Thoughts From My Imaginary Financial Advisor

The market has been up and down like parishioners at a Catholic mass lately. After today's stock slaughter, I think it may be time to start looking to unconventional methods of money management. Here are a few maverick ideas you won't find in Smart Money. (Why a picture of the Geico Gecko? I imagine if he were my financial advisor, he would endorse these ideas.)

Offshore accounts. I found a bank in New Zealand offering 8% interest. But do your homework. Make sure your foreign safe haven is not run by a Nigerian prince.

Start a religion. It worked for Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard. As for a name, I'd definitely leave science out of it. Consider something short, snappy and inspiring, like Jebucks. It combines the notion of Jesus, money and coffee. I'm seeing a place of worship on every corner.

China continues to be a rapidly expanding market. I predict the next growth sector there will be the development of cheap alternatives to melamine.

Open a pawn shop. This is an area ripe for expansion as people begin selling off their espresso makers and big screen TVs to make their house payments.

Invest in survival gear. At the rate we're going, it can't be long before this market is exploding.

Two words: alcoholic Beverages. I expect alcohol sales to rise dramatically over the next few months. Put your money in Seagrams. And look both ways when crossing the street.

If you really just want to hide your cash somewhere safe, forget the mattress. Put your money in a cave in Tora Bora, then move it to Pakistan.

If That Don't Beat Everything I Ever Damn Witnessed

Pronounced “fat don beat everthan ah eva dam widniss,” this is a favorite phrase of my father-in-law who has lived most of his life in the mountains of western North Carolina. It is applied to things outrageous, outlandish, utterly stupid, or completely unexpected. High gas prices, the woman who paints her entire body silver and waits on the corner downtown for some loose change dropped at her feet to activate her hidden robot circuitry, the guy who tries surfing on the hood of his friend’s ’73 Cutlas, George Bush reading a book.

The sight of a couple of self-proclaimed rednecks campaigning for Obama would certainly elicit the phrase, falling under the last category of its usage. Liberalism is about as popular as tofu in the south, so this is truly an encouraging sign of the times. Fat don beat everthan.

Ugly Politics

Now that I've learned how to use iMovie, I'm becoming a little OCD about it. For this clip, I learned how to separate audio from video and lay it over another clip. Soon I'll be making Ishtar II.

(If you're looking at this in your feed, you'll need to click through to the site to see the video. It's worth it just to see the brief shots from the 1932 cult flick Freaks.)

Welcome To Extended Stay, Pull My Finger

When choosing a hotel, how much does finding a place where you can rip one repeatedly to the tune of a John Phillips Souza march figure in?

Apparently, the marketing folks behind a campaign for Extended Stay Hotels must think an exceptional stay means clean sheets, on-demand movies, and the fetid stench of your own humanity. Their latest commercial shows a variety of hotel guests raising a haunch and letting fly with a satisfied smile that sends my creep-o-meter pinging. The ferocity of their gut bombs slams doors, sends curtains billowing, and snuffs candles.

The tagline says: NO PLACE MAKES YOU FEEL MORE COMFORTABLE. If by comfortable they mean freeing yourself of all responsibility for your bodily functions, they may have something there. Welcome to Extended Stay, here’s a package of Depends just in case you get a little too relaxed.

I think I might have gone with the tagline: REEKS LIKE A HOBO'S SLEEPING BAG AFTER A PBR AND A CAN OF BAKED BEANS.

I give them credit for thinking outside the box and for taking risks, but there is just something so unappealing about watching a parade of people actually put effort behind squeezing out a turd precursor.

I don’t want to be anywhere near the breakfast buffet at this place.

You Do Not Want To Be The Guy Responsible For This

Nobody throws a funeral like the Hells Angels. Except maybe the Norse Vikings with the ritual drinking, sex and human sacrifice. By those standards, Monday’s affair marking the untimely passing of Mark “Papa” Guardado, the 46-year-old president of the San Francisco chapter of Hells Angels killed in bar fight, was subdued.

Yesterday, two thousand Hells Angels roared into the parking lot of Duggan Sera Mortuary in Daly City in a seemingly never-ending river of Harley heat and thunder. They came to pay their respects to a man who “was a friend to many people from all walks of life, and had a kind and generous heart.” Nevermind the fact that the kind and generous “Papa” Guardado was facing felony assault charges. Don't speak ill of the dead, especially the dead who have a couple thousand living friends whose favorite pastime is playing catch with a loaded .38.

The overflow crowd swarmed the parking lot with Harleys, leather and tattoos. Next door at Starbucks, you had to push your way through a crowd of ham-fisted bikers taking a latte break to get your drink.

Hells Angels seem to me a conflicted group. On the surface they are thugs, gansters, drug dealers, enforcers, yet they worry about setting an example for the kids, they feed the homeless, entertain children in the hospital. While they tout the outlaw lifestyle, they call themselves gentlemen. Their logo is a registered trademark and they have a navigable and informative website. The MC in their name stands for Motorcycle Club, but the fine print says Motorcycle Corporation. They sued Disney over trademark infringement in the movie “Wild Hogs.” For a bunch of outlaw, roguish, wayward teddy bears, they are a serious, organized, sometimes altruistic and often litigious bunch.

They can continue to insist they are a social club and not a gang, but I don’t care how many Toys For Tots drives they organize, I am not going to any Hells Angels potluck.

Naughty Monkey Way Up In The Polls

The massive sales spike for the maker of Sarah Palin’s RNC footwear may have designers at London Fashion Week rethinking their offerings. Reminiscent of Dorothy’s ruby slippers with a smidge of skank, Sarah Palin’s red peep-toe pumps come from a San Diego based company called Naughty Monkey. They are currently enjoying a 50% bump in sales thanks to the power of celebrity endorsement. A single appearance of Sarah Palin sporting “Double Dare” did more for the Naughty Monkey brand than numerous wearings by their other famous customer Paris Hilton.

I did some serious investigative journalism on Google and found myself navigating the visually assaultive Naughty Monkey website where they offer a bevy of shoes with names like Nookie, Paris Stroll, Quickie and Bonk Her. It begs the question, what else is hiding in Sarah Palin’s closet?

Sarah Palin: Vice Decider?

No one does smug, snark and nastiness better than the Republicans. But, inspired by the RNC, I thought I'd give it a try. So without further ado, my first iMovie.

Get Registered!

If you're not already registered, click above and it will take you to the Vote For Change website where you can get registered in less time than it takes to launch a nuclear warhead. Do it now!

Ways To Mark The Anniversary of 9/11

1. Reflect on the tragedy and pray, or whatever your particular ritual might be, for the victims and their families, and for the 4155 American soldiers who’ve been lost since.

2. Remember that two days after the twin towers fell, Bush said, "The most important thing is for us to find Osama bin Laden. It is our number one priority and we will not rest until we find him."

3. Remember that just a little more than one year after the twin towers fell, Bush said of Bin Laden, “I just don't spend that much time on him to be honest with you….I truly am not that concerned about him.”

4. Think about the fact that many 9/11 first responders suffering from deadly diseases as a result of their work at ground zero cannot afford health care and that Bush cut special health care funding for this group by 77 percent in his proposed 2009 budget.

5. Donate to one of the scholarship funds designed to aid families of 9/11 victims.

6. Plant a tree, nurture life.

7. Pick up Morgan Spurlock’s documentary Where In The World Is Osama Bin Laden?


8. Read this article with some important facts about the war.

9. Eat French fries.

10. Remember how united we all felt in those days after the tragedy—how human, how frail, how compassionate—and cut somebody some slack today.

More Good Stuff From Santa Barbara

Being from L.A. and now living in the SF bay area, we drive between the two frequently. And we always make sure to pull off in Santa Barbara for a bite at La Super-Rica on Milpas at Alphonse. It's not much to look at, but the constant line out the door confirms its awesome goodness.



Stop in for homemade tamales, fresh guacamole, and the best tacos anywhere. My son's favorite is No. 16, Super-Rica Especial, Roasted pasilla chile with cheese, marinated pork and fresh, homemade tortillas.


Don't expect to rush in and out of here. Plan to wait about twenty minutes in line and another twenty to get your food. Order the guacamole. You can have that right away and eat it while you wait.


Tortillas are in constant production at La Super-Rica.


No. 16, Super-Rica Especial with chicken. One of the reasons the Beastie Boys, and probably plenty of others, stop here on their way to play the Santa Barbara Bowl.


Walk it off with a stroll on the pier and the boardwalk.


Moments after this picture was taken, this guy started screaming at another person with a camera. I guess he's protecting a proprietary sandcastle building secret.


Cruising north on highway 101.


On my way into the bathroom at a Shell station in Buellton, a stranger in a red pick up asked if I liked jalapeños. What? Dude, get a better line. When I came out, he handed me a bag full of the most gorgeous peppers and a tip on how to cook them—stuff with cheese and chicken, wrap with bacon and put them on the grill. He didn't steer me wrong. Great stuff.


A nice way to end the summer.

Pimp My Celestial Oneness

This is one superbad shag parlor. The artist/inhabitant known as One Feather has been working on transforming his 1976 Dodge Sportsman home from nondescript utility vehicle to cosmic wonderbus of love and harmony for the last 13 years. And he's done a hell of a job.


He spends his days in the parking lot in front of the beach boardwalk in Santa Barbara spreading a message of unity, love and peace to all who stop and gawk. Looking is free, but if you want to take a photo, a monetary offering is encouraged. This is how he makes his living. I had no cash on me, but he was kind enough to let me take photos anyway. I told him I’d find an ATM and come back later with a few bucks to keep his hempmobile humming.


If you get a chance, stop by and see it in person and meet the man behind the mobile masterpiece. It’s a 3D tapestry of tiny objects, toys, textures, words and color. Definitely worth a few bucks to take it all in. I am sure karma is coming to get me because we got busy and I never made it back with the cash. Sorry, dude. I will stop by next time I’m in SB. Promise. Cause seriously, this is cool.

Radiohead At Santa Barbara Bowl

While I really wanted to watch Obama’s speech at the Democratic National Convention live on Thursday night, I couldn't miss an opportunity to see Radiohead perform the last show of the U.S. leg of their current tour. And the fact that it was at the stunning Santa Barbara Bowl, which happens to be the band’s favorite venue, sealed the deal.

Despite a four-hour drive to get there, a dearth of parking, and a security nightmare of endless lines in search of the proper seating wristbands, we got to our seats just as the spare syncopated rhythm of the opening to In Rainbows’ “Reckoner” was met by Thom Yorke’s plaintively eerie vocals drifting over it like a ghost train arriving at a newly materialized station. And just like that, we climbed aboard ready for the journey that only Radiohead can deliver.

They picked up speed with Kid A’s “Optimistic,” then started rolling relentlessly through the wild and varied terrain that makes up the band’s unique sound. They covered a lot of ground, squeezing twenty-five songs into just over two hours. From the slow vortex of “There, There,” the techno-laced dreamscape of “The Gloaming,” the sweet melancholy of “No Surprises,” to the wrenchingly beautiful rendition of “Lucky,” things were perfectly paced.

The stage was as spectacular as the sound. A massive light display created from vertically hanging LED tubes looked a bit like an over-sized Hyatt ballroom chandelier, except for the fact that they lit up in brilliant hues and patterns to match the tone and tempo of the music electrifying the whole scene. We later learned this was designed as a way to reduce the carbon footprint of the tour (fewer trucks and tour buses might have done more in this regard, but hey, they’ve got a lot of stuff to move around). Five screens mounted in a horizontal band behind the lights gave detailed views of the band members as they played.




Johnny Greenwood spent as much time on the floor tweaking knobs on his DL4 pedal and vintage RE201 Space Echo to push the boundaries of their sound as he did playing guitar.

Thom Yorke talked little, seeming more concerned with squeezing in as much music as possible before running up against the venue’s 10:00 p.m. curfew.


After two encores, they ended things in a final ecstatic surge launching into “Ideoteque” and ramping up the light show into its most colorful and chaotic of the night, while Thom Yorke let loose with his exuberantly awkward dance moves.


At the after-show party, we got a rare treat when we ran into Bob Boilen, former long-time director of NPR’s “All Things Considered,” and current host and creator of NPR’s “All Songs Considered.” We had a great time talking with him and discovering his secret history as a member of D.C.’s psychedelic dance band Tiny Desk Unit. Here is an NPR podcast of Thom Yorke guest hosting Bob’s show back in February. Look for a webcast of Thursday's complete Santa Barbara concert on the All Songs Considered website Monday, September 8 at noon.

Thanks to my husband Greg Westall for all the great photos.

(Bruce Lee) x (Jimi Hendrix) = Matthew Bellamy

I’m convinced that Muse singer/guitarist (also a stellar pianist) Matthew Bellamy is the love child of Bruce Lee and Jimi Hendrix. The guy plays the most mind-bending riffs with the discipline, precision and power of a martial arts master taking on a room full of ninjas. And he does it all while singing in a voice that would belong to the Vampire Lestat if every time he wanted to tear someone’s throat open, he sang a song instead.

I don’t mean to leave out Christopher Wolstenholme and Dominic Howard. You guys are awesome too. It’s not all about Matthew. There’s no ‘I’ in band, right? We all know it takes all three of you to make that muscular, dizzying vortex of sound that’s as tight as a Baptist preacher's ass (Southern Baptist that is, not those liberal, Bible-rejecting Association of Welcoming and Affirming Baptists).

This is a band that deserves every glowing adjective that can be thrown at it, and I can’t wait for the next album including Bellamy’s rumored 15-minute space-rock solo.

Baghdad Eye On The Tourist Coin

In a show of extreme optimism, Iraq’s tourism board has announced its plan to build a 650 foot tall Ferris wheel in Baghdad. The London Eye (pictured above) is a mere 443 feet tall. Iraq’s version would feature air-conditioned compartments large enough to carry 30 passengers each. Insurgents are readying their rocket launchers.

The Baghdad Eye, as it’s been dubbed, will provide sweeping views of the capital city. Those who make the complete revolution will be offered the opportunity purchase a souvenir photo. The families of the others, will receive complimentary Zip-loc baggies.

Iraq’s tourism board is also looking for bids on a proposed resort island on the beautiful Tigris River, which would feature a six-star hotel, spa, 18-hole golf course and country club. Start packing, bargain travelers.

Trade The Brown Bag For Green

Maybe it’s a little bit of OCD, but I am in love with these bento style lunch boxes. Not just because using them drastically reduces waste, but also because every day when you open the lid you are met with this amazing little mosaic of food. Everything all carefully laid out in a road map of lunchtime bliss, each item assigned its own neat compartment. The possibilities seem endless. The tidy configuration with its unassailable boundaries between food items defies you to stick with the usual boring sandwich, apple, chips routine. Stretch out. Pack cous-cous salad. Caprese. Sushi. It’s what Lunchables would be if they were made with real food and didn’t come in a disposable piece of landfill.

Clearly, I’m not alone in my obsession. There are whole Flickr pools dedicated to art of the Laptop Lunch. Do I occasionally find myself scrolling through them just to see all the imaginative ways to put the UN in lunch? Admittedly, yes. I’m weird that way.

But the best part about the bento-ware is the fact that it produces no waste. Think about this as the school year gets underway: the average lunch-toting child generates 67 pounds of garbage per school year (ref. www.greenopia.com). That translates to 18,760 pounds of waste for the average elementary school. Imagine the difference if all those kids traded their brown bags and Zip-locs for a dishwasher safe, reusable Laptop Lunch system.

Designed by a Santa Cruz-based company, the lunch boxes are available at www.laptoplunches.com and also at some retail outlets like Whole Foods. Check the site for retailers in your area.

The Audacity of Cupcakes

The recent proliferation of cupcakeries in the U.S. gives me hope for this country. A people that, in the face of a the worst economy since the great depression, a war on terror, environmental chaos, pop-star drama, and the horrors of a reality show programming, can embrace the innocent, frosted promise of the cupcake must be optimists at the core. And that bodes well for our future. Even the most hardened cynic must be silenced by the plucky verve of ginger lemon.

Once the staple of bargain bakery shelves, their Crisco frosting in all manner of unnatural colors smashed against their sad little plastic shell cases, the sweet little cupcake has muscled its way to the top of the confectionary heap with gourmet and organic ingredients, artisan production, and exotic flavors like Chai Latte, Raspberry Dazzle and Red Velvet. Specialty cupcake stores like Sprinkles (which will soon have 22 locations around the country), Kara’s Cupcakes in the bay area, Chicago’s Cupcakes, and Seattle’s Cupcake Royale are battling it out for the lucrative cupcake coin.

There are glossy full-color books about cupcakes, cupcake crafts, and websites devoted to the topic (cupcakestakethecake, 52cupcakes). I haven’t seen such passion about a food item since the meteoric rise of Krispy Kreme. (I’m still mourning the “Hot Now” beacon that has ceased to flash in my neighborhood). I believe the cupcake craze will have a longer shelf life than its deep-fried and glazed cousin. The donut was like the Vin Diesel of bakery treats, while the cupcake is more like the Holly Golightly. A cute little thing with a slightly questionable past that has grown into a fascinating confectionary creature. Full of charm and wit, with the ability to be reinvented a thousand different ways, the cupcake never gets old.

Invisibility Cloak: F*** Yeah!

Geeks, freaks and the criminally insane, get ready to pop open some Fanta and JD, or maybe a vial of kitten blood and some pure oxygen. The invisibility cloak is one step closer to reality. Thanks to the brilliant minds at University of California Berkeley, you may soon be able to confirm the belief of those around you that you don’t actually exist.

While other scientists are busy looking for a way to keep our vital organs from aging, California’s best and brightest are looking for ways to finally give us all the superpowers we’ve been fantasizing about. This is why I thank God every day that I live in California. That, and the fact that I can eat outdoors in November, never get a mosquito bite, participate in a massive community pillow fight, and so many more reasons that I won’t go into because California is already crowded enough. Stay where you are. (Yes, I know there are plenty of other great places. I’ve tried a few. They have much to offer…if you’ve never been to California.)

So what of this amazing development in the superpower arena? It’s all due to the creation of a new material that bends light around 3D objects, thus making them disappear. That's the crux of it, but there's more scientific lingo to explain it in greater detail here.

Aside from being a great way to sneak around castles, evade Snape, and steal North Korean nuclear secrets, what real good is an invisibility cloak? How will this advance society? Sure it can get you backstage at a Coldplay concert. Been there. And trust me, you don’t need the cloak to be invisible. If you’ve been dreaming about following your buff neighbor around the house to answer the age-old question of boxers or briefs, maybe there’s some value here. Or you could eavesdrop on you boss, but do you really want to know how much the new guy is getting paid. Can your ulcer take it?

I’m waiting for the pill that can make me fly. I guess for some, that already exists. But I want the one that comes without rehab and a ruptured spleen.

New Film Explores Pearl Fryar's Not-So-Secret Garden

Pearl Fryar has spent the last twenty-four years transforming his yard from a typical palette consisting of a swath of grass and a couple of box row hedges into a sort of Lewis Carroll fantasy of flora where shrubs take on mythic proportions swirling toward the sky in joyful spirals, or hugging the green earth in playful stacked mounds of varying shapes and sizes.

He shares something in common with the likes of Simon Rodia or Jeff McKissak, but aside from the obvious fact that Fryar does not work in the usual mediums associated with Dementia Concretia—concrete, glass, tile, steel—his particular creative compulsion grew out of something bigger and louder than the little voice that urges the ordinary (if such a person can be called ordinary) obsessive to toil away in his ethereal realm.

Pearl Fryar’s drive to build something beautiful, lasting and bigger than life came from a desire to overcome obstacles. The obstacle of racial intolerance. The obstacle of fear. The obstacle of ignorance. The obstacle of “no, you can’t.”

He could. And he did.

The prize for Yard of the Month in Bishopville, South Carolina had never gone to an African American. After hearing that white neighbors feared he wouldn’t keep up his yard, Pearl Fryar was determined to win that coveted prize. He knew nothing about plants and he lived just outside the prize boundaries. But those things were not about to stop him. He bought a $2.00 shrub and began sculpting. He kept at it for more than two decades, often working until midnight even after having put in a full day at his factory job. Today, he has topiaries topping twenty feet. He has not only been honored with the Iris Garden Club’s Yard of the Month Award, he’s been featured on PBS, HGTV, in Newsweek Magazine and countless other publications, and is currently the subject of a documentary film A Man Named Pearl, which can be found in limited release around the country now through October. A list of dates and venues is available at the film’s website.

Pearl’s three-acre garden of elan draws visitors from all over the world and has required a turn-around for tour buses to be built at the end of his street. He has brought his community together. He has inspired thousands with his message of love, peace and goodwill (the giant mantra is carved into his lawn). And he has created a living, breathing, constantly evolving reminder that beauty is in the believing and the doing.

Dementia Concretia: Beautiful Freaks

I ran across the term Dementia Concretia today. As diseases go, it sounds like a good one. It’s a disorder that causes people to create compulsively. Not in the typical fashion like writing books or painting pictures. Something on a grander scale. Like building a cathedral out of broken bottles and hubcaps and spare bike parts. And then adding a bonus room. There are plenty of great examples. Watt's Towers in Los Angeles, a series of concrete, glass and tile structures up to 100 feet tall built over a thirty-year span by Simon Rodia.


Bishop Castle, a family cabin gone wildly out of control. The structure has been under construction in Pueblo, Colorado since 1969 and has employed more than a 1000 tons of rock. It represents an escape from reality, a celebration of freedom, and a protest against government restrictions for builder Jim Bishop.


The Orange Show in Houston, Texas, a 3,000 square foot architectural circus of steel, brick, concrete, tile and random found objects—wagon wheels, tractor parts, finials, mannequins—all cobbled together with hope, sweat and obsession by postman Jeff McKissack in tribute to his favorite fruit, the orange. Sprinkled throughout are odes to the king of citrus and advice to visitors for better living through oranges. (Here's a link to a nice first-hand account.)


Because all the references to Dementia Concretia that I can find come from blogs, I suspect that it’s just a made up term that has taken hold. Still, I like the concept. I would submit however, that this is not a disorder at all, but rather a primitive response to the inherent need in all of us to create, a need that is sublimated to the imperative of making a living. After a lifetime spent working in within corporate confines or at menial tasks, the sheer force of all that pent up creative energy explodes in a dramatic fashion resulting in these fantastic monuments to the ingenuity and undaunted creative spirit of humankind. These are the ultimate edifices from which to proudly let fly a massive freak flag.

Bravo, freaks. And I mean that in the most endearing sense possible.

Ten Things I learned From Watching "10 Questions For The Dalai Lama"

1. The Dalai Lama has a way better sense of humor than the Pope.

2. The Dalai Lama sounds a lot like Yoda.

3. Monks could kick some serious ass if not constrained by the excessive cloth of their robes and their strict adherence to non-violence.

4. The Chinese have turned Tibet into a dim sum platter of prostitution and consumerism.

5. I need to work harder to accept the lazy, unfriendly checker at the market who forgets to give me my cash back and tries to use plastic bags instead of the canvas ones I’ve brought.

6. “Shut the hell up” is not a good mantra.

7. While opposed to violence, the Dalai Lama believes one should defend oneself.

8. On the subject of birth control, the Dalai Lama believes in quality over quantity.

9. The Dalai Lama can fix your Tag Heuer while you wait.

10. Yak butter sucks.

Smells Like Nirvana

If you want to soothe away just about any aggravation, stress or injustice, gin will work, but breathing in the scent of lavender is a lot easier on your liver. You can get your fix in a hundred different ways, lotions, aromatherapy, candles, lavender pillows, lavender slippers, you name it, but I discovered the very best way last weekend in Sonoma. It’s a beautiful, hidden gem of a place called Matanzas Creek Winery in Bennett Valley where, for the small price of free (wine tasting is extra), you can spend the afternoon in blissful serenity listening to the happy hum of a hundred thousand or so bees, feeling the pleasant touch of valley heat on your skin, and inhaling the sweet smell of over 4500 lavender shrubs.

If not for a helpful concierge, we would certainly have missed this place. It’s about ten miles out on a winding two-lane farm road well off Sonoma’s beaten wine path Highway 12. If you're coming from the North, it’s about five miles south of Santa Rosa on a smoother stretch of highway. Either way, it’s worth the drive. We spent most of our time in the lavender garden, but it’s best to start in the tasting room and gift shop then linger in the garden until the last moment possible. Pause for a moment to watch the blue dragonflies buzz the koi pond as you walk up hill to the tasting room, which is housed in an understated aged wood building that feels a bit like a tree house.

It smells like a spa inside with all the lavender gift and goody items. The deck overlooks the valley and there’s a nice spot there to sip some wine. You can also take a picnic and some wine to a shady oak grove where they provide tables and a view of a small lake, which is actually their wastewater pond, but you don’t need to know that. BYOP (bring your own picnic) as they offer only the occasional cheese and fruit plate, which they were out of on our visit. Finally, walk the gravel path lined with native grasses and wildflowers out into the fields, quiet your head, watch the bees, smell the lavender, and forget all the stuff that winds you up. This is bliss at its purest.

Crazy, Sexy, Cool Limoncello

This time last year, I was enjoying the warm Umbrian sun, marveling at sweeping views of vineyards and sunflower fields, and discovering the joys of Limoncello. An Italian liqueur best enjoyed at the end of a great meal on a hot summer night in a setting like the one above, Limoncello is like neon sunshine in a glass, only ice cold. Served straight out of the freezer, it’s a refreshing little shot of contrast, sweet and tart, a little syrupy, slightly reminiscent of Lemonhead candy.
It’s quickly replacing Absinthe as the hip drink among the young, beautiful and willing to try anything. And for good reason. Limoncello is much tastier and won’t turn you into Edgar Allen Poe. It’s just a simple concoction of alcohol, lemon and sugar. And apparently very easy to make at home. I found this recipe that looks easy, but since it takes a week of steeping, I’ll have to post the results later.

Danny Devito is a big fan of the lemony potion as he proved in his infamous appearance on "The View" last year. He’s even launched his own brand of Limoncello. If this becomes a trend for celebrities to capitalize on their indiscretions by launching products based on their personal vices, can we expect to see a line of crack pipes from Amy Winehouse just in time for Christmas?

Dream Big

A Hong Kong jewelry store known internationally for its lavish lavatory built from six tons of gold has begun cashing in on its coveted crapper. With gold prices topping $900 an ounce, the monument to movement is being melted down and sold off piece by piece. But owner Lam Sai-wing insists the enclave of excrement’s crowning glory, the toilet, will remain intact. He’s not giving up on his dream to one day s*** a gold brick.

You Won't See This On Staycation

Thanks to historic gas prices and a tanking economy, this summer’s buzzword is “staycation.” Taking a vacation right in your own backyard. Everyone from the "Today Show" to CNN to Home Depot are pushing it as the hottest travel trend. A Google search yields more than 216,000 references. In true American fashion, we’ve taken a negative, “you can’t afford a vacation,” and turned it into a positive. Turn that frown upside down, America. You’re going on a fabulous “staycation.” That’s right, a whole week camped out in your living room with a bucket of KFC (extra crispy), a liter of diet Dr. Pepper and a stack of DVDs.

It's not the economic meltdown that's making it tough to get away this year. It's just that there are plenty of ways to spend that stimulus check right in your own neighborhood, right? If they really want to sell the American public on a stay-at-home vacation, give it some appeal. Where’s the sizzle? The word “staycation” sounds more like a kennel for obedience-challenged dogs. Why do I want a “staycation”? A moratorium on chores, or “choreatorium” as it's been dubbed, hardly stacks up against maid service, breakfast in bed and poolside umbrella drinks arriving at my bidding. Choreatorium is just a really weird way of saying I’m staying at home in a dirty house with dishes piling up. Sweet. Bring me another “Cheaparita.” Oh yeah, I have to get it myself.

Since we stayed at home over the Fourth of July holiday weekend, I guess one could say we indulged in a staycation. As staycations go, it was pretty freaking awesome. We attended an outdoor San Francisco symphony concert and fireworks extravaganza, lounged by the pool, ate at some nice restaurants, went kayaking, took a bayside stroll, saw “Get Smart” and “Wall-E,” breakfasted on the patio. I cheated and did a little laundry, but still a pretty good non-get-away. Next weekend, I’m thinking about dragging a mattress out onto the deck and sleeping under the stars for a staycation camp-out. We can make hibachi s’mores.

Will all this staycationing be good for the economy? You bet. With all the money you're saving on airfare and hotels, you can go ahead and get movie candy for the whole family, buy that tricked out backyard grill, and pick up a whole slew of travel DVDs so you can plan your next paycation.

You might not see great works of art, or broaden your awareness of other cultures while on staycation, but you will discover the intricacies of your own neighborhood and, if you're lucky, find out who's been letting their dog crap on your lawn.

Summer Bliss Squelchers

If only my cat could manage to park her breakfast without getting it all over the fur on her hind end, which ultimately ends up in nasty little kitty skid marks all over the living room rug, I wouldn’t have needed to go to Target for another can of carpet cleaner where, upon seeing the summer clearance already in progress, I fell into a deep depression over the fact that I have only just found my swim suit for the season, which according to the people at Target, is already over.

All the summer items were on clearance, relegated to a few overcrowded, disorganized shelves. The watering cans, the colorful outdoor pillows, the decorative Indonesian carvings, the bird baths and reflection globes. Even the lawn gnomes. Meanwhile a couple of burly red-shirted guys were busy clearing out all the patio furniture to make way for, forgive me for saying it, Back To School stuff. Target has truly harshed my summer buzz.

It’s not even Fourth of July, Target managers. I haven’t even been to the beach yet. Haven't had my first taste of summer watermelon or nectarine. My first grilled burger. I've barely begun to enjoy the long amber-tinged evenings, the wearing of sandals, the scent of jasmine drifting in through the open window as I fall asleep. My first pedicure of the season is hardly showing any wear. I've almost no tan. I haven't even begun a trashy novel. What sort of insidious plot is this?

I vow not to set foot in a Target until at least the third week of August when Back To School will begin to seem like a light at the end of a long, hot, PS3 filled tunnel. Until then, there’s only one phrase more hated in our household than “back to school” and that’s “where’s the carpet cleaner?”