A great lunch with the Lansing colleagues today. One told us about the time he managed a nude beach near San Francisco. The social culture there seems right for nude sunbathing, the weather not so much. Nevertheless, on days when it was warm enough for seaside lolling, i.e. above 70 degrees, a few hardy souls would come out, strip off and catch their share of rays.
“What’s involved with managing a nude beach?” I wondered. A short list: Stringing up the banner warning away those who might not know what they were getting into, opening the sunblock concession, a few other minor chores, “and then I was on masturbation patrol.” Wow. I get that men like to look at naked women, for sure. It’s just that I’ve never seen a nudist encampment with even a small handful of people you’d actually want to see naked. Throw in the chilly Pacific breezes, the sand, the lack of cover, and you’d think a person would have enough sense to hang out at home with a magazine about nude volleyball tournaments.
Speaking of nudity, the New York Times had a feature today on Kate Upton, the social-media supermodel who was unknown a year ago, and this week debuts on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. She owes her fame to YouTube and, duh, her naturally wonderful body. How wonderful? This video, called Kate Upton Slow Motion, should give you an idea. You know what I find amazing about material like this? The comments. There’s a strong faction that says she’s “fat.” OK, sure. Enjoy mom’s basement, kiddo.
How was your Valentine’s Day? I hope you got through it, one way or another. I rolled out of the driveway at 6:37 a.m. and back up it at 5:27 p.m. In between was work and driving. And too much NPR. I love NPR, I donate monthly, but there’s a moment every few weeks when the syrupy voices and preeniness gets on my last nerve. So I switched over to a commercial rock station, the sort of thing I used to listen to regularly. Someone was talking about doing furnace work for a stripper who let her puppy crap all over the house. Wasn’t the idea of getting a lap dance from a stripper who might have puppy poo on her shoes disgusting? he asked. And with that, I snapped the radio off and swore my next car is going to have XM, and I don’t care how much it costs. A few weeks ago I met a guy who said he worked for Clear Channel.
“Oh,” I said, and he and I spoke the words in unison: “The evil empire.”
Now I’m watching Westminster, nursing a single glass of wine, and don’t think I’ll make it to best in show. I called the Doberman as winner of the working group, so the evening was a success. I think it was a fluke, but she set up so nicely. Name was Fifi.
We have much good bloggage today, however.
I touted Animals Talking in All Caps a few days ago. I’ve been working my way through the whole blog, a page at a time, since. This might be my single favorite.
These goddamn Chinese. Can you believe this? Steal the design, steal the profile, and even steal the blue oval:
It looks like a Ford F-150, right down to the iconic blue oval.
But inside the emblem is not the classic Ford script. Instead it’s the three-letter-brand of a Chinese automaker that has borrowed many of the F-150’s details — the hood contours, rectangular grille and extended cab — to emulate the most popular vehicle in America. The JAC 4R3 is set to launch in April during the 2012 Beijing International Automotive Exhibition.
Tommy Tomlinson finds a writing lesson in “Ode to Billy Joe.”
Thank you all for hitting the Bridge links on the right rail; your generosity with your clicks has been noted. There’s some good stuff over there on prison reform, and a short blog piece by moi on a rather dunderheaded misstep in an op-ed “written” by Mitt Romney. It’s not my catch, but it’s a good one.
Finally, I’m growing a little weary of the Jeff Zaslow tributes, but I thought this one, by Neil Steinberg, was very very good.
My eyes feel rubbed raw. Time for bed.