The Wa Blog

Tribute rock band names: clever or clueless?

2013-06-16T05:00:00.000-07:00

My wife casually mentioned the other day that she has a cousin in a tribute band, and my imagination caught fire.

I have always fantasized about forming a tribute band of AD/DC and calling it Fuse Box. But it turns out there already is one!

Well, you know what they say about great ideas: "That wasn't one."

The key to a tribute band is the name, whether it is meant sincerely or ironically. One tribute to 80's hair bands is named Mullett. An ABBA tribute is called Bjorn Again.

The Beatles have probably spawned more tribute acts than anyone, many referencing Beatles songs in their names. Thus we have The Nowhere Men and The Eggmen.

The best Beatles one, I think, though, is The Fab Faux.

A lot of bands simply add something before or after the actual artists' name and call it a day, resulting in bands like Eaglemania, Simply Elton, Almost Manilow, Jimi Lives and Michael Buble—The Show.

But I respect creativity most, like a Tom Petty tribute named Petty Thief. Now there is a guy who you know sings with his tongue in his cheek.

There is a Steely Dan tribute called Stanley Dee. A Motorhead knockoff named Motorheadache. Van Halen? No, Van Hellion! Motley Crue? Cruella!

There is an Ozzy tribute band down under calling itself Aussie Ausborn. And a clever tribute to 80's hair metal calls itself Poise 'N' Roses. I also like another ABBA tribute called Mamma Mania.

But I wonder why a Pink Floyd fan thought a good tribute name would be Keep Floyding. Especially when fans could go see Pink Fraud instead.

I wonder about the guys who pay homage to Foo Fighters as Food Fighterz. To me, a z plural is just a cry for help.

Some of the best names come from female tributes; Blonde Jovi, AC/Dshe, Aerochix, the Iron Maidens, Chick Jagger.

But there is a whole lot of laziness out there too. Bon Jovie? Really? One extra letter is all you had the energy for?

And, seriously, who would go see Oasiss if their rival, No Way Sis, were in town?

I do not quite understand the Michael Jackson tribute called Delfim Miranda, but perhaps something is lost in translation from the Portuguese.

I wish there were a tribute band of Fleetwood Mac called Fleetwood PC. But until there is, I guess I can be content with the very real bands Led Zepagain and the Clone Temple Pilots.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - These lands of ours

2013-06-12T05:00:00.000-07:00

Slogan: "Everything's tastier if it starts off in cursive."

Little-known area of Disneyland which just didn't pan out.

Man tricked into shoe-shopping with wife; survives to tell the tale

2013-06-09T05:00:00.000-07:00

For a woman, choosing a purse is like choosing a husband. Before deciding, she has to check each prospect's shape, flexibility, style and depth of pockets.

Early on in our relationship I made the mistake of going purse-shopping with my now-wife. I could be wrong, but my memory is that it took four hours.

It took so long, in fact, "a purse" became a shorthand term between us for any act which requires time-consuming and monotonous effort, i.e.:

"Want to come look at sofas with me?"

"Sofas are a purse."

"O.K. Bye then."

Last weekend, after 20 years of vigilance, I let my guard down. We were at an outdoor music fest and Jen said something about strolling over to a local shoe store, which I did not hear because like most men, I tune my wife out a lot of the time. Not to be mean; it's just we men have a limited cranial capacity for verbal input.

This, of course, is what Jen was counting on.

Before I knew it I was standing amid aisles of pumps, flats, sandals and espadrilles. Shoes?! I thought, too late. Shoes are a purse! (Insert echo effect, pull back to view the store from high in the sky.)

I slumped onto one of those sloped shoe-trying-on stools and weighed my options. I could make a break for the door, but I didn't like my odds. Jen had slipped into those ankle-high nylon footies stores provide, which have great traction. She'd take me down before I made it past the kitten heels.

In a civilized world, shoe stores would give men a waiting space. Men could then deposit themselves purgatorily in a corner of the store supplied with TVs. They could even be cardboard TVs, just something familiar a man could gaze at to pass the hours.

This is not a civilized world.

On my stool I pretended to play games on my phone, but I didn't have the heart. I had let myself get pursed. I had gotten soft.

I wasn't the only one, either. Every other stool was festooned with a hollow-eyed guy pretending to play Tetris or Bubble Bash 2. Women circled around us doing test-walks of wedges, gladiator sandals, soccer slides.

I think I eventually made it out of there, but maybe it's like "The Matrix," and they just want me to believe I got out. I may still be there now. Yes, I fear I may well be permanently, irrevocably pursed.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - Moon Pie Misdirection

2013-06-05T05:00:00.000-07:00

I would rather find this Moon Pie in my hand, frankly, where it can reach my mouth. Nice, albeit transparent, attempt to save yourself from consumption, dude.

Old Decrepit House II: Revenge of the Hinge

2013-06-02T05:00:00.000-07:00

My old house evidently did not take kindly to being called decrepit here a couple of weeks ago, because this week the screen door busted off its hinges. Luckily I am very handy with repairs.

Hold on, my wife is laughing at something funny in the paper. What? Apparently it is so funny she can't catch her breath to explain.

Anyway, I got a new screen door at a place I will call, to avoid the appearance of advertising, Foam Depot.

The new door came with a "hinge channel expander," which makes the door size adjustable, but first you have to cut it to size with a hacksaw.

In case you have never cut metal with a hacksaw, here is something you can try in order to simulate the amount of noise involved:

Place a metal bucket on your head. Ask a friend to dump a thousand ball bearings on it. From your roof.

(Trust me, your friend will be into this.)

Once the expander is attached, you need to affix the handle mechanisms. The instructions say this only requires a few screws, but the instructions assume that you already have a garage full of metal-drilling drill bits, and the instructions are a little presumptuous, I think.

So go to Foam Depot and bring home new drill bits you will never use again. You will never even be able to find them again. Drill bits are the socks of the tool world.

After drilling holes for the handles, attach them using 5/8" screws, or a random piece of wire after you realize you mistakenly used the 5/8" screws to attach the channel expander to the door.

Assure yourself that wire is "artsy," and that "aesthetics" are overrated.

Finally, attach the cylindrical closer tube to the top of the screen door. This requires drilling two 1/8" holes with the new drill bit you can't find. A hammer and a pin punch work just as well, but who has a pin punch?

Try a nail. It will cause quite a dimple in the door's metal, but you don't live in Bel Air, do you?

The point here, after all, is keeping out bugs, so the five inch gap at the top of the door is going to be the real problem.

You could start over from scratch, of course, but how big an issue are bugs anyway? It's that creaking sound from the attic you should be concerned about. It's an old house, and it has a bit of a vindictive streak.

. . .

You thought I was joking? O.K., so the gap is more like three inches. Still, not exactly something which bugs will find a challenging barrier. But hey, it looks good from the street.

Kids' last week of school is a dreamy waste of time

2013-05-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

With only seven days of school left before summer, my kids' brains have entered a mental state I like to call "already-gonus adios-is." They are already, mentally, wearing flip-flops.

Do you remember what a waste of time the last week of school was? Sure, you had finals, but one of the days, at least, your finals were P.E. and choir.

I do not know if I could name another time in one's life when one is so physically present yet so mentally gone. Maybe while watching Bruce Willis movies.

One of the most vivid memories of my childhood is riding my bike home the day I finished sixth grade, the sun on my face and Alice Cooper's "School's out for summer" blasting in my mind.

Summer vacation for a kid glows like the first rays of sunrise, lighting his imagination long before the actual thing arrives.

It is not so much the things I imagined I would do that summer before seventh grade which made it so sweet, but the things I wouldn't do. I would not sit still. I would not pay attention. I would not stop playing at the ring of a bell.

I am, actuarially speaking, in the autumn of my years now. But my children are not only in the summer of their lives, they are on the cusp of summer itself, a double-whammy so pure they wake up these mornings like drowsy puppies, pre-drunk on a vacation which has not yet begun.

Like the hot gust of wind which blasts out of a subway tunnel before the train is even in sight, summer's impending freedom is something kids sense and lean against, savoring its salvation even as they sit at desks, pretending to be present.

Seven days until I don't have to wear socks, they silently smile.

Six.

Five.

My kids are no longer little, so they have summer tasks to complete; mandatory books to read, vocabulary words to be inked on flash cards. (Do you remember the moment you learned what the word "ephemeral" meant? Neither do I, but a kid's summer is a pretty good definition.)

I do remember cannonballs into the pool, the grit of beach sand between my toes, nothing to do and all day to not do it in.

Seven days. Well, as the Eagles put it: "Yes, I'm already gone / And I'm feelin' strong / I will sing this vict'ry song / 'cause I'm already gone."

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pics - Renaissance Faire

2013-05-22T05:00:00.000-07:00

Technically from the Mexican Renaissance period, but O.K.

Before neon.

Can you say "locksmith glut"?

. . .

Old house's charms require constant touch-up

2013-05-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

The best thing about being a homeowner is the exercise you get throwing fistfuls of money at repairs.

Much like humans, the moment a house is created it starts to fall apart; slowly at first, and then later as if falling apart is the one thing in which it takes joy.

My house is in its 80's, and if falling apart were a sport, it would be in the Senior Olympics.

Last year we endured the sewer line under the house cracking up as spectacularly as that "agony of defeat" skier they used to show on "Wide World of Sports," except exponentially stinkier.

Now the basement door has rotted out, which is the nature of wooden things which sit outside for 40 years. That's just science.

The door sits parallel to the ground, because I guess the previous owner who built it said to himself, "Now, how can I catch what little rain we get in Southern Cal on a horizontal surface, to make sure none of it runs off?"

Like my confidence in government, my confidence in the water-repelling qualities of latex paint has eroded as I have aged.

The door is made of plywood and heavy 2x4's, and lifting it off the ground has always required the emitting of grunts you generally only hear from Eastern Bloc Olympic weightlifters. The ladies, I mean.

I researched hardy, lightweight polyethylene plastic doors and aluminum doors, but the day I spend a thousand bucks on a door for a part of the house I don't even use is the day you will see me strip naked, strap bacon to myself and run through a Doberman rescue.

What I mean is: you will not see that.

So I bought some fresh plywood and some 2x3's, to rebuild it lighter, got some leftover house paint, and saved myself about $950. I have considered, for many years, building a pulley and counter-weight system which would make raising the door easy, but I have put it off because it would require research and effort, two things I find easier to procrastinate than any two other things you could name.

Now that the basement is secured against skunks (long story), I can almost hear the house pondering plans for its next calamity. The roof? The plumbing?

An old house is a leaky rowboat. You never quite stop bailing, but it's worth it. After all, you cannot put a price on charm, especially after you have spent so much time redefining it.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - a little Renaissance Faire color

2013-05-15T05:00:00.000-07:00

Fair(e) warning.

Emerging cicada becomes guest columnist

2013-05-12T06:00:00.000-07:00

I have been waiting 17 years to say this: get me to an IN-N-OUT! I have been underground sucking on tree roots my whole life. Who's got a car? Burger me!

Wait, let me introduce myself. I am a cicada. I am part of that "brood" which is emerging from underground in North Carolina this month, and I have only a week to live, so make it a Double-Double!

George has graciously allowed me to write his column this week. I am sure you have questions. Let me hit the highlights.

Yes, I hatched from an egg in a tree in 1996, dropped to the ground, burrowed in and lived off tree-root juice for the last 17 years.

Yes, that did pretty much suck.

No, I do not have a stinger and no, I do not eat your crops.

Yes, I do have red bulbous eyes which will haunt your dreams tonight.

Yes, I do have a good sense of humor for someone so short-lived.

No, I cannot play "Popcorn" on my abdominal tymbals.

Yes, spittle bugs and jumping plant lice are my cousins.

Yes, technically, I could still marry them.

Yes, since there are often a million of us cicadas per acre after we hatch, privacy during mating is not an expectation.

No, I am not an exhibitionist, just a realist.

Yes, when I emerge from the ground I am called a "nymph." We all are. Go ahead. Make a crack.

Yes, we only live about a month after emerging, just long enough to make a lot of noise, mate and then kick off. Kinda like humans.

Yes, I have a favorite cicada joke: "Cicada, cicahda, tomata, tomahta, let's call the whole...oops, I'm dead already."

Yes, that is a little dark.

Yes, male cicadas make the most noise by far, and it's all mating calls. That wall of sound you hear is the cicada equivalent of a football stadium of guys all shouting "Hey, baby, hey, baby, hey, baby" at the top of their voices. It can be more than 100 decibels, louder than a jackhammer and, frankly, 10 times as sexy.

How do millions of us know to emerge at the same time after 17 years? We text.

Yes, I've got about a week to live still. I've been to the French Quarter, Vegas, the Grand Canyon. Excuse me, I'm getting that burger now. Hey...bucket list, you know?

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - Clothes make the gal

2013-05-08T05:00:00.000-07:00

If the universe were fair-minded, this would be right next door to Dapper Chap.

. . .

Firstborn turning 16 brings forth memories

2013-05-05T06:00:00.000-07:00

My baby turns Sweet 16 today.

When she was born, I bought a diary in which to collect all the insights I expected to have about fatherhood. I discovered the book, blank, years later and threw it away, because one does not need physical reminders of one's unfulfilled ambitions when one already has family members who know them by heart.

What I did do, faithfully, was write down the cute things the kid has said over the years. Here are a few.

(Non-parents may go outside for a few minutes and smoke. Or text.)

When she was three, and her brother was born, she asked, "Dad, how come when people have baby brothers they're still the way they were?" (I think from all of our prompting during the pregnancy, once he was born she expected to suddenly, literally, be a BIG sister.)

When she was four, I was searching for her lost paint brushes everywhere, to no avail. She chimed in with helpful advice which sounded strangely familiar: "Where did you last have them?" she asked, followed by "Retrace your steps."

One day driving her home from kindergarten, she asked if we could stop for a milk shake. "No," I said. "Dad," she asked, "why are you always so naked in your mind?" "What does that mean?" I asked, laughing. "It means, why do you always say NO?"

For a fourth grade paper on Thanksgiving, she wrote "I think I love Thanksgiving more than any other thankful holiday."

On her 12th birthday, I made her French toast for breakfast. A week later it was my own birthday.

"Dad, is it your birthday?" she asked.

"Yes, actually, it is," I said, expecting her to whip out some sort of adorable handmade gift.

"Then," she smiled, "can you make French toast for yourself...and us?"

In high school I learned the lyrics to "Sunrise, Sunset," lyrics which, I think, strike a chord with every parent eventually: "When did she get to be a beauty? / When did he grow to be so tall? / Wasn't it yesterday when they were small?"

I realize now that a diary is too small a vessel to hold the things a parent learns, mostly about himself. And I know one thing for sure—if the next 16 years go as fast as the last 16, I'd better respond to those AARP membership offers I've been getting immediately.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - Doo Dah Parade edition

2013-05-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

I went to the annual Doo Dah Parade in Pasadena Saturday. It's wacky, irreverent and sometimes a bit naughty. But here are a few images I can show you.

They say people start looking like their pets, but wow.

Some guys think nothing of flaunting their muffin top.

I guess this is what is referred to as a plunger neckline.

. . .

Backyard critter drama

2013-04-28T15:00:00.000-07:00

If you have ever had a skunk explode under your house, you have a slightly different perspective on nature than most people. I can claim that honor. A gap in my back yard fence has allowed all kinds of critters to visit us over the years, but I recently blocked it up with rocks, so I thought these forays had ended.

I was up a ladder thinning peaches when my dog began barking at an empty garden tub in the corner. His paws were up on it and he was manfully exclaiming into it. Bearing in mind that Skipper will bust a vein over a ladybug, I did not think much of it.

Lizard, I thought. (Skipper has a bit of a lizard fetish. If he had opposable thumbs, he could write "Fifty Shades of Green.") "Enough," I finally yelled at him, "You've already eaten his brothers and cousins, leave him alone with his grief!"

Bark bark bark bark.

Muttering, I descended the ladder and shooed him away.

No, it was not a skunk. It was not a lizard. It was a baby possum, razor teeth bared, hissing up like a tiny fuzzy dinosaur.

Is there a scarier face in all of Christendom than a possum's? It is a ghoul's face, white with black circles around the eyes like a malevolent panda, yet strangely adorable. It inspires in a person conflicting feelings of "Ewww" and "Awww," compelling you to both recoil and swoon at the same time.

I guessed that its mother had deposited it the previous night for safekeeping. The tub's walls were too high for it to climb in or out. It was shady, but he was about to be stuck in the full sun all day with no water.

I decided to tip the barrel and let him out, but as I did so, he and the 20 pounds of dirt in the bottom tumbled out. He was instantly buried.

Oh no! I thought. He's suffocating! I've killed a baby possum! I frantically dug him free and he just lay there, mouth slightly open in a grimace, motionless. It was a horrible sight.

Then I realized, wait a minute. This is a possum. It's what they do.

I left for five minutes, came back. He was blithely making his way through another gap in the fence line, heading to find his mother. Hold on! Another gap?!

Well, I guess the peaches can wait.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - More than just books

2013-04-24T05:00:00.000-07:00

Sunday I went to the annual L.A. Times Festival of Books on the campus of USC. There were hundreds of booths with publishers hawking their wares. Plus other sights.

I never did learn mine. Or did I? I promise you this—you will never see me coming.

Hey, you love who you love.

Just hope he hasn't had a few too many pints.

Checkmate.

. . .

Burn belly fat fast: read this column!

2013-04-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

I want to discuss with you the most important problem facing us today: belly fat.

And when I say "us," I mean women. Men do not worry about belly fat. Indeed, 50 pounds of it may take up residence atop a man's belt buckle, yet it will remain invisible to him.

If you are reading this, and you are a man, stop now. Give over the view of this screen to your wife. Go have a cheesesteak.

How do I know belly fat is a very important problem? Women's magazines. Each one at the checkout line screams about the coming ab-pocalypse.

Actual headlines: "Blast Belly Fat: drop three sizes fast," "Melt Belly Fat Fast: easy plan inside," "Belly Melt Diet: lose up to eight pounds in three days."

Time is apparently of the essence when combating this scourge. God forbid you should take a whole year to defeat your bulge.

Magazines sell by promoting speed: "The 15 Minute Flat Belly," "Burn Four Pounds in Seven Days," "Flatten Your Belly: three easy moves, three weeks."

Is your man still eating his sandwich? Is he resting his plate on his invisi-belly? Good. He doesn't need to worry his head about this plague.

I first heard the term "pinch an inch" in high school. They said if you can pinch an inch of belly fat, you have a problem. At that time I was a runner and could not pinch anything very interesting. Now I could pinch plenty, if only I could see it to pinch it. Thankfully, I cannot.

Can you pinch an inch? (You are pinching yourself, aren't you? Behold the power of the printed word.) If you are a woman, and you can pinch an inch (preferably your own), forget the magazines, with their "melting" and their "burning" and their "blasting." These people are too violent to deserve your respect. Here is what you do:

Every time you eat that Danish, that sundae, that Godiva bar, you drop a dollar in your belly fat "bank." Eventually, you take that money and you buy a trip to Italy or China or that place you have been wanting to see before your belly fat strangles you in your sleep.

You sit in a piazza with a glass of wine. You rest your hand on your ample belly, and as you ponder the blessings of your life, you actually feel it disappear. You smile at your man, for now you are both of one mind. Plus, you are in the city of your dreams. Things could be a lot worse.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - Renaming for the win!

2013-04-17T05:00:00.000-07:00

Business increased tenfold after changing the name from No Noo Thai Cuisine.

Wednesday Wa Pic - #secretapostrophe

2013-04-10T05:00:00.000-07:00

If they put an apostrophe in where it's not needed, who knows what they might put in your hair?

I could be wrong, of course. It could be run by a guy named Secret. But then you have to wonder...what's he hiding?

#punctuationpolice #misplacedworries #hairennui

Wednesday Wa Pic - Oh baby!

2013-04-03T05:00:00.000-07:00

I swear these are practically next door to each other. Unfortunately, you come upon this first place before you see the second, so I bet a lot of people don't get coverage in time.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Snatch the California roll from my hand

2013-03-27T05:00:00.000-07:00

Awaken...and try the sashimi.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Milk Movie!

2013-03-20T05:00:00.000-07:00

Sure, it's a niche genre of film, but its fans are steadfast. And strong-boned.

Wednesday Wa Pic - tea time

2013-03-13T05:00:00.000-07:00

Because if there's one thing I hate, it's the general tightness you find in most teas.

Even in dog years, I am immature

2013-03-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

My dog, in dog years, is my age now, which probably explains, on sunny days, his lying naked on the lawn.

I understand the impulse.

The dog and I, we do a lot of the same things now. We build our day around meals, we find butterflies more entrancing than television, and by eight o'clock our eyelids get heavier than the plot of a CSI episode.

Our eyesight, and memory, isn't so great. This week I took an old plastic pony my children had outgrown and put it out at the curb. The dog spied it out the front window, mistaking it for a dog brazenly marking his territory.

He growled and growled at the interloper, despite having, just two minutes before, been on the driveway when I carried the pony past him to the curb.

So I flung open the front door and he bolted out at top speed to confront the infidel. He bounced around for about two seconds like a boxer looking for an opening, and then went "Oh. It's plastic. I was just...uh...coming out to sniff the lawn here. Mmm. That's some fragrant grass, just as I suspected. I'll be going back in now."

When he is happiest, he goes in the back yard and rolls around in his own poop.

We differ in this respect.

But we share the same middle-aged expression, that gaze which says yeah, I've seen a few things, sniffed them too, but it takes a lot to impress me these days. A squirrel, for instance. Or a video of a squirrel.

Unlike me, Skipper still runs like the wind. He does not have that internal self-governor which warns "Careful, you'll rip your Achilles, your knees aren't what they used to be, is your heart really up to this?" No. Squirrel? Boom. Gone. See you after I've shown this varmint who's still got the stuff.

After a bath he races around the house like a dog afire, ripping through the rooms as if attempting to escape cleanliness itself. Like me, there is some puppy in him yet.

I make a unique tsk-tsk sound to alert Skipper to the presence of a squirrel. Even in the house, if I make this sound he will tense, look at me as if to ask "Really? Game on?" and then he will bolt out the doggie door.

I really shouldn't play tricks on a dog his age. But at my age, I get my entertainment where I can.

. . .

Skipper, vigilant for the next plastic interloper

Trip to Mars for married couple is proposed

2013-03-03T06:00:00.000-08:00

Dennis Tito, the millionaire space tourist, has recently created a foundation which is seeking—I kid you not—a married couple for a 501-day circuit around Mars; a trip even Jackie Gleason would find ambitious.

Due to the cramped, claustrophobic conditions, Tito feels a married couple would handle it better than a pair of strangers. But here is how I think it would go:

Day 1.

Husband: This is amazing. I can see North and South America all at once.

Wife: I never realized just what a fragile jewel the Earth is. I am overcome.

Day 30.

Wife: Do we have any Twix left?

Husband: No.

Wife: You effing* ate the last Twix? There were, like, 20 left yesterday.

Husband: Who's counting?

Wife: Grrrrr.

Day 100.

Husband: Is that Earth? That little dot by the three white dots? I can't tell.

Wife: Who am I, Galileo?

Husband: I forgot my glasses.

Wife: Well, there's a shock.

Day 250.

Husband: Mars is huge. I never knew it was so big. Did you know it was so big?

Wife: You know what's big? My craving for a Twix right now.

Day 300.

Husband: Have you seen my iPad charger? I was on the last level of Pizzas vs. Skeletons.

Wife: You mean the iPad charger sticking out of your shirt pocket?

Husband: You don't have to be snarky.

Wife: The whole universe is out your window and you're playing games?

Husband: You see the Milky Way, you've seen the Milky Way.

Day 350.

Wife: Did you do today's experiment yet? With the salt crystals?

Husband: That was an experiment? I thought it was for the pasta.

Wife: You ate the experiment?

Husband: Did anyone ever tell you you're kind of negative?

Wife: You left me some pasta, though, right?

Husband:

Wife: Perfect.

Day 450.

Husband: Divorce should be a last step, not a first step.

Wife: Dare me to open that hatch. Dare me.

Day 500.

Husband: Ah, Earth. One more day. When we get home, I'm buying you a whole case of Twix.

Wife: Yeah, you are. So...how are we going to spin this?

Husband: It was a spectacular journey, not just of our solar system but of ourselves, yadda-yadda.

Wife: I almost killed you in your sleep.

Husband: I almost let you.

Wife: Look at how blue it all is. What a jewel.

Husband: Priceless.

*In space, no one can hear you curse.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - Insert whip crack sound effect here

2013-02-27T05:00:00.000-08:00

Rollin' rollin' rollin'

California rollin'

Keep that sushi rollin'

Raw fish!