After lunch, my dad and I spent some time in the cesspool–that is, we went to the La Brea Tar Pits. All these years, I’d assumed that the rotten egg smell of Los Angeles was a mere byproduct of the rotten, narcissistic attitudes of the people living there, or fumes given off by the metric tons of plastic surgery performed daily, but as it turns out, it’s hydrogen sulfide bubbling to the surface with methane gas. Alongside the tar pits is the Page Museum, which displays a selection of the fossils they’ve uncovered and puts scientists safely behind glass, where they can be observed without danger. It’s only inhumane if you put the Amish in a terrarium. It was about this time that both my dad and I were struck by how overtired we were–my flight didn’t arrive in San Diego until fairly late the night before, and we got a very early start to miss traffic on our drive up to LA, and all of a sudden, everything was funny and we became Those People. It started when we went to watch the movie on how the tar pits trapped animals, and, as a dutifully accessible museum, it was subtitled for deaf viewers. All it took was one [horse neighs] and I was on the giggletrain to That Persontown. If you’ve never heard a neigh, does that word even have any meaning? How about [dramatic music]? You’d never see a porno subtitled with [vaginal fart]–hearing some things just doesn’t add to the experience. But I digress. The oldest fossil found in the pits has been dated at 40,000 years, which means, if you have any sense of Earth’s timeline whatsoever, that no dinosaurs have been found in the pits, as they fell off the face of the Earth 65.5 million years ago. They have, however, found a number of now-extinct large species, and their disappearance from the face of North America is a mystery–animals like giant camels. This fellow here is an Antique Bison. This is where we became Those People in earnest, nearly crying with laughter over jokes as stupid as seeing what we could get for it on Antiques Roadshow. One guy commented that he couldn’t in good conscience follow us around the museum as we were having far too much fun doing something that was supposed to be educational.    Note the Shasta Ground Sloth. Shasta, if you are unaware, is also an off-brand soft-drink, and I, for one, would like to see a Ground Sloth flavored beverage on the shelves right next to the Tiki Punch. They call this creature a saber-tooth cat. I, personally, defer to the Yellow Ranger, and if she calls it a “Saba Tooth Tiga”, then I shall as well.     The pits also nabbed a unicorn! Something about this skull in particular I find terrifyingly freakshowish, but I can’t pinpoint what exactly about it is so creepy. They’ve got an interactive display up where you can see what it would be like to be trapped in tar–it’s pretty safe to say that if I got a foot trapped inside, the only way I’d escape would be to gnaw off my own leg. I also find this skull to be freaky, so I suppose there’s something about elephants and mastodons that I find unsettling. Did you know that mastodon and elephant bones and teeth were portrayed by the church as belonging to antediluvian giants until science stepped in and ruined their fun? It’s true! Some religious scholars went so far as to attempt to prove that all of our ancestors were much, much taller, with Adam topping out at 330 feet tall, or 63.95 Mellzah units. In the noncanonical book of Enoch, angels were so taken with the beauty of human women that they took them as wives and together spawned the race of evil giants, the Nephilim, and it’s been further postulated that the great flood was to destroy the giants–that it was worth it to God to destroy everything he had made in order to wipe out what his angels had wrought. However, there are references to giants in books taking place after the flood–King Og, for one, and Goliath, for another, which would mean that God destroyed his creation yet failed at his objective. This spawned another debate as to whether Noah and the other ark survivors were giants, which would explain the post-flood giants in the bible. Also: Lutherans blamed Catholics for the disappearance of Nordic giants, saying that all of their toils and fasting prevented their descendants from attaining the heights of their ancestors. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, elephant and mastadon bones were being sold to kings and churches as the remains of their mightiest heroes. Forgive the digression, I just find this sort of thing to be fascinating. I like to imagine the middle skeletal bird as saying “WHAT UP, GUYS?” but that might just be me. Ka-KAW, betch!   My dad pointed out that they tried to make the exhibit extra realistic. I think that’s how a lot of birds got trapped in the tar, frankly. They saw the larger animals playing elaborate games of chicken, triple-dog-daring one another to, come on, just stick ONE hoof in the tar, and after they were hopelessly stuck, they became like statues–and we all know how birds like to congregate around/crap on statues. Their bowel movement habits became their downfall. Clearly, I am a scientist. They have found a LOT of dire wolf skulls at Pit 91, more than any other creature. This display represents a very small percent of their total collection. Since they have so many, I, for one, was hoping that they’d sell off some of the extras in the gift shop. But nooooooo, science is apparently not for everyone.   Here’s an ice age Jack Russell Terrier. When I look at this skull, I think it looks overwhelmingly smug.   Here’s the bit where they started putting scientists on display for our amusement. The guy with the bright yellow hair was up closer to the glass earlier making some very animated hand gestures and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t talking about science.      I, for one, was impressed at how no one in the fishbowl took any notice of the people gawking at them like slack-jawed yokels. This diagram was incomplete as it didn’t show the methane coming out the other side. Even 40,000 years ago, there were white trash neighbors putting pink flamingos out on the lawn. This camel’s thoughts: “What in the HELL is all this greenery? I am SO. FUCKING. LOST.” Soooooo remember earlier in this post when I said that it’s unknown what happened to all of these large land animals, because it’s not like you see extraordinarily large camels bopping around North America? I think I just figured out the mystery: The animals were likely delicious. 24,000 years ago was when the first schlubby dude invented the utilikilt. Only one set of human remains has ever been found in the tar pit. I’m guessing she was the village idiot, but the (pretty clearly) male artist who decided what she looked like felt like drawing an attractive, stacked chick, with long flowing hair that looks like silk many thousands of years before the invention of Pantene. Isn’t that amazing?   After we pressed pennies, it was time to start driving south to meet up with my dad’s boyfriend for dinner in orange county. I was hoping it would not go anything like when I met my mom’s boyfriend, but it would have taken a LOT to go that poorly–she sprung it on me, she couldn’t stop talking about what a jackass he was (then WHY do you think I’d want to meet him, mom? “Hello, I hear you’re a jackass!”?) and then as soon as he got into the car he started asking me personal questions–it was foul. This was pretty much that encounter’s exact opposite. My dad and I had discussed it on the phone beforehand, he’s only ever had positive things to say about J., and J. was delightful. We were comfortable with one another right away, and I’m so, so happy that my dad has found someone so awesome.

On Friday, my dad and I took a trip up to Hollywood to bum around and see the sights. I vaguely remember going once before when I was about 13 and not having a particularly good time, but that’s because we took one of those tours of the stars’ homes and it went a little something like: “This is Barbra Streisand’s hedge. She actually owns this hedge. If you could see through this impenetrable hedge, you would actually see Barbra Streisand’s home, but, as you can see, the hedge is completely blockading the home. We will sit here for a few more minutes until you’re completely satisfied with the pictures you’re taking of the hedge. Next, we will see a row of trees formerly owned by Clint Eastwood, and an alltogether different hedge that might belong to Tom Cruise’s poolboy. ” Booooo-ring.

They were preparing for the Sunday’s Academy Awards, and since rain was anticipated, the walkway for the stars was covered by plastic tarps. The first place I demanded to go to was the Frederick’s of Hollywood Lingerie Museum, because…well…sometimes I don’t have a very good reason to do the things I do. Unfortunately, Roadside America led me astray as the Frederick’s of Hollywood had closed the Lingerie Museum portion of their store some three years ago because people would come in to ogle where celebrities had nestled their boobs and not buy anything. I, personally, would’ve bought something from the Frederick’s of Hollywood IN Hollywood, but shopping for trashy lingerie isn’t high on my list of priorities when my dad is standing right next to me. Gross. They did have about five celebrity designed bras/corsets on the back wall, which were all pretty nifty, but a burly dude in a suit with a white earpiece who was obviously playing at being an FBI agent yelled at me when I made a move to take a picture.

This is the entryway to the theater where they were holding the Academy Awards. The red carpet was already laid, but it was entirely covered with plastic to keep it clean, or keep the plebes off. Even through a layer of plastic, I was pretty geeked out to be walking on the red carpet.

  After we’d seen all of the Oscar replicas we’d ever care to see, we wandered down the road to the mandatory Hollywood pit stop, Grauman’s Chinese Theater.   Here, we’ve got Darth Vader dancing with Wonder Woman, while Batman does his thing in the background. I find it thrilling to my childish soul that some people are making a living prancing around in costumes all day, taking pictures with tourists.

I like to imagine someone telling William Shatner that he’s signing it wrong, and him rebutting them not to correct him, as it sickens him.

My dad has teeny tiny hands compared to Steven Seagal!

Many ladies would compare their footprints to the legendary Marilyn Monroe.

I am not many ladies. You know what they say about guys with big feet, yes? They have to go to specialty shoe stores.

After we tired of being propositioned by Darth Vader, we decided to stop into Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Odditorium, which is the sort of thing that’s right up my alley. Had I known that the Hollywood Museum next door had sets from Jaws, I would’ve elected to go there instead, but I still stand by my decision.

Robert Ripley looked like a goddamned goofball. In every picture, he’s got that weird pedo smile, and he’s just one of those guys whom you can picture walking around, going “DURP DE DURP, I’m an adventurer, DURP DURP DURP.” He durp de durped around for thirty-five years, exploring the world, seeing places few people of his time had ever heard of, from the tombs of the Ming Emperors in China, to a town called Hell in Norway. He actually started on this course after his dreams of pitching pro baseball were destroyed when he shattered his arm during a training game. He was quite famous for his time, voted the most popular man in America, above movie stars, sports figures, and even President Roosevelt. He had fans among the rich, the poor, and people of all ages. His most famous ‘fan’, however, was a man who made it his life’s mission to try and prove Ripley was a liar–for twenty-six years, he wrote letters to people featured in the Believe It or Not! cartoon attempting to find factual errors. ‘Believe it or not’, he wrote over 17,000 letters, but never received a single reply that contradicted one of Ripley’s statements. Upon his death, his widow donated his vast collection of correspondence to Ripley, and some of it is now on display at the various Odditoriums. Ripley dressed eccentrically, collected torture weapons from Germany, was afraid to use the telephone due to a fear of being electrocuted, and had many cars but couldn’t drive. All in all, I think we would’ve gotten along swimmingly. Plus, it couldn’t hurt to be around someone who manages to look even goofier in photographs than I do! Do you see the skull or the kids playing chess?

This is a mask made from faces flayed from slaves. That may or may not be standard practice when I rise to the dictatorship.

This is an old chastity belt–my dad and I were laughing so hard about it that I couldn’t manage to take a non-blurry picture. What were we laughing about? Well, so, sure. This metal contraption will keep invading penii from breaching the hull, but after a woman has worn one of these for a number of years, would you even want to go down there? I imagine it’d smell. BAD. Like, leg just out of a cast bad. Could you crap through a hole about the size of a quarter? What are you, a Dairy Queen Soft Serve Swirl machine? Here, we captured our shadows on the wall. Peta is going to splash this hoity toity fish with red paint. FUR IS MURDER, YOU SEA KITTEN! After our adventures, we had lunch at Mel’s Diner, talked smack about other family members, and stored away some energy for the second half of our day, which deserves an entirely separate post. Expect it tomorrow-ish!