Web site of the week

How Roy Orbison lost 20 pounds in just 10 days

I've been looking for a site that serves this EXACT purpose. I know you have too.

Ulli's Roy Orbison in Cling-film site

http://www.michaelkelly.fsnet.co.uk/karl.htm

Hello, and welcome to my homepage. My name is Ulrich Haarbürste and I like to write stories about Roy Orbison being wrapped up in cling-film. If you have written any stories about Roy being completely wrapped in clingfilm please send them to me and I may put them up on the site. ...

As my friend Joe said, "Who doesn't want to read fan fiction involving Roy Orbison wrapped in cling-film?"

And who hasn't written at least three or four of them? Here's your chance to shine. Ulli is waiting.

Not-so-Safeway

Earlier this week I made a shopping run to Safeway at 28th and Iris. As I picked out produce and organic snacks, it seemed like any other grocery trip. Ho hum. But then, as I was getting milk, I heard someone say, "Get the FUCK DOWN, and STAY down!" and then heard a struggle.

I looked back into Organic Produce and saw two plainclothes cops wrestling a perp to the ground. And he was resisting arrest, big time. They were trying to subdue him and get the cuffs on. I swear, it was like an episode of COPS. When they finally got him cuffed, one cop went to call for backup and the other one held him there. So here was this agitated guy in cuffs, face down, next to the mixed greens.

What happened? Was this a high-speed pursuit that ended in Safeway? Did he try to rob the store? Was he trying to put a genetically-modified tomato in with the organic ones? Sixteen items in the 15 items or less aisle? Who knows?

In my lifetime I have been in some skank-ass markets. The White Hell Pantry next to the El stop. The 24-hour Safeway in Upper Market, a tweakers' paradise. And of course, the nasty Cala at Haight and Stanyan, where I was always the only customer not shoplifting or trying to buy vodka with food stamps. This store in Boulder? Quite possibly the nicest, cleanest, most well-stocked Safeway I've ever seen.

Random.

How the other half lives

A very nice family from Gianni's class invited us to ride along in their truck for the Boulder Holiday Parade. We were going to head into Denver for their holiday parade, but how can I deprive my children of the opportunity to ride in a parade? So we stayed local to wave and throw lollipops at people.

I've been feeling a little melancholy in the past week. As much as I love Boulder, it's hard to spend the holiday season in a place where you're new. People are going to parties and seeing friends and loved ones, and you're, well, not. In fact, in my case, you feel like you're traveling in a closed tube between work and home, between software white papers and potty training. It can get you down. So I looked forward to having a holiday-related social outing.

And it starts out fun as promised. We ride downtown in the back of a construction truck filled with hay bales and two other families. Gianni is in heaven. Tea is being a pill, but what else is new. All is hunky-dory until we get to the staging area. It turns out that the Barack Obama contingency is riding behind us in the lineup.

John, our host, turns to everyone and says, "Uh-oh, we've got Democrats behind us," and the rest of the group says, "Oh no!"

Oh no?! OH NO??? Great. Our one holiday outing of the season, with people who seem like they could be friends, and it turns out they're the only four Republicans in Boulder. How did this HAPPEN? How could Rick spend every morning this semester talking to this guy at drop off and not realize that he was the big R? And I know he didn't, because this is my husband who has been known to say, "if I found out someone I knew voted Republican, I would shun them." (He has a flair for the dramatic.)

This is a genuine social conundrum for us. Keep in mind that we are coming from a place where, if we were riding in the back of a truck full of hay, and I said, for example, "Dick Cheney sucks cocks in hell," 99.99 percent of the other passengers would agree with me. Hell, in Boulder, you'd think that at least 97.9 passengers would agree. How in god's name did we end up riding with the other 2.1 percent??? What to do? Should we just smile and throw suckers at people? Or should we jump ship and hope that the Obama float will take us in?

I spent the first 15 minutes of the night worried that I would get stuck debating health care, and the next 15 minutes terrified that someone would bring up the R-word and Gianni would blurt out, "But Dad, you said all Republicans were EVIL!" But it all turned out fine. We had a great time, went out for pizza afterwards, talked about all of the things we had in common, and avoided the subject of 2008 entirely. It was a fine, non-partisan time for all.

We learned a valuable lesson last night. Republicans are people too. But I'm still glad we snuck that Obama sign onto the back of their truck before we left.

Something stinks, and it's not the dog

The New York Times reports that people are buying up luxury perfume for dogs to prevent their beloved pets from stinkin' up the pet-friendly workplace. One brand, Sexy Beast, retails for $65. This unisex fragrance (Unisex. I'm not kidding) is a “blend of bergamot and vanilla-infused musk combined with natural patchouli, mandarin and nutmeg oils.” Best of all, it's vegan. Because, you know, dogs are big vegans.

So instead of having dog whiff in your cubicle, you have a mixture of essential oils AND dog whiff. Lovely. And I don't know about you, but patchouli? I'd rather have my dog smell like a dog than like some 19-year-old hippie on Phish tour. Also, what if you work in a perfume-free environment? THEN what? It's really not fair if your dog gets to wear perfume but your co-workers don't.

I will out myself as having the stinkiest dog on the planet. I love him, but he reeks. And he takes every opportunity to make himself stink more. Wet leaves, squirrel pee, dried earthworms, you name it, he rolls in it. Still, it would be somewhat jarring if he suddenly started smelling like Zsa Zsa Gabor.

You can smell him from here.

Because it's my mission to keep you from blowing $65 on canine cologne, here is my gift to you--my secret weapon against dog stink.

On a camping trip a few years ago, we stopped off at the beach. Vito, a true beach boy, ran off to dig holes and chase sticks. At one point we lost track of him. Where did he go? Oh, no worries, he's over rubbing against that log. That log with flippers. And whiskers. And rigor mortis.

Yes, Vito had discovered the biggest, stank-ass dead seal he could find and he immersed himself. Every inch of him smelled like dead seal. We faced a night in a tiny tent with The Seal Whisperer. We had forgotten our bottle of Sexy Beast, and pretty much anything else we could use to bathe him or remove the stink. The only thing I had in the car was one of those teeny tiny bottles of Purell that you get at Walgreens for 99 cents. With nothing to lose, we poured whatever was left in the bottle all over Vito.

If this is on the list of ingredients, don't buy it.

And damned if it didn't work. The little bit of Purell eradicated every bit of seal stank. To this day, Vito's beauty routine consists of regular baths and the occasional dab of Purell behind his ear.

So if you're worried that your dog is feeling not-so-fresh, save yourself $64.01 and stock up on Purell. It doesn't come in a holiday bling package. And I can't vouch that it's vegan. But it'll do the trick.

My little pony

It's fourth quarter, which means, according to everyone at my new job, that I will be working my ass off nonstop for four weeks. I will be chained to my desk and sick of my co-workers. I will eat only vending machine food and burritos from Burrito Kitchen, and I will end up with scurvy or rickets or one of those old fashioned diseases for the overworked and malnourished.

In preparation for my indentured servitude, I'm eating lots of limes and getting my Christmas shopping done early and online. God forbid this be The Year Mom Ruined Christmas. (Again.) I've been poring over the digital shelves at Amazon in search of the perfect gift. I even did a little reconnaissance work at Target yesterday while buying Tea's new big girl car seat. I didn't find any winning gifts, but I did see this:

Words fail.

Butterscotch Pony is here! I've heard that "this incredibly lifelike pony is a very special, once-in-a-lifetime friend." (Or if you're Gianni and Tea, "a special never-in-Mom's-lifetime, over-her-dead-body friend.")

It's life-sized! It eats plush carrots! It's the perfect gift for your kid if you have bought them absolutely fucking everything else in the world to fill the gaping hole in your morally bankrupt lives! It beckons to your children from the endcap at Target!

Oh my god.

Hey, you know what else is life-sized, eats carrots, and responds to your touch? A REAL PONY. If you're actually insane enough to buy your child a three-foot-tall overindulgence, go big or go home. Get the real thing.

I speak from experience because I actually HAD a pony when I was Tea's age. No lie. I did not know this until years later. Apparently, my dad had a friend who had a farm in Bloomfield (Bloomfield=Bloomington without the big-city sophistication.) He had a pony he was trying to unload on someone. My dad thought, hey! I have a three-year-old, you have a pony! It's perfect. That is how I became a proud miniature equestrienne with my own goddamn pony.

I only met the pony once. My dad took me out to see it and it tried to eat me. I'm no plush carrot but I guess I looked pretty tasty. And as suddenly as the pony had come into my life, it went away again.

I actually remember going out to a farm and seeing a pony and almost losing my foot to it. But I had no idea it was MY pony. Years later, in therapy, I couldn't even blame my parents for not getting me a pony. Because they DID. I feel gypped. But I do get to feel all superior because I had my own pony, motherfuckers, so it's not a total loss.

In 20 years, Tea can complain to her therapist that I didn't get her a Butterscotch Pony. Maybe she'll find one on eBay and buy it for herself to compensate. And she'll think, as she gently grooms it and it swishes its synthetic tail in response, that her life is now complete.

Nah.

All I'm sayin' is that if I see any pony-shaped boxes on my doorstep, they're going straight to the Butterscotch Glue Factory. Fur real.

Strangers in a strange land

Gianni, having a heart at the Museum of Science and Industry

It's just not a family vacation unless you end up in the wrong neighborhood. We decided to take the kids to the Museum of Science and Industry on Monday. Gianni wanted to take the train. We could have opted for the spiffy Metra, the train of choice for North Shore commuters heading to their law firms in the Loop. But for the sake of proximity and old fashioned train fun, we opted for the El. Of course, when we opted for the El, I was thinking that the MSI was just a short jaunt from downtown, right next to Soldier Field (which, incidentally, now looks like a flying saucer landed on it--what is up with that?)

Well, guess what? That's the Field Museum, silly. I mixed them up. The MSI is down in the hinterlands of Hyde Park, aka that quasi-fortress of a neighborhood surrounded by the South Side of Chicago. I asked Rick where we needed to get off the train--he pointed to a green dot far south of our starting point.

"Oh."

"Is that a bad neighborhood?"

"Nooooo."

And it's not, really. It's not one of those Chicago neighborhoods where you arrive and you have about two minutes to take cover before someone divests you of your wallet, your jewelry, and anything more valuable than your dry-cleaning receipt. Still, it's pretty obvious when we get off the train that we are not regulars. We do not blend. We are about 300 percent whiter than anyone for at least 10 blocks in any direction. Actually, make that 450 percent whiter.

And you know what's great? My kids did not care one bit. They chased each other and said hi to the dudes drinking forties around the burning barrel and waited patiently for our bus, which came about 15 minutes later and dropped us in lovely Hyde Park, where the barrels were not on fire. I love that my kids have grown up around so much bizarre shit in their first few years that they don't bat an eye when things are different. It's just another stop on the train for them. I hope they keep that perspective. I don't want them in harm's way, but I would like for them to really see the world and appreciate the diversity, not fear it.

I just remember too many trips when I was young where my mom acted like we'd been dropped into the holding pen of the LA County Jail if we were more then two blocks away from the shopping district of a strange city. And I'm so glad that we are a family of explorers. We see so much more because of it.

Between the train ride and the U-Boat and the giant heart, it was quite a journey. So much so that we took the Metra back to save time. I'm sure Nana appreciates that.

Look Nana! I'm riding the Metra!

News flash: Chicago has changed in 15 years

I'm in Chicago after a decade away. Given the smashing success of our non-Thanksgiving boogie-board extravaganza in San Diego last year, we decided to once again blow off tradition by having Thanksgiving dinner in Chicago with my best friend from college and her husband and their families. (I guess that sounds: traditional, but not our tradition.) It's also a great opportunity for Rick and I to do the Bataan Museum March with the kids. We're doing museums three and four tomorrow. I can feel my kids getting smarter by the hour.

We're staying in a two-bedroom apartment in Bucktown. We opted to skip the Chicago tourist strip for something further afield. I love neighborhoods--especially funky ones. And when I was in school in Evanston, Bucktown and Wicker Park had just the right funk factor. I remember this area as being block after block of beautiful, if decrepit, homes and flats, bodegas, check-cashing stations, and old-man bars. Fantastic used clothing and furniture. Good cheap Polish food. Some blocks were downright dangerous. Life was good.

Imagine my shock when I arrived here to discover that Bucktown and Wicker Park have changed. Just a little. This is now the kind of neighborhood where there are at least a half dozen places to buy a $500 black dress, but no place to buy toothpaste. There are sports bars. And day spas. That is some fucked-up shit.

This is adorable, but I can't brush my teeth with it.

A few years ago, MTV filmed The Real World Chicago in Wicker Park. While they were finishing the house, disgruntled hipsters picketed it. (I really, really love neighborhoods where people picket and firebomb things they disagree with.) I get the sense that about 90 percent of the people I see walking down Damen Avenue today would not only not protest The Real World house, they probably moved here because they filmed The Real World here. Not that there's anything wrong with that...oh wait, yes there is.

I don't know why I'm surprised that fusion small-plate restaurants have supplanted hot-dog joints in this nabe. After all, 16 years in San Francisco saw the Upper Haight change from crack dealers and gunshots at night into a neighborhood dominated by Google millionaires and i-bankers who can afford $2mil for an family home that a family can actually fit into. It happens. And it's not like I haven't changed too. I was a little bit poorer, more toned and less wrinkly the last time I hit the town in Wicker Park, too. I guess we're even. Still--where do people in Chicago go for a good $50 couch these days? Somewhere, I hope.

Pick up the pace, shorty

Gianni got his report card yesterday. Overall, the news is good. He is doing well in math and is off the charts in reading. He likes art. He knows what a musical instrument is. He could do with a little more listening and a little less clowning around, but they can cancel that cell they reserved for him at juvie last year.

Here's what's bizarre. G had to take a version of the Presidential Fitness Test that I remember taking as a kid. You know, the one where they judge your fitness and your pecking order on the grade school jock scale by how long you can hang on a bar. As it turns out, G is the first grade grand master of hanging on a bar. He far surpassed the national average. He has a fine future ahead of him as a macaque.

But in the dreaded mile run? Gianni is literally in danger of being left behind. He clocked in at 16 minutes, which according to the charts places him in the bottom half of first graders around the country.

Excuse me, but what country? Kenya? First of all, how many first graders do you know who run a mile? I run about twenty a week and I can't say I've ever seen Gianni's classmates burning up the trail. And I'm okay with that. Kids spaz out in so many other wonderful ways every day that they scarcely need to take up long-distance running. It's safe to say G gets his share of exercise during the day, between scootering, climbing, swimming, and bugging me.

Second of all--16 minutes is not exactly Roger Bannister material, but it's hardly shameful for a seven-year-old. There are plenty of adults who run that pace or slower. In fact, I remember seeing a news clip of Bill Clinton jogging in the 90s, and they mentioned that his pace was about 16 minutes a mile. Granted, that was fat Bill Clinton and I think he was eating a Big Mac at the same time, but still. Jeez. If that pace is good enough for the President, it should be okay for the small takers of the Presidential Fitness Test. Why should we hold my little boy to higher standards than the scores of full-grown fatasses in America?

You must run faster than this man to get to second grade.

Something tells me that with his energy level and raw genetic material, Gianni will get through life at an adequate pace. Maybe better than adequate. So let's allow him to stay off the treadmill for at least a few more years, mkay? That way, he'll have time to work toward his Olympic gold medal in hanging on a bar. I'm looking into hiring a coach.

It's called Halloween--look into it

I always love to post about Halloween, because it's so damned fun and also because it's always a source for exquisite absurdity in our lives. Who can forget Spider Man on Belvedere Street? Or a bag full of popsicle sticks? Or sitting on our stoop drinking red wine and handing out candy to the trick-or-treaters of the Haight, which included chain smokers, teenage mothers, various homeless crazy people, and about a zillion kids? Not me.

Which is why I'm a bit melancholy this year. Three things make me sad.

1. We got three groups of trick or treaters at our new home. One group included members of our own family. I think the other two were lost. Last year, we had four Costco bags of candy and we ran out at 7:30, forced to turn out the lights and hide from the still approaching throngs of little sugar junkies. I talked to friends about my disappointment and apparently, none of them got trick or treaters either. Who did? Folks on Mapleton Hill, where apparently the rich folks give out full-sized candy bars, Amex Centurion cards and gallon Ziploc bags of coke. They scoff at our bag of chocolate. "Fun size" indeed.

2. They cancelled Halloween in the Castro. Even though I'm 1000 miles away and even though it's been Night of the Drunken Violent Homophobes from Milpitas for the past decade or so, it's still a bummer. I remember going to the Castro when we first moved to the city, back when people were still fun. For the cost of a muni ride and the amount of effort it took to put on black clothing and a pair of cat ears, you could drink oil cans of Fosters and watch streets full of happy revelers loving the shit out of life. One year I went as the missing girl on the side of the milk carton (complete with amazing giant milk carton) and for one night I felt what it must be like to be famous. I was the center of attention and must have had my picture taken about ten million times with a parade of gay men dressed as cows, babies, milk maids, or Judy Garland. We still had the milk carton until we moved in June. If only I'd kept it, I could have relived the experience in Boulder (except without the party, or the gay men, or the open containers).

Little lost girl and big gay cow, circa 1994

3. My own daughter boycotted Halloween. We need to run a DNA test. I was so looking forward to going out with Tea this year. At two and a half she is actually old enough to get fired up about dressing for Halloween and going door-to-door for candy. And for Tea, going door to door and putting on a performance for attention and accolades is hardly a stretch. It's her destiny. But in a bizarre turn of events, by the time I got home from work on Wednesday, she flat out refused to wear any costume and she would not go trick or treating, no matter how much I begged. (And I did beg.) We ended up sitting on the couch watching Blues Clues and waiting for our three visits from trick-or-treaters. L-A-M-E. Rick took the kids to the Munchkin Masquerade on Pearl Street earlier in the evening and we have a lovely commemorative picture of the kids sitting on a bale of hay--Gianni in full Darth Vader regalia, and Tea dressed as....Tea. Oh well.

Pearl Street's own Axis of Evil

Good thing I have a whole year to figure out how to make Halloween 2008 less beat. All I need are a few bags of coke, 100,000 drag queens and a giant milk carton. Piece of cake. Be there or be square.

Everything is more fun when you accessorize

Gianni, tonight:

"I'm going to do my homework in high heels."

White Girlz in the 'Hood

Public Enemy played on Thursday night in Boulder. I just had to go, for two reasons. First of all, I have deep love for Public Enemy, they are the hip-hop of my youth. They were old skool bad ass motherfuckers. Like me. Even though the closest I get to the streets is when I pick up a gum wrapper and recycle it.

The other reason I just had to see this is that Public Enemy playing the Boulder Theater, in Boulder, is like PE playing at a Wonder Bread factory. Or Darien, Connecticut in a snowstorm. It's JUST THAT WHITE HERE. I really needed to see if the audience would consist of other old white people like me, or if Boulder would get a sudden infusion of African-Americans for the evening.

So my friend Hollie and I made a plan to go, and Rick had weeks of fun making jokes about Public-Enemy-in-Boulder songs, like Fight the Power (of constipation with Metamucil) and Fuck tha Police (for ticketing my car before I had a chance to feed the meter.) Ah, the hilarity.

What was it like? Very white and thirtysomething. And: fucking amazing. God, that was the best show I've seen in years. They are as good as they have ever been. Ever. To see Public Enemy in a small venue like that...Chuck D was a master. The deejay and the band kicked ass.

Even Flavor Flav, that freakshow, reminded us why anyone would pay attention to him in the first place. And then reminded us of why we would ignore him again, as he went on a long wank about Flavor of Love, his other "projects," and then tried to play all of the instruments onstage. Until he got to the guitar player, who basically said, "Don't touch my instrument, you fucking train wreck" and shut him down. And with that, thank god, the Flavor Flav Filibuster ended and we all got back to shakin' it.

Don't let this man speak. Or touch your musical instruments.

The night fucking rocked. I'm so used to going to shows where everyone stands around at a comfortable distance and sways a little and politely claps and says, "my what a nice and critically acclaimed band this is." On Thursday, I stood next to the stage, bumped fists with Chuck D, nearly went deaf and danced my ass of for two hours nonstop. As it should be.

Beats Dark Star Orchestra recreating Ithaca '77 any day. Which is what you usually get at the Boulder Theater. What a difference a week makes.

Why. WHY??????

Okay. Someone please explain this one to me. While walking through the parking lot at work last week, I saw the strangest fucking thing. There, on a big SUV, I saw this:

Is it me, or does it seem like a CR-V should perhaps have a smaller pair?

Now, I have seen some stupid shit on cars. I'm from Indiana, for fuck's sake. Lame god/abortion/hippie/redneck bumperstickers. Those suction-cupped stuffed animals. Baby on Board. Calvin peeing on someone's NASCAR number, or Osama Bin Laden. Not personal automobile statements that I would make, but certainly someone's expression.

But I cannot for the life of me figure out what would possess someone to hang a giant nutsack from their trailer hitch. I didn't even know that this accessory existed until last week.

WHAT is motivation? Can someone shed some light on this for me?

There are actually websites devoted to nothing but bumpernuts. (you must click on this link, if only to see the animated squirrel with the big swingin' testicles.) What a learning experience. (For example, I learned that Blue Balls are for MARRIED MEN! Ahahahah! Geddit?)

I cannot decide whether I'm totally appalled by this phenomenon, or if I want to buy them as holiday gifts for everyone I know. I guess you'll find out in December.

UPDATE: Mister Tony Ruffo is enjoying his shiny new set of balls and can't wait to put them on his mini-van. Happy holidays, Tony!

File under: Things you never want to hear ANYONE say to your daughter, especially your son

"Hey Tea, want to ride the sausage wagon?"

Any excuse to post a photo of the Wienermobile...

It's not how it sounds. I swear.

Up with Purple!

Hey, you guys are a real baseball team after all!

Rockies win the pennant! Wooo!

Actually, I know next to nothing about the Rockies. I haven't been here long enough for them to be my boys. But I couldn't be happier for them. It almost makes up for the Giants sucking so much this year. Almost.

It's very cool. But you know what's not cool? Deciding which kids get to go out for recess first based on how well they answer questions about the Rockies. A certain disgruntled young man told me that this was how it went down at school today.

I'm sure THESE kids got to go out to recess first.

Excuse me! Way to screw the new kid whose dad hates baseball!

How about next time we ask who won the last five years of the Tour de France? Or who the governor of California is? Or which train you take to get from the Haight to the Zoo?

Play fair, people.

Pot? Kettle? Black?

From the AP yesterday:

MOSCOW--The Russian government under Vladimir Putin has amassed so much central authority that the power-grab may undermine Moscow's commitment to democracy,Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice said Saturday.

"In any country, if you don't have countervailing institutions, the power of any one president is problematic for democratic development," Rice told reporters after meeting with human-rights activists.

And then she fell into a big pit of irony.

Rick is faster than Tyler Hamilton*

*When Tyler Hamilton is barely moving.

Rick shared the road with a genuine bike celebrity today. He was riding up Lefthand Canyon today when two guys blazed past him like he was going backwards. Now, Rick is no racer, but he is no slouch, either. He's been passed by racers, but according to him he has never been so totally dusted by two other riders on the road. He was: impressed.

A few minutes later, he saw the guys creeping along up ahead, which would indicate that they were recovering from the ass-kicking interval they just completed. He rode up alongside them and chitchatted about this and that--probably about how much totally faster they were than him (Or probably something more intelligent than that. I'm sure Rick played it cool.)

A few more minutes later, sure enough, one of the guys came racing by Rick. (Oh--for those unfamiliar with Lefthand Canyon? It's uphill. For like 7 miles. Not a wicked steep hill, but a hill. Most people do not sprint up.) And then he slowed down again and Rick caught up and started yakking with him. He thought, wow this guy looks familiar. Does he shop at Whole Foods, too?

It wasn't until the guy was long gone and Rick was on his way back to town that he realized: D'oh. That was Tyler Hamilton. Tour de France stage-claiming, Olympic gold medal winning--and, sadly, at one point, blood doping--Tyler Hamilton. Hope he's clean now, and wonder what he's training for?

For Rick, seeing Tyler Hamilton is way cooler than seeing, say, Justin Timberlake. Or Michael Jordan. Or Lance. Well, especially Lance. He called me right away to tell me that he passed Tyler. TWICE. (and, yeah, got smoked a few times, too, but who's counting?)

I'm so happy for him, and glad that at least one of us had a good day. I, on the other hand, did something completely dumbassed at work. So stupid. So incredibly self-destructive that even Britney Spears would look at it and say, "DUDE. That was really retarded. What were you thinking?"

But everyone makes mistakes. And tomorrow is another day. I'm sure Tyler would back me up on that.

Gore wins! Again!

If only he'd been our president. Oh, wait! He was!

Give it up for Al Gore, winner of the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize! Congratulations, Al. You da man. An Oscar, an Emmy, and one of the world's most prestigious honors in one year. I'm pretty sure that's a first. We salute you from our new energy-efficient house.

Of course this news gives Rick a fat injection of hope. He wants Gore in the race. For months he's been combing Google news alerts for some sign that Gore might step into the fray. Now he's ecstatic. Al, if you run, Rick will personally stash Ralph Nader in the trunk of a car until November 5, 2008. Promise.

Remember when Bush won the the Nobel Peace Prize? Ahahahah. Hahaha.

Al better keep his prize in a guarded safe deposit box or they'll steal that too.

Farewell to the 415

We got new cell phones this weekend. For me this is the equivalent of being 9 and waking up to a buttload of presents on Christmas morning. We've both been messing with our phones like complete geeks and interrupting our kids and the dog every five minutes to tell them about some exciting new feature (they care. really.)

But this particular phone migration is a tad bittersweet, too. In bravely venturing into a new cellular frontier, we are giving up our 415 area code. 415 has been good to us, and, please, it's one of the cool area codes. I used to read stories in the Styles section of the Times about people who had to move to Seattle or Omaha or Outer Mongolia and clung to their 212 or 917, even in the face of insane rates and roaming charges. And I, like you, thought: Losers. It's a fucking phone. Get over it.

But that's when I thought we'd grow old and die in the 415. Now that we're in Boulder, I sort of get it. Our phones were one of our last ties to our old home. And, yes, a piece of our identities, however lame that is.

There is a flip side, though. We've been here three months and people still have to call us long distance. Our address is still a PO box. But that all changes this week. We've got the new phones, and tomorrow we close on our new house, which will give us an actual physical address. We are no longer itinerant. And we're proud to be 303.

I mean that. I wouldn't be caught dead in 720.

Now THIS is a Fundraiser.

I remember when I was in school. I had to sell all kinds of crap to raise money. Candles, magazine subscriptions, chocolate bars, cookies, wrapping paper, god, the list goes on. At least twice a year we'd have an all-school or all-band or all-something assembly where some joker from Herff-Jones or wherever would try to fire us up about being pimped out door-to-door to pay for new soccer balls or some such bullshit.

I swore, Scarlett O'Hara-style, with God as my witness, that when I had kids their main responsibility as young salesbots would be to ask me for the biggest check possible. One that would get them out of bugging the neighbors to buy vanilla-scented candles with tigers airbrushed on them. And I'm sticking to it.

But I have been pleasantly surprised by Gianni's school. In fact, at the PTA meeting, the fundraiser stood up and actually said, "Our goal is to never have our kids sell one effin' roll of ugly-ass wrapping paper." (I paraphrase.) And they are also sticking to it.

In fact, tonight I went to probably the coolest school fundraiser I've ever attended. Cooler than a silent auction. Even cooler than an all-school carnival. Tonight we went down to the Boulder Theater to see flipcrash in concert.

What is flipcrash? These guys.

They're a three-man (boy?) band from Casey Middle School, and they rock. Tonight they were raising money for Whittier and Casey. The schools got to keep the door, the profit from shirts and dinner, and I'm guessing at least some of the bar. (Yes. Bar. Grownups welcome.)

I don't know what I was expecting, maybe something like my friend Dave Aronoff's band, The Intestinal Waterslide. Who did a mean cover of "Yuk Mouth" from ABC Saturday Morning TV. As high-school students. (As seen here, watch at your own risk. ) Shockingly, one of those guys was and is a real musician--Jake Smith is an actual talented guitarist with a few acclaimed bands, most recently The Mysteries of Life.

But in 1987, The Intestinal Waterslide was just a group of future infectious disease doctors being complete dorks onstage. And Jake Smith.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. flipcrash? Three Jake Smiths. Except they're, like, TWELVE. They're as good as any high school band I remember seeing. They're better than most ADULTS I know. These guys can not only actually play their instruments, at least one of them is a good--and fearless--singer. They write their own songs. "Yuk Mouth" was not heard once.

They started out slow and sounding a little KFOG and I was worried. even to raise money for my kid's school, I don't want to be put through two hours of Big Head Todd, Junior.

But as the night wore on kicked more and more ass. They ended the night with a cover of "Smells Like Teen Spirit." The last time I heard that song played live, Kurt Cobain was singing it. And none of these guys were born. D'oh! But they did it justice. Their parents must be proud.

It was a good night for all. My kids didn't have to sell candles. Whittier and Casey raised a bunch of money. And those three guys probably have all the eighth-grade girl action they can handle, and then some. Everyone wins.

Things I Learned in September

Because this past month has been nothing short of absolutely freaking nuts, I've had very little time to visit. To run down everything that's happened would take up everyone else's blogging bandwidth, and that ain't right. Instead, here is a list of things I have learned in the Big Fucking Opportunity for Growth that was September 2007:

1. I am not always right. Who knew.
2. Sometimes even when you are right, it's not worth fighting about.
   
3. It would take a lot more than $70,000 for me to totally screw you over.
   
4. Other people's standards are not quite so high.
5. Never buy a house from an uptight bald guy getting a divorce.
6. It's always worthwhile to contact an attorney.
7. Even if I have a really, really good case, I still probably won't sue you. Especially over a stinkin' house.
8. On the other hand, my mother knows a disturbing amount about litigation. I would advise not fucking with her.
9. As far as real estate goes, we are either brilliant, or complete fools. In ten years, we'll find out which one.
10. My threshold for living in dilapidated housing is a lot lower than it was a few decades ago.
11. I can still party like I did when I was 20.
12. Unfortunately, for the next week, I recover like I'm 40. (And I'm only 38.)
13. Honesty--still the best policy.
14. My husband is a children's birthday party-planning SUPERGENIUS.
    
15. I need to blog more than twice a month, if only so I can write without using any helping verbs. In other words, I need to help enable myself to show up here more .
16. I need a vacation. A big one.
    

May October be filled with lots of home-cooked meals, channel surfing, and sleep.