Throw Your Butts Here

A wild and wooly week in Southern California. Since it hasn't rained since Saturday Night Live was funny, this entire part of the state could go up about as fast as Ray Bolger on the set of the Wizard of Oz. And we're not talking about forest areas here. The Griffith Park fire was less than three miles away from Dodger Stadium. Some friends of mine had to drive through it on their way to work. We're talking flames smack dab in the middle of a city.

Once they got that under control, the wooded areas of Catalina Island got torched up. There's less 1/4 mile of a commercial and residential area out there and the fire potentially could have wiped out the entire livelihood of the island within one hour. Luckily, they got a handle on that as well.

Yes, it's been bone dry. And it's been hot and windy, so fires can easily get spread. But, you all know how these blasted things start. We're not talking about a couple of Eagle Scouts who get sloppy when they're rubbing two sticks together. Come on, you know the answer.

Lucky Strikes. Pall Malls. Virginia Slims. Newports. Name your poison.

Morons running around and flicking their ashes without regard to anything but themselves. An actress friend of mine lives in the Loz Feliz area. She quickly had to pack up her new born and prepare to evacuate. Her neighbors were a little less concerned. They were standing on their roofs, watching the fires with wine glasses in one hand and cigarettes in the other. Cheez, how many shades of "Stupid" come in your box?

I was following one such nicotine-crazed knucklehead driver last week. At every red light, she extended her arm out of the driver's window about three feet and flicked away. Of course, she managed this intricate process while never once missing a beat in her cell phone conversation. Slapping needs to be legalized.

And speaking of screwballs behind the wheel, we had another incident here of an 85-year-old plus person hitting the gas instead of the break. She backed into an outdoor cafe and provided the ultimate luncheon entertainment---at least for those folks who didn't wind up with a Dunlop imprint on their foreheads.

My dad had the right idea. As soon as he hit 65, he announced to all assembled that he was not comfortable driving anymore and ascended to the throne of "Professional Passenger." He wasn't going to be the one that turns a typical Farmer's Market into a Six Flags thrill ride.

It's a wonder any of us ever survive to see another day.

Dinner last night: pizza.