"Technology is cyclical."*

   I spent some time brainstorming things to write about so none of you would think I was dead…but be forewarned: this post is not really about anything. So stop reading now if you want. You jerks.

   I kid, I kid.

Look! I drew you a picture of a brainstorm.

   In the interest of clearing my brain of the clutter that’s built up in there over a lifetime the last week or so, I’m doing another Pu Pu Platter of crap I’ve been thinking about. Sample at random.

   1. Let’s start with the term “pu pu platter.” Growing up, I always pictured that spelled “poo poo platter” and assumed it was a platter of various pieces of feces. Then, when my family went to Hawaii in 2003, a witty/bitter tour guide informed us that pūpū was a Hawaiian term for snail but had come to denote a variety of bite-size foods on a platter for sampling (snail frequently being one of them). When I looked it up just now, the Internet claimed that it was a Chinese-American term for a big ol’ mish mash of small foods on a plate. So it all means the same thing, essentially: a big pile of crap. And so, in a way, I was right all along. I love being right!

2. I had to use a payphone the other night for the first time in…10 years? I was on my way to have dinner at Richie and Jerome’s new apartment in Pasadena and realized I didn’t have my phone. It sort of forced a series of terrifying realizations: a) I didn’t know where I was going; b) I wasn’t sure if I still had Richie’s number memorized (who memorizes phone numbers these days? They’re all in our mobiles!); c) did pay phones still exist? And where would I find one?; d) did pay phones accept credit cards? Because I never have any cash or coin on me because I tend to spend it like it’s already been spent so why save it for later, right?”

   I found a pay phone (the last one in America?) at the Shell Station near what I thought was Richie and Jerome’s apartment and saw from my car that it was 35 cents to make a call. Thank fucking hell that I had some change in my wallet…but then I had to touch and hold that phone and put my change in. Then the phone told me it wanted more money: turns out pay phones are still the 50 cents they were when I was in high school. I dug for more change and prayed that I was actually calling Richie and that he would answer even though my number would be a strange one.

   I got Jerome on Richie's phone and everything was good. I started to get back in my car and a man’s voice said, “I can tell you the funniest joke you’ve ever heard in your life.”

I jumped and looked around.

A black guy was sitting between two trees on a ledge about 6 feet from the pay phone. I only mention that he was black because I’m pretty sure if he’d had lighter skin I would have noticed him sitting there while I made my phone call. (We pasty folks reflect light.)

   Shaken up by the surprise right after the scary re-entry into pay phone usage, I told him I didn’t really have time for a joke.

   And I didn't. And I was a little weirded out by the fact that he was lurking in the dark between two trees in a Shell Station parking lot. I was nice about it, but I left.

   But then I read a funny joke on one of the blogs I most enjoy.

   "How many Mexicans does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

   "Just Juan."

   HAHAHAHAHAHA! So funny. Seriously, I’ve been thinking about it for days. Maybe that's just my lame sense of humor. Sometimes you like a joke that doesn't hurt too many people's feelings.

3. Jodie Foster came out of the closet at the Golden Globes. I don’t know why this makes me sleep better at night, but it does. We clearly always knew she was gay, but it’s nice to hear her say it. It makes things feel right with the world. Even though she was incredibly vague, I feel like I finally read a page out of her journal. Can I get an amen for voyeurism?

4. My buddy Chad (who you know about from here and also here) is now in the coffin-making business. He makes them small. He makes them for fish. Check out his handiwork:

Coffins by Chad. "Isn't your pet better than the toilet?"

   I almost want to buy a goldfish, have it die on me 4 days later (as they inevitably do), and stage an elaborate funeral. Maybe one that would rival the amazing service I gave my hamster, Holeakala, back in 1995 (complete with my sister Ouisa on the recorder playing "We Are One in the Spirit"). If you want to buy a goldfish coffin (or a coffin for any other kind of fish), let me know and I’ll have Chad handcraft the most amazing final resting place a tiny pet could ever hope for. It beats the toilet, right?

*Dennis Duffy from 30 Rock. Turns out, he was right. If I had a barrel of money, I'd invest in a buttload of pay phones!

"Now, I know what you're thinking."*

    I know I’ve mentioned that I like “spy” shows (it’s the little, old grandmother in my soul), but did I also mention that I particularly love “old” television? When I moved into my new apartment, I elected not to get cable. Not because of any great plan to do more reading or knitting or thinking, but because cable’s damn expensive and I’m steering this ship by myself now. And so I got Netflix again.

    Here’s my thing with Netflix: I really loved it for a while. I got that package where you could rent one DVD at a time and still have instant streaming all for $7.99 (which is a fancy way of saying “eight bucks.” I'm on to you, Netflix!). And so Netflix ran every video store in America into the ground. And then they DOUBLED their prices. They Walmart-ed us, if you will. But we were so in love with the price and the convenience that we allowed it to happen. Oh well.

    So I left Netflix, because at the time I did have cable, and I also realized that 90% of my queue was dedicated to lofty films that I’d never end up watching because they were depressing and devoted to themes that were way more important than what my brains can handle. Why did I think I’d ever watch Breaking the Waves or The Piano? I’m not saying they’re bad movies—I’ve been told they’re fantastic. I just would rather watch something more along the lines of Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure or Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? When I sit down for a movie, I like it to be funny and smart or dark or full of dick-and-fart jokes, or some sort of combination of all of these. I really don’t want to cry, reminisce about The Depression or The Holocaust, or be forced to sleep with one eye open. I guess I’m feeble-minded or weak-hearted.

    But as I said, I did get Netflix again (only instant stream this time) and now I watch all kinds of spy shows that I didn’t even know were wonderful. My parents introduced me to Get Smart, The Rockford Files, McMillan and Wife and Monk (and I’ve seen pretty much every episode of each of these) and my delightfully irreverent Grandma Millie, clued me in to Murder, She Wrote and Diagnosis Murder. But last night I introduced myself to my new crush: Tom Magnum. That is, I’m now thoroughly ensconced and in love with Magnum: P.I. And all 156 episodes are on Netflix! 

Magnum and the Ferrari.

    For those of you who’ve already discovered (or simply remember) the wonder of this amazing show, please bear with me or feel free to ignore this post. I feel as though my whole life I was walking around like a zombie, not knowing what I did and not caring. And now I can see things clearly. Magnum: P.I. is so good I don’t know how I ever lived without it.

    See, so Magnum used to be a member of the Naval Investigation Agency (Office of Naval Investigation in real life) and he realized when he was 33 that he’d never really been 23. He was sent to Vietnam in his early twenties and barely escaped with his life. But he did learn a badass military tactic or two hundred and decided that he’d quit the Navy and enjoy life putting his skills to use working as a private investigator in Hawaii.

    But what he does is, see, is he solves crimes and romances women and races his absentee landlord’s Ferrari and says funny things and looks sexy despite having jeans that go up to his nipples and the world’s most famous mustache. I’m looking at you: Tom Selleck. You are one of the most attractive men in the world. In my mind it will always be the 80’s. 

Magnum wearing one of his better ensembles.

    I’ll drop the subject here, but I want to just point out that now I have one more reason to never leave the house/living room/couch. This is both dangerous and sad. Friends, please write or call to make sure I am still alive, because I’m going to be holed up with Magnum (or Tommy, as I like to call him) for months.

*Tom Magnum says this quite a lot on Magnum: P.I. Isn't he witty and clever even without context?