Sold

Once upon a time (as in, approximately, seven years ago), I utilized craigslist.org to obtain a companion.  No, it's not like that, although, you (or I, or anyone) can certainly utilize craigslist for any variety of companionship seeking.  I was looking for a cuddly companion of the quadruped variety, specifically a cat.  Once upon a time (as in, approximately, seven years ago (and beyond)), one could post and acquire pets via craigslist.  That is no longer the case, at least not officially.  Craig was having trouble with the quality control factor (i.e., I think there were cults making sacrificial use of fuzzy unwantables).  Like anything else, where there's a will there's a way.  I often cruise Craig to laugh, to wince, to wonder; people say strange things, people write super strange things, and people try to sell beyond strange things.  (As an aside, I will add that it's fun sometimes to post one's own bogus listing to Craig just to see if anyone is biting (because someone always is); if one, for example, tried to sell a used gerbil wheel, one might be very surprised at how many people out there are interested in purchasing said used gerbil wheel.  It's almost enough to make one wish one actually had a used gerbil wheel to sell.)

I opened the Los Angeles "farm and garden" section today mostly because it seems like an oxymoron, so I figured the going had to be good for a chuckle.  Low and behold, the first ad I clicked on was "chihuahua mix for sale" and apparently, at that, "last one left!!!" (i.e., the devil worshippers got the others (I kid, I kid...I can't possibly know the fate of the other rat fetus looking purse pooches that were sisters and brothers to this "last one left!!!".)  Like winning concert tickets on the radio, the ad says to text to 323....blah, blah, blah.

Pity the poor creature who's pic is posted on this ad, not only because it looks like the base of a bundle of celery with wan eyes and a dirt smudge of a nose, and not only because even as the "last one left!!!" it still only fetches a $35 bounty, but because it remains entirely unclear (celery likening aside) whether this "item" falls into the "farm" category or that of "garden".

Life sometimes can be sold.
  Sold:  --verb
to transfer goods to or render services for another in exchange for money; dispose of to a purchaser for a price

Cyclical

A recent Scientific American headline posited that anxiety is more likely to keep people unemployed than depression.  Struck me as an occupational hazard cycle.  No job = Anxiety = No job = Depressed = No job = Wash, rinse and repeat.

There is the personal vanity hazard cycle.  For example, cue the lady at Starbucks who each day she comes in to order she appears to have a smaller nose than the day before when she ordered; (same latte, but that foam is not hittin' the same nose, not hittin' the new one at all). It could just be the oversized sunglasses, but my discerning eye detects more Michael J than Oliver P.  The other term for this snip/snip...bandage...snip/snip some more is BDD (body dysmorphic disorder, of course).  However, as discerning an eye as this blogger may have, she can't diagnose someone on recurring Starbucks sightings alone.

Other vicious cycles to be wary of include spending and making money (wash, rinse, repeat, launder?); altering hair color (literally, wash, rinse and repeat) and lawsuits (sue, counter-sue, settle, sue again...unfortunately, washing, rinsing, sanitizing have no effect on this cycle at all).

Life sometimes can be cyclical.

Cyclical: –adjective
   revolving or recurring in cycles; characterized by recurrence in cycles

Andean

As if the plane from Lima had barely touched down, the black and white and fuzzy llama (yes, LLAMA, as in como se...?/rhymes with Obama/let's hope this isn't your baby's mama...) that I encountered on Manhattan Beach's strand (yes, STRAND, as in the beach--California's) was cruising on foot, as quadrupeds are prone to, like he may (or may not) just be a spoof on an overgrown mastiff (typically that's an oxymoron) out for an afternoon stroll, same as it ever was, as if it ever was.  This llama made a Becker's custom long board look insignificant.  He was frisky too.  Granted, there were several ladies flanking his flanks for pics, but he had definite hop in his step--which, perpetuates my theory that he was fresh off the plane (cramped legs and stale air (no doubt he got a deal on Taca which compounds cramped and stale to = immobilizing and suffocating (read: no peanuts for you)), so he needed a good stretch and some fresh beachy air).  Ah-ha...which, leads directly into, of course, the question of the day, what was this llama actually doing on the strand?  This, dear reader, I cannot begin to answer.  Let's start with was I not completely chuffed and then some to make his Alpacan acquaintance?  Most definitely.  Do I think he was "allowed" to be there?  Most definitely not.  Therefore, do I think he will be spotted again?  Most definitely unlikely.

My conclusion of his illicit presence is drawn based largely on the fact that his owner looked south of sane.  How do I know she was his owner?  Well, she was the one leading him down the strand by the rope around his neck and she was wearing a llama t-shirt (and at least one of them smelled a lot like llama).  LA County municipal code 10.28.020  says that one must have a license to keep a wild animal.  Gonna go out on a pretty sturdy limb and call a llama "wild" for all intents and purposes re/ LA municipality.  I'm an animal lover at heart, so I wasn't gonna be the jerk to demand to see this guy's papers, so I can neither confirm nor deny his civilian legitimacy.  I will add that the code goes on into a section titled "Running at large prohibited--Exceptions".  This seems both deliberately vague and remarkably intriguing.  For the sake of this blog I'm gonna throw the strand llama into the "exceptions" category.  He was, after all, so cute, and looks can get you very far in LA.

The question that should still be on your mind is why this blog isn't sporting a sporty pic of said llama.  For all you know, I'm full of llama s*it.  Well, dear reader, the proof in my blog pudding shouldn't surprise you: If I can miss a blimp, the llama was probably off my radar too.

Life sometimes can be Andean.
Andean: –adjective

  of or like the Andes

Chocolaty

For anyone who didn't realize what eating a chocolate turtle in the shower can do for one's day, all I have to say (and brevity is not my strong point, so let the conciseness of this post represent the sincerity of the recommendation), try it.

Life sometimes can be chocolaty.
Chocolaty: –adjective

  made, flavored, or covered with chocolate

Aromatic

Walking into the yellow and blue Swedish mouse maze, formally known as Ikea, one doesn't know if one should be expecting to get rubbed down or cooked up.  There is a peculiar and pervasive scent to all Ikeas that is equal parts carnival (courtesy of the on-site "eatery" which sells mostly hotdogs and lumps of "meat" passing under the title of "Swedish meatballs") and spa (perhaps a result of the assorted candles).  It's infuriating enough to have to take the two story escalator to begin the mouse maze at the top of the building where one literally has no choice but to follow the yellow Swede road which meanders at a maddeningly slow pace through a bevy of sets akin to generic sitcoms.

It's not funny though.  It's not funny at all trying to get past no one that resembles the "Friends" cast, and as if the struggle of dodging all walks of kids, carts, couples and not-as-easy-as-it-looks-to-assemble-crap, the smell continues to permeate my logic.  Truly, I don't know if I'm getting grabbed by a resident Ikea masseuse in the faux comfort of one of a dozen bedroom designs or reaching for the ketchup bottle.

Case in point: only visit Ikea if absolutely, undoubtedly unavoidable (i.e., you can't get that tear-your-hair-out-assemble-yourself couch/bed/armoire/kitchen sink/desk anywhere else) or if you're hungry for flower scented hotdogs.  Yum.  Blue and yellow, blue and yellow, look deep into the "I" of the d.i.y. Swedes.

Life sometimes can be aromatic.

Aromatic: --adjective

  having a distinctive, usually fragrant smell

Simple

I like Ferrari's a lot.  I'd say a good 5-10% of my daily brain power is dedicated to visualizing myself in a Ferrari; (how hot would it be (that's rhetorical; you know it would be) to read a blog post that you know was written from the driver's seat of a Ferrari?  Cause when (note the active qualifier) I have one, I probably won't leave its lush embrace, so blogs will be generated from steering wheel helm).  Obviously, considering the title of this post, Ferrari's will not be further discussed (although they will further be thought about).  There is a lot of pleasure to be found amidst the virtual stacks on amazon.com, especially the dusty stacks of used media.  In particular, I find it pleasing to order and receive used DVDs of movies either forgotten or too good to be among the common findables elsewhere (i.e., obscure and/or foreign and/or bad (in the way that it requires a particular taste)).

I get a really decent buzz off finding a padded envelope crowding my mailbox.  I don't have a TV or a laptop with a DVD drive on which to watch these acquired cinematic jewels.  However, it's nice to get them and then...have them (and being as I've already seen them, I know they're good (I have excellent taste in case the Ferrari persuasion hadn't given that away already)).

Other simple pleasures that bring me inordinate pleasure include: fresh sheets (who wouldn't get with that? (only a dirty person); new socks (I usually splurge on vacation by way of 99% of the time forgetting to pack the old ones); and checking daily blog stats to see that more than 2 people have viewed (this indicates that my fanbase is greater than my genetic donors (i.e., my mom and dad aren't the only readers).

Life sometimes can be simple.
Simple: –adjective  

  not elaborate or artificial; plain not ornate or luxurious; unadorned

Phantasmagoric

Roald Dahl wrote, in the BFG, "The witching hour, somebody had once whispered to her, was a special moment in the middle of the night when every child and every grown-up was in a deep deep sleep, and all the dark things came out from hiding and had the world all to themselves."  I read about Dahl's big friendly giant quite some time ago, as in maybe two decades ago, but the strange allure of the "witching hour" stayed with me.  Depending on the source consulted, the witching hour is at 3am (or midnight to 3am) because 3am is the Devil's hour.

Outside of a run in with a paranormal something or other in the stock room of the panty palace (aka, Victoria's Secret), this blog does not promote the existence of ghosts or goblins.  Yet, this blogger has consistently been waking up at 3am (on the button), Devil be damned, at least a few nights a week.

Rob Thomas lamented in his song "3am" on Matchbox 20's first album that it was 3am, so he "must be lonely".  Well, in accordance with the witching hour, it may be entirely unlonely.  At 3am it's pretty easy to confuse any lurking shadow with an otherworldly goblin.  So, what does this all (all being Roald Dahl + the panty palace + Matchbox 20 = strange awakening patterns at 3am) add up to?  It adds up to that which is shown added up in parenthesis; it means that this blog must commit to some nocturnal investigations.  The night vision/phantasm view lens shall be set in advance on the camera and the next 3am awakening shall be explicitly documented.  Stayed tuned (assuming the blogger lives past 3am to blog about presumably bewitching encounters of the devilish kind).

Life sometimes can be phantasmagoric.
Phantasmagoric–adjective

  a shifting series of phantasms, illusions, or deceptive appearances, as in a dream or as created by the  imagination; a changing scene made up of many elements

Orthographical

Biutiful is not just the movie that has earned Javier Bardem an Oscar nomination, "biutiful" is an example of orthography.  Orthography is the writing system that, via script, represents a particular language.  So, over and over in my head, before seeing this excellent movie, I was repeating the title with all sorts of strange emphasis.  It looked like "beautiful", but should it sound like "beautiful"?  The way Inarritu's latest film uses it, it is an orthographical combination of Spanish and English.  So, I settled on a pronunciation that involves me saying "burrito" silently first and then rolling out "biutiful" with an especially lavish emphasis on the "u" and a hand gesture that doesn't actually mean anything except that I'm being emphatic because I'm channeling Latin vibes.

The linguistic layer is just one of many that the film employs to bring themes that extend beyond cultures, borders and times.  In that regard, it feels very much like a Gabriel Garcia Marquez magical realism undertaking.  The setting of Barcelona was stunning in its emotional effectiveness.  The city served not just as a complex metropolitan hub but also as a character itself, and not an entirely warm and likable one.

Even in the clutches of cancer, Bardem is entirely magnetic, and the movie stayed with me much more like an observational experience than a passive film viewing.  Among my favorite simple pastimes is sneaking food, in particular Mexican food (or anything that requires salsa), into the theater to munch while watching.  Bitutiful was no exception, and considering I forgot to grab napkins, I conquered my quesadilla like a champ.  The salsa, however, stayed with me almost as long as the sentiment.  I put my pajamas on to find a significant salsa drip running the length of what might be deemed my decolletage.  Yum/yium.

Life sometimes can be orthographical.
Orthography: –noun.

  the art of writing words with the proper letters, according to accepted usage; correct spelling

Unlucky

Every Wednesday morning for the past several weeks I wake up with an extra hop in my skip, a little extra step with my pep despite a somewhat restless Tuesday night sleep.  Make whatever conjectures you can devise of my week night activities, but truth be told (and this blog is committed to honesty), I've been playing the lottery.  Each Tuesday afternoon'ish I cruise into a CVS pharmacy in order to obtain one Mega Millions ticket, after all, it only takes one.

I figure this is a dollar well invested, and I've got big plans for the winnings (whatever the final mega millions actually ends up being).  In fact, I have a list of the top six things I shall do with my half (because I've committed to splitting it equally with my POC (for those of you readers not privy to secret agent code, that acronym stands for "partner in crime")).  And now, ah, now, we arrive at the crux of this rant because this is actually a rant, and I am beginning to consider my not winning to be a crime, a crime against humanity (mine), and, understandably, I'm pretty pissed (which could lead to unpredictable behavior and harm to oneself (myself)).

I've been doing a seemingly random "quick pick", so I have not been self selecting my numbers.  I've been letting the lottery ordained computers do my picking.  Herein may lie the fundamental hurdle.  I have good reason (a la Wired magazine's expose on Canadian scratchers) to believe that this selection is not entirely random.  I'm not calling it fixed, but I'm pretty sure the state doesn't actually want me to win.  This is beginning to agitate me, especially because I've felt really good about winning.  I've had that "feeling" the past several weeks only to awake on Wednesday morning to a string of digits that do not (repeat: DO NOT) match [any of] the numbers on my little glossy yellow ticket.

For all of the positive outlook I can harness on Wednesday morning by lunch time I'm pretty much ready to drive off a Mulholland curve.  I don't think anyone wants this.  I don't think this would be good publicity for the state lottery's cause either.  The extreme let down of having absolutely no matching digits is starting to chip away at my outlook; I can only rebuild it so many times.  Question is, can one sue the lottery for psychological damages?  I think this would make an outstanding class action.

Life sometimes can be unlucky.
Unlucky: –adjective
  not lucky; lacking good fortune; ill-fated

Voltaic

The northwestern part of Venezuela is home to the most concentrated, most regular lightening storm anywhere, ever.  Apparently (as I haven't yet been to see for myself, but I am running a speedy internal brainstorming of funding schemes in order to stake this wonder out for myself).  The "Beacon of Maracaibo," is what old time sailors called the lightning that flashes over Catatumbo for up to 10 hours a night, 260 nights a year.  That ozone inducing figure again is 10 HOURS EVERY NIGHT FOR 260 NIGHTS EVERY FREAKIN' YEAR.  That is a lot (LOT) of lightning.

Lightning could certainly personify elusivity.  This blog professes to know very little, in fact, nothing, about lightning except for the undeniable fact that it's utterly awesome.  So, according to a bit of research, lightning, as it tears through the sky, breaks up oxygen molecules.  When these molecules rearrange themselves, ozone is the result.  So, Catatumbo's storms have been touted as responsible for creating a lot of ozone.

The surrounding mountain range is a V-shape which facilitates the meeting of warm Caribbean winds to cool Andes gusts.  In addition, the area sits on a ton of oil, so where there is oil there is also methane.  The combo of this mountain situation and the methane, apparently, nearly adds up to what may be dubbed the perfect storm.  Like many entities under the banner of perfection, access is pretty limited.  In addition to the geographical uniqueness of the area, it also borders Bogota, and to find someone to take you for a boat ride onto the lake (where the spectacle would be truly spectacular) is next to impossible because a large majority of the South American criminal sect utilize the lake (and adjoining river) for transporting...(lightning souvenirs, probably).

Life sometimes can be voltaic.
Voltaic: –adjective
  noting or pertaining to electricity or electric currents, especially when produced by chemical action, as in a cell; galvanic

Synthetic

The journal Science Translational Medicine published information about results that indicate successfully bioengineered blood vessels.  Cells from a donor are taken and injected into a "degradable polymeric scaffold".  This plastic is the same material used in degradable sutures, so after a period time, wherein the donor cells have had time to secrete "extracellular matrix proteins", the proteins in the synthesized tissue strengthen, and when the polymer degrades, the remaining product is a fully functional blood vessel.  Upon implantation, the prediction is that the bioengineered vessel would not cause an immune response because, presumably, it appears to the body, for all intents and purposes, to be organic.  In other words, it's what knock-off designer goods hanker to be, it's a really good fake.

So, this got me to thinking about what I'd read lately on bioengineered food.  Some of the pros like the ability to feed lots of people and to commandeer the quality quotient insomuch as leaving out of the equation unsavory variables like mad cow and e. coli make it seem like a reasonable effort.  There remains something entirely unsavory about the prospect though.  For as much as I am intrigued with medical findings like the blood vessel engineering, I waver on the line when it comes to food.  Is it because I know I have the option, that I want to exercise some sort of right, or is there something inherently amiss with eating beef that never saw the juicy confines of a real hide?

Yet, I'll eat cheetoes till I'm blue in the face (or orange, as the case could be).  I'm thinking, as I bite off more than I can chew with this topic that perhaps initial testing should be done with the folks who have employed the use of plastics in their own anatomy.  For example, if a woman has breast implants, presumably, she is at terms with partially synthetic anatomy.  So, she should eat the synthetic pig first and tell the rest of us how it goes down.  Maybe with each plastic surgery procedure, the patient gets a pack of food stamps for bioengineered goods.  It's a win/win.  The patient saves money for the next set of plastic, and the bio foods industry has human test subjects.

Of course, it remains possible, in a Philip K. Dick/Spanish speaking Chihuahua sort of way, that we've been eating bio foods for a while; Taco Bell is being sued for their lack of 100% beef in their tacos.  Low and behold it's a powder meal substance made to look and taste a lot like beef.  So, ehhh, six to one, half dozen [fake] eggs to the other I guess.

Life sometimes can be synthetic.
Synthetic: –adjective
  noting or pertaining to compounds formed through a chemical process by human agency, as opposed to those of natural origin

On The Lam

Apparently, if you live in Boston it is OK to ride the subway with your snake.  I don't have a snake, and I don't live in Boston, and I don't ride the subway, so I've never thought about it.  However, now that I have, I find that perhaps peculiar if not disturbing.  I am a huge fan of "helper" dogs, and I get that they'd be invited aboard public transport.  I also saw a television special once on helper monkeys.  This would be a little more obscure, but I'd understand if one or another pocket-size monkey variety was perched on the metro seat beside me, although, they'd probably prefer to hang from the handrail.  This all points to what I am pretty sure I would not be OK with, and that is a 3 foot long boa constrictor curling up on the seat beside me.

Apparently, some lady in Boston lost (yes, LOST) her pet boa constrictor on the subway...for a month (yes, a MONTH).  OK, A) I'd say it's good that this lady is riding the subway because if she can misplace her boa constrictor, you know she can't keep tabs on car keys, but B) ummm, why?  To what avail exactly does one board the subway with one's boa constrictor and then deboard same said subway without one's boa constrictor?  And, C) what the hell is wrong with the rest of the Boston subway riding population that all bystanders simply watched a 3 foot boa constrictor slither away into the adjoining car?  The cold weather has apparently gone to these peoples' minds, and they've full-blown lost them, along with the snake.

The owner promised to pay more attention the next time she takes her snake out in public.  Really?  That's your comment when you make the news for losing your 3 foot long boa constrictor on the public transit system for a month?  This is why people who don't have kids shouldn't have kids and shouldn't have pets and shouldn't reside in large cities where they taint the overall intelligence of the surrounding population.  Done and done: if you own a 3 foot boa constrictor as a pet that you're inclined to losing, go live in a cave where that irresponsibility is more acceptable.  Poor snake.  I'd want to get away from this fool too.

Life sometimes can be on the lam.

Lam: –verb 

  getaway, break away, bunk, escape, fly the coop

Catty

I was amused (and when I say amused, I mean humorously repulsed) by the conversation I overheard at a local eatery last night.  I'm an exceptional eaves-dropper (and always have been (hearken back to single-digit age range when I could make out my parents' voices from their room across the hall when they thought I was asleep only to find out (the hard way) in the morning that I wasn't when I'd weigh in on the pillow-talk items they'd discussed the night previously, and my dad would instruct me to "turn my ears off" in the future...well, I didn't listen; they're still on)). 

So, the one chick says to the other chick (ostensibly, for all makes and models of contemporary "chick", these chicks are "friends" (READ: "friend" requires quotations),"So, it's not like I care because I don't; I'm not that selfish, but we've been friends since 2006, you'd think she'd know that my birthday is on the same day that she's scheduled her bachelorette party."  Bitch!  Wait...which (the self-professed unselfish birthday-haver or the callous scheduling maniac bride-to-be)?

Suddenly, the topic changes.  The faux-not indignant one still has the floor because between two girlfriends there is always one that is superior.  This is simply the nature of being simultaneously female and friends.  The power play can shift, of course, depending on which of the "xx" pair is carrying a more current Louis at her side (and by the way, what exactly was the clamouring for the white and rainbow version?  Who but a San Francisco drag queen could pull off an accessory that appears to be covered in a gumball machine's vomit?  Is the white leather supposed to match my shoes because I'm pretty sure no self-discerning lady of sophistication has worn white leather shoes since she last set patented foot in a Baptist church many decades ago), or according to which of the "xx" pair is sleeping with the other's boyfriend.  Ah, at last we arrive at the crux of this convo.

So, faux-not indignant says to her captive audience (i.e., "friend"),"I don't think you can be mad about just one time.  I mean, it's not like you guys are married, and, besides, in this day and age, I just don't think it's realistic to be mad."  Ouch, I'm pretty sure she just told her friend not to be upset that her boyfriend cheated on her.  Yup, entirely sure because the following statement was to the note of, "I know you thought he cheated on you with me.  Anyhow, you just have to make a choice about whether it's worth it to be upset."  Wait.  No, really, wait.  I'm pretty sure she just acknowledged that she's the other party to the cheating triangle and in the same fell swoop told her friend that it would be silly to consider this plot twist as anything more than normal.  Her friend must have been sedated because she appeared to acquiesce.  Then they did what girls do best, they talked s*it about all of the other friends they have in common.  Apparently, callous scheduling maniac bride-to-be is so unfit to have children because she "so does not take care of her body" and "weighs like 85 pounds".

Truly, who needs TV when you have live action?  I'll take my reality drama straight up and in person, Bitch.

Life sometimes can be catty.
Catty: –adjective

  slyly malicious; spiteful

Perplexing

This is not a picture of the car that was in front of me today.  I was unable to snap a pic of the car in front of me with the bumper sticker that so incensed my good senses because I took my camera out of my car.  I gave in to my missed opportunities of late and figured, "what's the freakin' point?" since I can't seem to snap a simple enough bird-watching or blimp-spotting moment.  I suppose it's for the better.  I probably would have rear-ended the fool in front of me with the bumper sticker to the tune of "Martyr for Servitude" anyway, and I don't want to be obligated to give any fools any wiggle room never mind my insurance info or phone number.  (On a side note, it would be quite brilliant if new model cars came equipped with two amenities that I'd find helpful pretty much on a daily basis.  #1) A telescopic camera, maybe a periscope sort of mechanism that has a click button on the steering wheel.  This would be great for road trips too (although I don't know if anyone takes those any more) and certainly for traffic accidents; #2) a Nerf bumper so that you could give just a bit of a nudge to idiot drivers to let them know how you really feel without doing any real damage.  For that matter, why not equip the car with Nerf darts that can also be accessed via steering wheel buttons?  Anyhow, you heard it here first.)

So, this fool had a bumper sticker professing to be a martyr to servitude.  Ummm, A) I think that's probably redundant and wholly (not to be confused with holy (because words like that might just burn a hole in this blog and shall not be employed no matter how tempting the pun)) unnecessary; B) Who advertises that they're a martyr?  I thought that was something you called someone when you got sarcastic during a domestic argument; C) Servitude?  Really?  I'm not sure what that word means. 

There was an additional sentence that went on about an avatar of some sort, so I'm guessing this is someone who should not pass go, should not collect $200 dollars because this is someone who shouldn't be allowed out of the house.  Anyone with this bumper sticker isn't fit for public consumption.

Life sometimes can be perplexing.
Perplexing: –adverb

  to cause to be puzzled or bewildered over what is not understood or certain; confuse mentally

Futile

How hard can it be to snap a picture of a big a**, presumably slow-moving, blimp...

out of the big, broad, presumably wide-open, sky...

while driving, presumably slow'ish, down this such untraveled street while hanging a long, presumably capable, arm out the sunroof?

It's hard, Reader.  Very hard.  This is the same street on which previously posted hawk siting was an indisputable photographic miss.  But this...THIS was a freakin' blimp.  Blogger/unskilled in the most photographer even turned down a side street to actually bring vehicle to a stop to snap picture.  CA Edison man in his big overbearing truck thwarted that attempt.  By the time Blogger had feet on ground and eyes to sky, the blimp was gone, as if by magic, as if it had never been.  How does a blimp simply disappear from an endless expanse of clear blue sky? 

Look, it's not as if this Blogger doesn't have a history with blimps, specifically the Goodyear variety.  That's why yesterday's sighting was of particular note.  It was NOT the Goodyear blimp.  Repeat: it was NOT the Goodyear blimp.  Who knew the Southbay sky was open territory for other blimps?  Well, this was no "other" blimp.  This was the Farmer's Insurance blimp.  Having just read that they bid the highest bid of all times, $700M, to put a name on a sports stadium (the anticipated AEG football stadium slated for downtown Los Angeles), it made sense, in an elusive zephyr sort of way.

[Sigh.]  There are train chasers.  Fair to assume there are blimp chasers.  Sadly, how does one fail at blimp chasing?  It's practically impossible.

Life sometimes can be futile.

Futile: –adjective

  incapable of producing any result; ineffective; useless; not successful

Mysterious

I had a massive sense of voyeurism as I clicked open the link to story and pictures of a secluded tribe located in Brazil.  I vaguely recall having a similar prickle of curiosity coupled with guilt a couple years ago when this tribe first made worldwide headlines for the very fact of being other-worldly (in the sense of being a legitimately self-sufficient group of human beings subsisting within a remote (in the sense of being otherwise similarly unfound and unsought)) location.

It's difficult for most of us to capture each others' intrigue for long, especially with the bevy of platforms for communication and probably also for the intrinsic characteristic I'd venture to assign to most human beings to connect (and whereby share) with one another.  So, for me (or you) to hear about a group of people otherwise totally unknown and undiscovered by the rest of us is pretty titillating news; it seems after all to be founded on the same basis that some of us choose/like/can't-help-but to believe in aliens--that sentiment that we are not alone (and the desire to know with whom we share the world/the galaxy/the universe). 

So, it was with an almost equal combination of misgiving and interest (heavier on the latter, clearly, since my ultimate decision was to peek through the keyhole) that I soaked up the details about this group of people, this tribe, who live so differently than the "rest of us".  I've been branded romantic, and I'll take it (with unequal parts pride and embarrassment, heavier on the former, candidly, since my ultimate decision is to confess as much to being), and having accepted the intrigue factor (the same as I would, sooner or later, if little green men were actually found to be "out there"), I toy with the concept of being unknown.  To literally not be known by the vastly vast rest of the world.  How does, if it does, change who you are?  Tribe members are reported to be bodily covered in red paint from a seed called "urucum".  [Perhaps a social experiment is in order, and I shall venture out next week in red body paint to chart social reaction.]

Life sometimes can be mysterious.
Mysterious: -adjective
  Difficult or impossible to understand, explain, or identify; (of a location) Having an atmosphere of strangeness or secrecy