Crime Expert BURL BARER. Edgar Award Winner and NYT Bestselling Author

HOOOO-RAY FOR WA-HI

My sister is off at her High School Reunion. In case you never had one of those, it's like a pop-up from Classmates.com that lasts for three days.  What's special about Jan's reunion is that it is the FIFTY YEAR version. Yes, 50 years since my sister was a cheerleader, waving her pom-poms and screaming "push em back push em back, waaaaaaaaaaaay back!"  My brother was "YELL KING" -- that's a male cheerleader. There is no truth to the rumor that Yell King was an honor bestowed upon him as consolation prize for not being allowed in National Honor Society because he was Jewish. No, it was consolation prize for not being ROTC Cadet of the Year because Eddie Epstein won the award the year before, and "we can't have two of you people win twice in a row."  Just kidding, friends. Stan was Yell King based on his natural sense of rhythm and ability to do interesting things with a megaphone. I was only 8 when Stan was 16 and Janice 18, but they didn't leave me out -- I was official Wa-Hi Blue Devil MASCOT!!!  Yes, I had a cheerleading (yell prince?) outfit just like my big brother's, and I did all the yells.  Somewhere there exists a great picture of me with my protruding front teeth, crew cut, and blue cords assuming the stance of proud member of the WA-HI Yell Squad.  If i find it, I'll post it. I'm not ashamed of my childhood.  I did attend my own high school reunion -- the ten year and twenty year versions.  At the ten year reunion, everyone wants to see who has loot, and who married whom. At the twenty year reunion, everyone is simply happy that you are still alive. At Jan's 50 Year Reunion, the memorial list is longer than the one at the ten or twenty. Happily, once again, Jan is NOT on the memorial list. I'm sure she will return with fun stories and some cool pics. Check out her blog in the future (Curran Events) for full nostalgic details.  While Jan is living it up in Walla Walla, Isis the Dog and I are sweltering in Santa Monica. Could be worse -- we could be in the valley.

BRAIN DEAD PETITION

Today I received an email petition to President Bush asking him to lower gasoline prices.

After staring drop jawed at the list of several hundred people who typed their names on this "petition," I had a long conversation with my dogie, Isis, about the absurd markup on dog food. The highest profit margin at your supermarket is on pet food. The stuff is cheap to make, and absurdly overpriced. Let's all send an email to the Executive Branch of the United States Government and bitch about dog food prices. Women's shoes are also overpriced. I'm sure the President can fix that too.   Perhaps more devastating to the economy is the recent increase in ticket prices at 93% of America's movie houses.

I'm sure the President of the United States has control over movie prices, dog food prices, and gas prices. He IS a dictator, isn't he? Oh, you say we have a democracy and a free market system? Private enterprise?  Gee, I guess if we want to complain about the price of goods or services, we might complain to the company that supplies the goods or services.  Seriously folks, our beloved President Bush describes himself as "the war president -- I wake up every morning with war on my mind."

While that is reassuring for the arms industry, It doesn't mean much for federal support of other matters -- be they education, arts, science, or price controls of private industry.  NOW : If the President of the United States is ever empowered to dictate the prices of goods and services in the marketplace, please inform me immediately -- and alert the world that America is America no more.

ROYAL CROWN COLA

Lee Goldberg recently mentioned "Caffeine Free Diet-Rite Cola." When he was 15 years old, this product had a different name: "RC 1000"  Yes, that was a stupid name for it, as "1000" didn't reveal much about the product's features or benefits.  It was test marketed under that name in Washington State when Britt, baby Anea and I were living in Woodinville, Washington, and I purchased a sixteen ounce bottle at Zip's Market on the Woodinville-Duvall Road.  I have always had a soft spot in my stomach lining for RC.

Royal Crown Cola was always innovative. Back in the "real old days," Royal Crown was "The King of Colas," and it was caffeine free. By the time I drank RC from glass bottles, ice cold from Duff's Creamery on Alder Street in Walla Walla, it had caffeine again. Maybe I preferred RC for the same reason people gravitate towards Dr. Pepper -- most people drank Coke or Pepsi, so swigging RC made you "different."  Then again, so did being excused from school for Yom Kippur.

  The other soft drinks that we guzzled with glee were from the same company that created Royal Crown Cola -- NEHI. There was NEHI Grape, of course. NEHI just about everything. 

Notice that gas was 17 cents, not $3.17. When my sister Janice would have me plead "Mercy" for my dad to give her the keys to the car so she could take me to the A&W Root Beer stand on East Isaac's, a gallon of gas was only 7 cents more than a Poppa Size Mug (LARGE) of Root Beer. Amazing the things that come to mind at 4:50 am. I can see so clearly my brother, Stan, proudly washing his recently painted 1954 Buick. It had been green, but Stan customized it to glorious black and white. That made sense -- Stan is color blind.  The '54 Buick was a wonderful family car. If you didn't have a family, there was enough room in the back seat to start one.

And when it came to cream soda, it had to be Nesbitt's Cream Soda in a glass bottle. There were some strange brands to which we became attached -- DOUBLE-COLA at Loon Lake was one of my favorites, too.  In fact, the only place I ever had DOUBLE COLA was Loon Lake. The last time I was there, they still had the DOUBLE COLA sign on the door to the store's little "cafe."  Don't bother asking for one, expecting it to be served with your JUICY-RAY Beef Sandwich -- meat kept horrifically overcooked by infrared heat lamps, 'cause neither is available. I just tell myself they are on back order, and will arrive the same day that the ROYAL FLASH pinball machine is repaired and the songs change on the jukebox.

INSOMNIA & TYPISTOLARIA

insomnia: The best time to chat on line with most of my relatives is about 3:15am--4:45am, or 4:45am--6:57am because we all get insomnia about the same time and after exhausting TNT (naw, I've seen that episode of Angel/Charmed/Pretender five times already), AMC, (Imitation of Life, AGAIN? Okay, I love Claudette Colbert, but any movie that ends with "I want my quack-quack" gets stale eventually), TCM (My God! When Turner bought EVERYTHING in the catalog, he sure as hell did buy EVERYTHING -- who the hell is that playing Philo Vance THIS TIME? And how can a full length feature film have a running time of 57 minutes, counting credits?) -- well, you get the idea: when we've seen it all, we turn to our primary addiction. No, not the internet, the keyboard.  I dont have a notebook computer with me here at the luxurious Garden Hilton Hotel in Milpitas, CA where the future of hospitality meets the aroma of the landfill, and my daughter's computer is designated "WORK ONLY" by the fine folks who paid for it -- her employers.  In the middle of the night, when personal demons are more ubiquitious than Law and Order reruns, it's the kinetic sensation of touchtyping that calls to me. I don't know if there is an official name for it, but i've termed it a "personality adjustment compensation strategy" comprised of distinct stages and attributes:

TYPISTOMANIA -- the channeling of one's nocturnal manic phase into productivity via typing.

TYPISTACAUCUS -- this is several nocturnal manics commiserating together while typing.

There are subgroups, of course, such as "TypeATypingTrype" and there are even a few of the rare "OralSubmissivesFingering" which is very dangerous -- obsessive fast talkers using voice recognition software,   I think my nephew Tod falls into this catagory, as voice recognition software will render "Sally, you are fondly regarded," as 'Sadly, you're a fuctard."  Then again, Tod speaks with exceptional clarity. Maybe Sally is sadly a "fuctard" after all.  At this stage of the conversation, (or monolog), my weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet. (For God's sake! Don't sing THAT TV theme!) I think it is time for me to take a nap -- after all, it is 6:11pm and I've had my keyboard fix.

LIFE COULD BE WORSE/ i look famous

I just ate lobster with drawn butter. Life could be worse.  No one is attacking me with machettes, hand grenades, or knives. No vicious snakes have been stuffed in my sleeping bag. I have not been shot at, stabbed, thrown from a cliff, or tossed from a moving train all week.

True, my pay is overdue, and my life is like one of those 1965 radio commercials for Credit Advisors: Ring Ring Knock Knock "OH NO! NOW THEY ARE AT BOTH DOORS!" Except I don't have any doors.

Once I get paid, things will be much better -- I'll get health insurance, a place to live, my dog out of the kennel, and some new socks. I'll take beautiful women out to dinner, lovely women out to lunch, = charming women out to breakfast, and then there will be some women I'll never take out in public<<< element of humor.

I LOOK FAMOUS:  My daughter doesn't believe me, but I look famous in Santa Monica. Everywhere I go, people say "Hey, aren't you....???" and i say shhhhhhh....no, you just think I am..."  They ask if they have seen me on television (i tell them that's possible, because it is...albeit remotely) or if they have seen me in the movies (I say probably, i go to a lot of films).  There must be some way I can cash in on this peculiar situation. Maybe I can carry a sign: "Will look famous for food"