And just how would one characterize a media establishment that (1) devotes days of nonstop news coverage to a nutjob who pops up and insists that he committed the most notorious unsolved crime of our time and (2) devotes not one second of broadcast time to this recorded testimony:



Dude. Where IS my country?

If you're not sure that our elections have been and are being tampered with. . . please, let Mr. Bobby Kennedy change your mind. It's all in the details.

-jw

Britney Spears is hot on the trail of the secrets of time travel.

Gregg went back East to Connecticut right after the 4th of July, for a two week visit. Little did we know, at the time of his departure, that he would be bringing back a party.

Anyway, that's kind of a long story.

But as the locals in our neck of the continent are certainly aware, the week of July 23rd marked some of the most brutally hot conditions that any of us have ever experienced in Southern California. That Sunday we took our guests, Josh, Jess, and Abbey, to the Getty -- a pleasant kind if place known for the cool ocean breezes that grace the Santa Monica Mountains nearly year-round. When we got up there, however, it must have been close to a hundred degrees with humidity near the saturation point. It reminded me of central Florida this time of year. That's saying a lot. This is supposed to me a Mediterranean climate.

The upside was: great beach weather. Malibu wasn't her usual windy, even slightly chilly, self. We might as well have been in the balmy Caribbean. The water was 70 (!) degrees. It was an auspicious time for my return to Zuma Beach, as my last visit had not ended well. (In June of 2001, a pretty intense breaker rudely separated my upper arm from its home, my shoulder socket. It hurt like chilbirth. I was editing -- and driving -- with one arm for six weeks afterward. My right arm, and I'm left-handed.)



On this day, Gregg and Josh did a lot of bodysurfing themselves, and yes, they survived with all joints intact. But more importantly, they spearheaded the construction of a sand castle -- nay, an opus of modern sculpture -- for the history books. It was a drip-fortress with buttresses and courtyards and battlements and seaweed gardens and an impressive moat. It kicked ass.



It was an exact replica, if I'm not mistaken, of the fabled 7th sea-palace of Yurgo the Thresher, Lord of the Lost Inlet, Conqueror of the Snail People, Tamer of the Barnacle Nymphs, and bastard nephew of Ergosh the Plod. (You all remember him, no doubt.) In the 13th Dynasty of the Zumarian Empire, shortly before the Ploddian Ascension and the Apotheosis of the Host of the Carillian Urchin Hordes, Lord Yurgo defeated the Hermit Crab King and his army before the gates of his many-spired palace. But fate had its way with Yurgo, and soon afterward the mighty sea swept in and laid his fortress to ruin. Well, history repeats itself.







And such, ultimately, was the fate of the sand castle. But aren't sand castles really all about the memories? The memories, and the pictures. . .

We were glad to help host Craig's big 3-0 here a couple of weeks ago. It was a great time. There were matzohs, stars of David everywhere, and Craig was strongarmed into wearing a yarmulke. "Apparently I'm Jewish," he said.

Kate posted her pictures here. (You may have to register to see them.)