Bad Copy of the Day Award (Thursday Edition)

"Modern breast implants are filled with either a saline (salty water) solution, or a silicone gel (similar in consistency to turkish delight)."

For those of you who don't know what turkish delight is, it's only important to know that it's a candy. Now, granted, this doctor is Australian, but still. As Jesse so succinctly put it, "I'm thinking that people want boobs to feel like boobs, not like turkish delight."

Bad Copy of the Day Award (Wednesday Edition)

"Dr. Thingy Thing enjoys providing his patients with a comfortable and relaxing atmosphere where he can create beautiful and lifelike smiles. "

Name withheld to protect... well, everyone, really. The bad writer who originally penned this and no longer works at my company, the doctor who either actively wrote this or passively accepted it, and of course, my own ass.

Lifelike???

Request fulfillment.

It was recently pointed out that, besides as a plastic polar bear, I do not have any pictures of Chris on the blog. For this I would like to apologize, and immediately offer reparation. Here is a selection of Best of Chris. There will be more, but this should tide most of you over for the weekend.


This is from the Dave Matthews Band show in Chula Vista last year. Chris on the left, Brian on the right. It's that evanescent moment in every tailgater's life, when one stops in mid-sentence, -swig, or -mocking, lift's one's head delicately into the air, and declares, "Hark! Could that be the cloying but predictable scent that I think it must be? But yes! It is! Someone has broken out the bud. It's about time." It was just a great shot, totally not staged.


Here we are on what I like to call the Floating Perk, our fantastic cruise from last year. I was very canned in this picture. But I looked good, and that's all that counts.


This is not Chris. But it's still a pretty awesome cat.


This one is just in here to see how long Chris will let me keep it up. In his defense, he was sick as a dog at the time.

Not my fault.

The lack of recent posts is completely due to the fact that I have been experiencing technical difficulties. Please enjoy this backlogged glut of stuff.

Ha ha! We are old!

I don't just mean me. I mean almost everyone who reads this except for a couple of dads.

We were watching Good Eats, when a Target commercial caught my ear. They were selling backpacks to the tune of Sir Mix-a-Lot's timeless classic "Baby Got Back." "I like back packs and I cannot lie...." you get the idea. There were children dancing around on screen, showing off their dope funky fresh bags. "These kids weren't even BORN when that song came out," I joked.

Then I realized I was right, and I felt very, very old.

USS Midway!

We dropped Kenny off at the zoo today (Kenny pictured below for your convenience)...

and then Chris and I went over to the USS Midway, a 50 year old aircraft carrier that was recently decommissioned and turned into a museum. The audio tour was top notch, offering explanations of what we were seeing, as well as stories from guys who worked and lived aboard. We got to see everything from the engine room to the mess and sick bay. We didn't make it up to the bridge because there was a mad line, and we figured we had to save something for when we take our dads there. :) So, once again, I invite you to live vicariously through my adventures.

Nice rack.


Up on deck.


Engine Room 3.


Chris next to a F-14 Tomcat

I love the zoo so much!

The San Diego Zoo is just the best. I never get tired of going there. This year they have a new exhibit called Monkey Trails that is super awesome. On account of all the monkeys. Here's some of the best pictures I took. Now I'm going to get back to enjoying my weekend. Ta!


There were about 7 gorillas in the enclosure, from the big mac daddy (pictured) down to a little food-stealing young one. But for the far less civilized primates on my side of the glass, I could have watched these guys forever.


Little jumpy monkeys are a big part of the Monkey Trails exhibit. Oh, how I love monkeys.


Baby flamingos!!! They're the little grey ones. Has anyone ever seen baby flamingos before? I know I sure hadn't.


Show me someone who gets tired of watching polar bears play, and I'll show you someone who's an inhuman freak.


Not sure about the polar bear mask. I'm thinking the last thing that kids want on a hot summer's day is a thin veneer of plastic over their faces. But I had Chris model it anyway, because it's kind of creepy. He was wearing his sunglasses under there for the full beady-eyed effect.

When Orangutans Go On Benders.

Hola, amigos.

I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya. I went to the World Famous San Diego Zoo today. More pics and stuff later -- I'm watching a special on Chuck Jones and drinking beer, so good times.

The Genus Edition can kiss my ass.

We were at Target yesterday, picking up the few little things that always add up to $200 no matter what, and we wound up in the toy aisle because we wanted to buy Risk. Not sure why. Risk just sounded good. The only Risk they had was Star Wars Risk, and while cool, did not justify its own $31 price. So Chris saw 90's Trivial Pursuit, which DID justify its own $31 price.

Because I was an only child, my only two social options were to 1) entertain myself quietly or 2) play with the grown-ups. This means that I wistfully looked on as my parents and their friends played Trivial Pursuit. I usually played the vital role of team mascot. Even as I got a little older, and started to know some of the answers, it was clear that I would never be able to truly contend. I mean, how much can an 11-year-old possibly know about the Johnson administration?

Then, a few years ago, the good folks at Hasbro put out a Disney edition. Hey hey, I thought. I grew up on Disney, I worked at Disneyland, I can do this. No, it was pretty much the Genus Edition with a couple of Disney questions thrown in. Strike two.

Now the tables have turned. For the most part, I paid attention during the 90's. I can tell you that The Chronic was done by Dr. Dre, and that Nelson Mandela thought that meeting the Spice Girls was "one of the greatest moments" of his life. Well, I didn't know that before I played the game, but you get the idea.

In short, to my parents and any other baby boomers who claim mastery of the Trivial Pursuit genre:

Bring it.

Liz: 1 Evil Child: 0

Chris and I went to Uno's Pizza today, mostly because we hadn't eaten there yet since we moved here. We were just finishing up our mediocre deep dish when several children under the age of 5 came by, with parents ahead of and behind them. There was one wretched little boy who insisted on making that awful squeaky screechy noise (caps in the middle are to denote Doppler effect):

"eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee"

I just didn't feel like it so I simply shouted at him "Knock it OFF!" Now, just so everyone is clear on my meanness level -- I couldn't be heard 10 feet away, no one turned around to see who yelled... I simply made an emphatic point in the direction of this little boy, enough to be heard over the bad late 80's music.

Well, Mom or Auntie or whatever who was bringing up the rear didn't think it was so hot that someone was taking on the burden of disciplining her child. So she made a bold confrontation that consisted of standing at some distance and staring at me. I refused to make eye contact -- she was going to have to work for this one if she wanted it. No, I just continued to enjoy my pizza. She eventually stomped off and to my delight, reappeared outside with the rest of the clan who was walking past the window. She started pointing at me and talking, so there was nothing for me to do but give the smug nod that means "Yeah, bitches, that's right" in any language.

She moved beyond my line of vision, but Chris still kept a lock on her. Mind you, this was the funniest thing that had happened to either of us all day. She apparently stopped in her tracks, turned around, and made the "no-no" gesture. Not the simple finger wag, but the far more elaborate one wherein you repeatedly drag your index finger along the length of your other index finger.

Sometimes, it's the little things that bring me joy.

Update: I have been informed that the "no-no" gesture would be more accurately described as the "shame on you" gesture. Thanks, Anika. You are correct.

Worst. Dinner. Ever.

Chris is off at the Padres game tonight, gladhanding insurance brokers 'n' such, so I decided to take this unique opportunity to go to Filippi's for a sandwich. It's a unique opportunity because whenever the two of us go to Filippi's we unerringly order a pizza. The pizza is that good. I mean, it's pretty much the best non-Chicago style pizza I've ever had. I always kind of want to get a sandwich, but there's Chris, looking at me with those big sad eyes, imploring me to search my feelings, I know it to be true, I do indeed want a pizza. And I do, so we get one.

But today I went in there, just me and my plastic-covered library copy of High Fidelity (Yes, the book. Yes, it's a book. Yes, it was a book before it was a movie. Look, just read it, okay?). The two girls behind the counter asked me to wait for a moment until the "seater" came back up front, then they proceeded to stare uncomfortably into the depths of the restaurant for the next three minutes. "Seater" must be a union job that they are forbidden from attempting, kind of like how we weren't allowed to change our own light bulbs when I was a Disneyland shopgirl.

So. The Seater approached. The counter girls told her "just one" and gestured to me. She looked around, pointed at a table that was about 5 feet away, and said to me, "You wanna grab that one?"

Seater (n): /SEETur/: One who seats or assists in the seating of others.

I affirmed, that indeed, I did want to "grab that one," and proceeded to seat myself, probably angering Teamsters everywhere as I did so. I had just arranged my purse on the chair next to me and found my place in the book when Lil' Miss Local 324 came over to my table. "Hi, actually you wanna grab that one back there? I'm trying to seat a large party."

Yer girl stayed put, as it was close enough to the window that I got decent reading light. That'll teach her.

The rest of the story is pretty disheartening. The ham and cheese sandwich isn't that great. They make no effort to hide the rectangular nature of their ham; it's almost as though they're shouting to the rooftops and all within hearing that "YES! We buy ham across the street at Ralph's and put it on our sandwiches! We shall not insult you by serving anything that smacks of Italian deli freshness! Can we bring you a Chianti bottle that's actually full of Tropical Twista Capri Sun?"

And I never saw the waitress until I was nearly finished. And during the duration of my meal, the place was transformed, table by table, like some sort of evil cancer, from a quiet grotto to Satan's Daycare. So I was happy to see the back of that meal, let me tell you.

From now on I'm only ordering the pizza, and next time I'm left alone I'm going to try the Tugboat Fish and Chips across the street. Stay tuned.

To everyone who writes headlines everywhere.

The Harry Potter phenomenon has encompassed six books and several movies. I'm a huge fan, and I enjoy reading various articles and reviews about the subject. Can everyone PLEASE stop writing what they think are cutesy headlines involving variations on the phrase "Wild About Harry"?

For the love of God, stop it. My head is about to explode. It's not clever any more. I'm not sure that it was clever to begin with.

That is all.

Lifeguards run amok

I forgot all about this until this morning. We were on the beach on Sunday afternoon, when the lifeguard jeep came rambling down the sand. Over the PA system, I hear the following statement, to be filed under "Only in California, and perhaps parts of Australia":

"ALL SWIMMERS WILL NEED TO IMMEDIATELY MOVE NORTH OF THE CHECKERED FLAG. SOUTH OF THE FLAG IS FOR SURFERS ONLY. SURFERS HAVE A VERY LIMITED AREA TO WORK WITH THIS TIME OF DAY."

Surfers' rights are tops round these parts, as you can see. They're treated like petulant artists, which, in a way, they are.

Pictures from Frances 2004

I just figure it's time to trot out all of last year's pictures. I kind of miss the cool part about hurricanes-- you know, sitting in the house for three days, eating Oreos and playing Scrabble, calling all over town to find somewhere to eat.

Rock you like a hurricane.

Now that I've moved back to California, I'm all nostalgic for last year's once-in-a-generation hurricane season. It was good times. We never evacuated, even though we were in the evacuation zone for a couple of the storms, and our idea of "stocking up" extended only to filling up our gas tanks and running down to the 7-11 for Oreos and cheese dip. Even on the day of Ivan's landfall, we still managed to find the only restaurant open in all of Fort Lauderdale. (Hint: go to gaytown. These people will ALWAYS want somewhere to go so they can be served drinks.) But anyway, I thought I'd post the best pictures from last year, just for shits 'n' giggles.

Hey London.

On behalf of my president and my people, I'm sorry. Maybe if we would have handled this whole thing better, this wouldn't have happened. Then again, there are a lot of nuts in this world, so maybe it would have. But if it helps any, I'm sorry.

And to Nick, Denise, Alex, and Georgie, I just hope you're all okay. You're the coolest people I know in the whole East End. Britain can't stand to lose a mystery writer (thank God you guys don't have to claim Dan Brown). And I can't stand to lose a place to stay in London, because it's one of the most wonderful places I've ever been. And most expensive. But wonderful.

Update: We heard back from the clan, and everyone's fine. Apparently Alex was supposed to go into town with her friends, but she ran late. She would have been on the Central Line, I'm guessing, where the Liverpool St. bomb went off. So here's to procrastination.

Can someone please tell me...

Why is it that when Nicole Kidman has consumption in Moulin Rouge, it's romantically tragic, but when it's the girl who lives in the apartment across from my bathroom, it's just generally enraging?

Oh sure, you may give me hell about making light of an icky and potentially deadly disease, but if you had to listen to this broad cough all night while she gets high and watches Sex In The City, you'd hate her too.

At least Nicole Kidman died within an acceptable timeframe.

What I'll be doing this summer vacation.

You've probably already heard, but I'd like to see it in print; it's so much more satisfying, and besides -- if it's on the internet, it MUST be true.

Chris and I are going to Argentina in September, for ten days. I think it's going to be fantastic. My Spanish ought to come back a treat, and even if it doesn't, we've got a phrasebook and the ability to talk loudly in English. I hear that always works.

Reminds me of something that Nathan and I saw in Ireland in '98. We met these two American cats, Erin and Ryan, who had what can only be described as a picture phrasebook. It was a spiral-bound collection of logically grouped pictures: food, places, first aid, money, and so forth. The idea is that you could be a boorish American tourist and not even bother learning the most basic of local phrases. Walk up to any native, shove the book in their face, and start grunting and pointing until they send you in the direction of the nearest bureau de change. What a fantastic idea for encouraging the rest of the world to hate us!

Needless to say,Nathan and I, as well as Galwegian Tim, completely absconded with this atrocity and proceeded to compose the most nonsensical possible sentence. As a result, I am happy to report that with the aid of this book, one can confidently stroll about in any country on earth and convey to the populace that "Aliens ate my condoms." It's true. There are little icons (on different pages of course) of a space alien, a knife and fork, and a condom. I know everyone will sleep better tonight knowing that.

I am nothing if not gracious and accommodating.

I have been asked to post a more attractive picture of Nathan. I'm not sure if this meets his stringent standards; however, if anyone deems it to be insufficient, please take comfort in the fact that the picture was taken in the Shangri-La that is Virgin Gorda. That should count for something.

Civilization: 1. Uncouth Beach Monkey: 0.

I was just sitting outside enjoying the midafternoon sunshine and a well-worn Pratchett novel, when the dulcet tones of that bastard pissing on my fence roused me from my reverie. I went and checked, and sho' nuff, a stream of recycled beer was streaming down the walk next to our garage. I confronted him, found out he is a friend of our neighbor Mikey, and received such fantastic rejoinders as:

1. I've been pissing on this fence for three years, and this is the first time I've had someone complain.
2. Everybody does it.
3. The least you could do is ask politely.
4. Don't be such a girl about it.
5. It's just beer.
6. I've been pissing on this fence for three years. (mentioned twice because it's funny.)

So now I know his face, and if it happens again I'll be speaking to Mikey about the possibility of extending his hospitality to include the use of his toilet.

Today's overheard stupidity.

As she raced by on a bike with her friends, a girl with the requisite flouncy miniskirt and lower back tattoo uttered the following memorable line:

"Yeah, so they found this bridge? It was really old? Like they dated it to be before God?"

Chris startled other passers-by by shouting "YES!" and high-fiving me. It was a sweet moment.

An open letter to one.org

Dear one.org,

I am beyond impressed with the mad skillz that you have presented in the last several months, leading up to the G8 conference and beyond. It's pretty cool that you get mentioned at every single U2 show, and that you have a snappy* tv advert with luminous stars such as Brad Pitt and Dave Matthews. You've even managed to elbow your way into the wristband fad, previously reserved for people with one testicle and those who admire people with one testicle.

I don't fall into either one of those two categories. And yet I wanted to purchase your wristband. Because I'm a U2 fan? Of course. Because I believe in the one.org cause? Yes. Because I want to send a message to President Bush and the rest of the G8 leaders that continued Western-induced poverty in Africa is unacceptable? Hells yes.

But mostly, I wanted to buy a 10-pack of your wristbands (and a t-shirt, too, let's not forget) because I wanted to feel like a better person around both friends and strangers. I mean, this is something that I manage to do most of the time anyway. But with your help, one.org, I can proudly point to my accessories and say to all those within the sound of my voice: "What have YOU done to save Africa today, douchebag?"

Yes, that would be wonderful. However, you won't allow me to indulge in this fantasy. You peevishly ask for my shipping and billing information time and time again, yet refuse to drop it into my checkout invoice. The "Select Shipping Method" button remains tauntingly blank, because you say that you don't know where I live. According to you, I live in a greedy, capitalist nation, led by an angry cowboy who couldn't care less about a failed continent on the other side of the world. So I don't see where the communication failure lies.

In closing, one.org, while I admire your organizational tenacity when it comes to grabbing the ears of heads of state, you can't forget the little people. And I'm not talking about the Africans here, people.

*May God have mercy on my soul. You're only rolling your eyes if you've seen the ad.

These people are going to burn in hell.

We were watching Live 8 last night, transfixed by the fact that all the actors on stage seem to have contracted Keanu Reeves disease. I mean it's not every day that you can watch Brad Pitt deliver sparklers like "did you know that every three seconds one child dies of poverty in africa. it's true. we need to be heard and tell the politicians to fix it. seriously."

But anyway, that wasn't the most wrong part. The most wrong part of the whole thing is that one of the major sponsors was.... Trimspa. Yes, Trimspa. Trimspa would like to remind you that while thousands of children are dying every day because of their lack of food and basic medical care, you Americans can easily and painlessly melt away your excess fat, obtained through years of large portions, luxurious rich foods, and mindless overeating.

"Trimspa: Helping Africa out because hey, we'd like them to be customers some day."

Let's post a picture!

The BloggerGods say that posting pictures is easier than ever before. This had better well be the case, as posting them via their Hello! application was difficult, frustrating, and downright rage-inducing. If this truly is better, then Funundrum will be getting a whole lot more interesting for those of you who can't be ersed to read entire sentences. Jogdish, you know who you are.


Excellent. It works.