Category: etc.

Yeah, that’s right. Birfday. I like to say birfday. Whatevs.

~ Breakfast here — one of our favorite spots on La Jolla Cove:

See that outside balcony? Yeah. That’s where we always sit, if possible. Because the ocean is right there. Right across from you. Beautiful view. Several years ago, sitting on our special balcony eating our cheese steamers, we saw a whale. Yep. We’re just sipping our coffee — yo di doh — when suddenly, this massive grey thing with white splotches surfaced not far out in the water. I could not believe it. It could not have been anything else. Not a dolphin, not a seal, not a shark. Dude was a freakin’ whale.

Here’s the inside of our favorite bungalow-on-the-beach cafe:

I had to crop this a lot to get it to fit, but if you look on the left there, you’ll see a tiny edge of the big abalone fireplace that’s always crackling with a fire on blustery mornings. Lovely and cozy. I don’t mind sitting inside on those mornings.

So imagine us here, if you will. If you look at the first picture and count the balcony windows starting from the left, we were sitting at that third window. Sitting two tables away from us, under that first window, were the two loudest, uhm, highest people in the world. I had my back to them and could only hear the conversation, so MB filled in the descriptive blanks. “Okay. He’s probably mid-forties, greying hair, can’t see his face. She’s probably mid-twenties, bleached hair, tight dress, tattoo covering her entire upper arm. Skanky looking.” But this is how the conversation basically sounded as it blasted our way:

DUDE: OH, MY GAWD! ONE TIME I WAS SO F***ED UP, I JUST KEPT THROWING UP, YOU KNOW. I WAS TOTALLY SEEING WEIRD SH**. I MEAN, I WAS JUST F***ED UP, YOU KNOW?

CHICK: HAHAHAHAHA!

DUDE: I KNOW! IT WAS SO F***IN’ FUNNY!

CHICK: HAHAHAHAHA!

DUDE: I KNOW!

CHICK: HAHAHAHAHA!

(pause)

CHICK: I HAD THIS DREAM — BEN AFFLECK WAS IN IT!

DUDE: HAHAHAHAHA!

CHICK: IT WAS TOTALLY REAL!

DUDE: HAHAHAHAHA!

(pause)

DUDE: DREAMS ARE JUST LIKE REAL LIFE.

CHICK: TOTALLY.

(pause)

CHICK: SO THIS CHEAP BASTARD I WORK FOR, HE ONLY GAVE ME AN EXTRA 5 BUCKS TO STAND IN THE PICTURE WINDOW. I LIKE TO BE IN THE VIEWING ROOM — THE OLD MEN TIP GOOD. MARINES NEVER HAVE SH**. YOU WANNA TOUCH MY KNEE, DUDE? THAT’S 20 BUCKS, FOR SH**’S SAKE!

DUDE: HAHAHAHAHA!

It was really romantic, you know, having the middle-aged tweaker and the tattooed stripper as the background music to our breakfast.

~ After breakfast, as we approached our car in the parking garage, there was a tiny old man sweeping the parking space next to ours. Sweeping and sweeping and sweeping. Quite engrossed. We stood back and waited — because MB is a gentleman and always opens the door for me. Finally, he glanced up at us, startled, then gallantly stepped aside as MB opened the door for me. As we pulled away, I looked at him standing there — standing at attention almost, broom in front of him, hands wrapped around the top — and he smiled and waved at me. I smiled and waved back at him. For some reason, I got a little teary eyed as we drove up the hill.

~ Later, we went to see The Dark Knight. The performances were all great. Heath Ledger is creepy, creepy, creepy. Nightmare creepy. Maggie Gyllenhaal has such an odd weary wholesomeness about her — but I always like her. Christian Bale? Basically the best Batman ever. In my opinion, he’s the only Batman/Bruce Wayne who’s actually played the part with a sense of context, a sense of this man’s history. His Bruce Wayne is not very likable; he’s a bit of a jerk, basically; he grew up damaged and traumatized and spoiled and Bale plays him that way. Why would someone like that be this benevolent heroic soul? He’s a tortured person and Bale gets that. Doing the right thing feels like it’s actually a struggle for him. Struggle is stasis; stasis is struggle — that’s the sense I get from Bale’s performance. He’s really one of my favorite actors around today. Aaron Eckhart — also great. Love his transformation. When is this guy going to get his due? He is just always good. Always stands out. The story as a whole, though — to me — was chaotic and about 45 minutes too long. At three different points, I thought the movie was about to end only to be proven wrong. It almost felt like a kind of stubbornness on the director’s part. This iron refusal to end the movie until he’d included every possible perilous situation involving every possible vulnerable character and, oh, several hundred random strangers. Exhausting. The overall effect is exhaustion — but I do recommend it for the performances.

~ As we waited for the movie to start, I noticed a large black 20-something dude and his large Hispanic girlfriend sitting in the row below us. They left a seat between them — which I thought was weird — until I noticed that the middle seat was The Snack Seat. You got epic snacks? Multitudinous snacks? You, my moviegoing friend, need The Snack Seat. Spread out. Relax. It’s just like home, right? Hand-holding? Feh. Maybe your hands will touch in the popcorn bag. Maybe you’ll finger fight over the M&M’s. Maybe you can slap his hand away from your Red Vines. ‘Sfun. ‘Spractical. ‘Sromantic. Through the crack between the seats, I watched the dude start to eat his popcorn. He took a couple of bites and suddenly began throw popcorn on the floor all around him, willy-nilly, while loudly proclaiming, “There ain’t NOTHIN’ fresh about this popcorn!! NOTHIN’ FRESH!!” (So, naturally, my choice is to befoul my personal area rather than getting fresh popcorn or not eating any more of it. “There ain’t NOTHIN’ fresh about these clothes! NOTHIN’ FRESH! I gotta poo my pants!”) Lordy. What a wanker. The Bigs left about 20 minutes before the movie ended. I said, “Guess they got bored.” MB said, “Guess they ran out of snacks.” As we got up to leave, I glanced down at the flotsam and jetsam scattered around their seats, watching as people scowled and picked their way past it.

~ Later, at dinner, MB and I shared a complimentary birthday dessert: La Pyramide d’Opera. Huh? I dunno. I couldn’t really say it. I was frankly intimidated by it. But that didn’t stop me from eating it. Oh, no. My shyness vanished the moment I got a gander at it: A dark chocolate mousse pyramid — hence, the “La Pyramide” part of the name — with a thin crushed hazelnut crust and a dainty scoop of caramel ice cream. Strawberries and blueberries and caramel drizzle as garnishes on the plate. Oh, heavenly yum. I never did learn the origin of the “d’Opera” part of the name. Was a fat lady supposed to come and sing whilst we ate it? The dude from the movie, maybe, to serenade us? “There ain’t NOTHIN’ fresh about this Pyramide d’Opera! NOTHIN’ FRESH!”

~ After dinner, we went for a sunset drive. We turned down one pretty palm-lined street and in the middle of the road, another tiny old man. It was seriously deja vu. No broom in his hand, but he was engrossed, staring at something in the street we couldn’t yet see. As we slowly approached, he looked up, and began to kind of totter off to the sidewalk. We drove by — still very slowly — and he stood watching on the sidewalk, smiling and waving at me. I teared up a little bit again.

My birthday was all about tiny old men waving at me.

I loved that.

Lisa sent me this link to a recent big brouhaha at a DC coffeehouse. I mean, The Washington Post got involved, for pete’s sake! Follow that first link. From there, you can click around to hear the other side of the story. (There’s profanity in the link — just a heads up.) The whole thing is crazy. Crazy interesting, but crazy.

So …. which side do you come down on? Any thoughts?

(Thanks, Lisa, for sending it to me — twice, no less!)

Okay. This is so cool. A whole photo blog dedicated to redheads. I went redhead for about … oh, lemme think … about 4 years? I think? I loved it. I had the most amazing colorist. He was so good, people just assumed I was naturally a redhead. Nope. Just rockin’ this soft apricoty red that I did nothing to earn. Went in as a blonde, lounged in a chair and read magazines for 2 hours, plunked down my moola, and left a soft apricoty redhead.

Thought you would enjoy it. I know a couple of redheads who read this blog. 😉

Let’s hear it for the redheads!

Early Sunday morning, a right-hand pinkie was crushed in a heroic effort to stop a falling laptop. The lucky laptop, saved from certain death, is resting comfortably. The brave little sausage, however, was less lucky. Now purple and swollen and grumpy, the wee phalange is currently being treated with ice and …. well, really just ice. Moaning and Whining, Pinkie’s faithful companions, never leave her side, dutifully chiming “oh poor baby” at appropriate caring intervals. Various opioids are being discussed as a treatment option.

Owbie.

Blogging could be slow, light, and messy until … I dunno …. until I stop making such a stinkin’ fuss about the whole dealio, probably.

So MB was gone last weekend and when that happens, I kind of pine away, all Rapunzelly in my tower. I become slothful and listless and eat weird random things like yams. On top of that, I become highly susceptible to the hypnotic truthiness of infomercials. Maybe it’s the yams that do it. Which, if true, would be deeply disappointing because they’re supposed to be good for you as long as you don’t eat too many of them and turn orange much like the QT girls of yore. (Unless that’s just carrots. And not really true.) Well, regardless, I really don’t like the idea of my tubers ganging up on me. So, whether tuber collusion or no, over the course of the weekend, I found myself comatose in front of the TV for a total of 4, IV, FOUR infomercials. And it’s not like I seek them out. I don’t. I really truly don’t. It has to be the tubers. Damn you, tasty tubers.

Now, because I know you all rely on me for up-to-the-minute information, I feel it’s my duty to impart my newly gained infomercial knowledge with you. Even though this happened 4 days ago.

The Tobi Steamer: Oooh. It’s a portable steamer. No more ironing, ever; they promise. I learned my entire world will become smooth and crisp and fresh, much like Martha Stewart’s before the rap sheet. Oh, I think it does windows too. And carpets. And your face.

Zumba!: A bunch of people with magic Zumba sticks shaking their hips all the way to rock-hard abs and bods. It’s all very hypnotic. I learned that it’s really true that hips don’t lie. Quite the contrary. They are honest and loyal and hardworking. Very very hardworking.

Sheer Cover Makeup: Leeza Gibbons’ line of mineral makeup. Here, I learned that the twin who put on the Sheer Cover and went for a 5-mile run — in full makeup like we all do — looked better than the twin who put on other lesser makeup and also went for a 5-mile run. She was sweaty and streaky. The other twin was perfect and glowing. Good job, Leeza. Stirring the turd of sibling rivalry on national TV — all to line your pretty little pockets. There’s no covering that.

Meaningful Beauty: Cindy Crawford’s skincare line. I learned that beauty can be meaningful and cheap at the same time. But if the kit doesn’t include a temporary magic mole, it don’t mean squat, does it?

Now, lest you think otherwise, I didn’t order any of these things. Nope, not a one. The tubers don’t hold that much power over me, I guess. I’m susceptible to the truthiness, but not overcome by the truthiness. And just because these websites are now in my Bookmarks doesn’t imply a thing about any future relationship I may have with Tobi or Zumba or Leeza or Cindy. Not a thing.

Sometimes I just sit and eat yams and hanker is all.

MB had to journey up to the deep dark middle of nowhere this past weekend. To get there, you must drive through this teeny tiny town and see this — the largest building in town — the courthouse where Charles Manson was briefly incarcerated after his arrest. You can’t miss it. You drive right past it. And then you’re out of that town, basically. We always look at it and go “Eeek!” or “Owww!” or “Aaaah!” or “Helter Skelter!” or “You’re not gettin’ me, psycho nutjob!”

You know, something appropriate to the weighty horror of it all.

On a cheerier note: Look at the color of that sky. And with a cell phone no less! Aaaah!

So it’s Gaye Pryde weekend here in SD. Last year at this time, we were at Boheme being repeatedly crushed by half-dressed rainbow crowds for hours on end.

Remember this moment? Good times. Good times.

And when your beloved is out of town and it’s Gaye Pryde weekend and the only parking in your neighborhood is in your private parking area — thank God! — and you live 3 blocks from the float staging area and 5 blocks from the start of the parade and you can still feel that crushing buzz in the air and you get up first thing to go to the store and people are driving like total loons all hopped up on pryde and you are greeted at the store by two giant bead-wearing Barry Manilow cut-outs propped up by the bottled water display, it’s probably best just to hunker down, you know?

Coffee. Movies. Magazines. Books. Pens. Paints. Laptop. Locked doors.

I’m hunkered. In my pajama bottoms and “Venti Schmenti” t-shirt.

Ah, the ways I amuse myself when MB is out of town. It’s almost like nothing is beneath me. Almost.

You, too, can make your own magazine cover here.

Using a photo from your own drunken childhood, of course.

The site I stumbled upon that netted the findings in the last post has even more fabulous stuff! A series of 65 videos from The Mike Wallace Interviews which ran, apparently, from 1957 to 1960. You can watch the video or read the transcript — I love that — or both. Scroll down the page to find interviews with people like Gloria Swanson, Jean Seberg, Salvador Dali, Erich Fromm, Pearl S. Buck, and many others.

Wow. Can’t wait to dig in!