Random Thoughts

On my roamings through the city today my nostrils caught a wafting of fresh tar. As an aside, I should mention my unusually large nose is incapable of high performance smelling. It seems there is an inverse relationship to the size of a nose and its ability to smell. What a stinkin’ rip off. Despite my nasal disability, I still recoil at the smell of tar. I can only begin to imagine how horrible it must smell to people with a more delicate schnoz. It must really pack a punch. Does tar really need to smell that bad? Why can’t we have scented tar. Imagine if you walked by a roofing job and smelled freshly cooked bacon instead. How about apple pie? I’m a little hungry now so most of my scent ideas are food based, but I’m sure they could make it smell like flowers, too.

Hopefully my scented tar idea will rankle the ladies less than my controversial shoetcase idea.

It’s officially summer now and that means bikini babes, good times in the sunshine, and dining under the stars as we enjoy those warm summer nights, Right!? Yes, that’s what the rest of you are enjoying. Unfortunately, faithful readers, Mother Nature likes to do her own thing here in SF, just like the kooky inhabitants. You see, summer brings a heavy blanket of thick, cold fog that covers our fair city and witholds those tasty UV rays from our starving melanin. You can easily spot our pale denizens visiting your part of the world by our shockingly white pigment (if you aren’t blinded by the whiteness first). There’s even a special fog forecast we can check to see exactly how foggy it’s going to be today. Very foggy. As Spock seeks to understand what it is to be human, we San Franciscans roam the globe in search of what it means to have a summer. There are no warm nights to be found here. The only bikini babes around are newcomers to The City and they’ll be gone in short order due to either hypothermia or because they left for places that actually get a summer. Dang, I was starting to get a really nice farmer’s tan but I think it will have faded before the sun appears again.

Courtney had a funny blog posting about high heels being some kind of natural “ass bra”. I thought maybe some enterprising individual has made an actual ass bra for sale. Wouldn’t you like a more youthful, gravity-defying ass? Of course you would. This being America where nobody would dare miss an opportunity to make something worthy of an infomercial, there is an actual ass bra. (Unfortunately this thing is called a “Biniki”. Whoever came up with that needs to be fired. Ass-Bra is way cooler.) Don’t miss the video of someone putting it on and the amazing “before” and “after” pictures.

The ass bra reminded me of one of my product ideas. It’s a pair of men’s shoes that double as a woman’s suitcase. I call it the “shoetcase”.

Ladies, you have a tremendous advantage when it comes to packing. All your clothes and shoes are tiny. All our guy stuff is big, and our shoes are REALLY big. If we have to pack shoes, we’ve lost half our suitcase space. In fact, our shoes are SO big and your stuff is SO tiny, that I bet you could easily fit your stuff in our shoes. So, why not pack your stuff in our shoes and use them as your suitcase? Everybody wins if I produce a pair of shoes that are specially designed to double as a suitcase. We don’t have to pack big bulky shoes and you get an extra carry-on bag.

Keep your eyes peeled for the shoetcase infomercial…it will come on right after the ass-bra.

On Sunday I went for a hike on Mount Tam to try and find the secret bar in the woods I’ve heard is hidden there somewhere — only accessible via a hike. After hiking the wrong way up a steep hill for a half hour, I went back down and hiked the right way up a different steep hill for an hour. Tired and thirsty, I found the sign “Tourist Club - the nature friends” which looks like it’s a marker for something old and abandoned. A small way down that dirt road, the trees parted and I saw an amazing two story Germanic chalet nestled in the forest! The vast decks were filled with folks jubilantly soaking up sunshine and beer.

Finding the Tourist Club is almost as difficult as finding information about it. They don’t have a website. They don’t want to be found. They want to keep their little secret sanctuary in the woods. Far be it from me to blow this little secret. All I’ll reveal is that it’s only open on the weekend, and only for 4 hours each day.

Good luck to those that seek out this hidden gem…have an extra pint for me!

I was watching a horrible comedian on TV and a brief part of his routine was about giving someone the finger. He wondered who the first person was to give the finger. It made me wonder, too. So I started poking around the internet.

There’s a fake story about English archers winning a battle against the French. In the fake story, the French threatened to cut off the archer’s middle finger which is required to use the English bow. When the English won the battle they presented their still intact bow fingers as an insult to the French. Makes for good reading, but apparently that never happened.

Someone got curious enough about this that they wrote a book called “Gestures: Their Origins and Distribution”. The book claims ancient Roman literature has examples of giving someone the finger (This was known as the “digitus infamis”). Here’s a quote:

“Laugh loudly, Sextillus, when someone calls you a queen and put your middle finger out.”

(The verse continues: “But you are no sodomite nor fornicator either, Sextillus, nor is Vetustina’s hot mouth your fancy.” Martial, and Roman poets in general, could be pretty out there, subject-matter-wise. Another verse begins: “You love to be sodomized, Papylus . . .”)

There’s a less stuffy book called The Finger: The Comprehensive Guide to Flipping Off that’s obviously more focused on obscene gestures rather than gestures in general. I even found a place that has a free sample of some random pages from the book.

Is giving someone the finger really thousands of years old? If it is, then why do the English use the two-fingered “v” while the Italians use the whole forearm? Maybe everyone wanted to make their finger more potent. The English thought “if one finger is bad, two will be REALLY insulting”. The Italians, not to be outdone, use the forearm as a massive middle finger. It seems there was an arms race of a different kind that has been going on for quite a while. Shouldn’t America, a country known for doing things “bigger and better” have one-upped our European counterparts by now? Perhaps our scientists are working at this very moment to splice pufffer-fish genes to human DNA so we can sponaneously inflate our middle finger while flipping someone off and thus become the most potent insulting gesture-ers (i have no idea if that’s even a word) in the WORLD!

Today I drove past the local Malibu Grand Prix and it reminded me of the heady days of youth. Yes, those were the days when we would eagerly hand over our hard earned cash (or our parent’s) so we could wait in line for 30 minutes to indulge in a few minutes of driving a souped up lawnmower in circles. Did I mention this was in the middle of some bleak semi-abandoned part of Redwood City? The droning of the faux formula one cars is complemented perfectly by the constant whooshing of the freeway traffic on the other side of the fence. Oh yes, Malibu Grand Prix has charm oozing from the exhaust pipes of their mini race cars.

The minds behind this place are probably some of the brightest business people ever. You think I’m being sarcastic? Normally you’d be right. But today I am not, so you’re wrong. Better luck next time.

Why do I think the Malibu Grand Prix folks are so smart? Well, let’s take a look at how this system works. You don’t buy time in the car, you buy laps. This seems reasonable enough. But then the objective is to race, which means finishing the lap as quickly as possible. That means you’re trying to spend your money as fast as humanly possible. Is there any other business where people are being deluded into trying to spend their cash as fast as they can? Even Vegas hasn’t come up with a business scheme THAT good.

I think they have a sense of humor about it as well. Grand Prix translated literally means “big price”.

My friend Mark (the Canadian, eh) once pointed out that I talk funny.  For example, if I wanted to get somewhere quickly I would say we need to "hurry".  You will have to imagine me saying "huh-ree".  Apparently the correct way to say this is "her-ree".  I mean come on, there’s clearly a U in there.  Since when did a U get pronounced like an E.  Please do not actually answer that question.

An old girlfriend once caught me mispronouncing Unanimous.  I thought it was "hyoo-nanimous".  She shared this with friends we were visiting in LA.  After we got back home, she sent them a thank-you card saying "It’s Hunanimous!  We had a great time."

How did this happen to me!?  I have no idea.  I called my brother Ben to see if I can blame it on my upbringing.  But he doesn’t have a problem at all.

My brain is weird.

My friend Stephanie suggested we go together to check out a Jewish singles event on Wednesday. I haven’t done anything Jewish since 3rd grade. I’ve always been kind of curious about what it means to really be Jewish. I never seemed to connect with fellow Jews I met. I think I must have missed the secret Jewish handshake or something.

Maybe it’s because my mom is an Italian Jew. When we were bad as kids, my mom would swear at my brother and I in Italian (not Hebrew or Yiddish) . Italians like their pork. So I eat pork. No problemo. We rarely went to temple when I was growing up. It was probably too somber to appeal to my mom’s Italian celebratory sensibilities. Then there’s the food differential. Can liver pate and gifelte fish come close to competing with Italian cuisine? No way Jose.

Anyhow, I thought it could be kind of interesting to see what my people are like. Yes. I will go to this Jewish singles thing and steep myself knee deep in my people!

So I got there and surveyed the crowd and thought “these are my people!?”. Maybe I had the wrong place. Nope. It was the right place. Dang. These are my people? Uh, can I trade in for a new people? Look, you want to have pride in your people. You want to say “Gaze upon the majesty of my people!” Unfortunately this was like an awkward high school dance with a bunch of old fat people. Did I mention the bad music? And I don’t mean bad as in good. While dancing, the crowd instinctively formed a circle, perhaps as a subconscious signal to the DJ to play Hava Nagila. Luckily, the DJ didn’t play Hava Nagila.

On Sunday nights I talk to my mom on the phone. These talks always drive me a little crazy. That’s because this is when it becomes frighteningly clear to me that my mom’s view of the world is shaped by a special mix of not going anywhere beyond a 30 mile radius from home, extensive television watching, and a propensity for phoibias. Let me tell ya, it’s a winning combination. She once complained to me about how bad lines are at the airport now. But I know she hasn’t been to an airport for over 20 years. I was visiting her a few weeks ago and we ran across a driver with a dead battery. She advised me against giving them a jump because they would probably sue me. Today she told me she thinks muslim people are trying to take over France and Italy by moving there. It gives new meaning to “tv guide”.

The 3 day weekend reminded me of a holiday I discovered in Canada recently. I was there during Christmas last year. Did you know they have an extra holiday the day after Christmas called “Boxing Day”? Well trust me, they do. I asked my Canadian friend Mark what Boxing Day commemorates. He didn’t know. He said “Everything is half off on Boxing Day, eh”. Mark doesn’t really talk like a Canadian, but for the sake of your entertainment I’m making him talk like one. Anyhow, I started asking lots of the nearby Canadians what Boxing Day commemorates. Nobody could tell me. NOBODY. They all just kept saying “Everything is half off, eh.” in their uniquely Canadian way. So I looked it up online. Guess what? Literally NOBODY IN THE WORLD knows what Boxing Day is about. There are theories. But nobody knows for sure. The meaning of the day has been lost in time. Personally, I think those lazy Canadians are just looking for an excuse to get another day off. Come on Canada, just make up a holiday instead of using some old one that nobody can remember. How about Festivus?