A few days back, we in our Internet girlfriend group were swapping our laminated lists. You know, our laminated lists — the permanent list of male celebs you’d absolutely sleep with, for the rest of your life, no matter what.

Our entries ranged from predictable to offbeat, but one of mine made absolutely no impact whatsoever, because none of my girlfriends are from L.A. and only a couple of them are possible hockey fans. They just don’t remember the guy who made the heart of every L.A. female hockey fan — shit, every L.A. female whatsoever — quicken in the ’80s. He’s Luc Robitaille.

The photo doesn’t really do him justice; I chose it mostly because it’s surreal. But dude, you should have seen this guy when he was a rookie. He was a fucking Adonis, which is not something you can usually say of hockey players, who aren’t renowned for their good looks. (Gretzky was cute enough, but he looked like he was separated from Princess Diana at birth.) Not only was Luc gorgeous, but he ended up being the highest-scoring left winger in the history of the NHL.

In L.A., the guy was a rock star. During games, the entire home crowd would roar “Luuuuuuc” when he took the ice. Shit, I once saw a vanity plate that read LUUUUUC and was insanely jealous. I wonder if it’s available now? I ought to look into that. There was even serious talk of naming one of my sons Luc, but we not being French whatsoever, it seemed a little pretentious.

So where is Luc now? He retired in 2006 and works in the Kings front office. And he’s still gorgeous. But I’ll never forget the poster (probably now impossible to find) of Luc that hung in my office in the late ’80s. Laminated list material, for sure.

URGENT LUC UPDATE: I found the poster! I found it! You can see it here although the image is a bit distorted and doesn’t really represent the original.

He has given the most awesome interview to the press:

Elvis Costello interview

If you wonder why I’m forever having on about this guy, read the interview and get a taste. He is so smart and witty, and I love him so much. He is the opening act for The Police in L.A. this week. Should be the other way round. Sting is to Elvis Costello as Dean Koontz is to John Irving.

I have been keeping a daily weather blog for, I don’t know, ten or eleven days, and already I am bored to tears. Despite the fact that the weather around here has actually changed! in the past week. There have been clouds, and temperature shifts, and wind! Even a spot of rain. Which is about as much excitement as I’m likely to see.

My older boy, Sam, is the king of being bored. Usually at least once a day he tells us I’m bored, and we have dubbed him the Chairman of the Bored. I am always quick with the mom-type suggestions to relieve boredom (if you’re bored, why don’t you clean up your room? scrub the toilets? pick up the dog shit?) but of course he rejects all such suggestions.

The poet John Berryman, of whom I am terribly fond despite generally hating poetry, wrote in his Dream Songs that Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. I was an English major, and I have never, to this day, read a literary line that struck me like that one. Is this the human condition, or is it just Sam, John Berryman and me? Berryman committed suicide by throwing himself off a bridge. I dare to hope Sam and I will end better than that. He may have gotten the knack of boredom, but not living? Unthinkable. You’ve got to find out what happens next, don’t you?

I tend to be critical of The Orange County Register, our local paper, and in particular its website, which is populated with animated ads so complex they won’t even load, not to mention popup ads so virulent as to defy any popup blocker. They’re a little light on content, too. But I read them, in large part because the Los Angeles Times is a well-known leftist rag.

But the Register linked me to something absolutely hysterical today, what with me being (1) a bitch and (2) a Starbucks junkie. Therefore, I submit:

8 Types of Annoying People You’ll Find Inside Starbucks

If by some chance you have been (a) living on another planet and/or (b) actually managing to resist the siren song of Starbucks, and thus have never been inside one, I guarantee you that all of these people do in fact exist, and annoy everyone, in droves.

As seen in my weather blog (as if anyone read my weather blog; shit, I don’t), there has been turbulent weather in Southern California for the past couple of days due to a pair of low-pressure systems moving through in an odd manner, south to north. The combination of warm and cold air is a perfect recipe for tornadoes.

So yesterday there was a tornado in Moreno Valley, near Riverside, east of here. It apparently derailed a train and caused all sorts of mayhem. Did I see it? I did not, apart from YouTube and local news outlets.

I’ve had a love-hate relationship with tornadoes since I was a small kid, probably due in large part to The Wizard of Oz. Twister is one of my all-time favorite movies. I wanted to be a meteorologist since I was six or so. I’m terrified of tornadoes, yet I have a strong attraction to them. But I have I ever beheld a funnel cloud in person? No, I have not. Despite that my family lived for a while in northern Ohio. Despite the frequent waterspouts off the Southern California coast in the rainy season. Despite, dammit, the twin tornadoes in Riverside yesterday.

The weather looks to probably settle down over the next couple of days. I suppose I’m relieved I haven’t seen any funnel clouds; I might completely panic if I did. But can’t I see just one? Just to find out, you know.

Subway’s “$5 Footlong” promotion is making my life a living hell. I try to really watch what I eat, because I want to stay in a size 4 as long as possible; I may be saggy and old, but I will be damned if I’m going to put on any more weight than I have done. I don’t carry weight gracefully; if I’m a size 6, I look dumpy. Damn my small frame.

I don’t take a lunch break at work, because when you’re self-employed, time really is money. What I do instead is stop and grab something on my way to pick up Sam from school, then eat it in the car while waiting for dismissal. (You have to get there early to get a parking spot that isn’t three blocks from the school.)

And there is a Subway on the route between the office and school. And, whereas I always used to get a 6-inch sub, now that they’ve got the $5 footlongs I figure Oh, that’s a much better deal. I can save half. But I don’t. Here I am alone in the car with a huge delicious sub, and I am starving, because I don’t eat breakfast and often don’t eat dinner. So there is nothing for it but to eat the whole damned thing. (This is partially why I don’t eat dinner, after consuming a 12″ sub at 2:30 p.m.)

So, you know, Subway, you can bite me. And up yours, Jared.

Going Like Sixty introduced me to Blog365, a network of daily bloggers. I never thought I could ever maintain blogging daily, at least not that anyone would read. My rants and ramblings come in bursts and waves, and while I could certainly post something every day, it wouldn’t be anything people would want to read.

But I’ve recently read a couple of biographies of 18th century figures ranging from an obscure New England midwife to Thomas Jefferson, and have been charmed by their daily habit of recording local weather conditions. Now there is something I observe and think about every single day. Despite my frequent rants about the monotony of So Cal weather, the reality is that there are indeed changes and seasons, just not proper or normal ones.

So I’ve started a daily weather journal to which I will post each day. There’s also a link at the top of the blogroll, in case you ever get so desperately bored that you want to read the details of Southern California weather. I’ll also throw in earthquakes and wildfires and the blooming of local plants and coyote sightings and other random details of nature. Why, I do not exactly know, except that I’m charmed by the 18th century habit of doing so, and that’s good enough for me.

Sam, my first grader, has tended all year long to play soccer at recess. This is made possible by Southern California’s temperate climate; when it’s not raining, in which case they’re confined to their classrooms for recess anyway, it’s warm enough to play soccer.

But in May, when the weather grows even warmer, the stink bugs show up. For the duration, therefore, Sam and five or six of his cohorts have abandoned soccer in favor of what they call the Stink Bug Patrol.

Each recess, the Stink Bug Patrol roams the schoolyard and grassy areas searching for stink bugs. Yesterday at lunch recess they found four! They have no hesitation about handling the things, and yesterday one crawled up the leg of Sam’s jeans before he shook it out. They give them little-boy names such as Toilet and Boogerman and Boba Fett, then release them to fly away as a giggling group of little girls lurk nearby to watch.

Every day when I pick Sam up, I am treated to the daily stink bug recap, with an account of how many bugs they found, how many people they “stinked”, and how many little girls they grossed out. Clearly, this is the highlight of his day.

God, I love having little boys.

URGENT STINK BUG UPDATE: Sam came home this afternoon to report that the Stink Bug Patrol has been disbanded by disapproving teachers who don’t want them poking at the stink bugs. What a bunch of buzz kills. Shame on women who don’t understand that LITTLE BOYS MUST. DO. THESE. THINGS.

There’s nothing for it but to start a Stink Bug Patrol at home.

For the past month and a half, Sam has been mad at China. This is for the simple reason that he’s awaiting the release of a new action figure which is, of course, being manufactured in China. The release has been pushed back several times, and a toy that we ordered online in November, expected to receive by Christmas, and were then told would arrive in early April, is now slated for delivery at the end of May. Sam and I are skeptical, especially what with the earthquake and all.

But Sam is a guy who takes things seriously, and he is mad at China. Not the toy manufacturer, the entire nation and everything related to them. Ben brought home Chinese food tonight, and Sam railed at how late he got home. He blamed China. And a few days ago, when the massive earthquake struck China, Sam said Good.

This is exactly the snarky sort of thing I would say, but since it is my role to teach him proper values, I explained to him why that was not a nice thing to say. He conceded that the earthquake was, and is, indeed tragic.

But he is still mad at China.

I am right now listening to Elvis Costello’s new album, Momofuku, and good Christ, it is amazing, his best in years. While the title sounds vaguely obscene, it is in fact the first name of the guy who invented pot noodle. So, you know, that is extremely cool right then and there.

The release of a new album often fills a dedicated EC fan with trepidation. For every absolutely amazing album, he seems to put out an album of utter crap as a counterbalance. (Actually, I’m being unfair. It’s more like one turkey for every two gems.) The absolute nadir was North, a 2003 jazz collection which most people blamed on his newly married wife, chanteuse Diana Krall. It is both odious and unlistenable. I wanted to like The River in Reverse, his 2006 collaboration with Allen Toussaint (the title refers to the 2005 flooding of New Orleans), but I could not.

So, when he comes out with a new one, you sort of hold your breath before you listen. This album delivers; it’s a return to rock, although not to the bitter, raucous style of This Year’s Model. He’s not an angry young man anymore. Bonus: It features prominent harmonies with Jenny Lewis, my other absolute favorite singer/songwriter.

Nice one, EC. Keep it up. And please, please stay away from jazz. Leave that to the missus.