For $39.99 the (American) football fan can purchase his (or her) dog official NFL attire.  NFL.com offers the die-hard pooch attire “emblazoned with a team logo, name and number–including an Eagles jersey with the name Vick and the number 7,”.

Shockingly this blurb appeared underneath their brief “Go Figure” column, rather than the much more fitting (and long-running) spot “This Week’s Sign of the Apocalypse”.

Recently I saw a bumper sticker that read “Put Michael Vick Down”.  After reading what he did, I didn’t eat for two days. Frankly Vick should be held down by the more respectable players in the league while decent human beings take turns subjecting Vick to the same torture he found so amusing two years ago.

He is not rehabilitated. I saw him reciting (poorly) what his lawyer drilled into his head. There was no remorse in his voice; not once did he express that he felt bad for what he had done. Merely, “he understood why he’d upset others and why it was wrong”.

Let us all bear in mind, your humble narrator is a cat-person.

Yes, it’s true; there are multiple Internet sites that translate your name to its Hawaiian counterpart.  Much more amusing is the exhaustingly list Wikipedia compiled of Hawaiian Given Names, their Meanings and English Equivalents, if applicable. Here we highlight some the finest the 50^th has to offer. This installment will feature the letter ‘Ka’. All Hawaiian given names are considered gender neutral, with a few execptions.

(highlights from) Hawaiian Traditional Given Names

Kaena 1 praised; 2 English name for a fantasy movie (Shocking that the Polonesian/Tahitian entomology would have the foresight to see that second one comin’.)

Kahalewai the prison; the treasury; the waterhouse (Sounds like three departments that need separate offices. At least cubicles.)

Observe what happens when you forget your punctuation class!

Ka’ili the skin; the pebble

Kā’ili snatcher; wrecked, or inheritence . (Hope this all didn’t happen to one girl…)

The following are names guaranteed to spark sibling resentment, jealousy and bizarre egotism.

Kaluhi the carefully tended one;

Kamakanamakamaemaikalani the precious gift from heaven

Kapuni the favorite. (Oh, those “no I’m-Better!” arguments must’ve lasted months on end. But wait. How will they sleep at night knowing this?)

Kame’i’omakamae the truly precious thing. (“Sorry kids. We were lying those other two times…but this one’s just so much…better.” And just to make your next sibling feel even lousier…)

Kanoa the commoner; (Among the 100 most popular names in 2007-8.) Kai sea has been on the Top 100 since 1998. (Interestingly, an identical boy’s name of Danish origin is currently fashionable in the US & UK.)  Feelings were ambivalent at best when they named Kawelo (family trait). Truly Kalua gets the losing hand not so much that his name means the second but also the pit; outhouse; and toilet.

Observe! Children as Objet d’Arte:

Kawehionāpua the adornment of flowers

Kawehiwehi the decoration

Kananioku’uhome the adornment of my home

Maybe itʻs the interior decorator talking, but they have some names with translations so ebullient that it makes Neruda look like that guy who wrote “Bonfire of the Vanities”. But that is not what this blog’s about. Let’s end with my two of my personal favorites.

Kapuliani chiefly taboo;

Kale’a joy; happiness also orgasam

sure looks like Kale'a to me...

A friend has (once again) distracted you from your work by popping up in your gChat, IM, etc, and engaged you in some chit-chat much more enthralling than that Excel spreadsheet. You’re enjoying yourself, and then make the fatal mistake of asking a question. Exposing your weak underbelly. Yes! You don’t know everything but this is a good friend, so you come off your high horse. You haven’t asked them to explain Astrophysics or the past month’s stat changes in the NL East. It something innocent, like, “What was your favorite part of your trip to France?”

Instead of a human response like “I loved Versailles” (or Champagne or Côte d’Azure) you get this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subsidiary_structures_of_the_Palace_of_Versailles#The_Petit_Trianon.  Why? You were asking for a friend’s personal opinion or perhaps a short, concise answer.  A block of text, brimming with plenty of information that is irrelvant to the answer you’re soliciting, is a bit, well, insulting.

They don’t have the time to answer? (Or you’re not important enough?) They had enough time to open a new window, Google it, find the appropriate page that relates (somewhat) to your pregunta, copy and send it to you. Hell, that’s enough time for a two sentence answer.

A friend of mine (who is a couple of years my junior) told me “Sadly, Wikipedia is taking over the world,”. I don’t want to offend, but…that was the freakin’ lousiest excuse I’ve ever heard. She didn’t really understand that both she (and those freakin’ hyperlinks) were missing my point. Uff. We may be in the age of communication, but not necessarily in the age of conversation.

FYI….I NEVER read those links to Wikipedia that I receive. I admire the site for the superflu0y of information it offers, but my list of issues I take with the Wiki are a handful. And even if someone really wants my in-depth criticism of the site -which I doubt- that’s just something for a different day.

Yes, the Internet, especially for those of us who are tied to desk jobs, has become the absolute crack to replace water-cooler banter and coffee-refills.  Or look at it this way: imagine Peter in Office Space with access to Facebook, IM-ing insults about Lumberg to Michael Bolton and Samir. Suddenly the whole plot seems as feasible as The Departed without cellphones.

What I absolutely adore about the “Internet Addiction Disorder” is the list of symptoms that appear under “Diagnosis”

Diagnosis

The patient must meet all of the following criteria:

The person must meet at least one of the following criteria:

• He or she has jeopardized or risked the loss of a significant relationship, job, educational or career opportunity because of Internet use.
• He or she has lied to family members, a therapist, or others to conceal the extent of involvement with the Internet.
• He or she uses the Internet as a way of escaping from problems or of relieving an unpleasant mood (such as feelings of helplessness, guilt, anxiety, or depression).

Ok, replace the words “internet” and “online” with “heroin” and/or “high”/”shoot up”. Whoever this girl was who wrote this “thesis” obviously wasted all of her time clicking between Facebook and her inbox and suddenly found she had nothing to hand in. Solution: take 5th Grade Health Class Handout from Drug Awareness Week and plagiarize in reference to the latest legal drug. (No, not clonazepam.)

(Sigh) Ain’t it the truth? Ain’t it the truth? Just as we all have our vices –some of us (guilty cough) have more than others–we all have our personal Internet vices that also threaten to throw us into proverbial traffic.  I admit to the following:

1. the need to post snarky –if not out-and-out irrelevant– commentary on other friend’s blogs. They are barely comments, more like anecdotes featuring my favorite subject: me.

2. Constantly flipping back and forth between two tabs at the command of the “ding” and “pop” alerts, to yak it up with friends on Google Chat or Facebook. Sometimes having multiple conversations on each page. The absolute worst for me is when I’ve got conversations going on in English and Spanish. Sometimes my mind can’t keep them separated and the wrong friend is addressed in the wrong tongue. (I like everyone to believe they are my “one and only” chatty-chat. Hate getting caught.) Perhaps the most dangerous example of multiple conversations was the line I tip-toed yesterday when I found myself IM-ing my mother about discount shopping and in the adjacent window Ted and I were discussing Hitler’s physical arousal during public speaking. Thank god I kept those two separate.

3. SKYPE!

4. Purchase of iPhone with the main motivation of keeping myself entertained while at the gym. While messaging the $@bs on Facebook, I lose my footing and skid on my ankle off the treadmill. This has never happened before in my life. I obviously cannot text and walk at the same time or at the same pace, either.

5. Purchase of iPhone to keep self from imploding while sitting in LA traffic, particularly on Bundy closing in on Santa Monica Blvd. around 6:30-6:45 pm. I drive a manual and yes, have horrific New York/New Jersey road rage that I WILL take out on you. Other drivers, you should write thank-you letters to Apple.

6. A constant back-and-forth emailing of “Family Guy” quotes with my younger brother Matt. (Brown liquor before labor day?) It never gets old, though every once in a while we mix it up with the movies we memorized from our childhood. He got me with the Stanley Spedowski Mop Speech from UHF, I countered with the Ludicrous Speed Scene from Spaceballs.

7.One I miss: Playing “Who Would You Rather Do?” with Kathleen on GoogleChat. This is especially engaging considering we are of opposing sexual orientations. It’s real easy to throw the other one a curve. Often this would degenerate into “Who Would Win In A Fight?”…then “Would You Do The Winner of Said Fight?” Good times.

There is an 8, but I also see I have two new messages in my inbox…

yes, the fetish will be explained later. I’m a dancer with lousy knees, so what these guys are pulling off here just leave me agog. In fact, I post below the original video with the original music, just for the clarity, so you can appreciate how lovely the footwork is. (I get the same way over a fine remate in fútbol; *pant pant*)

Okay…I know you all read this for the “fetish” part. I’ll give you some hints:

1. It’s not the USSR.

2. It’s not male ballet dancers.

3. It’s not male dancers of any persuasion.

4. It’s a musical instrument.

5. You cannot hear the musical instrument in EITHER of the videos. You can only see it.

6. I also enjoy the music, not just the sight of, said instrument.

7. I am an even bigger fan of this instrument’s “little brother”. This one’s incredibly difficult to come by nowadays. In fact, I believe there’s only one factory left that makes them in the Americas.

Anyone willing to take a guess? (Yes, I’m fishing for posts here…) I have the most ridiculous fetish known to man.  I am putting myself up for complete social ridicule in order to garner your attention.

We both admit it took us a two watches to understand who the guy was.

How many does it take you?

Where did I leave off? Ah yes:

Whole Paycheck.  Secession.

Somewhere near their Mecca of a cheese counter, all of the epiphany puzzle had clicked into place. I knew that New Hampshire was trying to get away with it. When I arrived home, I examined their site and found their points to be valid, most resounded in the acoustics of my apatriotic ribcage. Instantly I saw the problem: New Hampshire is a State recognized by the Union.  The quagmire of red tape -both federal and state- from which they’d have to unsnarl themselves could take 3 administrations and a return to 88¢/gallon gas prices. On Governments, in all my years, I’ve learned this: Congressional/Senate votes take FOR-EV-ER, the checks-and-balances retard it even more, and C-SPAN is the most boring freakin’ channel in the universe. (I hold these truths to be self-evident…)

Well, I wasn’t planning on moving to New Hampshire anyway. I’d just moved from Brooklyn to sunny Hermosa Beach, CA six months prior; a cross-country move will damn-near kill you. Plus, all of my winter coats has mysteriously disappeared during the move. Plus, the “royal” We have a fabulous view of the beach and the Pacific. Screw you NH and your red tape. (I’m all for what you stand for, but you need a climate adjustment. And I can’t stand freakin’ Leafers. What? You only have evergreens and cacti where you live? Yeesh…)

But…if I started my own country, if I seceded myself (along with hand-picked citizens), I’d be eliminating all of the quagmire.  Like Cheney or any of his cronies gives a crap about an unpaid novelist whose husband also expects her to be a housewife? (BTW, both is impossible! You can be one or the other.)  Housewife? Not in a million. Housewives around here have Range Rovers, maids, Chanel purses, nannies and children who couldn’t pick them out of a crowd. Why am I not a housewife? (1) I’d hate to look at myself every morning and have to vomit. (2) I’m married to a high school teacher…a private high school teacher. I could go for the maid though. A maid for two people and a cat. I could hear my mother’s voice…such a princess.

And there it was: a Monarchy. None of the Democratic-Monarchy Malarkey the UK and Spain had been peddling for years. A real one, with a REAL people’s princess. Me. Why? Because it was MY idea. (Yes, I’m the oldest child.) At this point the synopsis were firing so quickly to the receptors that I cannot recall what transpired first. Did I tell Kathleen, my best friend from college and the person I’m certain shares a brain with me, first? Or did I just start building a myspace page and then tell her? What I do recall was emailing my Aunt Kelley (who should really count as a sister because she’s barely 7 years older than I am and for years people asked if we were twins. Funny considered she’s got a rack that makes me soooooooo jealous.)

Apart from her rack, Aunt Kelley is a successful lawyer and fluent in French. She even practiced law in Paris. She is also one of the few people my ego will agree to being my intellectual equal. So I shot her an email that asking what a person needed to do in order to secede.  Her response was:

Exactly what kind of law is it that you think I practice?

I was ashamed to admit, I had no idea. I knew my uncle, with whom she shares an office, does Real Estate Law. I just figured the topic of Secession was covered in law school. I admitted that I didn’t know and also disclosed the secret that sometimes I flipped the words “probate” and “prostate” in my head. A good laugh was had by all.  And so, like everyone else without a secession lawyer in their family, I Googled it.  Aside from having an army to defend ourselves from attack, it seemed Inish Belle was all set. (Who in the hell would want to waste ammunition or tax dollars to send the troops against a minute country with a current population of 5? (Pets are included in our census, but I don’t think International Law does.)

Drafting a constitution was easy.  We’d all had the Declaration of Independence drilled into our heads; France ripped it off (ahem, “paraphrased” it) when they went Democratic. A combination of recalled 5th Grade Social Studies and some bits from the first “National Treasure” made everything poignant, noble…

Save the fact we were basically saying democracy doesn’t work. (at least ours hadn’t been for the past 7.4 years.)

Thus Inish Belle was born…what happened later is a subject of such controversey that lawyers must be consulted before I divulge more information.

Why did you read this? I am encouraging you join my country. Citizenship requirements are simple:

1. You must prove to the Crown Princess, aka me, that you are not a frothing douchebag.

2. You have just cause to prove you would not antagonize–and furthermore fit in with–the other citizens of the principality.

I’d say it’s pretty much like kindergarten…but what would that make the the US Government and the Pentagon? The second trimester? Nah, no one to fight with. Sounds more like the Iron Age. I have spear, they have spear. Time to throw.

It’s good to be civilized, n’est-ce pas?

Ah yes. Where would the better half of our generation be without “Office Space”? (Besides quoting all the other films we’ve ingested over and over like a skipping record.) The “Michael Bolton Face” is that expression the girl handing out the memos makes after that infamous quote. I must point out I did not coin this bon mot. Good ol’ Kathleen did. (Bless her heart.)

Speaking of blessings, my two new minions “the Jedi” and Sabrina are to have commemorative plates issued in their honor for being my two first (and biggest) supporters. To be fair, they are also the only people I’ve told.

This is the “Monday Miscellany” because typically I need to clear the weekend cobwebs/junk food out of the few neurons I’ve got left before I am capable of anything coherent. Therefore part two of “the Crown Princess” is coming, I promise. Just sometimes I have to cough up some random bilge first. Thank you for standing by.

1. It is raining in Southern Cali today. What the hell did I move here for? If I wanted rain and the havoc it plagues upon my lupus-ridden joints, I would have moved to Seattle, San Fran or–even better–Ol’ Blighty where David and I might commence our Wildean prattling face-to-face instead of Skyping our nonsense.

2. The house is a mess again. I have my back turned toward it, but I know it’s there, lurking behind me like a Shel Silverstein monster, ready to drip boogers all over me. Actually, that simile was quite relieving: my house is nowhere near that mucousy. (Though now I feel like hunting down “Where the Sidewalk Ends”. Helloooo local library.)

3. While at “brunch” (for lack of a lower-brow, more beach-bum-esque type word) my kid brother, Danny (aka Beavis, but “Dan” to you) accused me of getting Botox! True, I might have egged him on by pointing out that both he and Emilio have the pitchfork line between their brows. Danny refers to it as the “thinking line” and I scoffed back that my intelligence was so overly-infinite that it was clear as my smooth forehead that I didn’t need to think as much as they did. Sometimes I do “ask for it” true, but if you can’t call your husband or your little brother stupid, than who can you? That is not a rhetorical question. I’m willing to field responses on that one.

Ok, I think I’ve de-cluttered enough. We can all get back to your regularly-scheduled writer. Cheers! n*

So, thus begins the tale of the fledgling principality of Inish Belle (literally “Belle Isle”) and the three disgruntled California girls who united to form a more perfect union.

It began at a gas pump. Citgo, 2008. I pull up in my Beetle and catch and look at the price of regular; it had cleared $4 per gallon. A loud profanity escaped el fondo of my throat. A large flock of pidegons took flight, scattering in the direction of the four winds. A Range Rover-driving mother covered her small child’s ears.

Four dollars and f*cking gallon! What? Are we just paying for his daughter’s wedding now? (Daughter W. had gotten hitched a few days earlier and the news coverage was enough to solve the fact I have no gag reflex.)

It cost over $40 dollars to fill the tank of a bloody VW Beetle! I remember back when I graduated college and it cost $13 bucks –tops– to fill up the used Chevy Lumina that weighed a ton, packed a V8 and was automatic rather than the VW stick I’ve got now. The disgust I felt for my country burnt like a thousand blue supernovas though it probably showed on my face as a shade of scarlet-purple. I charged somewhere close to $50 on my credit card: a rectangle of plastic which has seen more use than a Times Square crack-whore. Something had to be done; my heart was pounding and I think my breathing labored…all this trauma just for a jaunt to Whole Foods (aka “Whole Paycheck”)?

Apparently Range Rover did feel my pain as she quickly put her kid away and jumped into her car. How much did it cost for her to fill that behemoth? I live in the South Bay, the beautiful beach cities on the very end of LA County right before you hit the O.C. (By the way, don’t call it that.) Let me tell you, EV-ER-Y-ONE drives an SUV; and yes, analytically speaking, it’s preposterous. The mildest, most consistent climate in the country; tons of highway and I’m sure that Range Rover and all the other BMW X5 driving housewives of Manhattan Beach go off-roading in the desert after their weekly facial/mani/pedi/Restilane spa appointment. It it cost them two C-notes to fill their tanks? More? I wouldn’t put 87 octane in anything save a Yugo that was up on blocks if I had the dough. (But, I’m a writer…so I’m lucky I’m not cyphening your gas with a rubber tube and an Altoid while you read this.)

I leaned my weight on the shopping cart and pushed forward with my legs, grocery shopping in a daze. I have never been patriotic, ever. As a child I rooted for the Soviets to take the medals in ice skating and gymnastics. I spent a large part of my 20s trying to devise a stunt that would leave Congress no to choice but to exile me. I even considered defecting to the Netherlands until somebody pointed out I could never come back. And I love my younger brothers too much to wait for them to buy an international plane ticket…not to mention Danny’s a real cheap-skate.

As I wove betwixt organic kumquats, quail eggs and parabin-free hair-care products yet another of my now canonized, hair-brained-but-still-completely-feasible schemata. Secession.