NELLY OLESEN DAYS

Ever have one of those Nelly Olesen days? Those days where you would do just about anything to be her, feeling superior to everyone else and being mean to Laura Ingalls and faking your own paralysis? I know I do.

Sometimes I just want so much to hang out at my father Nels' (whom I was probably named after) general store and have my incredibly annoying mother Harriett overindulge me with candy as she practically comes busting out of the seams of her own corset and drives my father bat shit crazy. And then I just want to whip my perfectly placed Olesen ringlets -- yet another sign of blatant defiance -- around, and smirk at everyone who's less fortunate than me which, of course, means just about everyone.

The truth is, Nelly Olesen has gotten me through some really tough times, including colds, flus, and after school snacktimes, and has served as a reassuring reminder that I am, in fact, not the biggest brat in the entire world. I could always be worse... I could be Nelly Olesen.

And for all of that, I remain eternally grateful to Ms. O.

NO SHOES, BETTER SERVICE?

I try to respect my body and let it act the way it wants to. We have a little dialogue going. If it's like, "I have a headache, please don't make me run today," I'll usually be like, "Well, is it just a passing thing, I mean, can you work through it? Or is it really bad, in which case I'll put you down for a nap." It's always a bit of a bartering session. Sometimes my body'll be like, "I want a slice of apple pie." And I'll counter, "How about 2 small cookies instead?" And then it's like "Okay, fine." Or maybe its, "Buzz off. I swam you a mile and a half today, the least you can do is feed me pie."

And even though I tend to be kinda competitive in most respects, when it comes to my body, I usually let it win. I just want what's best for my head, shoulders, knees and toes (knees and toes.) It's the only bod I've got--so far. We'll see where technology takes us in the next few years. But anyway, given my healthy regard for my personage, you can imagine my concern after reading an article last week about how BAD shoes are for you. That's right. And they weren't just talking about high heels. Sneakers are also apparently a deadly sin. Researchers concluded that, prior to the advent of shoes, humans had healthier feet. And now that we are so reliant upon footwear, our natural gait has gone to the dogs. Probably quite literally, because most dogs don't wear shoes...

Wanting to hold my feet in proper esteem, I decided I was going to make an effort to more thoroughly explore the world of bare feet. So yesterday, I ran through Santa Monica barefoot, and I noticed a few things in the process. First of all, I noticed that you have to watch where you're walking when you're trying to pull a Shoeless Joe Jackson. I did make one painful step onto a pebble, and onto the occasional (painless but messy) stray mulberry. But it kept me present. My mind wasn't wandering as much as it usually does.

Another thing I observed was how grounding walking barefoot actually felt, if a bit more effortful. And though it might have been asphalt and concrete rather than terra firma, I just felt there was one less thing coming between me and mother earth, and I dare say, it made me a little less flighty. Oh, and walking on the grass felt fantastic. There was definitely an element of euphoria in the proceedings.

What I also noticed was people looking at me in a different light, either like they thought I was a bad-ass, or, quite possibly, a vagrant. Or maybe both. But I didn't mind. I told myself, "I bet their gate isn't half as awesome as my gait." And, if they felt compelled to donate food or money, so be it.

As it is with most things, the jury still seems to be out on how harmful this shoe-wearing habit of ours really is. I've made a pact with myself (and my body) that I'm going to keep wearing shoes to restaurants and weddings. But I am going to continue to explore the concept of bare feet in public, for a bit of a break from the norm as much as anything. Won't you join me in walking a moon without mocassins?

TWILIGHT (ZONE) OF THE COWBOYS

Lovely Readers,

I have been spending much of my
time weeping for the fact that
you have probably never experienced
anything quite like what I bore witness to last weekend. That's right--I'm still weeping and it's already Thursday.

The main thing is, I'm just sad at the
injustice that has led you to have never visited Pioneertown, CA.

Built in 1947 as a permanent old west movie set, with help from such illustrious
investors as Gene Autrey and Roy Rogers, the place still hops on the weekends, drawing visitors from as close as Yucca Valley and as far as Switzerland, who come, no doubt, for the camp.

On Saturdays and Sundays, the local "actors" put on an old west show that involves The Blackfoot Gang's plan to rob
a bank during a Wells Fargo rep's visit
to town on horseback. It's a highly original plot, and not unlike porn in the simplicity of its execution. My favorite part was, though the actors have been performing this very same show for the last twenty-some-odd-years, there was still no shortage of gaffes. But that, my friends, is the biggest part of Pioneertown's charm. That, and the incredibly potent margaritas and live music at the town's biker bar, Pappy and Harriet's.

Another major highlight was Pioneertown's only bowling alley, Pioneer Bowl, which at one time had old fashioned bowling with pin setters, but now claims to have the oldest "working" automated lanes in existence. I use the term "working" loosely, since only three of the six lanes were functioning, one of which broke down mid game. And word to the wise: Don't bother putting a quarter in the old fashioned pin ball machines, unless you intend to make a donation. But that, my friends, in case you forgot, is all part of the charm of Pioneertown.

It's a post modern time warp where you can get a taste of the idiosyncratic lives of the town's permanent residents--many of whom still dress like it's 1899--while drinking an old fashioned soda and helping the two gay guys next to you from Palm Springs score their bowling game, as the African American family sitting at the soda fountain looks on.

I can't help wondering what Gene Autry and Roy Rogers would have thought of all this. We'll never know for sure, but I'd like to think they wouldn't have had it any other way.

OVERSCHEDULED PETS...

As if it weren't enough to be steering their kids into a jazillion after-school activities...

It seems people are no longer satisfied with simply pushing their children too far -- now, they're doing it to their pets. No longer is chewing on a bone, licking oneself, or pushing one's eggs across an arctic ice sheet enough. No siree. These days, pet owners expect more from their animals, in the form of a dizzying slate of extracurricular activities which include, but are not limited to, surfing, scuba diving, and open water swimming.

Why these cats, dogs, penguins, and other species seem to be pursuing so many water sports is unclear, but one thing is for certain: Animals are under way too much pressure these days, and it's adversely affecting everything else they do, from digging, to shedding, to playing with balls of string.

There was a time when domesticated animals had very little to worry about but mere survival. But now, with the advent of kitty salons, dog bakeries, and the gradual takeover of Hollywood by a small group of stealthy penguins, life has become way more complicated, and pets find themselves having to worry about their coiffure, their weight, and now, sadly, their athletic performance. So the next time you see a horse or an iguana playing raquetball or waterskiing, don't just laugh and take pictures. Have some pity on the poor creature and offer him or her a cold brewski and your copy of the latest John Grisham for Pete's sake... Or for Snowball's.

WHASAHAPPENIN' HOTSTUFF?

Do any of you know who this man is? Well, my husband and I were accosted by a couple of British journalists on the street here in Santa Monica the other day, who were wondering the very same thing about us. They showed us several pictures of celebrities, asking us to identify them. I'm ashamed to say we did a pretty piss poor job of it. Of course, I I.D.-ed Victoria Beckham and a couple of others, but out of ten pictures, our track record was less than stellar. That is, until the piece de resistance came along: A photo of the above mug. I reached deep into my amygdala, activating my medulla oblongata, cerebellum, and of course, corpus callosum, before spitting out the answer. SPOILER ALERT! DON'T READ ON UNLESS YOU WANT TO KNOW.

"Gordon Brown," I regurgitated from somewhere in the deep recesses of the Responsible/ Politically Aware/Greeting Card aisle of my brain -- aisle seven, in case you're wondering. Well, you can guess what happened next. I glowed as these proud Brits congratulated me and took my picture. Yes I preened, and maybe even gloated, a little. Of course, they took my huband's picture too, but that was only because he failed to identify David Beckham -- can't blame him, the guy's a chameleon. But the whole point of the exercise, as it turned out, was to see what sorts of faces were in people's pictorial lexicon, and which weren't...

Anyhoo, all of this got me to wondering how many Santa Monicans, Californians, Nebraskans, and even Americans could identify ol' Gordy. My guess is, probably not a whole lot. And then, even though at this point my hippocampus was getting a little tired, I started thinking about how weird it is to come from a country where the entire world knows your leader. And despises him too, but that's another story. But I mean Britain is a pretty damn important world superpower, even if they do drink too much tea. So you would think their head of state would be somewhat ubiquitous in terms of the media, right? And a friend of mine, let's call her IRMA to protect the innocent, is a British citizen who's lived most of her life in the States, but still, didn't even know the name of the new British Prime Minister, let alone being able to identify his mug shot.

So this gives me a pretty good sense that we here in America are a bunch of ethnocentric, movie star worshipping dervishes who have very little idea that the rest of the world even exists. We're like the popular cheerleader, and the rest of the world is that nerdy little kid who's president of the academic decathlon, but will never get America's phone number. The thing is, that geek is probably going to grow up to be something great, and we, the cheerleader, are going to getmarried, have a few kids, and get fat. And then the hot, rich, successful nerd won't even give us the time of day, as we, America, devours bon bons peppered with tear salt in her locked bathroom, and pines for a parallel universe.

So there you have it. A little lesson on foreign policy, reduced to a John Hughes movie.

Log in next time, when I profile several obscure world leaders. Aren't you gonna be the most worldly thing on two feet?

A NEW EPIDEMIOLOGICAL NIGHTMARE!

First there was bubonic plague. Then leprosy. Then AIDS. SARS. Bird Flu. Now, there's a new, highly contagious, even more sinister epidemic sweeping the world like a flash flood, leaving no one standing in its wake. And it is... The Bachelorette Party.

Sure, you can try staying out of panty stores, try not ordering any penis games on the internet, try staying home in a hazmat suit. But it will catch up to you. And when it does, there will be froofee cocktails, and there will be girl talk, and there will be the sharing of beauty secrets. That's right, beauty secrets. And the sad thing is, there is nothing you -- or anyone else -- can do about it.

Researchers at Chico State University have been scrambling to find a cure, but so far, have found no known antidote to this raging pandemic. Apparently, men seem to be immune to it, but they have their own emerging disease to contend with, one whose symptoms have not yet been fully explored, but which tend to involve lap dances, steak dinners, and glitter-stained faces. Any observation of these or other, similar behaviors should immediately be reported to the Centers for Disease Control.

SUMMER OLYMPICS GIVEN CHANGE OF VENUE!

After global protests -- including major outcries in France and England -- over China's hosting of the 2008 Olympics, the International Olympic Committee has voted to relocate this summer's games to a venue with a more respectable human rights record: Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.

"It's a no brainer," said IOC Chairman Hein Verbruggen, in between bites of bratwurst with a heaping helping of sauerkraut. "There is already a built-in international community at Guantanamo. Folks from Afghanistan, Egypt, Pakistan, Iraq... we've got the works. Of course we will miss the Russians, because they always get their game on, but we will survive."

The question is, will the competitors? Most of the international community supported Verbruggen and the IOC's decision, until other, more unusual changes were made to the games, seemingly overnight. "We decided 'when in Rome,' so this year, we are changing up the events a bit," claimed IOC communications director Giselle Davies.

Davies added that new events would include waterboarding, genital electric shock, and being doused in menstrual blood. "I mean, gymnastics and equestrian are all well and fine," Davies explained, "but we've seen them before. Our sponsors are excited to finally have something we call "indifference-proof" to offer our spectators.

Responding to alarmed critics in his weekly address, President Bush tried to assuage concerns as best he could. "This is about sports, not politics," the President explained. "Gitmo has good ol' American infrastructure in place, it's in a beautiful setting, and let's face it, we all love arroz con polo a heck of a lot more than Kung Pao chicken."

Former Olympic gold medalist Kerri Strug had this reaction: "Electric shock? Compared to doing flips on a six-inch wide high beam for fourteen hours a day on a ration of two hearts of romaine, that sounds like heaven.