NOMENCLATURE IS DESTINY: The recent dustup between the Santa Ynez Chumash and their Casino-hating neighbors begs the centuries-old question whether a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet. While that answer has eluded the best minds of many a generation, I am more than willing to bet the farm-preferably your farm-that the thorns would remain every bit as sharp.
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GUT PILE BLUES: About two weeks ago, nearly 900,000 Barbie dolls were recalled by the manufacturer because lead-based paint had been used to achieve the dolls’ perfectly uniform tan pigmentation. Lead, when sucked, renders the suckee permanently stupid. It’s a known fact. And to own a Barbie is to suck a Barbie. That, too, is a known fact.
ASK MR. BROOKS: I know that in some circles Supervisor Brooks Firestone couldn’t buy a friend. But I’ve always liked the guy. Admittedly, I’m a sucker for Brooks’s patrician enthusiasm, his congenial affability that masks a cold, steely will. How could I be expected to resist someone who informs you, as Brooks recently did me, “Despite your little, twisted mind, I enjoy speaking to you.”
HEY DUDE, WHERE’S THE REST OF ME? A couple weeks ago, I attended an impeach-Bush event held at the Veterans Memorial Building down on Cabrillo Boulevard. There were lots of people wearing black Dennis Kucinich for President T-shirts.
GIVE IT BACK: At first I thought I was just feeling sorry for myself. But then I read that scientists just discovered a vast, empty intergalactic hole of nothingness about one-billion light-years wide. Translated into terms we can comprehend, that’s roughly six-billion-trillion miles. No stars. No gas. No dust. It’s so empty, they don’t even have dark matter there. Worse yet, cell phone reception really sucks.
UNHINGED AND UNCORKED: First, we need to get a couple of points out of the way. It happens to be the case that I am far and away the sanest person I’ve ever met. I may, in fact, be the only sane person I’ve ever met. In the world of ideas, there’s what I think-which happens to be clear, accurate, insightful, and, above all, unbiased-and then there’s what everybody else thinks, which is just the opposite. Throughout the years, I’ve been forced to learn the wisdom of masking such notions.
WHERE’S WENDY? I know it’s perverse to feel sorry for a guy who gets paid $650 an hour to beat the crap out of people. But after watching attorney A. Barry Cappello try to defend News-Press owner Wendy P. McCaw-now on trial for firing eight reporters because of their pro-union sympathies-I must confess to feeling pangs of sympathy for the guy.
SILLY SEASON: As usual in Santa Barbara, the fight is about water. This time, it’s about how high the seawater will rise if and when Greenland’s vast prehistoric ice sheets melt as a result of global warming. A group of well-intentioned eco-agitators has decided the best way to get the public’s attention about global warming is to paint a light blue line-1,000 feet long-on Santa Barbara’s downtown streets and sidewalks showing exactly where the new shoreline would be if the water level were to increase by the projected 20 feet.
GO LONG: Poor Michael Vick. He’s in a lot of trouble. But then, he should have known better. He should have known that Americans will tolerate any degree of cruelty, no matter how pornographically depraved, when inflicted on foreign nationals of darker pigmentation, especially if they may or may not have had something to do with terrorism.