Alan was late getting home Friday night, so I did something I would only do if I were alone on a Friday night — I watched “The Godfather, Part III” from beginning to end for the first time since the movie came out.

I remember seeing it in the theater, and thinking, “Of course it’s not nearly as good as the first two, but I think the critics are piling on a bit. It’s not that bad.”

To set the record straight: It is that bad. In fact, by the midpoint, I was convinced Francis Ford Coppola had sunk into existential despair and could only emerge by parodying himself. How so? Those who remember the movie might recall that at one point, there’s an actual helicopter attack on a meeting of the mafia dons. While it was welcome — someone had just used the phrase, “you gotta let us wet our beaks,” a line that certainly calls for summary execution — it was impossible not to think of “Apocalypse Now.” Good god, Francis, get a grip.

This attack also came after Joe Mantegna, a fine actor, was forced to deliver a horrible speech: I say to all of you, I have been treated this day, with no respect. I’ve earned you all money. I’ve made you rich, and I asked for little. Good. You will not give, I’ll take!

Evidently there’s some rule that all mafiosos in Godfather movies must speak like Hollywood Indians around the council fire. “You will not give, I’ll take!” I prefer Tony Soprano.

There were thousands of other problems, but my favorite were the shots of New York Times front pages, used to convey the breaking news out of Rome, about the election of Pope John Paul I. (Yes, the Corleones are a family of many pies, many fingers, and many wet beaks.) Little-known journalistic fact: The New York Times was on strike for the entire papacy of John Paul I. They missed the whole thing, front to back. (Note to youngsters: It wasn’t a long one.) Also, the typefaces didn’t match. Which drives me crazy.

My friend the film critic says it’s Hollywood legend: The original script was about a power struggle between Michael Corleone and Tom Hagen, but the producers balked at Robert Duvall’s salary requirement, which was: As much as Diane Keaton. They refused. And so we got Sofia Coppola showing he all her shades of wooden, which ran the gamut from ash to birch.

When it ended (Spoiler: NOT HAPPILY), I surfed around the dial and found Al Pacino on another channel, in “Scarface.” Watched it for 10 minutes. Just for the comic relief.

While we’re at the movies, though — someone mentioned Clark Griswold in the comments, and it made me think of “Christmas Vacation.” I wondered if Kate was old enough to watch it yet. I don’t think I saw it all the way through, but I’ve seen bits and pieces of it here and there, and it seemed she’d get a kick out of it. Asked IMdB. Hmm, PG-13. Well, so was “Seabiscuit,” and that didn’t have much objectionable material. Checked the “memorable quotes” from IMdB’s entry:

Where do you think you’re going? Nobody’s leaving. Nobody’s walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We’re all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We’re gonna press on, and we’re gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he’s gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.

Oh well, I guess I can watch “A Christmas Story” a few dozen more times. Maybe in 2009.

So, on to the bloggage:

Michael Kinsley — word.

What did this woman get for her $4,000? I honestly can’t tell. For that money, she could spend two weeks in Istanbul — and do a lot of shopping. I know what I’d prefer.

Remember those people who said they were going to put their kids through college by investing in Beanie Babies? They were wrong, but others invested more wisely. An eBay success story.

It’s only natural — sometimes you ask yourself, What if God had sent his son to be born not to a poor Middle Eastern family during the Roman empire, but to a wealthy one in Grosse Pointe Shores, Michigan, during our own era? Or even if they were poor, but happened to be in the neighborhood when labor started? How might things have been different?

Well.

There would still be angels, sure. But instead of flapping around in the sky, on high, they’d perch on the roof. Plenty of altitude, nice opportunities for symmetry.

Even though a place like this has plenty of guest rooms, it’s possible there could be no room at the inn. If so, Mary and Joseph could have the baby out on the front lawn.

Would there be shepherds? Sure. In Grosse Pointe? Really? Aren’t there local ordinances? Probably, but this is the hand of God at work; they’d have to be encamped on the neighbors’ lawn.

How would word be spread? The angels, of course, with their celestial trumpets. Also, word of mouth — do you hear what I hear, and so on. But mainly, the event would be visible from outer space, and certainly heaven.

Come on, even a house like this can’t possibly carry an electrical load like that. Does it take a heavenly miracle? No. Just a generator.

Honestly, even though Kate thought it looked like the trees were dripping blood, I give this place points for many things — a consistent theme and design coherence, among other things. Bethlehem Vegas is not supplemented with Frosty, Rudolph, Santa and the guys (although there are reindeer grazing the grounds, but very abstract ones). There are several over-the-top displays along Lakeshore Drive this year, and two of them are strictly religious.

I was describing this to an out-of-town friend Saturday, and she said, “Well, sure. God has been very good to them, and they’re not afraid to show the world they’re grateful.” Also, passing commercial airliners.

Oy, a nice weekend it was, at least until Sunday morning. We went out Saturday night for the first time in about a thousand years, got home late, paid the babysitter and I actually got to watch, for the first time in about two thousand years, those final, excruciatingly unfunny moments of “Saturday Night Live.” I was in bed by 1 a.m., but just barely. One in the morning! It was almost like being an adult again.

Then it snowed overnight. Just enough to cover the grass. I’d say an inch, mebbe a smidge more.

So our neighbor’s snow-removal service showed up to clean off their driveway. They arrive with a crew of four, each armed with a snowblower. The driveway, I remind you, is directly beneath our bedroom window. They pulled starting cords in unison at 6 a.m.

Four snowblowers roaring as one under my window at 6 on a Sunday morning. It’s times like this I’m grateful I don’t own firearms.

The link of the day comes thanks to Amy, who is a serious Catholic but like the best Catholics, knows that God has a sense of humor. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Cavalcade of Bad Nativities.

Merry Christmas.

Circumstance carried me to the Somerset Collection today, the hoity-to-the-toity mall up in Novi. How hoity? A long line of children does not stretch across the central court waiting to see Santa; oh no, at Somerset, Santa can only be seen by appointment. I was there with my friend John and his adorable 3-year-old, Sally. Luckily, she didn’t want to see Santa, content to gaze upon him from a distance. The three of us were headed to the Apple store, to chip one more user away from the Windows empire. He left with a new PowerBook and a bright, virus-free future. (Knock wood.)

Sally got antsy before the deal was done, so I took her out to the Santa staging ground. She wanted to ride the escalator. We did so, about 20 times. Little kids are so great. When Kate was that age, she was as thrilled by a trip to the grocery store as one to the park. It’s a good age.

They’re all good ages, in their own way.

Said the person still on the near side of adolescence.

Oh, well. At least I know that if something confusing comes up to distance Kate’s generation from mine, American journalism will be happy to explain it all:

Teen Accused of Stealing iPod From D.C. Metro Rider

The electronic devices, which let people carry thousands of songs with them and listen to them through earphones, are about the size of a pack of cigarettes and have rapidly replaced the older portable Walkman-style stereos as the entertainment device of choice. Many people use them to alleviate the boredom of trips on crowded subway trains and the perceived tedium of many other activities.

Funny analysis of this puzzling paragraph, here.

Now I’m starting the weekend.