New state in the Union: West Arizona

Each morning when I wake up, after contemplating which cereal I want to devour, and how to make my hair more shiny and naturally straight when it air dries, I debate with myself about blogging something. Like, say - the copious amounts of flesh I see spilling over bikinis and speedos everyday, which is awesome.

But then I walk a block to the beach instead and forget all about it.

However, I have a bone to pick with a certain people. These people, herein referred to as "Zonies," are the snowbirds from Arizona who come to California coasts for the summer. So I suppose technically they aren't snowbirds . . . more like . . .ugh, I don't know. I've been in the sun and ocean a lot and so I'm TIRED and don't want to think of a word that defines them. The facts are these: they are many, they have big cars, and they think they own the place.

Look, I get it. Living in Arizona in the summer totally blows. How you old people survive those summers where Hell opens it jaws and breathes fiery air over the state for the majority of the year, I will never know. But Zonies, THIS I do know: I have been hit by one of your big-a cars almost everyday, I couldn't see Harry Potter the night I wanted to because you flooded the mall and theater, and you and your yappy brats surround my beach blanket everyday thereby distracting me from my quality romance novels.

I feel like I don't ask for a lot. I just want to try and get a tan while I watch the Golden State crumble. So maybe show a little respect for a dying state and let us loaf in peace.

It's SUPERnatural

I feel that in life I have really succeeded in being mediocre in every aspect, and I consider that a talent. I received "pretentious/almost nerdy" on my nerd score, so I think I can safely say that I can be pretty deep. For example, much of my time yesterday was spent contemplating the eternities (read: how I can get out of wearing a toga in heaven, because they look quite cumbersome), and how height differences can effect your life (aka, do midgets play baseball, and if so, is the field a different size?). I'm a thinker, you see.

So today, as I was "painting" I was musing about - what else? - THE SUPERNATURAL. My love of the mysterious has been pretty well documented, but I realized I haven't shared with the internet universe my newest quest, if you will: To find and capture the elusive chupacabra. That's right - the blood sucking goat killer often spotted in the southwest and Mexico. In fact, on my 5 hour trip in Mexico in April my goal was to find it. Alas. But I know it's out there, and when I find it, the world will know too.

When first I discovered this creature last summer, from a police video that captured a dog-like creature that WASN'T A DOG, I knew that I had found the infamous "circus pony" that my cousin had seen in Utah oh so many years back. In my heart of hearts I KNOW that the freaky creature she saw while licking a popsicle in the car at a 4-way stop was EL CHUPACABRA.

For all you nay-sayers who think my life quest is useless, riddle me this:




WTF, right? Should you have doubts, be my guest to tell me what you think that thing is.

The Founding Fathers would approve of THIS

Ahoy there Sailor! Wait - what's that L? You want a photo tour of the greatest holiday which we spent in Coronado? Why, it'll be my pleasure to showcase the highlights of the world's most patriotic community. In the words of your people, Anchors away!



Remember these days? When you didn't care what your mom forced you to wear, and your biggest concern was getting your bubbles to be bigger than your siblings? And after losing that competition you poured their bubble solution out on the grass? Or was that just me?

Blow harder little dude, those are looking kinda wimpy.


For those of you who were worried that Capitalism is on its way out, fear not; these pre-teens have it under control. Only 50 cents for an Otter Pop? What a steal!
Nothing warms my heart more than watching people count money. Ayn Rand would be so proud.


Hey look - the parade is about to begin! Too bad you didn't grab a front row seat. Looks like we're going to have to walk against the flow of its direction. No worries, though - it makes it shorter. Three cheers for that!



We've already reached the best part of the parade! These guys reenact the famous photo of raising the flag on Iwo Jima. They do it in slow motion - and if this were the world of Harry Potter I would tell you to pay close attention so you could watch it happen. Alas.
What happened to the reenactment of US Marines rescuing their imprisoned comrade whilst simultaneously sneak-attacking the Taliban and shoving them in the bamboo cage and turning their own guns on them? Because that was AWESOME. Methinks it was a bit too . . . well, it certainly wasn't pc, which is why I loved it. I fear that piece will never return.


Do you have a good view from that second story window, shirtless man? And what, pray tell, are you staring at?
Oh . . .
I can see the draw to watch these Saloon Ladies in the bedazzled colonial garb, the authenticity of which isn't fooling anyone. They do look like they're having fun though, don't they? I wonder where one can sign up to become a member. I mean, it's probably a profitable and rewarding profession, and I hear STDs are overrated.


Oh good - Union soldiers. I was starting to worry that those proud brothel madams were going to convince the aging traffic patrolman to join in their cavorting on the float. Whew. Yanks with muzzle-loader rifles always make for good peace keepers.

As you were, gentlemen.


I bet you will never see so many Vets in such a condensed location as you will here on Coronado island. Vets from WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and survivors of the attack of Pearl Harbor. In fact, we had a Medal of Honor recipient there in the parade: John Finn. The oldest living Medal of Honor recipient, and only living Pearl-Harbor-Day Medal of Honor recipient. He earned it by firing a 50-cal machine gun at Japanese planes, even though he was out in the open and an easy target. He was wounded many times by strafing gun fire, but continued to man the gun till he was ordered to the hospital. Lieutenant Finn, I salute you.

And I salute you too, anonymous Vet with cute baby.



And who doesn't like a little free advertising when given the chance?

Sadly, they had given all their supposed 5-star-chef-made breakfast away. Probably with the stipulation that they be allowed to share a message.


Hold on a second here - was I transported back to Provo?! Maybe the tent pictured above should have given it away, because I didn't fully realize I was out of San Diego till I saw this:

Allow me to photo document this special moment, my liege. How I have missed you guys battling it out on the campus quad! And I'm pretty sure that 50% of your Medieval Club were in my major, because topics somehow always came back to the Vikings. I'm not quite sure of the 4th of July connection though . . . did we have knights fight in any of the wars?

But I completely agree, man-with-the-studded-tunic - the only thing the US Military needs is some medieval warriors. It could be a new branch: Knights of the Realm. Though I don't think the flowy white pirate shirts will make the cut.

And so concludes the historic tour. Hope you had as great a 4th as I did!

The Neighbors: Chapter 3

Back in March I promised the next chapter of THE NEIGHBORS to be about the S.W.A.T. incident. It's your lucky day - I have come to deliver.

Let me take you back, circa 2000, to when I-Am-A-Walking-Drug-Free-Foundation-Commercial Chris was still living with The Dirts. He and his baby-mama plus her other couple kids from other daddys. AND they all lived in his bedroom. Thinking about it now, I just . . . I don't . . . Okay look, if ever I find myself in a similar situation, then PLEASE, just take me to some secluded wood - or alley - and put me out of my misery. I remember hearing an argument one night between Chris and the girlfriend, and she was crying and yelling at him for always calling her "Angela," which apparently was the name of his ex-girlfriend, and he just mumbled unitenligble phrases in response . . . Wow. I really miss them.

Anyway. Chris is a treasure. His pants generally hang somewhere in the mid-thigh region and he walks like he lost a piece of his leg to a landmine in Vietnam. He was on house arrest for something drug related, and despite being born and raised here, he has learned to speak English, or rather something English-like, from rap songs.

Also, he has been MIA since the S.W.A.T. Team came calling.

And call they did. Thanks to Richard. Here are the important highlights of Rockin' Richard: long greasy hair, emaciated, snaggle-tooth, thinks he went to Woodstock, suspected pedophile, really loud electric guitar playing all night long, and most importantly: METH LAB IN HIS HOUSE. No one ever walked past his house, which was partially covered by weeds, and he rarely came out of it. The few occasions where I had the horror of seeing him was when he was conducting business meeting with Chris on The Dirt's front lawn, complete with lawn chairs, beers and the typical cloud of smoke.

One evening after dinner my family was weeding the front planter (yes, you read that right. MOM.) when two large black vans came screeching up the street to Richard's house. Men in black uniforms with S.W.A.T. written in white came leaping out of the vans and through Richard's faux-jungle and plowed into his house. My family sat on our curb and applauded as they cleared some things out (read: his drug lair), but his dang weeds blocked a lot from view. I'm not sure if they cuffed him and took him - does S.W.A.T. cuff people? - but I do know that he never came back.

And as for Chris, he and his fourteen kids are gone too. And now Joe has inherited the bedroom that can apparently house a family. My true heart's desire is to be here when Dog the Bounty Hunter and Co., whom I love, comes storming into THE NEIGHBORS house and takes them all out. One can dream.