say to Patroclus? No. Still, this does not add up to a man whose name should become a byword for braggadocio. He's not even the most guilty of vaunting within the Iliad, and he has more reason than most.

The seventeenth century, apparently, was not up on its Homer.

(What? Yes, I have a crush on Hector. Of course I have a crush on Hector.)

Why are all Romans named the same thing?

The extreme case is of course the Scipiones. They ruin everything by having two of their number win great victories against African foes, thus making even the geographic, non-hereditary nickname "Africanus" completely useless. And they defy probability by being named, without exception, Publius, so that all of them are "Publius Cornelius Scipio," which makes things tricky, since they were important for several generations. (This is an exaggeration. There is at least one Scipio not named Publius. Probably.)

But the Fabii and the Fulvii and the Sempronii just multiply, and Livy is inconsistent in his naming conventions, so I (at least) get hopelessly enmeshed in a welter of Gracchi who aren't even the Gracchi and then he refers to "the consul" and I don't even know what year it is and there are two of them and only sometimes is one of them dead and it is just a total disaster.

Why do the major leagues have those stupid Independence Day caps?

Yesterday, every team wore special ballcaps with the stars and stripes cleverly stuffed into the emblem on the front (except the Blue Jays, who, in a slightly belated observance of Canada Day, or perhaps just to be polite, had the maple leaf on theirs). It was unfortunate.

While many major league ball clubs do, in fact, have a fairly patriotic color scheme, some do not. The San Francisco Giants look awful with red, white, and blue caps. It is clashing and hideous.

Also: no one needs to wear the stars and stripes to look patriotic on Independence Day if he is playing baseball, because he is already playing baseball.