Who says science is dull?
The Ig Nobel prizes have been awarded.

Stop presses! Fleas on dogs jump further than fleas that live on cats. String will always get tangled in knots. And something really weird about lap dancers and, well, why spoil the mystery?

Oh the horrors!
I have a very dear, living-too-far-away friend coming to stay with us in two weeks and since he's rarely here in the Bay Area there are a lot of people he'd love to see. I'm having a few of "the group" over for a brunchy-lunchy-type gathering and I'm already freaking out.

Now there are some people who are born entertainers. (By which I do not mean Groucho Marx.) I mean Martha-esque type entertaining. Many of my friends (including The Foreigner, Finny, and the Lurker) are wonderful cooks. I, on the other hand, am not.

I come by my lack of cooking talent through genetics. My mother is a notoriously bad cook. Not only can I not cook well, I don't even know where to start in terms of what to serve. I mean I realize that my friends love me anyway and certainly aren't coming over here for the food. They're coming for a reunion. But I have to serve them something. I can't just hand them a bag of chips and a Coke and say "enjoy!"

Which leaves me wandering aimlessly through recipe sites and cookbooks. And wondering why I missed getting the chef's gene. Some people (Finny, I'm talking about you.) seem to naturally be able to imagine how food will taste. "Hey," she'll say, "let's combine home-grown tomatoes with bacon and pine nuts." And voila! she's got a yummy salad/bread/main course that looks and tastes delicious. "Hey," I'll say, "I'll follow this recipe exactly and voila! it looks and tastes like doggy poopy."

So in addition to the fact that I really (REALLY!) need to clean the house, I have a week to figure out what to cook, how to cook, and what the hell this little shiny thingy is in my utensil drawer. It's gonna we a long week...

CD Pick of the Week: Ayombe!
Ayombe! The Heart of Colombia's Musica Vallenata. Totally fresh and fabulous. Four types of music: puya (feat. lots of accordion), Merengue (upbeat & catchy), son (slower) and paseo (light & lively). Great performances throughout, you can’t go wrong with any track. Everything is SO good! Great notes too.

A fascinating look into the past
Can be found at the wondrous Daily Scrapbook. It's a glorious wander through history courtesy of the website (and book) by Jessica Helfand. I want some of these for my own collection...

Celebrate freedom....read a banned book
According to the American Library Association September 29-October 6th is "Banned Books Week". They have suggestions on how to celebrate, which includes a list of the 100 most frequently challenged books of 1990-2000. I'm sure you've read at least one, because titles include the Harry Potter series, Of Mice and Men, The Catcher in the Rye, James and the Giant Peach, and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

And, as Sarah Palin has so frighteningly illustrated, people are still trying to dictate what we can read....so please don't take reading for granted.

When your past is on DVD
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Invasion Stanford. (I just wish I could give you the actual movie.) Turns out Husband was in a student film while a student at Stanford. He recently obtained a copy of the DVD and we started watching it last night. Actually, it's not a movie -- it's a 4-part sci-fi/comedy miniseries. Husband plays "Arthur" the apparently insane RA who has (in my opinion) the best lines in the script.

Wow....Husband at 19. With hair! Not just hair, a ponytail! It's the oddest thing seeing him on film. I mean it's one thing to see photos of someone you love before you knew them, but it's another to see them walking, talking, and being....well....a college student.

So far we've watched 2 parts and it's proven to be an amusing experience. Invasion Stanford has some clever moments, and it's VERY Stanford. It also has a spaceship that looks like the Satellite of Love from the old MST show. Plus aliens, an anti-road-reflector movement, and actual footage of KZSU. It's pretty funny...and, for me, highly surreal.

The coolest...
Last weekend Husband and I watched the classic '60s cop flick Bullitt. I hadn't seen it in years and I'm happy to say it seriously holds its coolness factor.

Was there ever any actor as cool as Steve McQueen? Those steely, ice-blue eyes. The strong, silent stare. That sexy macho-ness. In retrospect I think he had all of 10 minutes of dialogue in the movie, but it doesn't mater. His presence is magnetic. And the famous car chase just plain rocks.

I love seeing movies shot in San Francisco. It's always cool to be eating popcorn and say "hey, I've been to that cafe." Or "my best friend used to live a block from there." Well the classic chase in Bullitt is geographically impossible (from the Mission to the Marina to San Bruno Mountain) and they do pass the same little green VW bug three times, but it's just so damned cool you don't care. Tires squealing, hubcaps flying, bouncing over hills and screaming around corners.

So the plot manages to be both thin and hard to follow, it's still a great film made even better by the sexy Mr. McQueen and an uber-hip '60s score by the genius, Lalo Shiffrin.

Fictional favorites
The always-interesting Dark Party Review asked a few authors "What literary character do you find the most compelling? and, as usual, got some interesting answers.

For me, it's gotta be good old Sherlock Holmes. Sure the stories are flawed and cliched but there's just no forgetting Holmes once you read about him. The moods, the razor-sharp brain, even his rudeness are all quite distinctly him. He may not be the most likable character ever, but he's definitely compelling.

Runners up:
Pip (Great Expectations)
Jane Eyre
Don Quixote
Elizabeth Bennett
Winnie the Pooh

What is it with Target?
I don't usually shop at Target. But they have Nick & Nora jammies (which I love) at a good price and since I no longer fit into anything I own, I went to buy some jammies. That's it. Just a pair of pajamas. So why did I walk out 45-minutes and $175 later?

Target is one of those stores where every time you turn around you realized you need something. And because they sell everything, you end up spending FAR more than you intended. "Oh yeah, you tell yourself, we're nearly out of toothpaste." And into the cart it goes. Oh hey, they have sweats on sale and I don't fit into any of those either...so you pick up some sweats. And a new sports bra (in case I ever, in my life, feel like working out again). And a kitchy-cute candy holder for Halloween because it's coming up. And some new socks for Husband because he bought new shoes and his old socks are too thick. And....

...and so it goes. And all around you are similarly zombie'd out shoppers with their own weird assortment of items. Ten pounds of laundry detergent and two hideously ugly purses. A huge plastic storage container, three bags of Halloween candy, and some mouthwash. (Maybe the candy isn't for the neighborhood kids.) An enormous bag of dog food, some jeans, leopard-print slippers, and tampons.

So it's not just me. It's a Target thing. You go in for one item and come out with the most bizarre collection of things. And as you're loading them into your car, you're already thinking "what was I thinking?"

Congratulations on your ulcer
You know you've been sick for too long when the news that you have an ulcer brings out congratulations from your friends. I've been amused every since the diagnosis and the reaction from the people around me. They've stood by me for so long that, like me, they're just happy to have a name to put to the insane zarf-o-matic creature I'd become. Yesterday I went by KZSU and two of my fellow DJs were happy at the news. Mind you, I am too, I just think it's funny. I imagine if this had come out of nowhere the news that I had an ulcer would be greeted by the requisite sad faces and sympathy. But in my case, it's very nearly a party.

And frankly, I prefer it this way. I'm much happier with my congratulations card (thanks again, Mama D) than I would be with the long face. It's just so...me...that being told I have an ulcer is really cause for celebration.

Ugly as sin...
...but impressive. That's the California Condor. And I just saw one. On the onramp to 280, of all places, trying to kidnap some roadkill (yum) with an envious, but obviously overmatched crow watching from a few feet away. I'm not 100% certain it was a condor but it was huge, had that ugly red face, and definitely looked like the gargoyle pictured here. I gotta admit, I'm hoping it was a condor because if so it was a really cool unexpected sighting. If it wasn't a condor, I'm not sure what it was.

Alone time
When you're married it's always a bit odd to find yourself alone for a weekend. With Husband covering the Monterey Jazz Festial for his new blog I'm bachelor girl. this weekend.

I'm spending my time reading lots of trashy novels and, at the moment, watching football. (I'm rooting for Buffalo over Oakland because 1) I hate the Raiders and; 2) The Bills' quarterback is a Stanford grad who happens to be the brother of a friend.)

I really miss Husband, but being alone has its advantages. For example, the sofa is now a mess, covered with books, my laptop, a sweater, the remainder of the Sunday paper, two remote controls, the telephone, and a couple of magazines. The cat, while generally sweet-natured, is giving me the green look of death because I keep singing (badly) for no reason. (When I'm alone I'm Aretha Franklin.) And the house is generally a mess because there's no one here to trip over a pile of pillows, my slippers, and the part of the Sunday paper that isn't on the sofa.

Cat and I are getting along without Husband, in spite of the fact that I don't know how to play with her correctly and she pissed me off by pulling everything off of my nightstand at 5 am. But for two solo girls, it's quite harmonious. She's sleeping, I'm being lazy. I have to go down to KZSU today but just can't seem to get out of my sweats and into my car.

But it's odd. There's nobody to point out the good Sunday comics too. And my "wow, he looks just like his sister" comments while watching the game really don't seem to interest the cat. And last night, I was so desperate for entertainment, I actually watched 10 whole minutes of a really awful movie on the Hallmark Channel. (Don't worry, I recovered my sanity and switched over to a documentary on mummies.) And dinner....I have a hard time motivating myself to cook for two. Cooking for one just seems silly so I'm the Lean Cuisine Queen for the weekend. Although I'm was damned tempted to go out for Chinese but, again, just couldn't get out of the sweats. Boy I'm lazy.

Meanwhile, in Monterey
Husband's new venture, Jazz Observer is now up and running and full of wonderful (trust me, I'm not just saying this because I love the man), wonderful coverage of the Monterey Jazz Festival.

It sounds like last night provided some great highlights and today's first feature -- on the layout and feel of the Festival itself -- provides a tantalizing taste of what it's like to be there. (And will make you jealous that you aren't.)

Check it out, you'll be glad you did.

Sisters in Arms
Currently being read, Sisters in Arms: British Army Nurses Tell Their Story by Nicola Tyrer.

I'm a sucker for history, and I especially love history about women. Nursing in times of war has been a subject of interest to me since I first read Vera Brittain's Testament of Youth. (If you haven't read this yet, I highly recommend it.)

Anyway, the current book (I'm only on chapter 3) is already proving fascinating. It's amazing how deeply courageous the so-called "fairer sex" is under pressure. (Not to mention under bombardment.) I have nothing but admiration for these women, most of them from very privileged backgrounds, who rolled up their sleeves and did the work that had to be done under conditions of extreme hardship and danger. Some were captured by the Japanese and did their best to care for others throughout their captivity.

There's no great message here, just a vague disquiet sensation that I haven't done nearly enough with my life. I certainly haven't done enough for others. No, I'm not going to join the army or become a nurse. It's just rather inspiring to read about such courageous, selfless, heroic women.

The only inspiring thing I've done lately is....uh....oh shit, I really need to go do something inspiring, don't I?

Stop the music
Pet peeve time. I hate, with a passion bordering on loathing, when good music is used for bad commercials. It's not much better when the commercial doesn't suck, either.

My latest is the 70's anthem "Get Together" (by the Youngbloods) now being used for a Luvs diaper ad. Now it's not one of the great songs of all time, but it was one of those seminal flower children songs that deserves better than to be used as a background in which a bunch of creepy, animated, diaper-wearing freakbabies frolic in a creepy, animated world. It's the kind of song that brings to mind memories of road trips, open windows blowing your hair, good friends singing along to any song they know the words to. Stopping at that stop sign at the bottom of the mountain, the scent of hot sage filling the car, and the radio cranked up.

But no....it's now the soundtrack to a diaper ad. (And, for the record, those of us who choose not to have children do not find diaper ads cute! Everybody got that? Not cute!)

There are thousands of crappy, unemployed so-called musicians around the world, many of whom would be happy to compose something just for your product for a lot less than you'd have to pay for the rights for a classic song. So stop fucking with our good memories.

(Oh my freaking god, the ad is on now!!!) I must go lay down.

Welcome to the web, Jazz Observer
Husband has launched his new website. Jazz Observer, "A Fresh Perspective on Modern Music." Although it's up an running, the real goodies will start coming on Friday when he heads southwards for The Monterey Jazz Festival. His live blogs from the festival (run on his previous website and elsewhere on the web) are the next best thing to being there. They're so good they almost make up for having to do without him for three days.

Anyway, congratulations Husband and may Jazz Observer have a long and illustrious life. It's a true gift to Bay Area jazz fans.

Traumatized!
I love my cat, Cipher. (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm.) Not "put in little outfits" love, just really love. She brings joy, warmth, companionship, and love into my world every day. Have a bad day? Nothing like a purring cat curled up into your lap to turn things around. Need a laugh? Throw an empty toilet paper roll at her and watch her turn into a Keystone Cops comedy.

But today I saw her at her most difficult. I was supposed to take her to the vet for her annual booster shot. Didn't happen. I'm not sure who is more traumatized, me or Cipher (OK, I do know, it's me) but it was not pretty. She absolutely refused to go into her carrier. Refused in a "I can turn my limbs into concrete pillars or Silly Putty at will" kind of way. In a "I know I said I love you but these claws gotta go somewhere and who needs skin anyway" kind of way. A "look, I can eject hair the way a porcupine can eject quills so much for your black shirt" way.

She squirmed. She scratched. She did everything but pull a switchblade on me. And then she ran under the bed where I couldn't reach her and refused to come out. I called and cancelled the appointment.

That was an hour ago and now (here's the trauma bit) refuses to come near me. She walks warily in a huge circle around where I am, shooting guilt out of those big green eyes in such a way as to do my mom proud. She won't let me get within 10 feet of her and I am now so wracked with guilt that I'm practically moping. I know she's eventually condescend to forgive me. (At least I hope she will!) But for now I have never wanted to hear that purr in my lap more.

I need a drink. Is liquor OK with an ulcer?

What makes people...?
Do kinda crazy thing? Kind admirable, but kinda crazy.

Last night the KZSU DJ before me casually mentioned that this weekend he was doing the Alcatraz swim. Yup, he's going to jump into San Francisco Bay sans wetsuit and swim either to or from (or, god forbid, both!) Alcatraz. (Can you tell that I can't be bothered to look up the details of this swim?

And my friend Finny, is currently training for a half marathon and ran 11 miles last weekend. Oh yes, and lets not forget Mama D, who has been known to run a full marathon (!).

How....why?

Now granted I've been sick and can't do much of anything. (Last night I returned to KZSU for the first time in nearly two months and, upon returning home, went straight to bed.) But even when/if I was healthy I would never do anything like this. I am so not physically active. Never have been. I was the archetypical kid picked last for every sport in PE. (Is it still called PE?) I grew up before girls had their own soccer teams and before everyone was encouraged to become weekend warriors. Nobody in my family played sports. (The fact that my father died of a heart attack when I was 19 might indicate that some exercise would have been a nice thing.) So I didn't grow up being encouraged to work up a sweat.

And that's carried into adulthood. I've tried various exercise kicks at various times of my life in order to not be fat. But for me it's all about vanity, not about pushing myself to achieve anything other than a smaller ass. I've never wanted to train for a marathon, compete in the Ironman Triathalon, become an Olympic anything, or even run the Bay to Breakers.

So what is it that pushes some people to push themselves while others have to force themselves to move? Is it the old nature vs. nurture question? Am I a sloth because, as a child, I lived in a family of sloths? Had I been raised by people who went bike riding on weekends and coached soccer would I now be running with Finny? Or is it because I am, by nature, a lazy slob who really, really, really hates to work out and sees nothing pleasurable or enjoyable about it except for the fact that, when I do, I don't get embarrassed running out of breath walking up two flights of stairs?

OK, it's universal
Chicken soup is universal. It crosses cultural, ethnic, geographic, even political borders.

When you're sick, if you're lucky, people offer to bring you soup. The Lurker brought me some delicious soup with matzoh balls a few months ago, and just last night The Foreigner brought me some delicious homemade chicken noodle soup. After today's test (hereafter known as "The Procedure,") I really needed some comfort food and The Foreigner's soup was the perfect solution.

Ah, comfort food. What is there about certain foods that just make you feel better - either physically or psychologically? Sometimes, when you're feeling sick, you just need that certain something. Maybe your food is toast (there's always room for toast) or perhaps scrambled eggs. When you've had a lousy day is there anything better that homemade chocolate chip cookies warm from the oven? (Or pot stickers from your favorite Chinese place?) Logically I know that homemade chicken soup has no magical medicinal properties, yet I feel so much better having just had a bowl. Perhaps it's the extra comfort of knowing that it was made by someone I love who cares enough about me to bring me a care package. But whatever it is, I suddenly feel like a new woman.

Thanks, Ms. Foreigner, you're the best.

You gotta have faith
Tonight my book group meets to discuss Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh. I haven't looked forward to a book discussion this much in ages. Why? Because Brideshead is a very important book for me. It is, in my opinion, the best book ever written about how depressing it is to be raised Catholic.

In all honesty, I think it must be the most depressing religion of them all. Its basic statement, the one told to us from when we were pups, is "Christ died for your sins." That's a serious burden to put on a small, impressionable child. I swear I grew up feeling like slime because our savior was crucified for the sole reason that I stole bubble gum from my brother. No kidding. Growing up Catholic one is washed in guilt from the first drop of Holy Water that falls onto our screaming bodies at baptism.

You fell guilty for everything. Bad thoughts. Growing breasts. Having a crush on The Monkees. Everything is sinful, everything is evil, everything is your fault. And Catholic parents know this and use it to their advantage. They don't use discipline, they use guilt. Whenever you did something bad you weren't punished so much as made to feel like shit because your parents were so disappointed in you. Disappointed is a Catholic mom's set expression. In the middle of a good fight with a sibling mom just walks by with that look .... the look...and suddently you're both silent because you feel so damned guilty for fighting and after all it was fights like that that killed Christ and I'm going to burn in hell for all eternity because I called him an idiot and I'll have to become a freakin' nun just to atone for all the evil my little 7-year old soul has done.

OK, back to the book....it's beautifully written, full of great characters, and a great story. But for me, the bottom line is that the Marchmain family is just like mine....only richer, more British, and better looking.