Book review: "The Martian Chronicles" by Ray Bradbury

Note: This review has spoilers. But c'mon, this book has been around for 75 years, so if you haven't read it, that's pretty much on you.

I may be the final human to read "The Martian Chronicles." In this 1950 book, author Ray Bradbury predicted that the last human life on Earth will be extinguished in 2026. As I write this, that's less than three months away. I may have read this just in time.

"The Martian Chronicles" is a collection of science fiction short stories, some quirky and funny, most dark and melancholy. Each chapter is a separate story, almost always with new characters, but they all are arranged chronologically around the theme of humans colonizing Mars starting in 1999.  

While "The Martian Chronicles" is easy-to-read and thought-provoking, it is not really compelling, probably because each chapter mostly stands on its own. While one chapter may be enjoyable it really doesn't move you on to the next one. 

Some chapters are almost cartoonish. When some of the first humans arrive on their planet early in the book, they knock on the door of a house and find Martians who are unimpressed and uninterested in talking to them. "I haven't the time," says one. "I've a lot of cooking today and there's cleaning and sewing and all." 

The astronauts eventually get the boisterous welcome they wanted, but only because they have been unknowingly locked up in a Martian insane asylum. It is there that a Martian psychologist kills the humans, convinced that the commander is crazy and the others nothing more than hallucinations. When Martians find the earthmen's spaceship they have no idea what it is, and sell it for scrap. 

In another chapter, the last man and woman on Mars (apparently) find each other, but he doesn't like her, gets in his car, and drives for three days to the other side of the planet. 

Most of the stories are more creepy than funny, some like episodes from Rod Serling's "Twilight Zone." In one, the Martians lure humans in with an illusion of reuniting with long-dead family members, then kill them. 

Bradbury paints a very simple image of life on Mars — humans simply get off their space ships and start walking around (there is a brief mention of the air being "thin" but no one dwells on it). Humans build earth-like communities with houses and highways, cars and boats. I know this was published in 1950, but certainly Bradbury must have known how silly this was, right? 

Bradbury uses the book as forum for an assortment of messages, and he's not subtle about it. 

One of Bradbury's characters laments that human development will ruin Mars. "We Earth Men have a talent for ruining big, beautiful things," says "The only reason we didn't set up hot-dog stands in the midst of the Egyptian temple of Karnak is because it was out of the way and served no large comercial purpose ...But here, this whole thing is ancient and different, and we have to set down somewhere and start fouling it up." 

(In a later chapter, a human sets up a hot-dog stand on Mars.)

One character observes that Martians — unlike Earthlings — perfected an ideal civilization blending art, science and the love of nature. "They never let science crush the aestehtic and the beautiful."

In one chapter, a character angered that humans have turned their back on literature gets his revenge by luring his enemies into a deadly House of Usher (it doesn't have much to do with Mars). If you're getting the idea that there is a lot of deaht in "The Martian Chronicles," you're right, but most of it is thinly cartoonish.

At other times, the author warns of the dangers of authoritarianism and censorship. While he envisions not-yet-invented devices like the answering machine and Roomba vaccum, he also cautions about an obsession with technology. 

"Life on Earth nevers settled down to doing anything very good," says a character. "Science ran too far ahead of us too quickly, and the people got lost in a mechanical wilderness, like children making over pretty things, gadgets, helicopters, rockets; emphasizing the wrong items, emphasizing machines instead of how to run the machines. Wars got bigger and bigger and finally killed Earth."

Book review: "Moby Dick" by Herman Melville

 In my riveting review of the first half of "Moby Dick," I describe the 1851 Herman Melville work as a "mess."

After I wrote that harsh assessment, I continued on through the book, hopeful that it would improve. After all, this is widely considered one of the greatest American novels ever. There has to be some reason to read it all, right?

So I continued, through the full 135 chapters, and an epilogue, to the end. My conclusion. It's not just the first half. All of "Moby Dick" is a mess.

It's a mishmash of fiction and nonfiction, a confused blend of literary styles, a shoebox full of scattered pieces of history, science and mythology, all swimming in a soup of rambling and unfocused writing. 

I realize that criticizing a book like "Moby Dick" is an invitation for people to criticize me. "You didn't read it carefully," someone will say. "You missed (insert supposedly wonderful part of the book here)."

This is why, despite every urge not to, I read carefully through the full, enormous body of "Moby Dick," taking notes on each chapter. 

Speaking of reading carefully, I came to question whether some who claim to have read "Moby Dick" actually have. "Moby Dick" is described almost everywhere as the story of "Captain Ahab obessively chasing the white whale." The exact phrasing varies, but that's the gist.

Wikipedia, for instance, says: "The book is centered on the sailor Ishmael's narrative of the maniacal quest of Ahab, captain of the whaling ship Pequod, for vengeance against Moby Dick, the giant white sperm whale that bit off his leg on the ship's previous voyage."

But here's the thing: The story of Ahab and his pursuit of the white whale is only a minor part of the book. For most of "Moby Dick," Ahab and Moby Dick are barely mentioned. It's only in the last 15 percent that the Ahab-Moby Dick story comes to the forefront. 

The rest of the book is a slapdash collection of chapters loosely falling under the umbrella of whales and whaling. 

The problems of "Moby Dick" fall broadly under two areas: Structure and writing.

Let's start with structure. If I had been Herman Melville's editor back in the day, I would have had a hard talk with the author after reading through the manuscript of "Moby Dick."

"Look, Herman," I'd say. "You're a great guy, but what you have here is not a novel. It's not even a single book. It would be better as two separate books and a couple short stories."

First, I'd tell him, draw on your whaling experience and write a memoir. Melville spent about two years working on whaling ships in 1841-43. and he clearly uses that in "Moby Dick" where he explains how whaling ships work. Many chapters have zero plot and zero character development, but are instead tutorials or lectures on whaling practices. He devotes one entire chapter to rope, another to the rituals of dining on whaling ship, still another to describing how blubber is stripped from a whale and boiled down to oil.

This material would be better in a memoir because parts of "Moby Dick" straddle the line between fiction and nonfiction, leaving the reader wondering "Is this real?" A memoir would allow Melville to make it clear what's true, and he could probably add in other personal experiences. 

A second book could be drawn from the many chapters Melville writes about whales. He spends seven — yes, seven — chapters in "Moby Dick" just talking about a whale's head. He spends two chapters describing art featuring whales. Two chapters on the importance of whaling to the world. One on the biblical story of Jonah. And one chapter on the whale's spout.

Third, Melville could have, and should have, taken the Ahab-Moby Dick tale and turned it into a standalone short story. This is the most compelling part of the "Moby Dick," so why hide it at the end, forcing readers to run an obstacle course to get to it. 

He could have also made a short story of the opening chapters, where narrator Ishmael prepares to join a whaling ship. This is not an action-packed section, but one of some amusement, especially the part where Ishmael ends up forced to share a bed with a stranger at a boarding house (did this actually happen to Melville? If so, include it in the memoir).

Even these structural adjustments would not leave a place for everything. Melville includes a chapter — and not a short one — on the cultural and historical significance of the color white. Yawn. As Melville 's editor, I would have to say, "Herman, buddy, you know I love you, but the white chapter has to go. Or he just post it on Medium.com."

Then there's the writing.  

There are many problems in this category, which I'll get to, but what makes "Moby Dick" particularly maddening for the reader is that there are moments of sharp and lucid writing. Clearly, Melville can do it, so why are these moments so rare? 

I was quite excited by Chapter 100, where Ahab meets with the captain of another ship. Unlike most of the book to this point, this chapter features dialogue that is delightfully crisp, even a little funny. The plot is advanced and Ahab's character is developed. It's the kind of stuff that a strong novel is made of, but is rare in "Moby Dick."

But just as my hope rose, Melville dashes it in the next chapter, which is made up of a random bits of sailing history and a description of a book he read. 

This is just one of many digressions in "Moby Dick." Melville seems incapable or uninterested in focusing on the plot. 

Melville makes elementary writing errors. There are two chapters which, by his own admission, should have been included earlier. He leaves out basic storytelling information. Characters who were in a boat one moment are suddenly in the water — how did they get there? 

Chapter 99 is a series of soliloquies. The first three speakers are identified, but the next five or six are not. You have no idea who is talking.

Melville loves soliloquies, but it's difficult for the reader to return that love when so many of them wind through a thicket of impenetrable verbiage.

In one, Ahab rambles:

I own thy speechless, placeless power; said I not so? Nor was it wrung from me; nor do I now drop these links. Thou canst blind; but I can then grope. Thou canst consume; but I can then be ashes. Take the homage of these poor eyes, and shutter-hands. I would not take it. The lightning flashes through my skull; mine eye-balls ache and ache; my whole beaten brain seems as beheaded, and rolling on some stunning ground. Oh, oh! Yet blindfold, yet will I talk to thee. Light though thou be, thou leapest out of darkness; but I am darkness leaping out of light, leaping out of thee! The javelins cease; open eyes; see, or not?

That's not even half of it. 

Character development is spotty and inconsistent. The one character developed early in "Moby Dick," a hapoonist from the South Pacific named Queequeg, largely disappears for the rest of the book (except for one chapter where he almost dies). Even late in the book, Melville is still introducing new characters.

The book is purportedly in first-person as told by Ishmael. But much of it reads like third-person or simply non-fiction.  One chapter is written like a play text. There's a long unnecessary flashback to a mutiny on another ship that has zero relevance to this book. 

The deeper writing problem is Melville's reluctance to allow his characters to say things directly. Sure there are eloquent lines such as "The sea was as a crucible of molten gold, that bubblingly leaps with light and heat," and "In his fiery eyes of scorn and triumph, you then saw Ahab in all his fatal pride."

But for everyone of those, there are four or five places where Melville's language meanders leisurely, digresses, loops back on itself, and wanders off as lost in a fog. Many of his sentences check in at over 100 words, and in one monster he spends 467 words to say, essentially, that there were hungry sharks next to the ship.

Even shorter sentences, like the one below, can leave you scratching your head.

Some certain significance lurks in all things, else all things are little worth, and the round world itself but an empty cipher, except to sell by the cartload, as they do hills about Boston, to fill up some morass in the Milky Way.

Maybe it is possible, if you paused and studied it, to decode the meaning of that sentence. But if you did that with "Moby Dick," you would be constantly stopping and would never finish the book. 

I was going to stop this review here, but I have so many examples of puzzling writing I want to include one more. (And this is my blog, so I can do what I want.)

Here is Ahab commenting on a dying whale:

Look! here, far water-locked; beyond all hum of human weal or woe; in these most candid and impartial seas; where to traditions no rocks furnish tablets; where for long Chinese ages, the billows have still rolled on speechless and unspoken to, as stars that shine upon the Niger’s unknown source; here, too, life dies sunwards full of faith; but see! no sooner dead, than death whirls round the corpse, and it heads some other way.

Good luck with that.

Book review: The first half of "Moby Dick" by Heman Melville

I usually wait to finish a book before reviewing it, but for "Moby Dick" I'm making an exception. I'm halfway through this 1851 Herman Melville work and I'm already bursting with things to say.

In short, "Moby Dick" is a mess.

Yes, I know it's supposed to be a classic. Some even call it the quintessential American novel. But this rambling, meandering work is like a chaotic junk drawer of literary styles.

It's part fiction, part non-fiction. It's told sometimes in first-person (with at least five different narrators) and sometimes as third-person. It even employs the rarely used first-person omniscent. 

There are diversions and digressions galore. Melville spends two chapters explaining why whaling is important to the world. Another chapter — and not a short one, either — is spent on the historic and cultural signifance of the color white. The plot is interrupted occasionally by factual chapters, like a 19th-century Wikipedia, on the different types of whales or artwork that depicts whales. Melville uses soliloquies, inner dialogues, even one chapter written like the script of a play. 

This is not what I expected. I've heard countless references to "Moby Dick" throughout my life and it sounded like a straightforward story about a whaling captain named Ahab obsessively pursuing a white whale named Moby Dick. There is that, but there's a lot more. Ahab doesn't even appear until 28 chapters into the story.

The plot and characters come and go haphazardly. A character named Queequeg is built up early on as the second main character after the narrator, Ishmael. Then Queequeg almost completely disappears from the story.

Melville seems in no hurry to move the plot forward — or anywhere. In the first paragraph, Ishmael says he wants "to get to sea as soon as I can," yet it takes another 22 chapters before his boat leaves the dock. 

He rambles along in twisting sentences of archaic language, which are either beautifully poetic or completely indecipherable. One sentence, I kid you not, clocks in at 467 words

Honestly, I'm not even sure you can call it a novel. It's more of a file folder labeled "Random whale stuff."

With all this negativity, you might wonder why I keep reading it, and so do I. In part, I'm trying to figure out why "Moby Dick" has such a grand reputation. There's gotta be some good stuff ahead, right?

To be fair, when Melville focuses on the plot, the story does move ahead with interesting developments. He captures a certain place in time in the American whaling industry — dreary lodging while waiting to go to sea, the mood of a whaling town, the excitement of chasing a whale. 

While it's true that some of the archaic language can't be decoded, sometimes Melville finds just the right words.

For example, on sleeping in a cold room, he says, "A sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there you lie the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal." 

But for every one of those gems there are three or four labyrinthian sentences that would overwhelm the the abilities of a literary puzzlemaster. Here's just one: "With a frigate’s anchors for my bridle-bitts and fasces of harpoons for spurs, would I could mount that whale and leap the topmost skies, to see whether the fabled heavens with all their countless tents really lie encamped beyond my mortal sight!"

I'm not giving up yet, but I will be skimming parts of the second half. 

Book review: "Into the Abyss" by Carol Shaben

The small plane descended through a blizzard of snow in darkness, crashed through the trees, and splintered into multiple parts as it hit the ground. While six passengers died, four men miraculously survived the crash. 

But though they were alive, the survivors of the crash were still in peril. They were deep in the Canadian wilderness on a bitterly cold night. Rescue was far away. Freezing to death was a real possibility.

This is the heart of the story in "Into the Abyss," a fascinating 2012 book by Carol Shaben. It tells the true story of the crash of Wapiti Airlines Flight 402 on Oct. 19, 1984, on its way to Peace River, Alberta.

Three of the survivors the crash were badly injured — pilot Erik Vogel, prominent politician Larry Shaben, and police officer Scott Deschamps. The fact that they eventually did survive the night was largely due to the actions of the fourth survivor, a man who never wanted to be on the plane in the first place. 

That man was Paul Archambault, a prisoner who was on the plane being escorted by Deschamps to be tried for alleged crimes. Archambault was the least injured of the four. He not only freed Deschamps from the wreckage, and certain death, he started and maintained a fire to keep the group alive until rescuers arrived.  

The sttory of Vogel, the pilot, is the spine of the book. Shaben carefully recounts his development as an eager young pilot who found a job with a small carrier to build up the flight hours necessary to move to a larger airline. Vogel clearly made mistakes that led to the crash, but Shaben notes another factor: The pressure his employer put on him to fly in bad weather, or when fatigued, even if it meant bending or breaking safety rules.

For all the main characters —Vogel, Archambault, Deschamps and Larry Shaben — the author paints nuanced portraits of their careers and personal lives. (If you're wondering, yes, author Carol Shaben is the daughter of Larry Shaben.) She clearly did deep interviews and research for the book. Even for less prominent characters, such as the men and women involved in the rescue efforts, Shaben humanizes them with carefully chosen details.

The most intriguing character in the book is Archambault, a troubled young man who had been jailed off and on for theft and vandalism. It was a yet another charge that put him on the plane, handcuffed to Deschamps. But as the flight began, Deschamps conceded to Archambault's request, and removed the handcuffs. That act may have saved both their lives.

After the crash, realizing he was still alive and able-bodied, Archambault at first started to flee into the woods to get away. But a pang of guilt brought him back to help the others, digging Deschamps out of a prison of snow in which he was embedded. (In fact, it is highly unlikely Archambault would have survived a night alone in the wilderness).

I was impressed by the Canadian rescue. Given that the flight crashed early in the night amid a raging snowstorm, I would have fully understood if the rescuers had opted to wait for daylight to begin operations. But as soon as word of the crash got out, in the darkness of the night, rescuers headed out by plane and on foot.

Paul Archambault was the hero of that night, but it took a while for the world to realize that. Immediately after he and the others were rescued, he was taken to a hospital and handcuffed to the bed. Later, as word of his actions emerged, most of his criminal charges would be dismissed. 

As a writer, Carol Shaben shows off skills other writers should envy, giving a masterclass in the use of vivid details to bring the story alive.

Some examples: 

• "When Erik saw the tree in front of his cockpit window, he screamed and threw his arms in front of his face."
• Paul Archambault "smoked his last rolled cigarette down to a roach and when the heat began to burn his fingers, tossed it into the snow."
• Scott Deschamps, trapped in snow after crash, "could taste dirt in his mouth and snow compressed inside his nasal passages."

Given how much I liked the book, I'm almost sorry to point out that the book loses steam in the latter parts, largely because the author stuffs in unneeded details

The crash and the rescue are the dramatic high points of the book, but they are over and done about two-thirds of the way through the book. Carol Shaben follows up appropriately by describing the subsequent crash investigations, which mostly blamed Vogel for the crash, though Wapiti Airlines was also faulted for pressuring pilots into dangerous situations. 

She also follows each of the survivors to see to see how they fared after the crash. This is a bittersweet section as each of them struggle to regain their footing in life. Sadly, Archambault died just six years after the crash in an accident. 

It is interesting to hear these follow-up stories, but Carol Shaben goes too far, adding information that the book just doesn't need. I'm sure Larry Shaben's role in representing Muslims in Canada is important in some context, but not this one. Deschamps' search for, and reunification with a half-sister, is an important story for his family, but is just not necessary here. 

I did like Carol Shaben's choice to end the book with the survivors' 20-year reunion. Though the story was filled with much melancholy, it was good to see that Vogel, Deschamps and Larry Shaben had become lifelong friends. 

Book review: "Big Dumb Eyes" by Nate Bargatze

I feel like I "discovered" Nate Bargatze. I first heard him in 2017 when he performed on "A Prairie Home Companion," the public radio show. Listening to him, I thought, "This guy's pretty funny." I made a mental note of his name.

After that, I started to hear, and see, more of Nate Bargatze. First, short video clips here or there. Then a full-length standup comedy special on Netflix. And then another one, and another. The mometum grew and suddenly there was Nate hosting Saturday Night Live. Twice!

I have been rooting for him along this journey. Not only is he funny, he's funny in a unique way. He doesn't curse or swear and doesn't tell dirty jokes. He doesn't do politics. 

He just tells stories from his life, sometimes making fun of others, but often making fun of himself. He can turn ordinary life — a visit to Starbucks, helping his daughter with homework —into very funny stories. 

And now Nate's written a book and a good one. "Big Dumb Eyes" doesn't contain that many outright laughs, but it has a lot of enjoyable, amusing stories, many of them from very prosaic topics. 

He talks about the difficulty he has choosing socks to wear. "Who are these animals out there, just waking up in the morning and throwing on socks with no planning whatsoever? It makes no sense!"

He recalls the time, as a child, when his father accidently left Nate's younger sister behind at a church event. "The first things my dad does is go, "Do not tell your mother.'"

There are stories on his life as a meter reader, how his mom outran the police, how he failed bowling in college, and how his barber became his physical trainer. 

My favorite story is about he and his family going to DisneyWorld. I'm not going spoil it for you here. 

The book is not an autobiography, but he does tell stories from his childhood, growing up and reaching adulthood. The thing I would have liked to know — but is not in the book — is what it was about standup comedy that interested Nate in the first place and why he stuck with it even when the paychecks were small. Did he know he would be famous? Was he waiting for me to discover him? 

Trivia night at O'Malley's on Main in Seal Beach

Four friends and I stopped in yesterday at O'Malley's on Main, a restaurant in Seal Beach, California, for trivia night. It wasn't our first time there, but it very well could be our last.

My friend Kay had called days earlier to reserve a table for our group. There had been a mxup on our previous visit and they somehow lost our reservation. We ended up with four people awkwardly crowded around a table that might have been big enough for three.

We didn't want that to happen again, of course, so Kay called ahead of time and the man she spoke to assured her that a specific table, perfect for our group of five, would be reserved for us. 

But when we arrived yesterday, the hostess knew nothing about our reservation. Sigh. We didn't get the table we wanted, and this time crowded five people awkwardly around a table for four.

The host gave us two menus to share among the five of us. After a wait of about 20 minutes, the server came by to take our orders. I don't expect servers to be bubbly or perky, but this waiter couldn't even manage half a smile. It seemed like he was being forced to do this job and only grudgingly taking our order. 

No one brought us utensils or napkins, so one of our group took some off a separate empty table. 

I had a blue cheese burger and it was the highlight of the evening — juicy and delicious. The fries were good too, but we discovered that the ketchup bottle at our table was nearly empty. With no server or other worker nearby to ask, we had to grab a bottle off another table.

We were there for two and a half hours and our waters were never refilled, not even after we asked our server to do so (and he said he would). He refilled the waters at the table next to us, but not ours.

Then there was the trivia.

Every bar has it's own style for trivia. I do like that O'Malley's has a good mix of topics and difficulty levels. They had questions on geography, music, history, sports and other topics. 

But it goes way too slow. After each question, the host plays a song to allow your group to submit an answer. But coming up with an answer doesn't take that long. Most of the time you either know the answer or you don't, and even if there is some debate in your group that takes no more than 30 seconds. You don't need the four or so minutes it takes to play a song.

As a result, there's not that much trivia on trivia night. At O'Malley's, they give you about 22 questions (and they give you a "freebie" answer to one of them). At other bars, trivia can have 40 to 45 questions on a given night. 

Also, the place was just plain loud. You might think that the one benefit of the long breaks between songs would be a chance to chat with your teammates, but the music and ambient noise of O'Malleys was so much you could barely shout, much less converse.

Finally, you remember that table we thought we had reserved? It was a perfect-sized table for five people. Unfortunately, it attracted a group of nine and they were seated right next to us. In fact, their overflowing group seemd to be sitting right with us. One of our group was getting bumped and jostled so much by this active group that he had to literally leave his seat and stand on the other side of our table.

All in all, not a great evening at O'Malley's.

Seeing "Jeopardy Masters" live

For "Jeopardy" nerds, this was the place to be.

It was the first day of taping for "Jeopardy Masters," the annual tournament showcasing the show's best and brightest, and I was there.  

I was among a couple hundred people arriving at Sony Picture Studios in Culver City, California to see one of the three "Masters" episodes being filmed that day 

I had been to "Jeopardy" taping sessions three times before. Two of those happened in the era of host Alex Trebek, one in the late 1990s and once in the 2010s. And then, just last month, I saw my first taping with host Ken Jennings.

After the latter taping, I happened to see that Masters was coming up. I rushed and quickly got a ticket for a taping. For a "Jeopardy" fan like myself, I felt like I had snagged a ticket to the World Series. But let's keep things in perspective: Tickets to "Jeopardy," like most TV shows that have an audience, are free.

In some ways this was like any other taping day. On arrival, the guard directed me into the parking garage. Once parked, I checked in on the first floor of the garage, and then took a seat in a waiting corral with other ticket holders.

All that was part of the normal process. But there were signs this day was different. First, we were all required to sign a non-disclosure agreement, which was atypical. Understandably, they didn't want to the results of any of the Masters games leaked (don't expect any spoilers here). 

Also, roaming among the crowd was five-time "Jeopardy" champion Alison Betts. Honestly, I'm not totally sure why she was there (she wasn't in the tournament). She bounced among various people in line, chatting amiably. Was she simply there as a fan or as some kind of goodwill ambassador? 

Mostly, I sat with the other ticket holders and waited. Our group had tickets to the 1 p.m. taping but at 1:15 we still hadn't left the parking garage holding area. 

In the Trebek era, "Jeopardy" ran as an efficient taping machine. At start time, maybe even before, audience members were escorted directly into the studio. With only a few preliminary announcements ("Don't shout out the answers!"), the show began. Breaks for commercials lasted about as long as they do in the actual airing, so the taping of a single show was close to the length of the final product. Alex Trebek was so smooth that he rarely had to re-shoot anything.  Even when I saw three episodes taped in succession, it all seemed to go by pretty fast.

Alas, in the Jennings era, the gears of "Jeopardy" have slowed, as I discovered at the previous month's taping. I saw two games, a total of about 45 minutes of actual show time. And yet I was on the Sony lot for three hours and 45 minutes. This was partly because they've now added a mandatory 30-minute stop in the gift shop, but also because the taping had numerous stops to reshoot portions. 

Ken had to do numerous "pick-ups" — instances where he had to re-read a clue or redo some other line that he had muffed. I like Ken Jennings a lot, but seeing the taping in person shows that he still lacks the broadcasting polish of Alex Trebek.

On the day I was there for Masters, the first taping had run long and caused ours to be delayed. Also, the taping was overbooked. The last ticketholders to arrive were told there wouldn't be room for them and encouraged to come another time.

Eventually, we were let into the gift shop for the required stop and then finally guided through the studio to the "Jeopardy" studio. At the front of the group were people with purple wristbands — friends and family of the competitors. Some of these had T-shirts announcing their allegiance, like "Team Victoria." 

The rest of us, with green wristbands, followed. We were warned to turn off our cell phones, put them away and never take them out once in the studio (I get it — no spoilers). 

Despite the delays and even though I'd been there before, it is still a magical moment when you walk into the "Jeopardy" studio and see the stage you've seen so often on TV. The stage shimmers in shades of blue. In the rafters above are countless lights, big and small, directed in different directions. 

On TV, you just see Ken and the three contestants. But there's much more. Just off stage is a long row of show staff, including producer Sarah Whitcomb Foss, sitting in front of computer monitors. There are multiple cameras around the room with one or two operators each, including one huge boom camera that swings back and forth.  Then there's the crowd of about 180 people, and signs that flash "Applause" at appropriate times. On this day, the Masters tournament trophy was sitting on a table three rows in front of me. 

There was a buzz in the crowd. Popular "Jeopardy" champ Sam Buttrey, who works on the show's podcast, was there mingling with audience members. During a break, Ken mentioned that former superchamp Brad Rutter was also there, but I didn't see him. 

Once in our seats, there was more waiting. Jimmy Maguire, formerly of the "Jeopardy" Clue Crew and now the stage manager, talked to the audience trying to keep things lively. The contestants were brought out with cameras in their faces, like boxers entering the ring. 

During the show breaks, Ken would do his "pick-ups" and then often take questions from the audience, including one from yours truly (in case you're wondering, some of the writers work on both "Jeopardy" and "Pop Culture Jeopardy," but not all of them). Ken is delightfully friendly. He tells funny stories and just seems like a genuinely nice guy. 

Still, the show moved forward in clumsy stops and starts. The opening of the episode had to be done over. The breaks dragged for mysterious reasons. None of the actual gameplay was changed (that would be illegal), but the taping was much less-polished than the show you see on TV. 

One of the stranger aspects of the tapings comes at the end of each game. On TV, as soon as the game is over, Ken quickly wraps things up and the credits roll. You might catch a short glimpse of Ken talking to the players.

In reality, Ken does an extended post-game interview with the players that lasts for several minutes. He asks about key moments in the game, difficult questions, ever wagering strategies. Some of this is interesting, but it is also awkward and really goes on too long. 

I'm not sure why they do this. Some snippets of the interviews have been posted on the show's website, but not many. (As of this writing, the most recent post-game interview clip I could find on the site was from four months previous).  

In all, I was on the Sony lot for four and a half hours to see 45 minutes of show. It was free, yes, and it was cool to get an early look at the Masters. But if you plan to go to any taping of "Jeopardy," just be sure to set aside enough time.