Pet Cobra

Summer's Over! Thank God!

Today marks the last day of summer. At least in my tiny universe.

September is my favorite month - for after Labor Day, the Barbarian Tourist Hordes return to the hinterlands of Arizona where they will spend the fall and winter huddled together in their caves and adobe huts, feeding on grubs and pinecones, while we San Diegans reclaim our Fair Land. And since we know that "Zonies" fear the Box With The Moving Words And Pictures, I'm confident that they won't read this post. So I'll share a little secret with you.

September is THE best time to visit San Diego. The weather's warm, the water tends to be nice, and the beaches and tourist attractions are M-T.

Besides, as far as summers go, this one certainly ended on a shitty note. Watching the horrific images coming out of Mississippi and Louisiana...there's really not much one can say. But at least we have our local news to put some perspective on this disaster. This morning, our NBC affiliate wrapped up their broadcast with a piece on a Louisiana woman who was able to save a couple dozen of  her handmade chocolates by putting them in the cooler of a neighboring shop. Which made me feel so, so much better about everything.

ETA: I'm really not making that last bit up. Those of you who've seen "Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy" and wondered why the filmmakers chose San Diego as the film's setting - there's your answer. Apart from reaching up their collective asses and probing the walls of their large intestines to find a "feel good" story to attach to any major catastrophe, our local newspeople also like to run the obligatory "How San Diegans Have Been Affected" story; in this case, a reporter was sent to our local airport to interview locals about how they felt experiencing flight delays as a result of Katrina. I'd like to think that the producers ended up with piles of tape on the cutting room floor; many, many unused shots of interviewees saying "Are you fucking kidding me?"

The Rules of Engagement

President Bush arrived in town last night, and we were a bit surprised when he took us up on our offer to swing by Casa de Cobra for breakfast. Luckily we had Swiffers on hand to wipe up the dog hair and dust bunnies. Here follows a transcript of our chat.

PC (that's me): Honey, put the dog out in the back. The president's here. Hi, sir - how was your flight? Did you have trouble finding the place? (In a conversation that took place earlier between myself and the head of his Secret Service detail, I had suggested that the motorcade use MapQuest; he pointed out that they had a spy satellite tasked on our house, so that wouldn't be necessary.)

GWB: Nope - I recognized your truck from the surveillance photos. Got any bearclaws? I love bearclaws.

PC: Sorry, sir - I was gonna whip up some scrambled eggs.

GWB: That's fine. Hey - I read your post on the granola. That's funny. Made me laugh.

PC: Oh - wow. Didn't know you were a fan. Thanks!

GWB: Well, I found your site through Rude Cactus'. I read him every day. I post comments, too, only I disguise myself as a surburban housewife. "BoredMomAtWork"? That's me.

PC: Huh. Well, I gotta tell you, sir - I've been thinking about this whole Iraq war thing, and I have some ideas.

GWB: What'd you study in college, son?

PC: Political science, emphasis in International Relations.

GWB: Well, all right then. Shoot.

PC: Ok - first, Cindy Sheehan.

GWB: You gonna throat-punch me, boy? I played rugby too, you know.

PC: No, I'm not gonna throat-punch you. I see the snipers in the trees across the street. Anyway, Mrs. Sheehan. Meet with her, do a photo-op. Her politics aside, the woman lost her son. Agree to disagree about ending the war, but ignoring her is not right. It's a very visual way of saying that her son's sacrifice means less because she doesn't agree with you. And at this point, sir, most people don't agree with the way you're handling the war.

GWB: Well, I'm the C-in-C. I have to make the hard decisions.

PC: Right, but you make those decisions on behalf of EVERYONE in this country. We're your boss. Even the ones that didn't vote for you. You have a responsibility to all of us - ESPECIALLY the ones that disagree with you.

GWB: But when you say that you are opposed to the war, you demoralize our troops.

PC: I somehow don't think so. Despite what some in the press say, this isn't Vietnam - over there, or at home. People who want our guys and gals in Iraq home aren't calling them babykillers. They're worried that we're risking the lives of our troops in some misbegotten adventure. And you haven't explained to them why they should think otherwise.

GWB: I have! We must secure freedom for the Iraqi people, and win the war on terror. Are those eggs done yet?

PC: Sir, Americans are unique in that we are both the dumbest and smartest people on the planet. We tend to buy whatever the politicians sell us, but offer us a pragmatic solution and we're usually on board with it. And most of us have one thing in common that brings us together, liberals and conservatives alike.

GWB: I don't follow.

PC: Simple, sir. What's done is done. We can't climb into the Wayback Machine and change history. What we can do is fix the mess we made. Maybe. And we can start by being truthful. Stop talking to us like we're third graders. Explain WHY Iraq is having such a time drafting a Constitution - as the old saying goes, God didn't make Iraq, Winston Churchill did. Explain WHY it's so important that we make sure that Iraq becomes a stable, self-sustaining country. And stop talking about winning the war on terror. You want to win hearts and minds in Iraq? Get those people some electricity. You think the average Iraqi is gonna have faith in Uncle Sam when we can't even get their air conditioning to work?

GWB: You said we all have one thing that brings us together. What's that? The love of freedom?

PC: No. It's what prompted us to rise against the British when they told us they needed to increase our taxes to fight their wars, all the way to the present day, when car dealers finally put the muzzles and leashes on their salespeople and offered "Employee Discounts". Americans hate bullshit. We know when we're being bullshat, and we don't tolerate it. Stop implying that those who want to pull our troops out of Iraq are un-American. That's bullshit. They - we - don't want our husbands, wives, sons, daughters, and friends to die. It's that simple. Stop blaming the media for the very real problems that we've created and have yet to solve. That's bullshit.  Stop trying compare this war with World War II; that's bullshit on so many different levels that it boggles the mind. It's like an M.C Escher depiction of bullshit.

GWB: Where do you stand? Do you think we should cut and run?

PC: You know, I'm glad you asked that. What I think is this: we have a responsibilty to our troops to bring as many of them back alive and in one piece as we possibly can. As soon as we can. We also have a responsibility to the people of Iraq - we promised them we'd liberate them from the evils of Saddam, and in return we gave them anarchy instead of democracy. Can we do both? I don't know. Smarter people than you or I have been trying to figure this one out.

GWB: Well, you've given me a lot to think about. Thanks for the breakfast.

PC: You're welcome. And as far as giving you a lot to think about...I wish we'd had this chat back on March 18, 2003.

"He's got a wife, you know. Do you know what she's called? She's called...Incontinentia."

Regular readers will know of my affinity for Sunday Night HBO and my Hetro Man Crush on Ari Gold. Now that Six Feet Under has ceased to exist, we turn our attention to Rome, HBO's new show about, Rome (hence the clever title). Thumbs up? Thumbs down? Appreciation of the irony behind the whole thumbs-up/down thing as it applies to a show with gladiators?

Lots to like about Rome. The depictions of life in the Roman army were swell; the floggings, the modified phalanx-style of warfare (ladies - I know that ever since Sex In The City went away you've been pining for a show featuring modified phalanx warfare. Look no further!), the opulent lives that Roman generals led even in the field. Intrigue and politics are part of every show and movie about Rome, and there's lots of that - guys and gals in togas plotting against each other (I like that Caesar dude - I hope nothing bad happens to him!). And there's lots of naked women. Yeah, one of them gets an entire 2000 pound bull's worth of blood dumped on her during a ritual sacrifice scene, but she looks good.

So all in all, a show filled with gore, violence, and nude chicks. Ave Roma, I say! I hear next week's show features an appearance by the People's Front of Judea. Or the Judean People's Front. I get them confused.

Had No Destination, We Was On A Quest

We finished our business in L.A. early. At one point during our stay, I had casually asked Beth if she knew how to get to El Segundo. "No biggie. Tyler's board shop is there, and if it's on the way I'd like to check it out." As it was getting on the noon hour, and we were zipping down the 405 with Lucas in the back starting to let us know that it's LUNCHTIME, PEOPLE!, Beth busted out the laptop and looked up the shop's address. We would take a lunch break, and check out the Tiffany's of longboard dealerships.

Now, I don't know from El Segundo. It sounds like a town from a Clint Eastwood spaghetti western. We headed west right past LAX, and lo and behold, right by the ocean - El Segundo.

I never thought I'd use the word "quaint" to describe anything within a 100 mile radius of L.A., but there it is. El Segundo is a nice, quiet little neighborhood - if anything, it reminded us of Morro Bay. Lots of trees. Clean. Quiet even though it's maybe three miles from the biggest airport on the west coast. A nice cool breeze blowing, providing a welcome respite from the 105 degree heat we dealt with yesterday. And the weird thing - no people. The place looked empty - we saw a couple of kids skateboarding and riding bikes, but that was it. No cars driving around, none parked on the street. We grabbed a couple of sandwiches and some mac and cheese for Lucas (courtesy of Cooke's Market). After our little picnic, I wandered over to Tyler's across the street. Bit of a disappointment - I had hoped to peruse racks upon racks of some of the finest longboards being produced today. No such luck. One board. Clearly the kid behind the counter had seen my kind before - welcome to the Emerald City, dude, his look said. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. (I did note the fact that Tyler is adding on a big showroom section; I'll have to make a return trip in the future.)

Still - El Segundo. Who knew? A tiny oasis in the middle of HelL.A. A little surf town that's now on our radar. I'd live there. Oh, and Tip? Phife? We looked for your wallets. Couldn't find 'em. Sorry.

The Surf Report for Saturday, August 27: Granola-Eatin' Hippie

The morning was a harbinger of my favorite month, September: clear blue sky, clear blue water. The surf was, yet again, disappointing (I believe the exact comment I mumbled to myself after about 25 minutes of floating and staring futilely towards the horizon was: "What a fucking jerkoff of a morning this turned into."). But I did manage to wrangle a couple of lefts, so the session wasn't a total loss.

Then home to prep for our trip to L.A.Hungry, I grabbed the box of granola. Which is always a problem. The milk. I never get it right. I invariably pour in too much on the first go-round, resulting in a nasty Granola and Milk Soup. So I add more cereal, always too much, getting a mushy Granola Stew in return. I've been known to waste an entire box of granola trying to get the perfect milk:cereal ratio. I don't have this problem with any other cereal (yes, including Grape Nuts). I like granola and am unwilling to give it up. I figure that if I can solve the milk/granola problem, all of life's other challenges will be a cakewalk.

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor

Wow.

Group hug.

Thanks to all of you for the excellent posts, and thanks to those of you who stopped by to check out the action. I opened up my site in anticipation of an absolutely soul-crushing day here at work, but thanks to my razor-sharp focus and the bumbling incompetance of a couple of my managers, I caught a break.

MetroDad's post raises an excellent question. When I first got into blogging, one of the sites I frequently visited was Gay Patriot. This was a site written by and for gay Republicans. It was fascinating to me - yes, Virginia, they're out there (in the physical sense - I'll leave the philosophical side out of this) , and in the trenches of the site's comments section I conversed with some very bright people whom I'd otherwise never have met. (Now that we've proof of their existence, we can redouble our efforts to find the Bigfoot!) I'll admit to gravitating to bloggers who share some of my interests, but it's striking to me that many of my blogging friends are so very different from me.

Maybe it boils down to this: there are a select few in this world who are truly fascinated by other people. The reality is that most of us are not; we go through our daily lives and really give very little thought about what goes on in the heads and hearts of the strangers around us. The guy in the car next to us, the person who rings up our groceries, the neighbor across the street that we only see when we leave for work in the morning and come home at night - all abstractions, extras in the movie of our lives. And we in turn are extras in theirs. Blogging is an antidote to that anonymity.

There's undoubtedly more to say on that, but our office's receptionist just made the following announcement over the building-wide PA: "Harry Johnson, please come to the lobby. Harry Johnson, please come to the lobby". Thus, train of thought completely derailed.

I Love This Child!

Alright, all of the other guest bloggers seem to be sharing a parenting theme. So I'll run with that. Jay, this was a great idea. It's allowing some of us to reveal things we wouldn't reveal on our own blogs. (Yeah, like people won't be clicking on the links in our blogs and going straight to yours, but that's neither here nor there.)

And, there we are. The child looks like he normally does—happy. I, on the other hand, look like I've got my game face (and glasses) on for a bike race. But there we are, in all of our beach playground glory. Jason's recent post about phobias kind of got to me. See, I'm one of those people who thinks about death every day. I'm not afraid of death. I know it's part of the natural progression of things. What I am afraid of, though, is dying before I've made (what I consider) enough of an imprint on this child. That fear is very real for me. I keep telling myself that I have to live for at least 20 more years. I feel like he'll be on his own by then, whether I'm alive or not. Still, I'm scared. What if something happens to me? What if I get hit by a bus? What if I'm eaten by a shark? Who's going to take care of him? I've never said this out loud before: I didn't bring him into this world to have other people raise him. (Yes, he has a father and, yes, we all live under one roof. No, I don't ignore my husband or ignore him when the child is near.) That's my child. That's my legacy. All I want is that he grow up to understand what happiness is—we all know that many adults no longer understand that concept—and that he be a good man. He doesn't have to be president. He doesn't have to be king. I just want him to be who he is and accept whatever that may be. I don't know that he can learn those things from anyone else. My real wish, in terms of longevity, is to make it to 90 (and that's completely possible given the genetics in my family). That way I'll see him all the way into his middle years. As I've told others, I'm only going to do this (i.e., pregnancy and probably parenting) once so I'm trying to do it right the first time. (Note: if we win the lottery, I would adopt an older child.) Okay, I'm done. I'm just rambling. Thanks, Jason, for letting me blog here. This is something I couldn't say at my blog.
Surfsister

Mommy Brain

Last night as Jason and I were trying to eat dinner while managing a full on toddler “no reason meltdown” (with tears!) and we were having this funny conversation. One with a debatable point, one that probably a lot of people may have wondered about, laughed about, been amused about. Jason turns to me and says “hey, that’s your blog topic tomorrow for your guest blog spot!” ”Yes!” I agreed, as I got pelted in the side of the head with a green bean and a toddler spoon.

Morale of the story? Neither one of us can remember what the hell it was that would have made such a good blog topic.

And today? I’m tapped people. Having to do 3 hours of work from home, with a boss that has called 3 times, and a 1 ½ year old running around with kitchen utensils in one hand and the dogs tail in the other, wipes the brain out a bit. I know “waaa!” I have Fridays off.. but people, he’s a toddler, a boy toddler. It’s not like I’m sitting here eating bon-bons and flipping through US Weekly.

I was considering writing about the new British sub-culture of “Chevs” (young people who favor public drunkenness, random sex at burger king and bus stops, designer rip-off – Burberry is apparently v. hot with this crowd – and petty crime, babies, wine coolers, and scrunchies. Their leaders include Posh and Beckham, pretty much they are the British version of K Fed and Brit Brit. In other words, PWT UK style.) or even about the other European and Japanese trend of designer toilet paper (black, Louis Vuitton-patterned toilet paper no less!), but then the child started shrieking because in the two seconds that I took my eyes off of him and started writing something he managed to climb up onto a chair to try to propel himself over the couch but was stuck ½ way there, and I lost my train of thought. (Whoo-Hoo! That run on sentence is SO going to annoy Jason! Also - both of these interesting tid-bits are courtesy of RADAR, my new fave mag!)

Anyway, while I know that this may be a total cop-out on creativity, I am just going to leave you with a picture of utter cuteness. So much cute, in fact, you may not be able to contain yourself.

Now, tell me how good I'm getting at PhotoShop. Come on, TELL ME

Yep, my life sucks

Thank you, Sir Rugger of Jay, for allowing me the honor of guest posting on one of my favorite blogs.  I'm going to go ahead and say the word "fuck" because I don't get to do it much on my blog unless I put a bunch of *s in it - all because I know my parents are reading and I've yet to come to terms with those um... issues I have.  They won't find this post because they don't know how to follow links and they for sure can't Google for shit so I'm safe.  Getting the profanities out of the way, I'll move on to my topic...

I've had this picture for a month or so and just can't find a home for it on my blog which is most definitely surf oriented.  This just seems like the perfect opportunity to put it out there.  Plus, posting it here instead of mine will give me at least a day or so before my wife discovers I've placed her mug on the internet once again.  A lot of things can happen in a day when your wife doesn't know you've broadcast her to the masses.  A lot of good things.  Good husband and wifey things, if you get my drift.  Anyhoo...

The point of the picture is to 1) show off my newest creation, Lula; and 2) show off the hell in which I live having to come home to those faces every day.  And that's not even the full story.  I have a stepdaughter too that is equally as beautiful.  I can just never get the three of them to sit still long enough for me to get a single picture - what with all the blow drying, fingernail painting, Nordstrom trips, etc. 

As you can imagine, I spend a lot of time beating off men...wait...that didn't sound right...fending off men who are constantly gawking at my wife.  Of course, I don't really mind.  This is good practice, believe you me, because it's going to continue for the next 17 years as my daughters move through those God-forsaken teen years. I have my man work cut out for me.

So that's it, really.  All those words and practically nothing said.  I just wanted to brag about my family.

Whiffleboy
Confessions of a Novice Surfer

The Perils of Guestblogging

Hi.  Chris from Rude Cactus here. 

Jason kindly asked me to guest blog today and of course I was more than honored. But then I started getting uneasy.  Uneasy because, well, it's guest blogging.  I mean, you can fall flat on your face in front of your own readers but that's certainly not something you want to have happen in front of someone else's. Allow me to illustrate my concerns.

Let's say you make a mean meatloaf.  Careful preparation, long cooking time (hey, I don't know, I'm a vegetarian) all make this the most perfect meatloaf in the world as far as you're concerned.  So, after a while, your meatloaf is the stuff of legend in your circle of friends.  They even ask you to prepare it for them.  Naturally, when other people get involved, where the expectations of others are at play, you get concerned about your meatloaf-preparation skills.  Is my meat good enough?  Will my loaf remain firm?  Will my meat stay tender?  And juicy?  Will my friends find my meat tasty?  All these are things that enter your head as you thrust your loaf before your friends.

I think the metaphor is clear.  When asked to guest blog, I was initially thrilled but then doubt started to sink in.  Could I, in fact, live up to any expectations that Jason might have?  And those of his readers?  Would I let him and everyone else down while looking stupid in the process?  And what the hell would I talk about?  But, alas, I am a professional.  I am here.  Gaze at my meat, I say, for it is indeed tender and juicy.