JUMP The Fence

I've caught bits and pieces about the California girl who was kidnapped 18 years ago and was just found living in a tent in the backyard of her kidnapper's home. So many thoughts come to mind:

• First of all, THANNKKS for the luxurious living quarters fu**ker. I finally got to watch the first 2 TIVO'd episodes of "Hoarders" and these people had nothing on that poor little girl's backyard clutter-filled Shangri-La.

• Speaking of living in the backyard. Can someone please explain why the girl never JUMPED the god-damned fence? Seriously, she was kidnapped at the age of 11 - not 2. Clearly he tempted that poor little girl with a rare Beanie Baby (perhaps the "Pinchers" the Lobster?) and a box of Sweet Tarts. That  Casanova Kidnapper must have done a number on her for her to have stuck around in a pup tent with dirt floor for so long.

• This guy was a registered sex offender and as such the courts were required to regularly visit him. Because they looked hard. Hey cuites, you might want to check out Chester the Molester's makeshift Indian Princess campsite in the backyard. 

• Not only did he kidnap her, make her live in a shitstorm junkyard, but he impregnated her (twice)  AND forced her to give birth in the yard. For the love of god, if I'm going to be kidnapped and forced to live in a dirty tent, my kidnapper better at least throw a handful of Vicodin my way while I am birthing his children in a pathogen paradise. 

• She also had a job (not sure where but from the looks of her living quarters, I'm guessing the $1 Store?). At some point wouldn't you pull aside a co-worker and tell them in Pig Latin: "I've een-bay idnapped-kay. All-cay for elp-hay". 

In all seriousness this is no laughing matter. That poor girl left home a darling 11-year old and is returning a very messed up 29-year-old mother of 2. Meanwhile the police just dug up a bone on the kidnapper's property. May he be forced to birth 2 very large children (out of his penis hole) in the middle of a dirt field before being tossed down below into the fiery pits of Hell. 

-Val & Parker

You Stay Classy Walmart Shoppers

I've always hated Walmart - truth be told I've only been there a handful of times and despite their formidable deals, I'd rather pay $0.50 more for a can of Pork N' Beans at my local Safeway than to traverse the maze of hell that is Wal Mart in order to find those bargain beans. (The same goes for the whole "Costco Gas" argument).

But I might reconsider my Walmart Boycott after coming across this amazing new website. Who'd of thunk that a photo gallery of Walmart shoppers in action could provide so many  minutes of entertainment. Seriously, whenever I'm feeling lonely or those dreaded low-self-esteem issues start to shine through, I can always visit People of Walmart. Sorry Parker, I think I've found my new best friend. (And she's doing the splits in the Walmart entrance in a pair of cozy sweats and a baby blue trucker hat!)

-Val

Death Watch 2009 Continues....

Several years ago when my beloved Anna Nicole died, I immediately emailed Parker about this great loss. Since then, we have developed a kind of a sick "Death Watch" competition - to see who can scoop the other first when a celebrity passes on to heaven (or in most cases, hell). 

Our "Death Notice" emails used to be long and detailed, looking something like this:

I just saw on PerezHilton that Heath Ledger found dead surrounded by drugs. OMG!

But with the passing of time and the death of more and more celebrities our emails turned to shorter texts which read simply:

Farrah Dead. 

2 days ago, I was literally awoken at 5 am with the jingle sound of an incoming text: "Ted Kennedy died. Got ya!'"  I was vindicated later that night when I texted Parker back with the grim words "Dominick Dunne dead! Scooped you." (Parker had only vaguely heard of Dominick Dunne and was less than impressed). 

Just a few hours ago, Parker send me the following earth shattering news: DJ AM Dead - SCOOP! (OK, I'll give her this "scoop" but in all fairness, both of my laptops were in the shop and I had no access to the world wide web of gossip that I check 10 times daily). Scoop or no scoop, I'd just like to write an open letter to the dead DJ AM:

Dear DJ:

I don't mean to sound insensitive but last time I checked, the life of a Hollywood "DJ" wasn't exactly what I would call "stressful".  I wish someone would pay me millions of dollars per year to drink Red Bull, and spin Lady GaGa records at Villa Nightclub 4 days per week. Didn't you just barely survive a deadly plane crash less than a year ago (and a few months later on the cover of People Magazine thanking your lucky stars and praising life?) I've just about had enough of you and your cohorts (Michael Jackson, Heath Ledger et. all) offing yourselves with crack pipes and vials of pills. Last time I checked, most of you dead Hollywood youngsters had a pretty "sweet" life. It's not like you are being laid off from your factory job with 4 kids at home and a house in foreclosure. Now that you are gone - you will be rewarded with a People/US/Life & Style cover story with sad testimonies about what a great guy you were from all of your hard-partying Hollywood pals: "No one could spin vinyl like DJ Am. He would dub a Bee Gees groove over a P Diddy rap and it was pure genius!" 

Newsflash: DJ AM was no genius. He was a lucky bastard with a turntable and a crackpipe. RIP Dumbass.

Afterword: In retrospect my assessment of the death of DJ AM seems rather harsh and a bit creul. Rumor is he suffered from depression (I've been there and it's no fun). But don't you just want to yell "C'mon people!" every time a new young hollywood type dies of drugs? 

Everybody Cut Loose

When the movie "Footloose" came out in 1984, I was 14 and it might as well have been "Citizen Kane"; I thought it was "that good". 25 years later, on a lonely Saturday night I watched it again with my children and I realized, "Jesus, this movie is a pile of crap."

I first saw "Footloose" as a freshman in high school and I'm not kidding - when it was over, my girlfriend and I literally danced (footloose style) the entire mile home from the mall. Needless to say, when I saw it was playing on Encore, I forced my children to watch this "classic"film and made sure to tell them that I danced a mile through my neighborhood at 11 pm at night after seeing this life-changing movie. Seeing it the second-time-around was not quite as inspiring. Here's why:

• In real life, had Kevin Bacon (aka "Ren") shown up to a Jesus-loving, hick farm town with his crazy dance moves, he would have gotten his high-waist jeans, skinny-tie wearing, spiked early-onset-male-pattern-baldness' ass kicked.

• Any teenager who relieves stress ( i.e. the nightmarish stress of living in a "dance free" town) by dancing atop his yellow VW bug in a grain mill might want to see a therapist.

• Later in the movie Ariel's (played by the way-too-skinny Lori Singer) ex-boyfriend confronts her about her secret love for Ren and proceeds to beat the living daylights out of her under the High School bleachers. This scene begs the question, 'Shouldn't the town be more concerned with the shit-kickin, plaid-wearing, middle American teenage 'Ike Turner' then a guy dancing in a field to a really crappy Kenny Loggin's song?' (Note: although Lori Singer's character had a black eye and a cut lip, no one in the town even batted an eye. Meanwhile Kevin Bacon got a brick through the window with the words "Burn in Hell" for doing cartwheels in a field.)

• Lastly, during the final scene of the movie (where Kevin Bacon victoriously gets to throw his "Prom in a Grain Elevator"), I was utterly amazed at the amount of glitter that fell down upon the dancing sinners. Glitter fell from the ceiling for an astonishing 6 minutes - or, to put it in contrast, the freaking glitter fell during the entire extended version of Kenny Loggin's hit song "Footloose." Did they have "continuous glitter machines" in 1984? After the first few minutes I came to the conclusion that the glitter had to be the result of state-of-the-art computer graphics. Had the glitter been real, those dancing teens would have died choking to death while dancing in a virtual tomb of glitter.

I recently heard that they are doing a remake of Footloose. Really Hollywood? While I'm sure the remake will suck just as much as the original, I can only hope that this time around they take it easy on the glitter.

I leave you with this poignant and thoughtful Biblical quote from the movie - dramatically delivered by Kevin Bacon as he goes up against not only the town council but the town's pastor in an effort to sway their opinions about dancing:

"Ecclesiastes assures us... that there is a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to laugh... and a time to weep. A time to mourn... and there is a time to dance."

That's some deep sh*t.

-val

Really Juan Stamosa? Don't Care, Don't Care

When the Mexican version of John Stamos (as Val nicknamed him) picked me up in Tucson for my girls weekend, he basically looked right thru the drunken-cougar-to-be in me and told me should that should I or any of my cougar entourage get a DUI in Oro Valley, AZ, it's s minimum of 10 days in the slammer. My mouth hung open in "Home Alone" style as I pictured me calling Dw and my already pissed off boss to tell them that by day 7 of my sentence I was head of laundry, my new girlfriend shaved my eyebrows and c ya soon mo-fo's. Needless to say, for the remainder of the weekend Juan Stamosa was our driver. He took much cougar abuse but was tipped well for putting up with our drunken debauchery

When Luiz (aka Juan Stamosa) picked me up at 6:15 am on Sun for my trip back to Dallas I was so hungover my hair hurt and I wanted badly to curl up in the fetal position in the back seat of his Bob Hope cream colored Towncar. He spoke the entire time despite me 'fake emailing' in the hope he would shut the f- up. He was exceedingly freshly scrubbed and reeked of Axe Body Spray. I have to admit I was somewhat flattered but kept thinking, "Really Juan? Have tips in 2009 gotten that scarce?"

Once I bid Juan and his haze of Axe adieu, I caught my flight and by that time was a dead ringer for Robert Smith of The Cure. One more day in Tucson I would be Heath Ledger in Batman - minus the smeared red lipstick in both cases, more of a smeared Burt's beeswax - but otherwise I looked the same. Ironically, Val emailed me later from her flight saying she had the "Britney Spears during her pink wig, driving-to-random-gas stations look."

For some reason flying on Southwest puts me at ease much more so than flying any other airline. However once home watching the news, I tried to envision myself in all my Joker hungover glory had I been on the recent Southwest flight where a very large black man exposed himself. I may not have all my facts right but Long Duck Dong apparently whipped it out to the woman next to him then proceeded to get naked in bathroom, head on back to his seat and punch the woman in her face. Really, WTF? Needless to say the pilots turned the plane around and I'm guessing the rest of day was probably not so great for Long Duck (or the passengers).
While this "snake on a plane" scenario would be quite entertaining, I'm sure it would have greatly disrupted my drooling into my travel pillow.

The girls weekend in Arizona was a great success and Val made me laugh so hard many times I thought my Botox would leak. A week later Val and I emailed a picture to each other at almost the exact time: Her photo of a mustard stain on her white pants at work and mine a picture of a giant red drip on the breast of my white Lacoste polo after biting into a very ripe strawberry at work. I knew then we were BFF's forever and possibly even separated at birth.

-Parker

Baked Couch Potato

After the crazy weekend in Arizona, followed immediately by a house full of relatives visiting, I am enjoying my short weekend reprieve of drinking sugar free mocha cappuccinos and television watching. Here's the rundown (so far)...

Hoarders:

First of all, why did no one tell me that A& E has a new show called "Hoarders"? I have always had a secret fascination with hoarders, and while I don't usually watch Oprah, I try and never miss an Oprah episode about hoarders. Basically, throw a couple of cameras in front of a nutjob trapped in his/her own trash, Dollar Store purchases and newspapers from the past 20 years and I am hooked. Perhaps it's because I grew up with a mom who (while def. not a hoarder) never wanted to throw anything away. I have photographic evidence of this from when I recently visited her and found the 1970's "Cat and Owl" prints that used to hang on my psychedelic yellow floral wallpaper, now proudly hanging in her bathroom along with a medicine cabinet full of NeoSporin tubes from 1981. But I digress - although I missed the first episode of "Hoarders", rest assured it is now on my Tivo "series record".

Project Runway:

When Project Runway left Bravo for Lifetime, Bravo reacted by quickly producing a copy-cat show staring Isaac Mizrahi and the non-working girl from Destiny's Child called "The Fashion Show." Sadly, I wasted 12 precious hours of my life watching that crapfest, with sub par wannabe designers. Now, thank the lord, Project Runway is back with my gay-crush Tim Gunn, and the never-gets-fat-even-when-she's-pregnant Heidi Klum. After catching the first episode, I am already hopeless hooked. Certainly anyone who watched will agree that "Qystal" (which I think is "Crystal" with a "Q") doesn't have the chops to be there (and besides, if you are spelling Crystal with a "Q" you should automatically be eliminated for stupidity). Also, Lindsay Lohan took time away from her line-snorting and lesbian experimentation to a judge and only furthered what I already suspected: that she is a conceited bitch. Ironically the designer who went home looked exactly like Lindsay's on and off girlfriend Samantha Ronson.

Added bonus: This season, Project Runway has a spin off called "Models of the Runway." I accidentally came across this 30 minute gem (and after seeing 16 aneroxic girls living together in a downtown LA loft, immediately put down the cinnamon streusel cake I was munching on) and came to the conclusion that all the models of the runway need to go hang out at the "More to Love" house and eat a god damned pizza.

More tv roundups to come.....

Back Where I Belong (in front of my TIVO)

After an exhausting and very busy past week and a half, I am happily back where I belong: on my couch catching up with a weeks worth of TIVO.

Last weekend, Parker and I met up with a few other high school friends for my "Pre-40th girls weekend" at a resort in Arizona. Although we had a blast, getting together with old high school buddies only reminded us that, clearly we aren't in "High School" anymore. We sunbathed, had pedicures, drank and ate and were in bed by 10 pm every night. Our most exciting adventure might have been the friendly bond we formed with our driver, "Luiz." Luiz picked up Parker at the airport on Friday (in a white Lincoln with Cartier interior). Luiz was (for lack of a better word) our "bitch" (and personal photographer) for the weekend. He drove us to and from all of our shopping/restaurant destinations and after a few cocktails, "Luiz" started to strongly resemble a Mexican version of John Stamos. Henceforth we (I) began to call him "Juan Stamosa." Lucky for me - I'm pretty sure he took it as a compliment. Meanwhile, Parker made the mistake of making small talk with him about his personal life, which I think Juan Stamosa took to mean "I want to be your sugar mama." When he showed up at 6 am to pick up Parker for her early-morning hangover flight, he wearing suit and a crap load of Axe body spray. And although I'm sure Parker (with her Alice Cooper eyes and tequila/dragon breath) was tempted to leave D.W. to live a life-long fantasy life with Luiz the single-dad Lincoln Continental driver from Mexico city, she somehow managed to resist his lady killer ways and returned home to Dallas.

Surprisingly, we did not get a picture of Juan Stamosa, but we did take a few pics of us trying to relive days of yore (unlike our high school days, we would be sound asleep in our beds watching CNN a few short hours later). Parker is the one blowing kisses at the $80 bottle of Silver Patron tequila, our friend Christie (who has no inner censor when it comes to blurting out politically incorrect random statements) is hiding behind the ginormous bottle, and I am the one inexplicably sucking my thumb.

VH1 Does it Again

This story broke last week, but I had house guests and no time to put my sarcastic spin on this tragic story. Amazingly, I have not seen an episode of "Megan Wants a Millionaire" on VH1 (which has really gone downhill ever since they canceled Flavor of Love), but I have heard about the contestant who is on the lamb after being accused of murdering his "model" wife and I have a few thoughts:

Unless "model" is code for Internet porn star, then I'm sorry but (deceased or not) she is no Linda Evangalista. This poor girl was found in a suitcase sans fingers and teeth and was only identified after the coroners officers were able to match up the serial numbers on her breast implants. Clearly her ex-husband/reality contestant/millionaire (?!) is a sadistic nutcase and so I say, "Kudos to you VH1! You really know how to pick the charmers for your sophisticated reality shows." Don't they have screeners for these shows? Call me crazy but any guy who his insane enough to dismember his ex-wife and throw her in a dumpster behind Knotts Berry Farm most certainly has a rap sheet - or at the very least probably wouldn't pass your basic psychological test.

Vh1 actually showed some scruples and canceled the remaining episodes of Megan Wants a Millionaire. Oh how will the viewers ever sleep at night not knowing if Megan will find true love? Is it wrong that I sort of wish it was Megan who was found in the suitcase?

Can You Tighten That Spandex Up a Smidge?

Today I made my vigil to Target for school supplies and ended up buying a bikini. I don't usually shop for clothing at Target (but have been known to pick up a tee shirt now and then) - however buying a bathing suit at Target makes perfect sense because: Bathing suits are perhaps one of the most depressing, anxiety-producing purchases a woman can make. Why spoil it by spending a fortune at Neiman's or Everything But Water etc... Believe you me, no one at the beach is going to be checking out my "bathing suit" because instead they will be in a hallucinogenic trance from staring at the circular patterns of cellulite that travel in a spiral motion from my ass cheeks downward to the back of my knees. Ergo - spending a mere $24.99 on a bathing suit "suits me" just fine.

Of course I didn't try it on, because a Target dressing room (I imagine) is probably like entering a smelly foot locker with a fun-house mirror, carpet that hasn't been vacuumed since 1997, with 75% odds that there is a used baby diaper in the corner. I took home my Olive Green "Xhiliration" brand suit and tried it on in the comfort of my darkly lit bathroom. The top fit great, but the bottoms ? OH MY! First, unbeknownst to me, the bikini bottom came with it's own belt (with belt loops too!) Who is the genius that decided a BELT is a necessary accessory to something which by nature is constructed so that it WON'T fall down? FYI, that size "S" bikini bottom isn't going anywhere and adding a belt to it makes about as much sense as taking an Ex-Lax chaser after eating dinner at Taco Bell. There's just NO NEED.

In fact, if anything, I could have used a little MORE room. The bottom didn't even adequately cover the base of my butt cheeks. Hey Xhiliration people? How about you forego the "BELT" and add a little extra spandex down below?

And lastly, while I'm bitching, can someone tell my why when you buy a "healthy" snack like "Trail Mix," eat 95% of it and then decide to turn over the package to look at the nutrition facts, it reads "Calories: 140" (Yea!) and then (to your horror) you read further to discover that one small bag of "Trail Mix" consists of "5" servings, bringing the grand calorie total to 700 GODFORESAKEN calories? (By the way, I'm not even talking about the Trail Mix with the little generic M&M candies in it). For Jesus sake, the only time I could even fathom sharing bag of Trail Mix that small between 5 people would be if I was stranded atop the Andes after a plane crash and the only alternative would be eating the frozen-dead passengers that didn't survive the crash. Next time I'm at 7-11 and tempted to choose the "healthy" snack, I'm going for the 32 oz Mountain Dew and a Baby Ruth bar.

Val

Who Buys this "Sh*t"

Over the past few weeks, I keep seeing an advertisement for a (not so) revelutionary product called "Latisse" which is some sort of drop that you rub in/on? your eye to promote Eyelash Growth. God, how did the world ever exist without this product? More importantly, aside from spokesperson Brooke Shields (ka-ching), who in the hell would ever buy this product? Have they not heard of mascara (and the art of applying multiple coats to create the look of extra eyelashes)? Not to mention the "fake eyelash" which can be purchased at CVS for the rock bottom price of $6.99.

My question was answered yesterday when Parker sent me the following email:

Dear Val:

I would only tell this to you but I went to my dermatologist for a facial peel and ended up asking for a prescription for Latisse. My sister in law says it works amazing and makes it look like you are always wearing fake eyelashes. Of course it was $100 per tiny, tiny (like less than an ounce-sized) bottle. It better frickin work - Is it a vial full of heroin/liquid gold/water from the fountain of youth or Latisse? By the way, don't tell DW.

First of all, the chances of me and Parker's husband "DW" conversing about her beauty regiment are about as likely as me being asked to pose in Playboy. Secondly, I immediately responded by telling her that now I know "who" would actually fall for that product and that I would definitely have to blog about her "vain eyelash desperation" and that I could think of about 4,000 things I would rather do with $100 than purchase an eyelash-growing elixir.

Meanwhile I'll stick with my Maybelline Great Lash and use my $100 for something necessary like a years supply of "Fat Girl Slim" Cellulite cream - which I'm sure will melt away my cellulite in 2 weeks - just as promised.

As for Parker, I would love to see her next week when we meet up for our girls weekend, looking like this:

R.I.P. John Hughes

Today I sent my husband an email which basically said that because my son had his two best friends over with no adult supervision, I was expecting to come home from work to a replica of Jake Ryan's party house from "Sixteen Candles." Not two seconds later, I logged onto MSN and saw the news: John Hughes had passed away suddenly at the age of 59. Total bummer.

In his honor, I'd like to thank him for the following:

• Thank you Mr. Hughes for permanently recording a celluloid history of the entire 1980's. I can watch any number of your teenage angst flicks and immediately be thrown back into the fashions, trends, and vernacular of the 80's (Shoulder pads, Polo Oxfords, denim miniskirts, and the phrase "What's a Happenin' Hot Stuff?" come to mind).

• Thank you for introducing us to a young, gap-toothed sarcastic Robert Downey Jr. (Weird Science).

• Thank you for always making the Principal a major Putz.

• Thank you for inspiring me to skip a day of school (which I did shortly after I saw "Ferris Beuller's Day Off"). Needless to say, instead of lip singing at a parade, I ended up alone, driving around aimlessly in my 1976 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, eventually settling in at the local library perusing People Magazine.

• Thank you for making it cool to have the wild parties at my house whenever my parents were out of town (Sixteen Candles). Of course I paid the price dearly whenever my mom came home and one of her Hopi Indian Kachina dolls had a missing limb or the vodka bottle was refilled with water (just kidding my parents never noticed shit like that).

• Thanks for Home Alone I and 2, which my children have seen no less than 15 times each.

• Thank you for making a movie from the title of a Psychedelic Furs song (Pretty in Pink) and giving us a character named "Blaine" and "Ducky" and always casting James Spader as the rich asshole.

• Thanks for making it (some)what cool to be the "Geek" (Weird Science, Sixteen Candles et al.)

More (Crazy Ass Bitches) To Love

I just finished watching the TIVO'ed second episode of "More to Love," - a version of "The Bachelor" starring a heavy set guy (Luke) and a bevy of heavy set women all looking for love (on national tv, of course). Evidently the Fox network has decided that nothing makes for great Tuesday night television more than exploiting women who have the self esteem of a hunched back, three-eyed, shut-in who's been abused since birth.

Seriously? These girls are "overweight", not freaks of nature. The first 2 episodes have been little more than close ups of these women bitching and moaning about how no one has ever "loved them", how they were always "picked last" for the Red Rover game in 4th grade and how they've never been to the Prom. Well "boo frickin hoo" ladies. I've been to Disneyland, Costco a County Fair and on a Carnival Cruise to Mexico where I've seen women twice their size (and some of these ladies had a total dog face to boot) and yet THEY somehow managed to land a husband.

One girl in particular "Kristen" a 23 year old, doe-eyed teacher (who clearly comes from the land of Low Self Esteem) has already claimed to have fallen in love at first sight. Her overbearing neediness makes me just want to slap her upside the head and has prompted me to yell "Get a Grip Girlfriend" like 16 times so far.

But I digress, because how could "Kristen" resist the meaty, larger than life bachelor "Luke?" Luke is undoubtedly a catch for any woman: a 26 year old ex football player turned "real estate developer" which is code for not currently employed but I have my house on the market: "For Sale By Owner"). Not only is Luke a major success in life, he is also a "Majah Playah" who has MADE OUT with six of the girls so far (remember we are only 2 episodes in). Handing out long lingering sloppy kisses to these girls is like inviting Paula Abdul to a party with a Vicoden-filled Pinata. Once their lips have touched Luke's golden lips, they are all in a tizzy. In fact, I've taken to calling him 'Leo DiCaprio' because of his ways with the ladies. I've got news for ya gals: Luke is not really all that special. In fact his kissing-bandit-routine/sex-addict -tendencies/"hey ladies" grin make me wonder if he is not in fact some sort of super human created in a test tube with the combined sperm of of David Duchovney and Dom Deluise?

Naturally, since I'm 2 episodes in, I'm going to see this show through to the end. But to be honest, nothing would make me happier than if these girls took Luke to the Santa Monica Boardwalk, dumped his ass over the side and went on a cotton candy spree while the theme song from the Mary Tyler Moore Show played in the background.

-val

Below a "don't miss clip" of Luke doing his best imitation of DiCaprio at a model's convention:

Obviously the words "I think Yes" makes the ladies melt like butter...mmmm butter.

Just Wash my G*d Damn Prius

When did the "Car Wash" turn into the goddamn "Mall of America"?

The other day I took my car in to get it washed (I usually take it to the "Do-It-Yourself" drive thru but decided it needed a good inside/outside wash). As I pulled up I was met with the pushy "upgrade guy" (you know the one who always tries to upsell you to the $39 "Super Detail" with Armor All tire treatment and undercarriage scrub?). I instead settled (i.e. 'insisted' after haggling for 10 minutes) on the $16.99 "Regular Wash" and was tempted to tell him to "make it snappy," but I knew that would never happen.

So I took my receipt into the shiny "main building" to pay, and my first thought was "Holy shit, did a Checker Auto Parts, Claire's Boutique, Best Buy, Hallmark, Starbucks and Forever 21 explode in here?" The endless parade of crap was unbelievable. Some of the products for sale at the "Car Wash" were:

• The aisle of tank tops, including a black tank (made of the finest cotton) with the words "I Heart Michael Jackson" written in Rhinestones. Clearly a 'must have' for any contemporary closet
• A collection of vinylesque handbags and belts. Because everyone knows that when you need a belt, the local Car Wash is THE place to go.
• An assortment of greeting cards that could rival any Hallmark store. They also had a beautiful assortment of mini porcelain figurines - a virtual gift-giver's paradise.
• No less than three separate sitting areas - complete with leather sofas and 50-inch plasma tvs. Not only could one relax and catch up on "All My Children" while getting their Lexus washed -but there was an actual on site person prepared to sell you said 50-inch TV.
• An "Internet" station - in order to check your email or find you soul mate on Match.com while waiting for your tires to be Armor All-ed.
• An automotive section (this part actually did make sense). The pink/black zebra striped floor mats caught my eye, but they were snagged up by a 95 lb woman wearing Pink Juicy's and black tank top - obviously in an attempt to snazz up her BMW SUV.

I made my way through the maze o' junk somehow managing to resist all the top notch products and paid my $16.99 to the Cashier/Barrista/Soda Jerk. As I sat outside waiting 45 minutes for them to pat down my car with a shammy (the management has CLEARLY told the towel boys to take their sweet time so that the patrons will be tempted to go on a mad shopping spree while they wait upwards of an hour for their car to be dried) I remembered the good ol' days when a Car Wash consisted of nothing more than a trailer sized room with cash register (and a few candy bars) surrounded by plastic, coffee-stained patio furniture and a few Auto Trader magazines. I was also tempted to yell out "Enough already! Just wash my god damned Prius!"

-Val

The Skinless Corpse Museum: Or Why I'll Never Eat Roast Beef Again

As summer vacation draws to an end, I decided it was time to do something "educational" with my kids, because let's face it: their marathon sessions of Sponge Bob and playing online Tetris for hours at a time will only get them so far in life.

My 11-year old daughter had heard of the traveling "Body Worlds" exhibit when it was in LA last year and had surprisingly, albeit morbidly, expressed interest in going. For anyone who hasn't heard of the "Body World's" exhibit, here's a rundown: it's an exhibit of real, dead skinless corpses, which have been cut, sawed and sliced every which way and then "plasticized" into a shiny gleam of muscle, bone, organs etc.... The mastermind behind this exhibit is some German scientist named "Gunther Van Hagens" and if there is any question as to whether or not this dude is completely psychotic, here is a picture of him - which begs the question, "Isn't that the same Nazi dude who got that medallion imprint burned into his hand in Raiders of the Lost Ark?" It's not, but this guy looks as creepy as they come:

Although his exhibit of naked, skinless dead folks has been touted as "Magical, Amazing and Educational," I have to admit it was a bit creepy as well. When you walk into the exhibit, the first thing you see is a glass case with a spotlight on a dead, soggy human brain - and this my friend, is the least disgusting thing on display.

Me and the kids meandered through the museum, checking out the "ballerina" (complete with exposed tendons, muscles, anus - yes "anus"- and real life pink ballet shoes). Great, now I know that a ballerina uses a lot of bloody tendons (and tightens her anus muscle) every time she pirouettes. Other "highlights" included the teenage skateboarder (as seen above), complete with dangling "man junk", a pregnant lady with stomach and uterus carved down the middle and the not-to-be-missed "Exploding Man" which looked like it could have been the body of the 7 ft villain from "Goldfinger", but without skin and hair it was impossible to tell for sure.

Additional dandies on display were: the lung of a coal miner (which brings me to my "roast beef conundrum": This morning I put a 3 lb roast in the crock pot despite the fact that when raw it looked exactly like the right buttock from "the Ponderer" and as it cooked began to look more and more like the coal miner's "black lung" from the museum. I knew that I would never be able to eat the muscle-butt, black lung roast and finally dumped it in the trash). In addition, The "Slices of brain" looked suspiciously like thinly sliced deli ham and don't even get me started on the reproductive organs display.

All joking aside, it really was educational and indeed, pretty "amazing". Once my daughter got over the fact that they really were Dead Bodies (and not dummies as she had originally thought - a bit of miscommunication on my part) and overcame her almost-fainting spell when she saw the chicken's capillary system display, we actually enjoyed ourselves. Sadly however, we may never visit the deli again. I rest my case with this picture of Dr. von Hagen at work with creepy mad scientist fedora, hard at work slicing brain matter: