GRASS ON THE DASH!

Dear Readers,
I regret to inform you that this is not a post about any sort of illegal drug activity. I just thought I'd share with you a new way to make your car more ecofriendly... And no, it may not be as impactful as converting your ride to biodiesel, but it's a start.

It's a mobile planter (see pic above) with a suction cup that sticks to your car window or dash, so you can have a plant with you in the car at all times. You can grow whatever you want (wink wink, nudge nudge) and it will also give you a living thing to talk to when you're driving solo. (Of course, I'm sure you always carpool, but just in case.) I actually really enjoy talking to my plants at home (Mildred, Henrietta, and Betty) so I'm just excited to be getting a new mobile friend from the flora camp. Maybe we'll even play a little good cop, bad cop as we cruise around. I was thinking I might call her Midge. Or maybe Josephine... What do you think?

P.S. You can go here to pick up one of your own.

WANTED: NEW BEN STILLER

Whaaa? Tired of moi??

Are you a bit tired of Ben Stiller? Well, so am I. He's had his day in the sun, and though it was very sunny for a time (Zoolander, Reality Bytes, Dodge Ball, Something About Mary, etc) he's still in every other comedy, and he continues to play the lead even though age has clearly tightened its grip on the man. It's like he's at mile 17 of the marathon, while the ingenues opposite him continue to bounce around on the treadmill of eternal youth. Beyond all that, I'm just kind of ready for some new funny to come to a dvd player near me. Nah mean? Well, you know what? I think it's time to stop complaining and finally DO something about it! Won't you hop on the chuckwagon--er, bandwagon? Put your movie star where your mouth is? Well, okay, then! If you know someone with the potential to be the next Big Ben, please spread the word and have them answer the craigslist ad here.

JUST FOR KIDS?

I was at a (fairly) new park in Santa Monica yesterday, the SM airport park,
which has facilities such as:

• 1 synthetic turf sports field with lights open for use by permit only

• 0.83-acre off-leash dog area, with separate large dog & small dog areas

• children's playground with swings and climbers

• 17 picnic tables with 7 BBQ grills (available on first come, first serve basis)

• 0.6-mile walking loop

• 118 parking spaces plus bike racks

• 1 restroom building

It's a great park. But that's not why I'm bringing it up. Why I'm bringing it up is, I was looking at the bulletin board with all the activities offered at this park and all of the SM parks, and they looked like so much fun! Gymnastics. Boxing. Crafts. But then I read the fine print: These activities are just for kids. No adults allowed! Now sure, I acknowledge that there are a lot of things in the world that kids aren't allowed to do, so you could say we're even, but I don't think so. Kids can't drive, kids can't vote, kids can't drink. What's so fun about those first two anyway? But I think it's kinda sad that we as adults stop doing all those recreational activities in the park. Yes, we might still do some extracurriculars, but they're not nearly as ubiquitous for us fully grown folks. I just think this world would be a better place, and a lot more fun, if we never had to stop being goofy, or stop eating cheez n' crackers (the kind with the red plastic blunt edged stick meant for use as a knife) and never had to start using kleenex instead of our sleeve (i personally still have trouble with that one.)
So anyway, I'm gonna try my best to avail myself of the next swing set I come across. Won't you join me?

IT WAS JUST A MATTER OF TIME...

Unless you live in a cave in Afghanistan, you've probably heard about the British teacher who was arrested in Khartoum, Sudan, for allowing her students to name a teddy bear Mohammed. Wait, scratch that. If you live in a cave in Afghanistan, you've most definitely heard this news around the water cooler... Well, anyway, the teddy bear in question was unavailable for comment, but I managed to find a photo that very closely matches the description of the actual bear (see above.) Normally, I would say that there is no higher honor in the land than to be named after a teddy bear. But this particular bear, with its headdress, ribbon, (probably used for torture,) and boxes of "gifts" (come on, I know a homemade bomb when I see one,) it is easy to see why naming this teddy bear Mohammed might be considered profiling, and thus, offensive to the Sudanese people. After all, their government is known for holding itself to the most stringent of moral codes.

The teacher, Gillian Gibbons, may face jail time, or possibly, 40 lashes. The bear, you ask? Why, he has been recruited by the Janjaweed, of course.

ROLLER GUY...

So this is "Crazy Robertson," aka John Wesley Jermyn, a homeless, schizophrenic man who's been rollerskating the streets of Beverly Hills for more than twenty years. I remember driving by him countless times on my way to and from school as a kid. He was always just "Crazy Robertson." My friends and I thought he was funny. I mean, who would wear that outfit (shorts over tights, a headscarf coupled with a baseball cap, and always all black) except a crazy person? I guess like most kids in the Beverly Hills area, or pretty much anywhere else in America, we lacked a great deal of compassion.

Now it's already been blogged about heavily, and written about widely in the Wall Street Journal and elsewhere, but I just want to speak my piece about the news event du jour: Three young Beverly Hillbillies, all in their twenties, have started a "Crazy Robertson" clothing line, which they are selling at the trendy Kitson on, where else, Robertson Blvd. Apparently they have about as much compassion for the homeless and mentally ill now as I did in 5th grade. A lot of people are outraged by what they see as an exploitative maneuver. But I don't think it's all bad. I mean, CR agreed to it, and is getting a small percentage of the profits--which he doesn't seem terribly interested in anyway. Money's really not his thing. And what kind of legacy would he have otherwise left? To be sure, the clothing line could, should, and probably will be very fleeting... but not too many people can claim a clothing line based on their unique persona--especially CR, who seems to have trouble claiming much of anything. The Pollyanna in me says, "Maybe this will spur on some sort of awareness about homelessness and schizophrenia on the desrt island of Beverly Hills, where most people still blatantly defy pretty much every dictate of reality there is." But then Pessimistanna answered, "You have got to be f-ing kidding me, Polly. Oh, and can I have a ride to Westside Pavilion? I'm going to see the Crazy Robertson biopic, 'Rollerskate the Line.'"

So I started thinking (not an altogether common occurence): One, if I had a clothing line based on myself, what would it be like? And two, why am I not
on my way to the custom t-shirt shop right now? And THREE, what is the greater societal implication of rich, trendy people spending anywhere from $33 to $75 dollars per item on a piece of clothing inspired by a mentally ill vagrant? It's not the clothing line that bothers me, but more the herd mentality that it underscores. I guess I'm a touch worried about what's next. Dar Fur coats? I Raq the House t-shirts, complete with silk screened side-by-side images of rock guitarist and car bomb explosion emblazoned underneath? If anyone with an entrepreneurial spirit is paying attention right now, I command you to STOP. Ignore everything I just said.

But en serio, I think that we pretty much have to be at the edge of an apocalypse, if homeless people are becoming icons for the rich. Know what else? It seems wealth has been worshipped so fervently and for so long, that there has to be at least a superficial attempt at a values shift coming our way, if not a really fundamental one. But hey, I'll take what I can get...

ZOROASTRIANISM OR BUST!!!

Welcome, Readers!

I decided today would be as good a day as any to talk a little bit about Zoroastrianism. Zoroastrianism is the religion based on the teachings of the prophet Zoroaster. But Zoroaster believed this dude Ahura Mazda was the One True God. Here's a likeness of him, for the family album:




As you can see, he had a lot of appendages going on, like wings, ball-like feet, and a tail. Probably not the most fuel-efficient deity. So anyway, Zoroastrians believe in that guy. Ahura Mazda... Sounds suspiciously like two different car companies to me. But as I was saying, belief in Ahura Mazda is called Mazdaism. Zoroastrianism bears a great resemblance to all the other Judeo-Christian faiths, but it got there FIRST, and thus, was a precursor to a lot of modern day religious beliefs and traditions. Probably a kinder, gentler version of all the stuff folks believe now. But still, likely somehow connected to the root of the reasons for just about all the wars in the world.

Zoroastrianism was the dominant religion in the Persian empires (559 BC to 651 AC.) It's most sacred text is the Avesta. Again, sounds more than vaguely reminiscent of a car company. And I'm thinking, when the Big Three finally go out of business, (which I can't believe hasn't happened yet--have you driven a Ford lately?) I'm gonna start a car company called Avesta. My cars are going to be extremely low emission vehicles, and you'll have to peddle them with your feet, something like this:

Now that's progress.

Anyway, I challenge all of you, Dear Readers, to either come up with a religion or a car company of your own--or perhaps, both. Both gets you about fifty-thousand gold stars.

NY MARATHON!

I just came back from running the New York Marathon. It was such an exciting, inspiring event, with so much to see... bands, costumes, and oh-so-many spectators. And (coming off a back injury) I only came in about an hour and twenty minutes behind Lance Armstrong, and about an ahour and a half ahead of Katie Holmes, so I'm pretty pleased about all that.


The course takes you through all five burroughs of New York City. You start on Staten Island, run through Brooklyn, Queens, the Eastside of Manhattan, up to the Bronx, and then end up in Central Park. Over 38,000 people raced, including some blind people and some amputees. When you see those folks going for it, it makes you feel like you have absolutely no excuse not to crank through and do well.

During the race, an older guy who'd run ten marathons and was on my heels basically the whole way, loaned me his nasty, sweaty, dirty polypropylene shirt to wear. And I was cold, so I accepted it. You already have to be slightly delusional to run this race, but while you're racing, you get even MORE delusional, and willingly put on strangers' sweaty clothes.

Check out photos here and here.

FOCUS ON THE SEVENTIES

Know who's in the above picture? If you said, Dr. James Dobson, of Focus on the Family, you'd be right. If you said Adobe Acrobat 8, you'd also be right. What do the two have to do with each other? Nothing that I know of. Though JD has probably used AA once or twice. But I accidentally uploaded the Adobe picture (I'm selling Adobe on ebay--I don't keep it in my family album) and can't seem to get rid of it here.

AAnnnyyhoo, I just wanted to show you that picture of James Dobson, because I was talking about him last night and realizing, I don't think I've ever seen his mug. Now that picture, and its soft, feathered-light background, looks like it's straight out of 1973. Does it not? Reminds me of one of those science films we watched in fourth grade where the guy with the horn rimmed glasses driving a '57 Chevy showed you how much sugar was really in a milk shake. Which begs the question, why does the Christian right seem to be stuck in an entirely outdated era, all the time??? I bet when high-waisted jeans come back in, (as they so sadly are) James Dobson will be right there with his pair, ready to go. Or maybe not... Maybe he's stuck in an era prior to the FIRST wave of high-waisted jeans. His wife probably still wears one of those full body bathing suits.

Anyway, I do think that the Fundamentalists being stuck in another era is a, forgive me, fundamental problem for us all. First off, they are trying to live as though we were all in a biblical era. In case anyone hasn't noticed from the advancements in sneaker design, we're not. Second, they are all about strict constructionist views on the Constitution and all that stuff, which is basically a microcosm of their passion for rigidly adhering to an outdated text from a long bygone era.
But anyway, it's getting a little breezy up here on this soapbox, so I'm gonna come down now. I just wanted anyone who is frightened by the direction this country has taken--and don't be fooled by not hearing that much about Huckabee or Brownback, they're waiting to pounce at the last minute--to know thine enemy, as the bible thumpers would say. And so now, if you're ever walking down the street past James Dobson (or perhaps if you see him leaving yoga class or while standing in line for your latte) you can put a face with a name. Or a pie in the face. As the case may be.

ALBINO RATFISH!

Ever hear of a ratfish? Betcha haven't. Ever hear of an albino ratfish? Bet everything I own you haven't--okay, that's not much, but still, I do enjoy having a couch, and I'm not inclined to relinquish it casually.

Anyhoo, this ratfish was found off the coast of Washington State's Whidbey Island, and, in being albino, is apparently a real rarity among sealife. Check out the full story here. "I've seen tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of ratfish in my career, and have not seen a completely albino one before," said Wayne Palsson, a Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife biologist who studies groundfish populations in Puget Sound. Palsson's comment made me realize that ratfish are to marine biology what agents are to Hollywood. Except, I still haven't come across an albino agent in my so-called "career." My first thought was that if I do come across one, I will definitely be eager to do business with him (or her,) because maybe he'd be more human than other agents. But then, I thought better of it: Albinos get bullied a lot, so an albino agent would most certainly have an even bigger ax to grind than your normal, garden variety, Napoleon complex-having agent.

I would like to be albino for a day. I think it'd be kinda neat. For a day. As I said. Longer than that might be kinda tough. Especially if I resided near the equator. You could go broke trying to pay for all that sunscreen...

Check out some nineteenth century albinism in full effect:


Neat, huh?

WILDFIRES!

We were camping in the Santa Ynez Valley Saturday night. Winds gusted at about 40 miles per hour the entire night. In the morning, everything seemed calm and copasetic. Until: We smelled and saw a small cloud of smoke billowing nearby. Was some jerk ignoring the "no campfire" restriction? Well, you could say that: Moments later, a fire marshal--the battalion chief no less--cruised by in his fire vehicle, and asked us "how long we were planning on staying." we said, "oh, do we need to leave now?" He said, (in a tone generally reserved for sharing recipes,) "well, you don't have to, if you're prepared to leave all your stuff behind. There's a four-hundred acre fire burning below you. Surprised they haven't evacuated you by now." I've never seen five tents come down so fast. On the way out of the valley, we could see planes flying around, spraying the fire. And then of course, our way home was fraught with smoke, ash, a deeply darkened sky, and a bright red moon, as we drove through the towns adjacent to several other fires, most notably, the Canyon fire in Malibu. Here's a map which marks the more than fifteen fires that were burning yesterday in Southern Cali.

So, does all this mean the end is near? I think so. But until then, I'm going to buy stock in water.

HALLOWEENIVERSARY!

Yo Readers,
We celebrated our two year wedding anniversary this weekend in La Jolla. It was really great. But there was one obstacle to perfection--how were we supposed to go jewelry shopping with THIS guy in our way? I mean, not even diamonds are worth an encounter with a ghoul. Or a goblin, or a zombie... I hate to sound racist, but they all look alike to me!

I guess I should get used to sharing my birthday and my anniversary with Halloween, my most dreaded of holidays. Yes, I hate it. Dressing up = total waste of time. Scary costumes and horror films = scary and horrifying. Candy = bad for you. What's to love? But you know what's kinda romantic? My husband and I both share a strong dislike of that aforementioned extravaganza of candy corns and plastic vampire teeth and cobwebs. So I guess you could say, without Halloween to bring us together, there might not be any anniversary at all. Yeah, you could say it, but you'd be way off. But... you could say it. Go ahead.


Say it! Or I will send a goblin to haunt you and your entire family. Hoohoohhaaaaaahhaaa!

Let it Ride: The Craig Kelly Story

Just saw the snowboarding documentary "Let it Ride" last night, about legendary snowboarder Craig Kelly. It was a really inspiring movie. One of those things that makes you wonder what the hell you're doing with your own life. Or, at least, it made ME wonder that. Not only is the snowboarding footage (mostly shot by pro documentary-maker Jacques Russo) incredible, but the message about trying to live life for the moment, instead of wondering what's around every next corner, comes through loud and clear.

The film also explores the history of snowboarding, the rivarly between Burton and Sims, and gives a nod to snowboarding's precursor, kids' toy "The Snurfer."

But even if you're not interested in anything deeper than some sick carves on stomach-turning, totally exposed faces, you'll probably still love this movie.

FROM SUPERMARKET TO PSYCHOLOGY...

Does anyone remember the Alpha Beta supermarket chain? They were around when I was a kid, and are now defunct, but for some reason the company crossed my mind today. And for some really crazy, weird, totally inexplicable reason, I remember their slogan, "Tell a Friend." By the way, what does this memory say about the magnitude of wasted space in my brain?

Apparently, the gimmick behind the Alpha Beta chain was that they alphabetized all the groceries in their stores. So does that mean that grapes were next to granola? I'm not sure. It sounds very complicated, yet also, paradoxically, like a quaint notion from a bygone era.... As does their "Tell a Friend" slogan, which to me, is like saying, "Do our advertising work for us." Although, there is something very compelling about being told to tell a friend. You almost feel obligated to listen.

Speaking of which, the other day, I was in a cafe restroom that had a sign above the toilet seat, imploring, "PLEASE DO NOT PEE ON THE SEAT." Now, gentlemen may not know this, but us ladies pee on the seat too sometimes, especially those of us who hover a few inches above the seat in the name of hygiene. I'm telling you this because I want you to understand that I took this mandate in the restroom to heart. I was seriously concerned that if I accidentally got a bit of wee-wee on the seat, an alarm might go off alerting the proprietor along with all patrons that I had done the big no-no. Fortunately, that did not happen. But who knows what would have transpired, had I taken the non-compliance route?

I guess, to me, this fear of peeing on the seat after being told not to represents a bigger psychological phenomenon--beyond your garden variety "psychology of fear"--which I can't exactly put my finger on... But I'll bet if Stanley Milgram or Ivan Pavlov or one of those dudes was around today, they'd have a better idea about it.

THANKS, MR. GRIFFITH

Hello Everyone,

I had the opportunity to visit the newly-renovated Griffith Park Observatory this weekend. It was a great experience. They've got tons to see--four hours there was barely enough--and a great planetarium show. The telescope on the roof that you can actually walk into (thanks Zeiss) is pretty awesome. They also have a telescope trained on the sun, but since it was evening, we weren't able to avail ourselves of that feature.

Anyway, I just wanted to give props to this guy:






















A Welshman named Griffith J. Griffith, for establishing such an awesome park and planetarium. can you believe how civic-minded that guy was? It's impressive! I wish I could be that cool... Maybe someday...

I'd also like to thank THIS guy:

Galileo Galilei, for contributing so much to astronomy, and for also having the same first and last name--well, almost. I was thinking about how all these dudes like Copernicus and Galileo spent all that time looking at the stars, and figured things out about gravity and dark matter and the universe, and it made me ask myself, "What have I done to better the understanding of the universe lately?" And I quickly came up with an answer. "Not much." But then, those guys didn't have Tivo. Or Ben and Jerry's...

But anyway, I'm determined to work on my scientific contribution to the world. Really, I am. I started by going for a full moon hike at Charmlee wilderness park in Malibu this past week. I just wanted to make sure the full moon was really happening when my calendar said it was. I was simply taking the great piece of advice doled out by so many throughout history, but most recently by Glenn Close in FX's Damages: "Don't Trust Anyone."

Anyhoo, my visit to the observatory brings to mind one of my new favorite quotes: "We're all made of stardust. Why not take a moment to look up at the family album?" This quote comes from a new book called "The Canon: A Whirligig Tour of the Beautiful Basics of Science," by Natalie Angier, a science writer for the New York Times. It's really cool. Check it out.

SUPERSIZE HER!

If you weren't already convinced about the perils of overeating, here is something that just might push you over the edge:

The "little" Siberian girl on the left weighs 17.1 pounds (just after birth.) She is her mother's 12th child. The baby on the right is already developing a Napolean complex. Or maybe she's thinking, "at least I can fit into couture."

MY PAPARAZZI, MYSELF

Despite all the recent controversy about spying, wiretapping, and 24-7 video surveillance of the public, I had a recent experience that convinced me that, when it comes to being subjected to the watchful eyes of rogue cameras, maybe it's time to look within. Lately, my motorola razor cellular telephone has been inadvertantly switching to pix mode a lot. I don't know why. But still, imagine my surprise when, yesterday, about five minutes after getting out of bed in the morning, and wasting no time in scarfing down a banana--prior to any ablutions whatsoever--my phone accidentally took a picture of me, mid-chomp. (Not to mention, mid-bedhead.) I'm convinced there's some little voodoo paparazzo living in my phone, just trying to embarrass the living daylights out of me. It even caught me looking right at it! But I'm going to beat that little sucker to the punch, and prove to you, Dear Reader, that I have absolutely zero shame....

Because, here is the picture:



















I'm thinking if one of the actors on Cavemen doesn't work out, I might just be their gal...

LICENSE TO DRIVE... NAKED

G'day Readers--

So, I had a little idea. (You weren't expecting a big idea from ME, were you???) You can always count on the fact that I will be sick of the latest scandal almost before it happens. Therefore, you can count on the fact that I'm entirely fed up with the whole Vanessa Anne Hudgens scandal, if nothing else because she reminds me of a little relentless monkey. But it's not just HER and HER nude photo scandal, it's ___________ (fill in the blank with your favorite celebrity) and __________________ (do it again) nude photo scandal. I mean, who really cares??? I guess maybe if Stephen Hawking posed nude, I'd raise an eyebrow (well, both, I don't know how to do just one at a time although I admire that skill,) but barring that, I'm not so terribly shocked or interested.

But I'm not gonna just bellyache about our annoying, celebrity-driven times. Instead, I've come up with a solution to our unending preoccupation with nudity: Are you ready? Set? Here goes:

naked drivers license photos. Like this one:

only naked. and of the living.


I mean, why not? If everyone was naked on their drivers' license, we could just get it all out of the way and move on to loftier pursuits. It would also help cut to the chase on a first date. Anyway, just a thought. Please forward to your local DMV.

P.S. Where are all my AFRICA, LATIN AMERICA, and ASIA-based readers?? Based on my clustermap (see link at bottom of my blog) I don't seem to get no love from anyone but the colonialist enclaves of The U.S., Europe, and Australia (and yes, dear Canada, you too--I haven't forgotten about you, honeybuns. But you've never exactly been a tyranny--though you come from a long line of imperialists--and you're not exactly a developing nation either.)

They May Look Innocent...

Ahoy Readers!

So, you're probably wondering, what the hell is up with the pizza the livestock, and the fat man? Well, sit tight, 'cause I'm about to tell you. This post is about me being sick and tired of sheep. Not those adorable fuzzy ones above, but the human variety. But you know that saying about he who casts the first stone... I'm as guilty of it as the next guy, gal, or transvestite. Okay, well maybe not the next gal, but the gal three rows down on your right. Yeah, the one with the mismatched socks.

So, you're demanding, where exactly does the pizza come in??? Again, I pledge not to leave you in the dark. That pizza is a picture from Pizzeria Mozza, Mario Batali (see above,) and Nancy Silverton's hot new LA pizza restaurant. Well, since it opened almost a year ago, I'm not sure one could call it new, but... Anyhoo, I tried to make a reservation there for my husband's birthday--I did this two weeks in advance--and the EARLIEST they had was 10:15pm. I attempted calling back and seeing if there were any pizza-school drop outs, but was told, definitively, "Nein." Except they may have said it in English. But it didn't matter. "No" hurts in any language. And so does eating dinner at 10:15 if you're not Spanish or Italian or working the graveyard shift.

So, how am I tying this altogether? That question is just as much for me as it is for you... The point is, I'm MAD at myself. That's right, and DISAPPOINTED. Why do I need to go to a restaurant where you have to make a reservation months in advance to even eat during normal dining hours? WHY? Because we're all a bunch of sheep, that's why. Although, I don't know how apt a description that really is... I mean, those sheep may follow each other around, but I somehow doubt they're all concerned with where the best patch of grass is, and who will get to try it first, and how many calories it is. Matter of fact, I think they seem quite comfortable in their own wool. Which is something we could all aspire to...

P.S. If anyone has a reservation at Pizza Mozza for Friday night, between the hours of 7 and 9pm, let me know.

Weekend Warrior

Well, Dear Readers,
I wish I could tell you that the photograph above was of the nice clerk who rung me up at REI this weekend, but unfortunately, as we all know, it's not. (I bet if that guy worked at REI, they'd be at war with A16 by now, hitting each other over the head with Thermarests and violating the Geneva Conventions by forcing one another to wear zip-off camping pants.)

Okay, I hate to say it, but... My personal rule is that I must admit something shameful at least once every five years, and I think my time is up. So here goes:

In the above picture, that evil ignoramus (if you can be both at the same time,) that man of the wars, the torture, and the illegal spying; the to-hell-with-Kyoto and pretty-please-China- will-you-sit-by-me-at-lunch attitude, actually evokes sympathy from me--much more so than he did when he choked on a pretzel a few years back. I don't know what it is. Is it because I see so much of myself in him in that little piece of celluloid? That Camelbak brand hydration bladder (and matching pack), the iPod headphones, those polarized sunglasses, the sleek red bicycle helmet... Okay, so I won't comment on that inane headband, other than to defend it as mere sweat protection--but sincerely, I think this man has extracted a drop of compassion, nay, solidarity, from my ultra-liberal ticker. You are no doubt begging me why? Well, I'll tell you. I think it's that, in his weekend-warrior, pre-cycling state, that man has been reduced to a vulnerable human being, who needs water, shade, cranial protection (okay that one's up for debate), and itunes, just as much as the rest of us. Suddenly, the term "my fellow Americans" actually means something to me.

So am I switching political parties, or reversing my stance on impeachment? Not likely. But if I were to run into the guy at Yoga Works in the next few weeks, or say, PinkBerry**, or pouring over the New York Times vows section at Peet's some Sunday morning, that could just push me over the edge...



*For the uninitiated, REI and A16 are two sporting goods stores.
** I actually don't really like PinkBerry all that much--in fact, I could produce a tirade about that place worthy of its own blog post--but there is something very liberal and freethinking about it's existence, something which... I can't explain at all.

Girly Boy Names

I like girls names for guys, like Courtney, and Casey, and Shannon... Does that make me a heathen? I like to think it does... Anyhoo, the following are the top ten boys and girls names in America for 2006.

Boy's Names	Girl's Names
1. Jacob	1. Emily
2. Michael	2. Emma
3. Joshua	3. Madison
4. Ethan	4. Isabella
5. Matthew	5. Ava
6. Daniel	6. Abigail
7. Christopher	7. Olivia
8. Andrew	8. Hannah
9. Anthony	9. Sophia
10. William	10. Samantha

Note that there's not a girly-boy name in the bunch. (actually, there are no boyish-girl names either, like Taylor or Chuck. Not even any unisex names like Jamie or Betty Sue.) i guess i must be the only one on the girly-boy-name-bandwagon. ahhh, i love being original. it's so refreshing. just like coke zero--"tastes so much like coke, we should probably sue ourselves." Have you seen that litigious-themed ad?


It's not like I'm trying to promote Coke or anything, I just think it's a little crazy that one of the world's most popular brands is rolling out a whole lawsuit-centered campaign. Could this be the beginning of the end?

PS: To mom and dad and aunt jenny jo, just because i'm blogging about names does NOT mean i'm pregnant.

SPECIAL ELECTION!

Everybody's seen this bumper sticker, right?

I think it's a bit preposterous. First of all, we all know that Al Gore is NOT running for president. But okay, if we're dreaming--as this bumper sticker boldly dares to do--why not come up with a running mate who's also a total wild card? Well, I've taken it upon myself to conjure a few stellar pairings of my own, and here's what I've come up with: (My only rule was that, following the Gore/Obama model, I needed to select one somewhat-senior member, and a not-so-experienced partner.)



HILLARY '08
LEWINSKI

BUFFETT
LOHAN '08
(not Jimmy, you nimrod--Warren! we need a designated driver)

VICK '08

DOO
(yes, as in Scooby)


Vote for your favorite... and feel free to add one of your own to my comments!

THE SECRET

Secrets are fun to tell, but they usually end up hurting someone. So I was looking for just the right person to confide in, who I knew would lend a safe, neutral, unflinching ear. Well, I found him, sitting right there on a bench in beautiful Cambria, California, just two short weeks ago. And let me tell you... I don't understand why people waste so much money on shrinks, when this guy helped me figure out just how to deal with all the twisted backstabbers, addicts, and neurotics in my life, and all it cost me was the price of a 1/4 lb of rocky road fudge at a nearby storefront ($6.50 U.S.) Worth the trip, believe me--even accounting for our devalued currency!

P.S. Thanks to all you midwesterners out there who have rallied behind me and my blog! (Coastal readers, check out the clustermap link below to see how many heartland visitors have joined me since my previous post lamenting their absence. Do I feel a competition coming on???

P.P.S. Welcome Canadians--your newcomerness was not lost on me!

This dog, Saint, not only gets barreled on a regular basis, he's also a volunteer therapist (no joke) for a women's shelter. In addition, he hikes, climbs, and loves to kick the soccer ball around. I might try to set him up with one of my single friends.

Read more about Saint here.

MORTGAGE ALIEN?

Hi Readers,

Has anyone seen that dancing mortgage alien? He's been very ubiquitous lately. Apparently, he's the spokes-alien for LowerMyBills.com. If you are blessed enough to stumble upon the animated version of him, you won't deny that he really does have the moves. Truth be told, he actually dances EXACTLY like this one friend of mine--I won't say who, other than that she's an Asian female. But anyway, they've both been gifted with astonishing rhythm.

I guess I'm just a little confused by the choice of a green space alien raver as a symbol for mortgage savings. Can anyone explain that to me? Any marketing execs out there? Bottom line is, I'm both drawn to and repelled by him. Maybe I've just answered my own question...

Tune in to ABC next season for a sitcom about a space alien who sells home loans by day, and attends raves at night. His dream is to be a professional dancer, and to legalize Ecstasy. And for all you "intellectual" property thieves out there, I've already registered this idea with the WGA, so fuhgeddaboudit.

ALL MY FLYOVER STATES IN THE HOUSE, SAY YEAH!

Okay. So, I was looking at the neat little clustrmaps (not a typo) feature on my blog, and it looks like, in addition to some of my European brothers and sisters, my main traffic--if you can call three people on a country road traffic--is coming from the east coast and the west coast. well, what about the flyover states, I ask? why aren't those lovely people from the land of corn and potatoes paying me a visit? too busy producing ethanol? well, that's all great and fine, but, corn based ethanol is totally inefficient, and i would really appreciate some more (or any) heartland lookiloos.

So, dear readers--and you know who you are--I implore you, please spread the word to those who may not boast an ocean view, but might still be likely to squander away a few minutes getting to know me and my oh-so-special e-persona.

Thank you, and enjoy the negative ions.

MUSCLE-BOUND GIRLSCOUT?

Do you ever google people from your past? Oh, come on, yes you do! You KNOW you do. Just random people. Your third grade teacher, that bitch who beat you out for cheerleading, that really hot soccer coach you had when you were ten. Still no? Okay, well, some people are big enough and proud enough to admit to weird hobbies, and I'm one of them.

Usually, when I google folks from my past, either nothing associated with their name comes up, or it's something really boring like an accounting firm or a useless piece of sculpture made of dreamcatchers. But last week, when I googled junior high pepsquad member and fellow Girl Scout Christy Wolfe, boy did I get a surprise:


Now, if any of you readers know me from junior high, and I've got the wrong gal, by all means, please set the record straight. But to be honest, I'm kind of hoping you don't. I would prefer to believe that that prissy little girl who couldn't live without her curling iron is now a grotesque
muscle chick.

GOING METRO

Hi Readers,

I know what you're thinking from the title. You're thinking, maybe Buckwheat's gone metrosexual? Well, first of all, I don't know if that's possible for a girl, or what the female equivalent of that would be. jockosexual perhaps? anyway, that's NOT what this post is about. it's about RIDING THE BUS. it's really an ode, more than anything. yes, i will profess. I must confess. I do suggest. I love riding the bus.

My favorite part about riding the bus is thwarting the establishment; making a childish tongue- poking face at the naysayers, or those who claim that Los Angeles has no public transit. They are wrong. It's poor public transit, sure, but you can make it work--and if you do make it work, you should probably be given some sort of honorary degree. I think I'm going to give myself one, since the phones don't seem to be ringing all that much.

Another thing I love about the bus is it's a great time to catch up on all that reading that you can never seem to do safely while at the helm of your car. I do see people trying to pull that one in LA, sometimes with the newspaper, but I don't stick around very long to observe what page they're on. Something tells me they probably don't get much past the news headlines.

One of the BEST parts of the bus ride is the people watching, inside and outside of the bus. A lady brought her pet rat along for the ride (in a little pink cage--awwww.) A cute guy with a skateboard and a pretty, fresh-faced girl, both late teens, met and flirted and disembarked from the bus together. A psychotic woman yelled at her tote back. A field trip for retarded children originated on my bus. It's eye candy I tell you. Or at least eye french fries. Or eye mac and cheese. You get the idea.

There are drawbacks, don't get me wrong. One night, on the later side, I boarded the bus and was horrified to see a rider embark with a big cardboard sign proclaiming, "I HATE WOMEN." He made sure he flashed the sign in front of my face before sitting his sadistic little ass in the back. That kinda freaked me out. And then there's the occasional smelly person, who finds it just fine to take off his or her shoes and settle back for a fully-supine nap. Not to mention, the occasions that the MTA neglects to inform its passengers of a route change. (I waited for my 304 bus last week and waited and waited and waited, only to find that the line had been discontinued, and replaced with another line that originated from a different location. Thanks for telling me, MTA! Thanks a lot!)

Despite these inconveniences, the bus is a great way to see that beyond the metal and vinyl (or leather if you roll that way) of your car, that there IS life going on in this city, and spirit, and bustle. And you'll not only get to see that on the actual bus ride, but on the walk to and from your stop. Okay, this concludes my ode to Los Angeles public transit. STOP REQUESTED! (You'll have to ride the bus to get that joke. Is it worth it? Only you can find out.)

THEY DO CHICKEN RIGHT!

Bon Soir, Dear Readers,

The other night, I had the incredible fortune to attend Lucha Vavoom at the Mayan theater. This sort of precious opportunity, afforded on a random Wednesday night in June, is what makes America great. Of course, we mustn't forget that it was our brothers and sisters south of the border who started this whole piece of genius. So, what the hell is this lucha thing, you're asking oh-so-impatiently? It's Lucha Libre (Mexican wrestling) combined with a burlesque show, with a sprinkling of comedy thrown on top, in the form of the Sklar brothers. Lucha Libre actually means, "free fight," and though the night wasn't free in a monetary sense, it was definitely a free for all. What made it great, other than fat men in brightly colored spandex and sexy women who could mind-bend their own pasties? Well, normally, that would be enough for me, but Lucha Vavoom didn't stop there. They topped all that off with a midget wrestler in chicken garb (see above, as if you haven't already.)

That's right. You've seen it here first. Now who doesn't just live for this kind of thing? No really, who? I want to meet them. And spank them. In a corporal punishment way.

They also played the "chicken dance" song en espanol, which I adored, and loved clapping to. Clapping in the right place at the right time... ah, what a sense of belonging... But anyway, speaking of chickens, remember when they starting calling all Kentucky Fried Chicken "restaurants" KFC a few years ago? At that point, a rumor started circulating that they'd changed the name to KFC because they could no longer call it "chicken" in good faith. Apparently, the rumor went, these chickens had no beaks and no feet, (they were bred that way for efficiency) and were fed intravenously. I can't even count the number of people I know who actually believed that scuttlebutt. Perhaps I'm hanging with the wrong crowd?

Well, anyway, this midget chicken seemed to have both a beak, and a pair of feet, which is why I feel comfortable calling him "chicken," without much concern for the threat of litigation. And he definitely was a midget. My friend was in a music video the day before I went to Lucha Vavoom, and she said she co-starred with a midget lucha libre wrestler. I have the sneaking suspicion it might have been the same guy.... Oh, to be a midget. It just seems like it would be really cool to be a big fish in such a small pond. Okay, a big tiny fish. But you get my meaning. There's so much less competition for midget entertainers, compared to full-sized ones. And it seems like the affirmative action aspect would be pretty good.... Or maybe not. I'm trying to think if I ever came across a midget when I went to UCLA... I don't think so... But wait, I take that back--does Kerri Strug count? Let's just say she does. Okay then, one midget out of a 20,000 plus student body. I've seen more pitiful ratios. Somewhere. I'm sure of it.

SIGHT UNSEEN

Hey Readers,

So, I finally conducted my blindfold experiment this weekend. And let me tell you, it was a doosy. I spent several hours on Saturday afternoon wearing one of those eye masks that some people wear to sleep. Well, I can see why that's what they're intended for, because as soon as I put the mask on, I promptly passed out for about an hour and twenty minutes. Refreshing! I almost never take naps--maybe this was the universe's way of telling me that I ought to...

I'd subconsciously heard my phone ring during my nap, so when I awoke, I fumbled to find the phone and check my messages. Naturally, this presented a problem, as the numbers on my keypad are not in braille... So I tried to use my memory to figure out where the special little buttons on top ended and the numbers began. I punched a few keys, and suddenly, I was calling someone! I immediately hung up. What if I was calling some total jerk? Well, it turned out I wasn't. You know how I know? Because five seconds later, the phone rang. I flipped it open--receiving calls was the easy part. It was my dad, asking me if I'd just called him. I said, "There's a very good chance I might have." We chatted for a few moments, but I found that it was somewhat difficult to concentrate. I never realized that sight played such a huge role in my comprehension and focus...

After returning a few phone calls with the (reluctant) aid of my husband, I thought I'd listen to a little bit of Saturday afternoon TV. I heard part of a true-hollywood-story type thing on Destiny's Child. I noticed myself hanging on every word. I was dying to rip my blindfold off and see a picture of Beyonce from her junior high days, but I have too much self respect to just up and throw in the towel like that. So I listened to the trials and tribulations of the Knowles' family, what their parents gave up for the girls' success, and how incredibly excited they were when they were picked up from high school one day by their mom, who was blasting their first single on the radio. Beyonce almost passed out!

When I first "went blind," I tried to memorize the lay of the land of my apartment, so that I wouldn't get lost. We only have a two bedroom, so I didn't think that would be a big deal. It turned out that it was. Being sight-free can be quite disorienting. It got so, I knew I was somewhere in the living room, but had no idea which part. I tried to figure it out, and sustained a few bruises to that end. But don't worry about me, I'll be fine. The black and blue marks were nothing next to my husband's serious irritation at having to pour me frequent glasses of water, lead me over bumps in the sidewalk, and dial my friends' phone numbers.

My big suggestion: If you're ever going to attempt such tomfoolery, make sure you're paying your guide by the hour, and determine the currency beforehand.

WISH YOU WERE HERE, WILBUR

Pop Quiz!

The picture below is of:

a--me after a Ben and Jerry's jag.

b--an overly-flattering representation of our President.

c--an Iowan farm animal safari

d--none of the above

If you guessed "D," you're partially right. There might be a little bit of "B" in there too. I don't know. The picture is just in from the Roger Waters concert at Hollywood Bowl last week. Well, I've had the picture the whole time, just hadn't gotten around to emailing it to myself from my phone. Lazy!! For those who didn't have the good fortune to go, it was an amazing show. I'm not even a big fan or anything and it was still one of my favorite concerts. One of the best parts was the giant inflatable pig floating above the crowd. Disclaimer: I'm biased, because I love pigs, and there's a famous one named after me.

Anyway, this huge guy in front of me was smoking loads and loads of weed, and I asked him if I could "borrow" a rolling paper (I wanted to make a paper airplane, in case you're wondering.) I told him if he gave me a paper, I'd give him... a little herbal treat, that I already knew he'd like, without even knowing much about the guy. But then my whole "airplane folding" project went awry, and it was a total disaster, and I had nothing to give the guy but a tiny packet of M+Ms. This guy was so big that it probably would have taken about 30 packets of M+Ms for him to taste just one piece. But it was all I had. So, I handed them over sheepishly, and he, after examining them closely, even holding up a flashlight to them--I think he was hoping they might have been something slightly more psychedelic than chocolate candies--managed a shrug, tore into the pack, and started munching quite agreeably.

And we all lived happily ever after. Especially the pig.

A WHALE OF A POST

Hi Everyone,

Since I only had time to be blind for about fifteen minutes this weekend, I will attempt to edify you with a brief interim post: I just read today in the New York Times that certain species of whale can live for up to about 200 years. A story in today's Week in Review talked about Eskimo hunters having recently killed a whale in whose head they found a harpoon dating back to the 1880s! I think this is an important reminder we humans aren't the best at everything. Nor can we approximate all of the advantages of other species using new technologies. Though we are trying. Well, not me personally. I don't think I can claim responsibility for even one technological innovation in this or any other century. Currently, I feel a bit like a whale, having eaten a delicious vanilla cupcake from Hotcakes Bakes (in Mar Vista,) followed by some Trader Joes oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. They're not that good, but they're very faithful. They know to stay put in my cupboard until I command them to do otherwise.

The other thing I feel compelled to make sure you know about whales: They share a very close ancestry with cows. Can you believe it? A creature crawled out of the water, evolved, and then crawled back into the water and evolved some more? And now, you'd never know they were cousins. All of this begs the question: If a whale and a cow hooked up, would they have retarded children?

One more thing before I go to bed: During my short stint blindness experiment, my husband kept leading me up and down the same curb over and over again, in a zig-zag pattern, sabotaging my senses and disorienting me completely. I'm not sure if he's the best seeing-eye husband out there. Applications for guides are currently being accepted.

SNEW, PART TWO: NATIONAL SMILE DAY?

Hey Readers,

How are you? I'm in a really good mood right now, fresh from my smile experiment. As promised last week, I conducted this bit of research, smiling for (at least) a half mile walk on a pedestrian-trafficked street. Well, I will preface my report by saying that what started out as a half mile turned into about a mile and a half! Apparently, smiling can be addictive, even for your garden-variety curmudgeon (a category under which you would definitely find my name, photo, and fingerprints.)

So, as I started down towards the Main Street area of Santa Monica/Venice, adjacent to my home, I couldn't help but feeling a little nervous about what was to transpire. When I made reference to a straitjacket last week, it was only partially hyperbolic. Though I found it a bit straining to smile while gulping back a nervous mole hill in my throat, I resolved to keep up the good work, as it were. In fact, I decided to throw myself to the wolves and not only perambulate down Main Street with a smile on my face, but do some (smiley) shopping at the Sunday farmer's market. What I noticed at first was that a lot of people were looking right past me and my goofy grin. I figured my sunglasses might be the culprit, so I removed them, and allowed the games to truly begin. Once I did, I was slightly disappointed at first, to notice that some people were still looking right past me... I told myself this was a coping mechanism: How do you deal with another human being smiling right at you in the middle of a city? It's like dealing with any other urban hazard: you shut down, and retreat further into your metropolitan shell. So that's what I reckon these people were doing, and I forgive them.

But then, (and this, my friends, is the sprinkles, the frosting, and the maraschino cherry) my mounting cheek-ache started paying off, as stolid, somber folks started... smiling back. This occurred with both men and women. (Though I'll admit, the men were quicker to smile, and for that reason, I am calling all male readers to conduct this very investigation and report back, so we can all be privy to the flip side.) At this point, I was emboldened to really go for it--even though my allotted experiment window was technically up, I approached fruit and vegetable vendors with an unabashed beam. The result? Discounted produced. Full disclaimer: The market was wrapping up for the day, so farmers were motivated to move product. That being said, the sale price on strawberries was three bucks a basket, and I got them for two--the vendor actually handed me back one of my three dollars! I also got a free apricot, after already having committed to buying a pound. There were other bargains gotten, but I'll spare you the quotidien details.

Saving money on fruit seems reason enough to justify a perma-smile, but let me tell you, reader, there were other benefits. One, I'm pretty sure I cheered up at least a handful of people, including a lonely parking attendant, and a guy with a "visualize whirled peas" bumper sticker on his car. These instances more than balanced out the couple of scornful looks I got from people who really couldn't abide the sight of good cheer. Two, the whole smiling thing actually became habit-forming! When it was time for me to wrap up my research, I found it difficult to wipe the grin off my face. I accidentally smiled at a family with a young baby as I made my way back through the less-trafficked residential street to my house, and guess what? They returned the smile. Even the baby! Okay, maybe not the baby--his face was obscured by a stroller awning--but definitely the parents. But the final, foremost, (and some would say slightly objectivist) reason in support of SWIP (smiling while in public) is that it put me, a self-professed curmudgeon, in excellent spirits.

In conclusion, as "The Killers" have so lyrically urged, I strongly encourage you to "Smile Like You Mean It."

Log on next week for my second great experiment, in which I will spend the day blindfolded.

Something New Every Week (SNEW)

Hello Dear Reader,

And welcome to my first official posting of BuckwheatsRUs. Well, I suppose it's my first unofficial posting as well. But let's just call it official. Okay? Good. I feel better now. So, I intend for this blog to have a mish-mash of themes, but the first and most dominant theme I have chosen is, SOMETHING NEW EVERY WEEK, (hence the title of this post.) In my SNEW column, I will--as advertised--attempt something new each week, running the gamut from the mundane to the truly bizzare. But my intention is that The Something always be at least a smidgen eye opening, though perhaps more so at times--but I'm not going to promise you the world. At least not at this juncture. I read a quote once in one of those tiny little point-of-purchase quote books that said something along the lines of, "try to view things in the world as though you've never seen them before, and as though you might never see them again." Well, obviously you couldn't do that all the time or you'd be a crazy person, but I think it's a meritable idea. So, I'm going to attempt it myself. Henceforth, buckle your seatbelts, Dear Reader, because it's gonna be one hell of a ride.

For my first trick, I will attempt "SMILING WHILE IN PUBLIC." Which, you may be surprised to learn, is slightly different from Driving While Intoxicated. I've heard that incessant smiling can actually put you in a good mood, so I'm going to test this theory by smiling during no-less-than a half mile walk in a pedestrian friendly area. * I will also inherently be testing the wherewithal of my fellow citizens to withstand, and/or make sense of, the sight of a cheerful compatriot. In Los Angeles, where I live, if you smile at someone on the street, you're bound to be regarded as either a psychopath worthy of a straight jacket, or a homeless person going number two--or maybe both. As you can surmise, the stakes are high. Damn high. So tune in next time for the breathtaking conclusion of: Smiling... While in Public. If you don't hear anything, you'll know I've either been committed or arrested. Hope to hear from me soon. -Buckwheat

*Try this at your own risk