Protect and Serve

History has shown us that Labrador Retrievers make excellent workers. They hunt, detect, guide, schlep and write abstract poetry.  In this amazing action shot, Dusty protects the SJG from a runaway lion that appeared in our yard early this morning, to sip from the pool, nosh on grass and consume an entire patio set.  While we wait for the Disney attorneys to come and claim Simba, Dusty has tricked him into thinking our fence is Pride Rock.  Simba's up there right now, singing "Hakuna Matata," ad nauseum.  Enough already.  What's worse, every time Dusty tries to join in, Simba threatens to charge royalties. Dusty's weekly allowance won't cover it.  What to do?

Don't Panic

My favorite motto

Go ahead.  Ask me about my origins.  Ask me why I'm a certain way, and wait for a deep, psychoanalytical answer.  Or talk to hubby, my personal biographer, who knows all the dirt. The other night, I was reading an intense scene in Caroline Leavitt's wonderful new book, "Pictures of Me." (Read it.) There was rain and lightening and asthma going on, and I was so into it, so on the edge of my tush, that when hubby came through the bedroom door, I actually screamed.  Hubby didn't even flinch.  He's used to this behavior.  He walks into a room too quietly.  I don't hear him.  I startle easily.  I scream.  But it's not my fault.  For a full explanation of why the SJG is so freakin' jumpy, so prone to panic, hubby will hand you a copy of my (as yet) unpublished masterpiece, "I Felt Good About My Butt Back Then."  Basically, it starts with how the SJG entered the galaxy. Way back in the sweet, innocent late '50s, when Mom was in her last trimester with baby me, she got chicken pox, courtesy of Bro' 1 and Bro' 2. Complications ensued.  She became so sick with double pneumonia, that her gynecologist – “that man who almost killed me three times,” as she decribed him – kept her out of the hospital so she shouldn't spread germs.

Josh Groban Sings Kanye

"French fries are the devil."

Josh Groban sings the best tweets of Kanye West.  "Fur pillows are actually hard to sleep on." "I make awesome decisions in bike stores." And many, many more.  For full screen, double click, yo.  Enjoy.

"I love me!!!!!!!!!"

The After Hours

You know who you are!

Anne Francis, aka "Honey West," died the other day at the age of 80.  She starred in my favorite "Twilight Zone" episode ever, called "The After Hours." The first time I saw it, I was babysitting and wanted to hide behind the couch.  But I didn't.  That would've been unprofessional.  So I sat there and quivered in my desert boots.  All these years later, "The After Hours" still scares the SJG.  In the opening, Anne Francis wanders from counter to counter, not a care in the world.  Rod Serling tell us: "Express elevator to the ninth floor of a department store, carrying Miss Marsha White on a most prosaic, ordinary, run of the mill errand. Miss Marsha White on the ninth floor, specialties department, looking for a gold thimble. The odds are she'll find it, but there are even better odds that she'll find something else, because this isn't just a department store. This happens to be the Twilight Zone."


Oy vey, I'm a mannequin  

Miss White, you see, was due back yesterday, but she forgot.  How selfish can a mannequin be?  And now the other mannequins are pissed-off.  And they're coming after her! "Marsha... Marsha... Marsha!"  Run, Marsha.  Run!  At the end of the eppie, she's posed on a platform,  lifeless, a plastic smile on her face.  Rod Serling tell us: "Marsha White in her normal and natural state…But it makes you wonder, doesn't it? Just how normal are we? Just who are the people we nod our hellos to as we pass on the street? A rather good question to ask, particularly in the Twilight Zone."  A rather good question to ask in Sherman Oaks, too.

The Way To San Jose

The college boy sleeps upstairs. The dog barks at nothing.  The SJG sips coffee.  Ah, nice morning.  Quiet.  Except the barking.  Peaceful.  All is right with the world.  The phone rings.  It is the eldest.  He lives far far away now, several blocks away.  "I eff'n overslept.  My eff'n iPhone alarm didn't go off. Eff, eff, eff."  Welcome to Monday.  The eldest and hubby still plan to carpool to work. The eldest needs to get his tush over here pronto.  "I'll make you a bagel," I say.  He arrives, he eats.  Off they go.  Problem solved.  It's quiet again.  Except the barking.  Peaceful.  All is right with the world.  The SJG settles in to write.  Minutes go by.  Ah. This is good.  Me likey.  The college boy calls downstairs. "Mom!  Why didn't you wake me?" "Was I supposed to?" "I'm leaving this morning, remember?"  Of course.  How could I forget.  We rush around.  We are late.  Very, very late.  He barely makes the plane to San Jose.  Whoops.  Bad SJG.  I will do better next time.

Skol!

SJG drank here last century

What day is it?  I have no idea.  If you know, please tell me.  I'm so confused.  The whole holiday thing has eff'd with my brain, a delicate instrument under the best of circumstances.  I need to get back to something resembling a schedule.  The day after whatever today is seems like a good start.  This is when the college boy heads back to Santa Cruz for winter quarter.  This is a good thing for all concerned. The visit home has provided many highs and lows regarding all those highs.  Generation Text loves to party.  It's like a competitive sport.  I get it (sort of).  I refer you to the infamous Hofbrauhaus Incident, Munich, December, 1977, when the SJG and future-hubby were so farshikkert, strangers had to help us to the train station, one block away.  Still, when it comes to my boys, I prefer that the partying takes place off-camera, far away from the SJG.  In another city, another universe, where I don't have to see or smell the evidence. If that's denial, bring it. I could use a stein or two.  Skol!

Pasadena Rejects SJG

Once again, the parade passed me by. The goyim of Pasadena rejected The SJG Float, made entirely of onion bagels, cream cheese and lox imported from Costco. Early this morning, security stopped me at the gate. "Hey, this float's made of flour," I shouted. The guards stared at me. "Wrong kind of flower, ma'am."  "But I schlepped all the way from Sherman Oaks to be part of the Tournament of Moses."  That's when they grabbed me.  "Let the SJG go!"  So they did.  They let me off with a warning.  Oh well, there's always next year.