'Bred Crumbs

08:56 PM When I wrote earlier of Tostitos, I was thinking of the little round Spicy Quesadilla ones. I completely forgot there are big triangular corn chips also called Tostitos. This only further compromises the flimsy Tostitos brand identity. They must be eliminated. Though we shall spare the lime-flavored ones.

Good lord, what am I going on about?

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As I type, five friends are around me playing an insanely complicated board game called Time Agent. These things happen.

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01:27 AM The Onion's bit on former American Gladiator Turbo (at the bottom of News in Brief this week) is funny, but, probably through understandable lack of caring, they got Turbo's name wrong. It's Galen Tomlinson. I know because I always kind of had it for Turbo. Plus, Turbo was rumored to be gay*, which extended his appeal.

I miss American Gladiators. All that goofiness, all those muscles, all that Lycra. You couldn't ask for better entertainment at 1 a.m. on a Sunday night. Plus, the show treated women as equals, unlike the current chauvinistic Battle Dome, a messy WWF-AmerGlad hybrid where women are servants instead of co-warriors. Battle Dome's only sole true redeeming quality is the cocky, meaty beauty of Michael O'Dell/O'Hearn. Sigh.

* What an odd expression -- "rumored to be gay." No one is ever "rumored to be black" or "rumored to be blue-eyed."

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The more I think about it, the more I wonder: why do we need both Doritos and Tostitos? They're both mass-produced vaguely corn products made by the same company. Maybe one's baked and one's fried, but really, is anyone eating these for health reasons? Yes, they're different shapes, but, hey guys, just pick one, or mix them within one brand. Yes, they have (very slightly) different flavors, but just add Spicy Quesadilla Doritos and get on with it.

I am reminded of how last summer, when Sam and I and our posse stopped at a convenience store for replishment after skydiving, I discovered a freezer-case door behind which were row upon row of at least four brands of bottled water. I was flummoxed, particularly in the wake of my breathtaking, life-endangering/-affirming afternoon activity. How could I possibly choose one brand of drinking water over another? What could possibly be the difference? What the hell's wrong with a society that repeatedly insists on such pointless choices?

"A hundred mineral waters / It's fun to guess which ones are safe to drink" -- Joe Jackson, "It's All Too Much," 1991. The next lines from this fun riff on paralysis-inducing consumerism are great, too: "Two hundred brands of cookies / 87 kinds of chocolate chip."

And besides, bottled water may be kind of a scam anyway: A study finds it's no higher-quality than most tap water.

Kind of got off the whole chip musing, didn't I?

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On the cash-register counter at the corner store is a cigar box full of single-serve condoms. Which is unsettling enough on its own (why it's unsettling, I'm not sure). But even more disturbing: until recently the condom box was surrounded by boxes of candy.

Tonight, I saw, they've corrected the strangeness somewhat. Now it's surrounded by gum.

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01:06 PM Barron's 'blog has been birthed. Actually, it's more than a weblog, but I had to go for the alliteration. And thanks be to Barron for the prominent linkage.

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Wednesday night, when it was unexpectedly and gloriously warm in San Francisco -- the kind of rare summer night you usually have here only in March, September or October -- I went walking in the neighborhood just for the sake of being outside. Upon my return, when I got close to home, a raccoon blocked my path, braced to confront me. Since I really didn't want to tangle with an enraged woodland creature, and I had to get something out of my car anyway, I walked across the street and away from the beast.

When I steered clear, the 'coon seemed as relieved as I was. Then it set off down the sidewalk -- and made a distinct right-angle turn around the house on the corner just as a person would, staying on the sidewalk.

That blew my mind -- that wild animals have adopted human navigation. They just don't know the street names.

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Looking back at recent entries, I'm beginning to think I use italics too much.

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If you had a boat, what would you name it?

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06:50 PM Evan found it, but I must share it: Alan Greenspan's secret diary.

Now, with an all-clear sounded on that little chemical boo-boo that detained me, I am free to head out into the, um, fresh air.

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05:10 PM So, it's 5 o'clock, and even if I didn't have plenty more work to do today I couldn't go home now because I'm trapped in my workplace by a chemical spill. Apparently, the power went out at one of Richmond's numerous beautiful neighborhood toxin farms, and some sulfur dioxide went oopsie. Great.

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02:43 PM Lightning crashes*, an old website dies (Daily Radar, as noted earlier today); lightning crashes, a new website cries out for your dirt. It's DirtMarket, and yes, it's an online B2B dirt exchange. (Link via Davenetics.) No bon mot can top this news, which is good since I can't think of one.

* By the way, Dana and I do this killer impression of Ed Kowalczyk singing "Lightning Crashes" with Tori Amos doing backing vocals, but hardly anyone ever gets it.

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At a home construction site in Point Richmond is a hand-lettered sign reading, DO NOT STEAL WOOD.

I have never been so tempted to steal wood.

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12:23 PM Damn; Daily Radar, the videogame site even a videogame idiot (such as I) could enjoy, is dead, as of today. Its wit and surprising sense of social awareness will be missed. (For now, at least, the archives linger.)

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11:23 PM It's a good thing I'm not a vengeful soul, because tonight in traffic I wound up behind a Nader voter from Florida.

On the other hand, if I had both more guts and a quicker imagination, I would have jumped out of my car at the stop light, run to the front window of the Floridian, and shouted at the driver, "George W. Bush is in the White House, and you helped put him there!"

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01:54 AM "I think it's great when friends can tell each other to fuck off."

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How sad is this: At Toys 'R' Us I was delighted to find a non-plastic Original Slinky (no, that's not the sad part), but on the box were detailed instructions on how to play with one. And not just how to get it to go down the stairs, but basic Slinky handling, described thusly:

TO PLAY WITH SLINKY IN HANDS
Hold end coils of Original Slinky with both hands. Now raise and lower each hand in a rhythmic motion.

As if someone who can't figure out how to work a Slinky could comprehend the word rhythmic.

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