Pasadena Quotes

You find any more dead bodies, someone would think you owned a mystery bookstore in Pasadena.

The Santa Monica Freeway is traditionally the scene of every form of automotive folly known to man. It is not white and well-bred like the San Diego, nor as treacherously engineered as the Pasadena, nor quite as ghetto-suicidal as the Harbor. No, one hesitates to say it, but the Santa Monica is a freeway for freaks.

A few years ago I was having a hot-cocoa nightcap at a dessert shop in Pasadena, California. Ordered it with whipped cream, of course. When it arrived at the table, I saw no trace of the stuff. After I told the waiter that my cocoa had no whipped cream, he asserted I couldn’t see it because it sank to the bottom. But whipped cream has low density, and floats on all liquids that humans consume. So I offered the waiter two possible explanations: either somebody forgot to add the whipped cream to my hot cocoa or the universal laws of physics were different in his restaurant. Unconvinced, he defiantly brought over a dollop of whipped cream to demonstrate his claim. After bobbing once or twice the whipped cream rose to the top, safely afloat. What better proof do you need of the universality of physical law?

Did you see the picture of Roy Rogers's horse attending a church service in Pasadena? I forgot whether his name was Tex or Trigger but he was dressed fit to kill and looked like he was having a good time. He doubled the usual attendance.

As I contemplated these happy possibilities, we wound our way through the Pasadena Valley. "I never liked this city," I murmured. "It makes me think of game shows, tawdry parades and drunk washed-up starlets with spray-on tans." Piper coughed. "FYI, Jason's mom was from here. She died here, in a car accident." "I'm sorry. What did she do?" "She was a drunk washed-up starlet with a spray-on tan." "Ah." I waited for the sting of embarrassment to fade. It took several miles.

To capture a California sunset in South Pasadena is to hold an angel's wings with bated breath.

I have put my arm down forever to interrupt the men who want more hair." from the poem "Pasadena" collected in Own Face (1978)

Voyages to the outer solar system are controlled from a single place on the planet Earth, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration in Pasadena, California.

Knowledge of physical laws can, in some cases, give you the confidence to confront surly people. A few years ago I was having a hot-cocoa nightcap at a dessert shop in Pasadena, California. I had ordered it with whipped cream, of course. When it arrived at the table, I saw no trace of the stuff. After I told the waiter that my cocoa was plain, he asserted I couldn’t see the whipped cream because it sank to the bottom. Since whipped cream has a very low density and floats on all liquids that humans consume, I offered the waiter two possible explanations: either somebody forgot to add the whipped cream to my hot cocoa or the universal laws of physics were different in his restaurant. Unconvinced, he brought over a dollop of whipped cream to test for himself. After bobbing once or twice in my cup, the whipped cream sat up straight and afloat. What better proof do you need of the universality of physical laws?

So long time has passed since those days, and since that story, which is still vivid in my memory, and even more vivid than all the rest. Some times I stay alone in my work - room here, in my father's old mansion in Pasadena, and I look through the old, yellow pages again and again. Then I go back to the north part which is furnished in my style, with many colored Bulgarian carpets and blankets (special kind of Bulgarian blankets with long fur), I make my coffee in a cooper coffee - pot, which has been brought from there, and my thoughts wonder to those absurd memories of mine... Very often some friends ask me - what is that unusual memories of yours? I can't explain to them, better say I don't want to, and I always avoid the answer by saying - a la Bulgaro - in a Bulgarian way..."Oh, yes, yes"...

[Preston] Hotchkis had earned his position by representing San Marino, a tiny, rich, Anglo municipality south of Pasadena that had been tellingly named after a European micro-kingdom.

Gustavo Tiberius speaking." “It’s so weird you do that, man,” Casey said, sounding amused. “Every time I call.” “It’s polite,” Gus said. “Just because you kids these days don’t have proper phone etiquette.” “Oh boy, there’s the Grumpy Gus I know. You miss me?” Gus was well aware the others could hear the conversation loud and clear. He was also aware he had a reputation to maintain. “Hadn’t really thought about it.” “Really.” “Yes.” “Gus.” “Casey.” “I miss you.” “I miss you too,” Gus mumbled into the phone, blushing fiercely. “Yeah? How much?” Gus was in hell. “A lot,” he said truthfully. “There have been allegations made against my person of pining and moping. False allegations, mind you, but allegations nonetheless.” “I know what you mean,” Casey said. “The guys were saying the same thing about me.” Gus smiled. “How embarrassing for you.” “Completely. You have no idea.” “They’re going to get you packed up this week?” “Ah, yeah. Sure. Something like that.” “Casey.” “Yes, Gustavo.” “You’re being cagey.” “I have no idea what you mean. Hey, that’s a nice Hawaiian shirt you’ve got on. Pink? I don’t think I’ve seen you in that color before.” Gus shrugged. “Pastor Tommy had a shitload of them. I think I could wear one every day for the rest of the year and not repeat. I think he may have had a bit of a….” Gus trailed off when his hand started shaking. Then, “How did you know what I was wearing?” There was a knock on the window to the Emporium. Gus looked up. Standing on the sidewalk was Casey. He was wearing bright green skinny jeans and a white and red shirt that proclaimed him to be a member of the 1987 Pasadena Bulldogs Women’s Softball team. He looked ridiculous. And like the greatest thing Gus had ever seen. Casey wiggled his eyebrows at Gus. “Hey, man.” “Hi,” Gus croaked. “Come over here, but stay on the phone, okay?” Gus didn’t even argue, unable to take his eyes off Casey. He hadn’t expected him for another week, but here he was on a pretty Saturday afternoon, standing outside the Emporium like it was no big deal. Gus went to the window, and Casey smiled that lazy smile. He said, “Hi.” Gus said, “Hi.” “So, I’ve spent the last two days driving back,” Casey said. “Tried to make it a surprise, you know?” “I’m very surprised,” Gus managed to say, about ten seconds away from busting through the glass just so he could hug Casey close. The smile widened. “Good. I’ve had some time to think about things, man. About a lot of things. And I came to this realization as I drove past Weed, California. Gus. It was called Weed, California. It was a sign.” Gus didn’t even try to stop the eye roll. “Oh my god.” “Right? Kismet. Because right when I entered Weed, California, I was thinking about you and it hit me. Gus, it hit me.” “What did?” Casey put his hand up against the glass. Gus did the same on his side. “Hey, Gus?” “Yeah?” “I’m going to ask you a question, okay?” Gustavo’s throat felt very dry. “Okay.” “What was the Oscar winner for Best Song in 1984?” Automatically, Gus answered, “Stevie Wonder for the movie The Woman in Red. The song was ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You.’” It was fine, of course. Because he knew answers to all those things. He didn’t know why Casey wanted to— And then he could barely breathe. Casey’s smile wobbled a little bit. “Okay?” Gus blinked the burn away. He nodded as best he could. And Casey said, “Yeah, man. I love you too.” Gus didn’t even care that he dropped his phone then. All that mattered was getting as close to Casey as humanely possible. He threw open the door to the Emporium and suddenly found himself with an armful of hipster. Casey laughed wetly into his neck and Gus just held on as hard as he could. He thought that it was possible that he might never be in a position to let go. For some reason, that didn’t bother him in the slightest.

DOCTOR AIN WAS recognized on the Omaha-Chicago flight. A biologist colleague from Pasadena came out of the toilet and saw Ain in an aisle seat. Five years before, this man had been jealous of Ain's huge grants. Now he nodded coldly and was surprised at the intensity of Ain's response. He almost turned back to speak, but he felt too tired; like nearly everyone, he was fighting the flu. The stewardess handing out coats after they landed remembered Ain too: A tall thin nondescript man with rusty hair. He held up the line staring at her; since he already had his raincoat with him she decided it was some kooky kind of pass and waved him on. She saw Ain shamble off into the airport smog, apparently alone. Despite the big Civil Defense signs, O'Hare was late getting underground. No one noticed the woman. - 'The Last Flight of Doctor Ain

to see the drooling, pink mouth open

The thing I’m finally learning is that someone can be your best friend in the world, but you’re not necessarily theirs.

And there it is. I love my mother. And I kick myself for not being able to show it. Because she still loves me, even if she sucks at it sometimes. She

One of the things that sets Interstellar apart from other sci-fi movies is its lineup of executive producers. There’s Jordan Goldberg (Batman, Inception), Jake Myers (The Revenant), and Thomas Tull (Jurassic World). And then there’s Kip Thorne, emeritus Feynman Professor of Theoretical Physics at the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena. Not many theoretical physicists moonlight as film producers.

I’ve tackled many challenges in my lifetime. The most satisfying ones were food related. Like the 2-pound burger at Fuddruckers that I had to devour in 15 minutes. Shattered it in 5 minutes and 46 seconds! Or the Blazing Challenge at Buffalo Wild Wings: eat 12 blazing wings in 5 minutes. Killed it in 57 seconds! Quaker Steak and Lube’s all-you-can- eat wings in one sitting? I may still hold the record in Madison, Wisconsin, for scarfing down 78. I’ll never forget when 6 linemen and I went to a sushi restaurant during the time of the 2011 Rose Bowl in Pasadena. We didn’t exactly take on an eating challenge, but we did get kicked out of the place when the owner ordered, “Go home now. You’ve eaten eight hundred dollars’ worth of sushi.

Knowledge of physical laws can, in some cases, give you the confidence to confront surly people. A few years ago I was having a hot cocoa nightcap at a desert in Pasadena, California. Ordered it with whipped cream, of course. When it arrived at the table, I saw no trace of the stuff. After I told the waiter my cocoa had no whipped cream, he asserted I couldn't see it because it sank to the bottom. But whipped cream has low density, and floats on all liquids that humans consume. So I offered the waiter two possible explanations: either somebody forgot to add the whipped cream to my hot cocoa or the universal laws of physics were different in his restaurant. Unconvinced, he defiantly brought over a dollop of whipped cream to demonstrate his claim. After bobbing once or twice the whipped cream rose to the top, safely afloat. What better proof do you need of the universality of physical law?

by 1934, Walter Brennan was in a state of near collapse. “What my grandma said,” Walter’s granddaughter Claudia Gonzales remembered, “[was that] he was eating his dinner, and he put down his fork. He looked at her, and he said, ‘I don’t know what to eat next.’” He had made it through World War I in reasonably good shape. Indeed, he had scoffed at the idea of shell shock. But then, as he told Goldwyn biographer Carol Easton, “Boy, I cracked up.” There were nights when he just wanted to sink into his bed. Then he would wake up at 2 am with a “nameless numbing fear.” As he also told Easton, “If it hadn’t been for my wife, I’d have jumped off the Pasadena Bridge. I fell away to nothin’. I weighed about 140 pounds. Gee, when I got a job in Barbary Coast, I was carryin’ my ground-up vegetables in a mason jar. They had to build muscles into my clothes.” Brennan’s son Walter Jr. (“Andy”) recalled that as a young boy he had not understood what his father was going through, but he knew that his father was in trouble.

Then came a series of wondrous discoveries, beginning in 1924, by Edwin Hubble, a colorful and engaging astronomer working with the 100-inch reflector telescope at the Mount Wilson Observatory in the mountains above Pasadena, California. The first was that the blur known as the Andromeda nebula was actually another galaxy, about the size of our own, close to a million light years away (we now know it’s more than twice that far). Soon he was able to find at least two dozen even more distant galaxies (we now believe that there are more than 100 billion of them). Hubble then made an even more amazing discovery. By measuring the red shift of the stars’ spectra (which is the light wave counterpart to the Doppler effect for sound waves), he realized that the galaxies were moving away from us. There were at least two possible explanations for the fact that distant stars in all directions seemed to be flying away from us: (1) because we are the center of the universe, something that since the time of Copernicus only our teenage children believe; (2) because the entire metric of the universe was expanding, which meant that everything was stretching out in all directions so that all galaxies were getting farther away from one another. It became clear that the second explanation was the case when Hubble confirmed that, in general, the galaxies were moving away from us at a speed that was proportional to their distance from us. Those twice as far moved away twice as fast, and those three times as far moved away three times as fast.

Walter’s fortunes fluctuated wildly, but the Brennans did not wait to have a family. Arthur, “Mike,” was born on January 6, 1922, Walter Jr., “Andy,” on July 21, 1923, and baby Ruth “Ruthie” on September 22, 1924. By 1924, Walter’s mother and father had also moved to California, settling in Pasadena. With three children to feed, Ruth supplemented the family’s meager budget by growing her own vegetables and raising chickens. All three children would quickly learn two fundamental facts about their father: He worked almost all the time, and he expected them to carry their own weight. No Brennan child would be out on the road in a delivery wagon at the age of eleven, but every Brennan child would—certainly by the age of eleven—know what it cost to obtain the things he or she wanted.

HPM stands for High Power Microwaves. Eureka Aerospace in Pasadena, California developed a device to be used by police to stop a car during high-speed chases. Since the 1970s, every car is built with some sort of microprocessor-controlled system—like the ignition control and fuel pump, the microprocessor controls a lot of vital car systems. When a two second blast from a HPM device is shot at a vehicle, the electric current affects the wires and leads to a power surge which, in turn, burns out those microprocessors and burns up the wiring in the vehicle. Eureka Aerospace is partially funded by the US military. In effect, the same microwave radiation that reheats pizza in a microwave can be used to fry the electrical systems in cars, stopping them dead in their tracks. The document states that HPM was used to incapacitate our van, and can be used against “residents and parties involved.” I assumed “residents” was a misspelling and was supposed to be “residence.” In my research of how HPM works, however, I learned that the word “residents” in the document was not a misspelling; it can and is used against people as well.   U.S. to Use Microwave Weapons On

intriguing, not standard Hollywood stuff. He was not a street kid who’d had to claw his way to respectability. His reasonably well-to-do family’s roots traced back to George Washington’s mother, and he was always proud of the fact that he was distantly related to “one of the founders of our country.” Bill was Irish-English-German, “mixed in an American shaker,” as he liked to say. His maternal grandfather was a cousin of Warren G. Harding, twenty-ninth president of the United States. Bill had been born William Franklin Beedle Jr. in O’Fallon, Illinois, on April 17, 1918. When he was three, the family moved to Pasadena, California. His father, William, was an industrial chemist; his mother, Mary, a teacher. He had two younger brothers, Robert (Bob) Westfield Beedle, and Richard (Dick Porter) Beedle.

Representative Kenneth Hardgrave lay in bed in the presidential suite of the luxurious Pasadena Ritz-Carlton Hotel smoking a cigarette. He was glad Ronald Stevens had talked him out of attending the show. Sex was much more satisfying than listening to some fanatic talk about the end of the world. His wife rolled over to get some sleep. The bed she was in, however, was twenty-two hundred miles away in Washington, while the woman in Hardgrave's bed snuggled lazily up beside him. Visions of bracelets and sugarplums danced through her head.

Now available at Pasadena's venerable book store Vroman's!!

A problem was how nature punctuated the seemingly unbroken DNA and RNA strands. No one could see a biological equivalent for the pauses that separate letters in Morse code, or the spaces that separate words. Perhaps every fourth base was a comma. Or maybe (Crick suggested) commas would be unnecessary if some triplets made “sense” and others made “nonsense.” Then again, maybe a sort of tape reader just needed to start at a certain point and count off the nucleotides three by three. Among the mathematicians drawn to this problem were a group at the new Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, California, meant to be working on aerospace research. To them it looked like a classic problem in Shannon coding theory: “the sequence of nucleotides as an infinite message, written without punctuation, from which any finite portion must be decodable into a sequence of amino acids by suitable insertion of commas.” They constructed a dictionary of codes. They considered the problem of misprints

Don't ruin the fun of the story by telling the truth

Ongoing observations at Mount Wilson Observatory, above Pasadena, might confirm the last of the three original predictions of the general theory of relativity, the gravitational red-shifting of the light of high-density stars.

The ideal location I found for the first Trader Joe’s was a 1911 bottled water plant on Arroyo Parkway in Pasadena. My real estate broker—and a de facto member of Trader Joe’s top management—had one hell of a time negotiating the lease with an obdurate lawyer, Patrick James Kirby. Kirby was so tough that later Alice said if she ever got a divorce, she was going to hire Kirby. He liked that.

As I described in the “Uncorked!” chapter, the economic background in 1970 was turning grim, and sales were weakening. I was concerned. And then, once again, Scientific American came to the rescue. Each September that wonderful magazine devotes its entire issue to a single subject. In September 1970, it was the biosphere, a term I’d never seen before. It was the first time that a major scientific journal had addressed the problem of the environment. Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring, of course, had been serialized in the New Yorker in the late sixties, so the danger to the biosphere wasn’t exactly news, but it could be considered alarmist news. The prestige of Scientific American, however, carried weight. In fact, it knocked me out. I Suffered a Conversion on the Road to Damascus Within weeks, I subscribed to The Whole Earth Catalog, all the Rodale publications like Organic Gardening and Farming, Mother Earth, and a bunch I no longer remember. I was especially impressed by Francis Moore Lappé’s book Diet for a Small Planet. I joined the board of Pasadena Planned Parenthood, where I served for six years. Paul Ehrlich surfaced with his dismal, and proved utterly wrong, predictions. But hey! This guy was from Stanford! You had to believe him! And in 1972 all this was given statistical veracity by Jay Forrester of MIT, in the Club of Rome forecasts, which proved to be even further off the mark. But I bought them at the time. Bob Hanson, the manager of the new Trader Joe’s in Santa Ana, which was off to a slow start, was a health food nut. He kept bugging me to try “health foods.” After I’d read Scientific American, I was on board! Just how eating health foods would save the biosphere was never clear in my mind, or, in my opinion, in the mind of anyone else, except the 100 percent Luddites who wanted to return to some lifestyle approximating the Stone Age. After all, the motto of the Whole Earth Catalog was “access to tools,” hardly Luddite.

GAHAN: ‘I don’t think I should say “Hello, Pasadena”, I think I should say, “Hello, the Rose Bowl” ... I don’t know.’ FRANKS: ‘Why don’t you say “Good Evening, Welcome To The Concert For The Masses”?’ GAHAN: ‘I’m not fucking Wordsworth, you know.

Initially, von Neumann was referring to physical machines. The idea that he first presented in a lecture in Pasadena, California, in the 1940s was very complicated. Stephen Levy, in his book, Artificial Life, describes the basic components that made up von Neumann’s theoretical self-replicating machines, which he called kinematics (but which are mostly called von Neumann machines today). The system consisted of raw materials in a lake, along with four components required for this self-replicating machine labelled: A, B, C, and D. Component A was like a factory, which scooped up raw materials from the lake and used them in ways that were dictated by some data, which we might call a computer program today. Component B was a duplicator that read and copied information from the first machine to its duplicates, in the same way that DNA is passed down from parents to children. Component C was like a computer and controlled who did what, like a central processing unit. Component D was the actual data, or instructions, which in those days von Neumann envisioned as a very long tape.

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Is this the kind of place still deeply entrenched in the bullshit high school politics of old movies, which seemed quaint, retro cool at Pasadena Central High? According to my mom, the five

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If your dad was regularly corresponding with the Mescaline Antichrist of Pasadena, Leave It to Beaver probably seemed like a bastion of middle-class sanity.

in 1931 Edwin Hubble invited Einstein to the observatory of the Hooker Telescope near Pasadena, California, and showed him that, in fact, the universe was expanding. Einstein then pronounced one of his most famous sentences: “Now I see the necessity of a beginning,” a lofty phrase followed by another equally famous but more earthly remark, “That was the biggest blunder of my whole life,”113 referring to the gravitational constant that he had devised in order to adjust the Theory of Relativity. In an ironic twist, the gravitational constant then proved to exist, although not in the magnitude that Einstein attributed to it. We will see this further on.

Prior to his military service, Holden studied chemistry at Pasadena Junior College. He worked with his father, William Beedle, a chemical analyst, who was head of George W. Gooch Laboratories in Los Angeles. In the summertime, Holden made deliveries and picked up supplies on his Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Holden’s knowledge of chemistry proved useful when he moved to Switzerland at the height of the Cold War in 1959. Although the Swiss government observed strict neutrality, they favored the West in economic, political and cultural matters.

Carlotta’s personality—like any human personality—was built on a series of layers, each resting on the one below. But, like the geological layers in the earth, at the bottom was the core. And the core of Carlotta’s personality was Pasadena, in the crucible of her parents’ psychological drama.

Edwin Hubble escaped the glare of ‘Orange county’ by retreating to a mountaintop observatory north of Pasadena, where he recorded the motions of the galaxies that led to his discovery of the expanding universe. But it wasn’t sodium that caused him difficulties. Potassium burns with a mauve flame which can sometimes be seen in a gunpowder explosion or when lighting a match. One night Hubble was excited to detect a potassium spectrum while he examined the galaxies through the world’s most powerful telescope. But it soon became apparent that the reading must be false. Eventually Hubble realized that the equipment had picked up the light from the potassium in the match that he had used to light his pipe.

The thing I’m finally learning is that someone can be your best friend in the world, but you’re not necessarily theirs. I

Driving to Pasadena and a trail running up Arroyo Seco Canyon behind Jet Propulsion Laboratory,...I simply want some solitude; a reprieve from raucous car exhausts, slamming doors, loud radios in the neighborhood, barking dogs defending apartment balconies, and boisterous arguments among loving partners... A trail guide suggests parking by the laboratory, but the easily accessible lot conjures anxious thoughts. Is parking permissible for the public? Are cars parking here targets for thieves? Is the lot being watched this very minute by desperados? Welcome to Los Angeles.

The day had arrived-the day, hour and minute Kate had been having nightmares about for months. She was about to leave the house she loved in Pasadena, California, for a place she doesn't even like. And she was leaving behind her dog, Boggs.

The fondness of Britons for the uninhibited pilots was reciprocated by most of the Americans. Even those who had no real interest in aiding the British cause when they first enlisted in the RAF found themselves admiring the bravery and determination of the public in standing up to Hitler. “They were, without a shadow of a doubt, the most courageous people that I have ever known,” said one American. “Although their cities were in shambles, I never heard one Briton lose faith.” Another U.S. pilot declared: “To fight side by side with these people was the greatest of privileges.” After the war, Bill Geiger, who’d been a student at California’s Pasadena City College before he came to Britain, recalled the exact moment when he knew that the British cause was his as well. Leaving a London tailor’s shop, where he had just been measured for his RAF uniform, he noticed a man working at the bottom of a deep hole in the street, surrounded by barricades. “What’s he doing?” Geiger asked a policeman. “Sir,” the bobby replied, “he’s defusing a bomb.” Everyone standing there—the bobby, pedestrians, the man in the hole—was “so cool and calm and collected,” Geiger remembered. He added: “You get caught up in that kind of courage, and then pretty soon you say, ‘Now I want to be a part of this. I want to be part of these people. I want to be a part of what I see here and what I feel here.’ ” AS

BRASÍLIA - A Polícia Federal investiga a ligação entre a compra pela Petrobrás da refinaria de Pasadena, nos EUA, e o esquema de lavagem de dinheiro desbaratado em 17 de março pela Operação Lava Jato, que envolve suspeitas sobre obras na refinaria Abreu e Lima, em Pernambuco. Os investigadores citam a existência de uma possível "organização criminosa" que estaria atuando "no seio" da estatal de petróleo.

money from mainland China is transforming the once-sleepy suburb by Pasadena into a ‘Chinese Beverly Hills' By Christopher Hawthorne

Only you can make it to the Rose Bowl.

Michael Gambon, the British actor best known in the States for Dennis Potter’s The Singing Detective (and later for playing professor Albus Dumbledore in the final six Harry Potter movies), was a contender for the role of the Big Lebowski. Joel had met him in New York, Ethan said, “Yeah, he’s … a good actor and we have a mutual friend and he’s supposed to be perfectly pleasant to work with …” “But?” “But …” Gambon was British. The idea didn’t seem … right, not for a real Pasadena guy.

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Quite obviously, a theoretical determination of the numerical value of α would signify great progress in our understanding of fundamental interactions. Many physicists have tried to find it, but without significant success to this day. Richard Feynman, the theory wizard of Caltech in Pasadena, once suggested that every one of his theory colleagues should write on the blackboard in his office: 137 -- how shamefully little we understand!

That's what happens when people die. Time freezes around them. If you stand too close, you get caught, like a fly trapped in amber. It takes a certain amount of strength to pull away and leave it behind.

Of course Mary Jane and Sam were there with Nugget, Cha Cha's golden retriever mix we rescued from a disgusting pen at a house out in Pasadena. Eileen and Harry Silvers came with their poodle, Zizi, and Venus with her Yorkshire, Macho. Lester and his wife, Bambi, brought Grindel, a beagle mix they adopted from the shelter. And with one of Rosemary's friend's corgi, and a shepherd mix, and a spaniel, plus Sugar and Spice, we had nine dogs in all. What we didn't have were any children since I'd made it clear to everyone that things would probably be hectic enough without a bunch of screaming kids fooling with the dogs and demanding attention.

Janet Bunterman had no reason to believe her husband, who for several years had been carrying on a relationship with a bisexual Danish couple who owned a consignment shop in Pasadena. Sometimes he accompanied them on long weekends to Ojai or Moab. Janet Bunterman tolerated Ned Bunterman's antics because he did a semi-competent job of managing their daughter's earnings, and because Janet herself was sweatily involved with her thirty year old tennis instructor.

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Yet few residents of Los Angeles knew that this holy night, Thursday, January 6th, was the eve of Russian Christmas. There was a far holier day to anticipate on Sunday. They all knew about that one. And this year, praise God, it would be celebrated in nearby Pasadena! Super Bowl XI.

Excuse me, may I remind you that you’re stuck by your feet by an invisible force to a ball of unstable rock which is hurtling around in a total vacuum, and that you’re obliged to share this ball of unstable rock with millions of demented people, many of whom don’t use deodorant, and some of whom would like nothing better than to pocket all of your possessions, torture your pets and blow your head off. Not only that, everything that makes this situation bearable, like cheeseburgers and whiskey and reasonably priced cigars, is going to shorten your life, and in any case you’re going to die anyhow, half-blind, half-deaf, in wet pajamas, in Pasadena.