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I have returned from the Pantages with a mind full of stuff to write and no time to do so. Much material about musicals, Italian restaurants, Pesky the fish taco, and various other disturbing topics will be forthcoming, but y'all gonna hafta wait some more. Thanks.

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A Day at the Fair



Every year, the Chamber of Commerce of our peninsula holds a Street Fair. Every year, or, more precisely, every other year, we stop by, just to see if there's anything worth seeing. There never is. Most street fairs are like that- every year, a long line of booths selling the kind of stuff you'll eventually be too embarrassed to put in a garage sale, plus rides for the kiddies, local "talent" on stage, and food served from booths and wagons unfamiliar to the local health department and constructed to be whisked away one step ahead of said health department. We go anyway. We went today.



Most of the fair is about as sad as this- a very, very bad cartoonist doing caricatures that look nothing like the subject, with a clutch of bored-looking kids surrounding him. (You can't see how bad his drawings are in this picture, and I didn't want to embarrass him (or myself) by getting too close) Sad booths with carny/gypsy-looking types selling clothing of dubious origin and jewelry of dubious value and sunglasses the boxes urge you to "COMPARE TO OAKLEY" or "COMPARE TO RAY-BAN." Okay, I've compared and the Oakleys and Ray-Bans are better- now what? Fran bought some scrunchies for her hair (including a Phillies scrunchie- that ought to go over well at Edison Field Tuesday night) and there was one interesting booth that displayed pictures of our area from 1931 and 1937, when the peninsula was mostly undeveloped and bare and our neighborhood, according to the 1937 zoning map of Los Angeles County, was zoned for, er, nothing. But that booth was the exception- the rest were the same scary people and goods as in past years.



And then there was this: in an adjacent lot, they'd set up a brace of carnival rides. This one's called "Jumpin' Star," and it involves taking six children and sending them uuuupppp the yellow thing and dowwwwnnnn real fast and uuuuupppp again and dowwwwnnnn again and all I could think about is what the insurance riders must be like on these things, because, I mean, you're taking SIX CHILDREN and VIOLENTLY JERKING THEM UP AND DOWN A TALL STRUCTURE. Lawsuit in the making? No more, I'd say, than this:



That's a rollercoaster back there. It's hard to see it in this shot, but the thing, loaded with kids, goes fast, faster than I'd like something as impermanent and weathered as this carny ride to go. Whiplash? Why, yes, please, make it a double. And while you're at it, I'll take this:



The only reason there doesn't need to be a lawyer and an orthopedic specialist on call for this one is that, like with all bumper car rides, this one generally ended up with all of the cars crammed into a corner, gridlocked like La Cienega and 3rd at 5:15 pm on a Friday. Nobody's moving, so nobody can get hurt, right? At least, that's the theory. It's a better theory than...



...letting kids climb an inflatable that looks like it's about to collapse or tip over, then having them slide down. Ostensibly, they'll hit the inflated part and bounce harmlessly, but it looked to me that they could just as easily bounce right onto the pavement. See that "Exit" ramp? Right into the concrete.



Of course, there were animals. Pony ride? Check. Elephant? Check. Petting zoo? Check. Getting thrown from My Friend Flicka? Salmonella and e-coli from a petted sheep? Any number of mishaps on Dumbo? Would you take that chance? (Couldn't get a clear shot for an elephant picture and didn't want to wait around to get one- sorry)

So what have we learned? We've seen how street fairs can be hotbeds of consumer fraud and havens for personal injury lawyers. We've also learned not to go back, although you know we'll ignore that lesson. Look, this isn't really all that exciting of a place. This is the biggest happening we have, bigger even than the week Eddie "The Big Ragu" Mekka, Greg "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman's husband" Mullavey, and Richard "Larry from 'Three's Company'" Kline teamed up to perform the play "Art" at the Norris Theater. If we don't go to the Street Fair, what WILL we be able to go to? And besides...



...there's always jerky.

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We were eating fish tacos at a local Rubio's when I looked up at the wall and saw this:



It's something called "The Story of... Rubio's Baja Grill," and it's actually a relic of the fast food chain's recent past marketing, in which a talking fish taco represents the founder of the business. (Since then, the chain has reverted to telling the story using the real guy's name- astonishingly, it's Rubio) I read the poster, which says that Pesky Pescado- that's the talking, walking fish taco with arms poking through its shell- was "the most tasty and delicious fish taco" in San Felipe, who "had always hoped to move to America, the land of the cheesy burger" and swam to San Diego's Mission Bay, where "soon San Diegans were driving from miles around for a taste of his Baja-style fish tacos." The story is illustrated by artist's conceptions of Pesky dreaming of "America!," contemplating a directional sign pointing to California, and, finally, standing outside a Rubio's location, jauntily waving to passers-by in the manner of a college student in a hot dog costume waving at cars outside a Wienerschnitzel for minimum wage.

After absorbing this tale, I was left with a few questions, to wit: did it ever occur to Pesky that he, himself, is a fish taco and therefore edible? How was it determined that he was "the most tasty and delicious fish taco" in San Felipe- who "tasted" him, if you know what I mean? And isn't selling fish tacos to be eaten by Americanos a little disturbing to Pesky? I mean, these are his brethren, his own kind, and he's selling them to be eaten, to be brutally gnawed to death by the sharp white fangs of Touristus Americanus. That makes Pesky the kapo of San Felipe, sending his fellow fish tacos to their certain death in the vain hope of saving his own, much like the Pillsbury Dough Boy (sending his dough-brothers to the ovens!) and the talking M&Ms (who at least appear to be aware that they are likely to be next in line to be eaten).

Mercifully, they dropped the Pesky concept not long ago, replaced by- I kid you not- a talking Mexican-stereotype marionette. But the remnants of Pesky's reign of terror remain at many Rubio's outlets, as do the tropical fish tanks in the dining area (a bizarre concept, making the fish watch people eat, er, fish). I finished my taco, but it was hard to ignore the tiny fish screams. If they introduce a talking tortilla, I'm taking my business elsewhere.

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More later, but while I'm off doing something else, here's Ella the World's Most Famous Cat's impression of a rat, or mouse, or gerbil:

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OK, you caught me. I was not engaged in important high-level talks or delicate negotiations. I was here:



(Why, yes, I DID get a digital camera. Why do you ask?)

The Phillies lost, miserably- no hitting, winning run scored on a wild pitch- and the thing that struck me the most was that security at these games is all wrong. I was carrying no bags, just a jacket, with a camera and cell phone in my pocket, all permitted. Nevertheless, the 80 year old security man/glorified usher at Edison Field insisted on inspecting my left pocket. I told him it was a camera, checkbook, and pen, but he insisted on my emptying the pocket, and then he patted me down.

All I could think of is WHAT THE HELL WAS HE LOOKING FOR? What could I be carrying- the world's smallest weapon? Bioterror material? Compromising photos of David Eckstein? What in his "training" could have possibly tipped this guy off that I- nondescript blond suburban American guy- might be some sort of danger to... to whom? Why did he single me out (and thereby hold up the line, which quickly grew to massive proportions)? Why did he then rifle through Fran's pocketbook- did he think she was Natasha to my Boris?

That's a hell of a way to treat your customers, isn't it? Nice greeting- Welcome to Edison Field, empty your pockets and put your hands where I can see them. How quickly do you think I'll be back at an Angels game this season?

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I'm not an old guy, not yet, anyway, but I'm about to sound like one, so pardon me in advance, won't you? Thanks.

This was another fast-Mexican-food night, and I'm sitting there slamming down my burrito and watching people queue up at the counter to order. There were the requisite soccer moms with unruly broods running around the place, playing with their Kid's Meal toys and sliding on pieces of quesadilla they put on the floor. There were distracted Toyota and Honda junior execs talking on their cell phone headsets while deciding between the Carne Asada Baja Grill Burrito and the Dos Tacos Combo. And there were the girls.

Here's the thing: when I was 16, kids didn't choose their own clothes. Every August, your mom and dad would load the family into the Rambler and head for someplace like Sears or J.C. Penney or the Army-Navy store downstairs from the Plaid Stamps redemption store (Plaidland!) in Pompton Lakes where mom would make you try on what seemed like a million pairs of corduroy pants and, finally, you'd walk out with a few bags of clothes guaranteed to make you look, well, average. Girls had the same thing, only dad would make sure that the clothes covered every inch of their daughters' skin. And the girls' clothes had to be loose, because God forbid anyone should get the impression teenage girls might have, you know, breasts and curves and stuff. So we got to lust after what appeared to be potato sacks with heads and feet. It worked for us because we didn't know any better.

Here's how it apparently works today: kids go to the mall without parental supervision but with their own credit cards, and they buy whatever they want. And what the girls want is to look like... um... well, not potato sacks. The girls on the burrito line appeared to have come to the place directly from auditions for Christina Aguilera's dancers or from the Mustang Ranch- one girl wore a low-rider skirt (it started right around, say, the pubic area) and a white push-up bustier under a see-through white blouse, another wore a t-shirt about six sizes too small that exposed an incipient beer belly. Apart from whether the girls actually look in the mirror and think, yeah, I'm looking good, the big question for me is:

Where the hell are mom and dad?

It has to be part of the total abdication of authority by parents, the rejection of discipline. You want to walk out of the house looking like a five-bucks-a-blow Tunnel Bunny? Yes, dear, whatever you want. We're not your parents, we're your friends. Besides, mommy has a Pilates class to get to and daddy's working late.

Am I just being old and intolerant and repressed here because I wouldn't allow my (theoretical) daughter to leave the house looking like that? I don't know. I'm not a parent. I can't say for sure how difficult it is to steer your kids around the potholes in popular culture. But I can say that, sitting there at dinner watching the flower of American youth leaving all sense of self-restraint behind, I did not feel confident that the kids are all right.

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It started with a scratch at the back of my throat, then a persistent dry cough, then my sinuses started to feel a little funky, then more coughing, a sore throat...

...I'm sick. I rarely take ill these days, but I caught something this time. Of course, the first thing I thought was SARS!!! But I'm not running a fever, so it's probably just a cold. It's having the effect of knocking me out- I actually fell asleep for a moment at the keyboard. I don't have the luxury of taking a day off, because I work at home, and there's no place to stay home FROM. I also have that annoying work ethic where I feel guilty if I'm not working when I'm supposed to be. And then there's the incoherence, when I start off talking about something that makes sense and eventually banana. Newspaper remote stapler, antenna. Banana!

So I'm going to go lie down. Believe me, you don't want to spend a lot of time with my thoughts right now. Talk to you banana... er, tomorrow.

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Still sick. Just ate, despite violent aversion to food at the moment. Must lay down. Weekend? Aaaaaahhhh. Good timing.

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A bright idea concocted in my (literally) feverish mind while wondering if I'll ever stop coughing:

1. Most people don't like to pay high taxes.

2. The federal and state governments are whining that they need more money.

3. Among the biggest advocates for more spending on more programs and levying more taxes on people are the Hollywood liberal elite. So...

4. Tax Hollywood liberals at a 95% rate.

If Rob Reiner wants an expensive new program to teach kids that smoking is bad, let him pay for it. School woes? A 95% share of Steven Spielberg's take on a SINGLE MOVIE would pay for everything. It's perfect!

Ah, you say, but what if they object? What if they leave the country rather than pay the tax? Well, you see, then it's working. A 95% tax rate will flush out the hypocrites. And there's ample precedent- when pre-Thatcher Britain had an onerous tax on the wealthy, many of the country's entertainers moved to America, the Bahamas, anywhere they could hide from the taxman. Subsequently, they were vocal in their hatred of Thatcher, but they came home when the tax went away. And, hey, would any of us miss Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins if they moved to a tax haven? No, we would not. So everyone's a winner.

Seriously, I don't have much of a platform here to get this going, but it's a golden opportunity to yank Hollywood's crank a little. I know that a disproportionate percentage of you work in talk radio, so you know what to do. And when you march on Brentwood and Bel Air, I'll be with you.

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