Thursday, September 27, 2007


By which we mean, "catch-up," not the official government issue vegetable
Steve Fossett is still missing. Unless he's pulling some kind of wacky disappearing act, I have to presume he's dead. He might have died in a plane crash, but stay tuned and I’ll tell you how Burning Man is the real cause of his death…

Authorities have finally removed a house that had been stranded on the 101 Freeway, not far from my place, causing all kinds of traffic woes. That's right, a house. They removed it Tuesday evening. I could hear the monotonous growl of the TV helicopters overhead for hours in what must have been the slowest televised highway chase in history, slower than even the pokiest white Bronco.

Last weekend, while riding along the Chandler Bike Path, I caught an odd sight out of the corner of my eye. "Funny," I said to myself, "that looks like a catapult." I whizzed on past and then had one of those, "Hey, wait a minute!" moments. I Whipped around -- almost plastering a tea-cup Chihuahua in the process (yappy li'l fuckers) -- and sped back to the park and found that my eyes had not deceived me. It really was a catapult. Or rather a small trebuchet designed, its owner told me, to fire tennis balls up to 400 feet. He demonstrated and proved it. More later when I get pics.

I finally popped my Hollywood Bowl cherry a few weekends ago, after more than two years living in Southern Cali. It was a work-related event put together by my department and boy, was it ever a gas. After a nice picnic dinner, we hoofed it up the hill and into the Bowl. I had no idea it was so huge. Truly a marvel to behold. And the music…

Pink Martini at the Coconut Grove backed by the LA Philharmonic and starring -- get this -- none other than Carol Channing, all topped off by fireworks. Wow. What a show. Pink Martini, one of my favorite lounge acts already, was smooth and silky and sophisticated. Carol Channing was an absolute delight, doing the great sing-along number, "Razzle Dazzle." And the LA Phil gave the whole evening a dose of high style. What a grand entrée to a grand old venue. I shall return, arm in arm with Ms. Nora…

A while back Vebs asked me to join him and his wife at Disneyland for his 47th birthday. How could I say no? Besides, it happened to be "Bats Day," the day when all the SoCal Goths descend like, well, Visigoths, in order to weep bitter tears on the topiaries of the Happiest Place on Earth.

Two words about Bat's Day: Goth chicks. To wit:

And what Goth geekfest would be complete without a snapshot of the wickedly elegant Cruella DeVille?


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