Mmmm...beach coma.

This is the second day in a row that we've just bummed on the beach, and it's been pretty cool. The only drawback is the same that one must face in any other activity in Pacific Beach-- the people.

My favorite was the woman next to us, talking on her phone to a friend who had just arrived, and was standing on the staircase looking for her:

"Do you see us? I'm holding a Tecate. Look. No. Over here. Turn around. Do you see me holding a Tecate? No. Turn around. No. You're looking the wrong way. Look towards the beach. Do you see the green umbrella? Okay, right behind that, I'm waving my Tecate. Do you see me? Okay, cool, come down here."

Then she hung up, and the punchline kicked in. Another girl asked her who she had been talking to. "Oh, Steve's finally here," she said. "Do you see him? He's up on the stairs. No. Over there. He's wearing a red hat. No, up on the stairs. Look. Do you see him?"

Tragedy + time = cheap amusement for Mexican children.

We were driving over to the Target in Mission Valley today, where we noticed that the Inflatable Amusement Park is still in full force. A couple of months ago, in the parking lot near Target, there emerged overnight a vast wilderness of inflatable attractions. There are slides, obstacle courses, the obligatory jumpy housy things... all sorts of stuff. Each ride has its own elaborate theme. The entrance to one slide allows you the unique opportunity to crawl underneath Spider-Man's crotch, for example.

One of the most prominent pieces, though, is the Titanic-themed slide. It's a huge, hulking inflatable replica that sits at a 45 degree angle and brings immediately to mind the scene in the movie where the ship upends itself and sends everyone sliding down the deck. I looked for a propeller that kids could bounce their heads off of, but in vain.

The Titanic wouldn't have been so bad had it not been positioned next to a space shuttle. It didn't have a name; however, the NASA* logo, marking quality space vessels everywhere, was prominently displayed. It was just macabre, that's all I'm saying.

But it got me thinking. There must be a nearly unquantifiable period of time that has to pass before horrific events become eligible for cartoon-like parody in the parking lot of a waspy shopping center. I've done the math. Save the date: 2094 will find your shrieking great-grandchildren begging to have another go on the Twin Towers FunSlide of Doom. And the only reason those kids will recognize the air-filled buildings, bobbing up and down in the breeze, is because of the blockbuster film that will have been recently released, starring Alec Baldwin's head.

*Need Another Seven Astronauts

Yay! Now I am the master.

Episode III was pretty much everything I expected it to be: the landscapes were fantastic to the point of distracting, the transformation of Anakin into Darth Vader (I'm going to start a movement of calling him D Viddy) was super cool, and I found some new animals that I want, starting with the cool dragon-bird thing that Obi-Wan rode around. It can be added to my imaginary menagerie, which currently includes a pair of kookaburras. Kookaburra. Kookaburri. You know, those birds what live in gum trees and make it sound like a jungle.

Anyway, I feel that it's very unfair that Padme had to shoulder the burden of awful dialogue:

1. "Hold me like you did by the lake on Naboo."
2. "I don't even know you any more."
3. "You don't have to do this."

I felt like I was watching some sort of goddamn Lifetime movie, Not Without My Sith Lord.

Hey, quick survey: When Obi-Wan cut off Anakin/Vader's remaining natural limbs, did anyone else get the urge to shout, "It's just a flesh wound! Come on, you pansy! I'll bite your legs off!" ...anyone? No?

PS-- "We are Imaginary Menagerie! Are you ready to rock, L.A.???"

Star Wars and Candy Bars

There is an advocacy group out there called the Dove Foundation.

No, wait, it gets worse.

This group is after Burger King to cease and desist its popular Star Wars kid's meal tie in. Why? Because they can't stand to see innocent children let down by another Lucas stinker? Because children have a 1 in 13 chance of receiving a toy that depicts characters from the planet Crapticon, like Jar Jar Binks or "sack-of-rubber alien in the corner of the cantina whose performance Frank Oz phoned in by jiggling an arm or two"?

No.

They want these toys, and all Star Wars imagery, removed from the kid's meals immediately because this film is rated PG-13, and therefore unfit for the meal's target audience of children aged 4-9. No, it's true. Read all about it here.

Yet these same children can refresh themselves with a tasty 3 Musketeers bar, which boldly proclaims on the wrapper, "whipped up, fluffy chocolate-on-chocolate taste."

Now who's inappropriate?

I just had the funniest dream.

I was in a Trader Joe's-type store, but everything was discounted, like a dollar store. I was excited to find the Lean Cuisine frozen pizzas that I like so much, and planned to buy a whole case of 12 or whatever.

So I was looking at one carefully to determine what was wrong with it (this was after all a discount store) and I saw the following cooking directions.

"These are being sold at a discount because we, here at the factory, couldn't make them cook at the recommended 350 degrees. They only cook at a temperature of approximately 17 Satan. Microwave instructions: We haven't found a microwave that goes up to 17 Satan, so we don't recommend it."

I wasn't surprised by this information at all--I just figured I'd throw one in the oven until it cooked, so I could figure out how hot "hot as hell" really was.

But wait, there's more.

Right next to the pepperoni ones, there were some ham and pineapple ones. Looking at the back of the package, I saw that "These only make sparks at 17 Satan. They don't cook until 18 Satan." I put them back because I'm not in the market for sparking pizza.

Next Door Whore Update

Someone just farted, according to a recent high-pitched allegation.

Chancleta.

"...let me know the earliest you can meet - it shouldn't take too long, but, we do want to make sure the comments are clear so that you don't make the few key mistakes again."

Asphinctersayswhat?

I'm being called into the equivalent of the principal's office tomorrow morning, bright and early, to go over what appear to be egregious problems with something I wrote. Granted, most of the edits are completely called for. If you know anything about me, you know that I have no problem being edited, seeing as how this isn't exactly Pulitzer material.

However.

This one of the first things I wrote for this company, and is about three months old. If I hear anything tomorrow that includes the phrases "somewhat clumsy," "unclear" or the like, I will have a few words regarding the training process, or lack thereof. Oh, I hate getting this mad when I don't even know the whole story, but I can't help it. I just hope that tomorrow, I'm not so mad I start crying. Which I do sometimes. More tomorrow as events unfold.

P.S. -- "So you don't make the few mistakes again?" Sounds like somebody could use a good editing, buddy.

Update
It wasn't that bad. Turns out my editor actually had no idea that this was 3 months old. When he was told this interesting fact, it was one of those moments--I'm going to steal a phrase from Terry Pratchett here-- where you watch someone reprogram their face. He had this look of "Oh. Well. Don't I look stupid," which quickly morphed into "However, we will beat meaning into this meeting anyway." Quite determined, that boy.

The best part is that I have, at least in my own estimation, improved a lot in the last three months. So that makes me happy.

It's your fault if you don't think I'm funny.

Hard proof that it's your problem, not mine.

Drinking and blogging.

It's like drinking and dialing but not as satisfying. Brian's down for the weekend and we just got back from Hennesseys, where there was a good bar band who liked Zepplin and there was also a lot of whoohis*. I say that because a lot of them looked like they was straight out of Jersey. They was a bunch of skanky-ass Jersey girls. But the band was pretty good. For a cover band. But we're pretty drunk now and I have to get up at like 8. I'd rather stay home with Chris and Brian and go to the beach and drink all day. But instead I am going to drive 100 miles each way to have brunch with my family for late mother's day. Okay. Going to bed now. Ciao bella.


*whoohis = East Coast whores

That's the best you could do?

From this story on cnn.com about the 12/04 earthquake that caused that big tsunami, comes this memorable quote:

"The quake, centered in the Indian Ocean, also created the biggest gash in the Earth's seabed ever observed, nearly 800 miles. That's as long as a drive from northern California into southern Canada."

Could any imagined distance be any more vague than northern California (San Francisco? Chico?) to southern Canada (Vancouver? Another southern Canadian city?)? I did exactly five minutes of research on mapquest, and came up with these alternatives:

Los Angeles to El Paso
New York to Chicago

And I'm sure there's plenty of others. But I think I've made my point here. Everybody ready? We're going to try this again: Which gives you a better sense of how far 800 miles is?

1) Northern California to southern Canada
2) New York to Chicago

Bitch, please.

Tonight, I will sleep the sleep of the justified.

Apparently it is now possible for state and local governments to send out Amber Alerts to mobile phones. Individuals may sign up; I'm guessing this is a free service, and yet another way to saturate the public with knowledge about a missing child.

So would I sign up for Amber Alerts on my mobile?

Hells no.

And here's why. When I get in my car in the morning and turn on NPR, I'm bound to hear of an Amber Alert, especially if it's in the area. Then, as I cruise north on the 5, past rolling green hills that feature groves of eucalyptus and aromatic punctuations of sage, I will be greeted by a blinking orange sign that notifies me that, holy shit, there is a child missing somewhere. If I see the child or the suspect's car during my 30-minute commute from Pacific Beach to Mira Mesa, thank god there's a phone number I can call.

I drag ass into work, get a cuppa, and fire up the ol' Dell machine. While checking the news for any breaking stories that may affect the cosmetic surgery or law fields, therefore impinging upon my paycheck, I see that SOMEONE SOMEWHERE HAS LOST TRACK OF THEIR CHILD. Which makes me want to start looking under people's desks, behind water coolers... oh, a good bet would probably be the room where we keep our X box.

So here I am, a keyboard jockey who's sitting inside all day, in the middle of an area known for equal parts biotech companies and Starbucks, and I've already been implored three times to be on the lookout for some child who's become the pawn of an ugly divorce case/drug deal/redneck wager. The LAST thing I need is for this important information to be hitting up my mobile phone. I'm not callous, I just have better things to do. Let's just face it, I'm not going to be seeing this child any time soon, and if I do, I'm not going to call the cops because I don't want to have to fill out any paperwork.

I am not alone.

The poll on cnn.com that accompanied this story asserts that 80% of respondents agree with me. Does it help philosophers come any closer to answering the question of whether people are essentially good or evil? I guess that all depends on how much of an effect I've had thus far.

Attention.

I love The Killers so much. They are just the best new thing since like, Pulp. I know, it's been a while. But have you looked at music lately? Only really in the last year or so have important musical factors like "melody" and "lyrics" become somewhat important again. But for most of that time, I was in Florida, where all music is on a 2-year delay. Unless your band falls into my favorite category of Skinny White Guys (Preferably With Accents). Then, you're in an eternal holding pattern. Tim, Nathan, back me up on this. Probably the freshest music we got in the two years that I lived there was "Toxic" by Britney Spears and um, probably some song involving booty.

So now that I'm back in an honest-to-god Blue State, with real music and everything, I feel hopelessly behind, afraid that I'll never be able to close the gap in musical knowledge, especially because I can't bear to tear myself away from NPR to see what else is on the damn radio.

And I've just found out that the Killers are from Las Vegas. They formed while I was living there, which is just proof once more that God hates me. I just want to at least DATE a rock star for a while, is that such a crime? I was stuck going out with 5'6" and that crazy guy who refused to leave his new CD in my car when we went to the Palms for drinks. WTF, people?

The above is in no way intended to ensadden any past or current love interests. It's just stating a fact. I heart rock stars.

And they're opening for U2 on some of their European dates this summer. How much would that show rock? Right, obviously I'm just wallowing now. However, I'm wallowing very comfortably in my beachside backyard. So there's that.

A brief lesson on the definition of "irony."

We both bought rollerblades so we could enjoy the fresh ocean breeze, take in the soft late-spring sunshine, and people-watch, all while looking like a couple of idiots.

After we came back from our first successful foray, we left the skates out in the living room because 1) we're lazy and 2) we haven't figured out where to put them in our TinyHouse. Last night, Chris slammed his toe into one of them, rendering them effectively useless for quite some time.

THAT is irony, ladies and gentleman: incongruity between what is expected to happen and what actually occurs. If you or a loved one has been injured by the misuse of the word irony, or if you have any other questions about diction and usage, please do not hesitate to contact my blog today.

Argument for the existence of God.

I have just found out that George Lucas hired Tom Stoppard to do the dialogue for Revenge of the Sith. See, Georgie, was that so hard?

And, deep down in your little, cold, dark heart, don't you want to rename this one Star Wars III: Anakin and Ethel the Pirate's Daughter? C'mon, it would be fun. It would be more fun than all that sand, which by now we all know you hate, because it's not soft like skin.

My parents are wacko.

But a good kind of wacko. My mom raised me on Star Trek, so I've retained a deep appreciation for it. In fact, Star Trek is looking pretty damn good these days, in light of George Lucas' complete disregard of certain cinematographic necessities. Here I refer to "dialogue" and "absence of crappy characters that are only good for misguided merchandise and cereal tie-ins." Note to Readers From The Future. I'm posting this on 16 May, so I reserve judgement of Episode III, Return Of The Star Wars That Kicks Ass. At least, I hope so. I have a strong suspicion that when I sit down for a good ol' Star Wars marathon, it's going to play like a small straight in Yahtzee: 3,4,5, and 6. We're just going to pretend the first two didn't even happen. But anyway. Mom's still pretty into Star Trek, and so my parents went to a recent cocktail party held on the bridge of the Enterprise at the Las Vegas Hilton. What? Oh. The NCC-1701 D. If that doesn't clear it up for you, you don't deserve to know.

Hard to port!

Aliens from Planet Bad Hair have taken over, as you can see by the people in the background.

Now I know why Dave Chappelle went crazy.

Seth just ICQ'd me, asking if he could send some copy to a client. I responded positively, assuring him that there were no "this bitch is crazy" comments sprinkled throughout.

There was a pause, and then he voiced his disappointment that I hadn't said anything funny. I blamed it on the sobering effects of the handful of Reese's Pieces that I had just consumed, reasoning that no one's ever seen E.T. doing standup.

So now you know the kind of pressure that I face every day. If that was combined with the pressures of being famous AND rich, I'd be checking my ass into a South African "facility" too, shrieking, "IT'S A CELEBRATION, BITCHES!"

Repentance.

On moving day a couple of weeks ago, Chris and I went to In-N-Out to get lunch for the crowd. Not realizing the incredibly dirty state of the roof of my car, he scratched it when he dragged a box full of Double-Doubles across the top of it.

Today he is buffing and waxing my whole car. He says he is very sorry, and I believe him.

"Hey, Biff, how ya doing on that truck?"
"Oh, just finishing the second coat, Mr. McFly."
"Excuse me?"
"...Just finishing the first coat, Mr. McFly."

Whoo! Tim Reynolds AND a block party!

This weekend has just been nuts, kids, and it's only Sunday morning. Here we go:

FRIDAY NIGHT: Chris' brother in law, Justin, got us tickets to see Tim Reynolds at the Coach House in San Juan Capistrano. Michelle had forgotten her ID, and had the telltale black X's of Death on the backs of her hands. Which took me right back to the last time I was there-- I was a teenager, there with my parents and their friends to see a British R&B band called Nine Below Zero. Apparently giddy with authority, the bouncer saw lil ol' 15 year old me coming, and produced his newest, blackest, juciest magic marker, and marked up my hands like you wouldn't believe. Let's recap. I was like 15. With my parents. But anyway.

We got four acts for the price of one, which was a nice surprise. The first guy was That One Guy. Run, don't walk, to his site and check out the video (you need quicktime but if you don't have quicktime, well you obviously don't have iTunes and there's something wrong with you. IT IS THE TWENTY FIRST CENTURY. YOUR BRAIN MUST BE GROGGY FROM THAT LONG NAP IN ITS CRYOGENIC CHAMBER. DON'T WORRY, WE'LL HAVE YOU UP TO SPEED IN NO TIME. NO, THE MONKEYS AREN'T IN CHARGE YET. WHAT'S THAT? FINE, WE'LL THAW YOU OUT AGAIN WHEN THEY ARE.) So That One Guy And The Magic Pipe are freaking incredible. He's got this, well, magic pipe that my music major techgeek boyfriend could probably explain better but basically he can record sounds and throw them on a loop and create a whole song with just this weird piece of cobbled-together equipment. And at one point he plugs in and plays a cowboy boot. Really, this guy is just amazing. He's like a one-man Primus that you expect to see in Venice Beach, or on 3rd St. in Santa Monica, or in Mallory Square in Key West... you get the picture. Stop reading right now and go watch the video again. Buy his CD, too, "Songs in the Key of Beotch."

The next girl was so... sweet. Jewel does Stevie Nicks. She was okay, but it just pains me to think of how sincere she was. I know that I tend to bandy about "sincere" like it's a dirty word, but she was squirmingly so. There's a bunch of butterflies and stuff on the little program that was on our table. It went in depth as to what each song meant to her. Here's a few of my favorites. I think the typos and awful syntax add to the preciousness:

Strangers -- This song is very personal to me. I guess it goes without saying that emotions can run deep. When somone you love let's you down, it can leave scars that are deeper than any flesh wound. Please take to heart that this song has healed me greatly and I am glad that I wrote it!

See what I mean?

The third band, the Ken Garcia Band, were totally cool, great groovy chillout music consisting of a guitar, mandolin, and upright bass. It was even better because the three guys were so mismatched. Ken, the guitar guy, was joe standard big friendly cholo guy. The mandolin guy weighed about 85 pounds, and had on a stupid hat but was WAY into the music. And the bass guy? Well, he looked like Milton, the Swingline stapler guy from Office Space. But they rocked.

And Tim? Tim was absolutely amazing. He played for almost two hours, moving from a 6-string, to a 12-string, and then he rocked out on a Telecaster for almost too long. You see, we had been sitting in these hard chairs, dealing with the New Girl Waitress for 5 hours at this point, and were a little squirrely. Highlights: Tim likes to dress up. He came on in a brown monk's robe and a full-head wolf mask. Also for his last number he dressed up like a bat. With wings. It was crazy, especially because we had been drinking for four hours and we were extra woozy from the bad service. [Editor's note: the head waitress, you know, the one who's been working at the Coach House for 25 years, comped us 3 different desserts for our troubles, so it's all good.]

PB Block Party was on Saturday--I don't get it. They take the trouble of blocking off like 1/2 mile of Garnet, put up live bands and trinket stands, and then proceed to disallow open containers. You have got to be shitting me. So what you're telling me is that I am at the summer kick-off party in the most beautiful weather possible, enjoying the sunshine on my shoulders, browsing Gucci knockoffs, and you're telling me that in order to enjoy a refreshing alcoholic beverage, I have to go into some dank dark bar to wait in line for a plastic cup of beer? They've got this thing all wrong. If you people need pointers, look no further than the World Famous Orange International Street Fair.

But anyway, we went into one of these dank, dark bars. Because naturally, we wanted a refreshing alcoholic beverage. And actually, it's not dank at all ("But the dank, Moe! The dank!" -- The Simpsons where Moe turns Moe's into his Uncle Moe's Good Time Foodporium or whatever) But we had a pitcher or two there before we had the brilliant idea of just taking our own booze down to the beach, and that was the end of the block party.

Have I mentioned my shoebox beach apartment?

It's a tiny little division of Shangri-La. However, it's next to a nest of would-be hookers and stoners. They are an awesome source of entertainment. We've lived here for a week, and already we've had a guy pee on the other side of the fence. At the moment, the Head Hooker (for so I have named her) is arguing with the Subservient Stoner about when dinner was promised versus when it was delivered to the table.

These people are living on Pop-Tarts and Cheetos. How hard can it be?

L'Chaim, y'all.

So the other day I was writing this site for a plastic surgeon in Louisville, Kentucky. I shall not mention his name, lest I boost his SEO unintentionally and at no cost to him. Anyway, his current bio information states that his center for plastic surgery is located in the Jewish Hospital Medical Plaza, where he performs most of his surgeries at the Jewish Hospital Medical Center East, and people can stay at the luxurious Jewish Hospital Trager Pavilion.

Soooooooo.... you're saying I can get a kosher meal there if I ask nice?

Brian wanted to know what the Jewish contingent was in the Appalachians. I bring you another installment of ICQ madness, complete with time stamps to indicate a sense of urgency:

[14:44]Brian: Ha! I nearly choked on my antacid! That's brilliant.

[14:44] Elizabeth R.: I thought it was funny. Now, if only "Jewish Hospital"was a keyword phrase... *sigh*

[14:44] Brian: jewish hospital kentucky - I bet that gets a lot of traffic.

[14:46] Elizabeth R.: LOL yeah, absolutely. It feeds right in to all those old yarns about the Appalachian Jews, and their famed feuds.

[14:46] Elizabeth R.: Especially bloody was Feinstein vs. Goldberg, back in'36. Remember?

[14:48] Elizabeth R.: They eventually settled it by intermarrying and deciding to combine their names, but the battle broke out anew when they couldn't agree on Feinberg or Goldstein.

[14:48] Brian: Remember? Why, my grandpa Jed Feinstein started it!

[14:48] Brian: I'm living proof that they settled on "Vargo."

[14:48] Elizabeth R.: LOL

[14:48] Elizabeth R.: To this day, does your family claim that a good matzo ball soup "angries up the blood?"

[14:52] Brian: I'm a little detached from my roots, I'm afeared. Now my family subscribes to the philosophy that microwave matzo ball soup from a can slightly rubs the blood the wrong way. Very big city philosophy.

[14:53] Elizabeth R.: But far less dangerous to the surrounding citizenry. I commend you and yours.

[14:55] Brian: Mazel tov.


So anyway I smell sitcom. I apologize to all of you out there if you're Appalachian, or Jewish, but if you're an Appalachian Jew I can just about guarantee you a 15 minute segment with Terry Gross on Fresh Air.

How anticlimactic.

My first post on this here blog was supposed to be overwhelmingly important. It was supposed to define my place in this world. It was supposed to be a manifesto, dammit.

But it's not. It's just a first post so I can say, hee hee! I exist! Sartre would have had a field day with this kind of shit.