Yes, I'd like Elle Macpherson with that

I couldn’t resist the siren’s call. And now I am a broken man. Obviously, I’m referring to the recent Carl’s Jr. swimsuit model-soda cup promotion.

For the price of an extra large drink or a large six-dollar burger combo meal, the classy fast food chain would give a patron a semi-sturdy plastic cup adorned with the image of one of four Sports Illustrated swimsuit models. I decided I would be one of the “lucky few to collect all four.” Not exactly, “We’re looking for a few good men,” but it moved me.

I refused, however, to check the block the easy way. Any perv with a thirst could buy four big drinks over the course of sixty days. No sir, I was going to buy four of the combo meals; specifically, four bacon western six-dollar burger meals. Few nutritionists design diets around this entrée, which features fried onion rings atop a ½ pound side of beef plus a large order of fries, just in case any arteries are still open. Indeed, I could feel oil oozing from my face halfway through my first meal. Interestingly, the next time my cheeks began leaking as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. Pavlov’s pores? It's tough to feel good about yourself after a large #7, but I tried to focus on the positives of soon having a harem of supermodels in my kitchen cabinet.

On my first trip, I landed Brazilian babe Daniella Sarahyba. On paper, it was a fabulous start. Alas, this was not Daniella’s best work. Perhaps she’d had too many Mohitos the night before the shoot. Maybe Walter Chin, the photographer, had been out partying with her. Could it be that rounded cheap plastic is not the best medium for art? I did not know and neither did the 15-year old cashier, who appeared to search for some sort of button underneath the counter after I asked her about this several times. No worries, I reminded myself, for I still had three other models to go.

Two weeks later, I returned to Eden, ready to claim the second leg of this gastronomical Grand Slam. I had not received official word that new cups would be issued every two weeks; rather, I did the simple math of 4 models divided by 60 days = two weeks. Face shining with greasy anticipation, I sprinted from the car. Unfortunately, my nemesis of a cashier was again on duty; judging by the acne on her cheeks, she, too, was no stranger to the six-dollar burger combo. I bounced nervously as she reached for my cup of beauty.

It’s…it’s…Daniella?! The teenager began to take the next customer’s order. I did not move. “But, I already have…” I stopped when I saw the look of contempt on her face. “Excuse me, sir?” Gather your thoughts. Stay calm. “There must be some mistake,” I said, hearing police sirens in the distance. “I don’t understand,” she responded. And how could she? “I already have this cup. Isn’t there…isn’t there a new one?” I could feel the crowd on line turn against me, but I stood firm. Like Indiana Jones at the end of LAST CRUSADE, I had come too far to just let go of the Grail.

Looking like she had just smelled rotten eggs, she turned and pointed to a stack of, conservatively, 200 cups, all of which bore Daniella’s face. How could this be? Where are all the others who have heard the call? I can’t be the only one, can I?

Anybody want to trade for a Daniella?

Katrina Relief

For those of you who want to contribute, but have been overwhelmed by the many different options as well as the fear that the Red Cross may not direct your money exactly where you'd like, please check out the Baton Rouge Area Foundation link I've posted.

A friend of mine who turned me onto BRAF explains, "Baton Rouge has not only doubled in size overnight, it has become the focal point for relief efforts for New Orleans. During this emergency rescue phase, BRAF has the expertise on the ground to have the greatest impact. Not only are they are coordinating with Red Cross and FEMA, they have mobilized the local nonprofit infrastructure to respond in specific ways that are impossible for the larger Federal efforts. In terms of the relocation and stabilization effort, BRAF has developed the networks to place families around the country. There is no doubt that those resources made available to BRAF will be put to maximum use by those who know best what is needed."

Mass Hysteria

I went to Mass last week. Not for a wedding or a holiday or the loss of a bet. I was spending a pleasant Sunday afternoon at the beach doing the crossword puzzle and watching the teenaged girls romp around when it suddenly occurred to me that it might be a good idea to try and stave off my impending trip to Hell.

Let me start by explaining that Mass in Southern California is a lot like teenaged girls in Southern California - nothing like the ones I remember from growing up. For instance, I don't recall my Mom ever telling me about a "Singles" Mass. Now, that would have gotten me out of bed on time. I don't know who does the marketing for the Catholic Church, but they really need to publicize this more. So, I decided the 5 o'clock on Sunday Mass was right for me (and the 100 other singles who were there).

Of course, I showed up five minutes late, which shouldn’t have been much of a surprise considering I had forgotten how to get to the church. But, suddenly, I felt like everything was going to be OK. Did I feel God calling me? Not exactly. No, my inner peace resulted from the fact that I was practically early! Like, 50 people were still pulling into the parking lot as I was walking in. By law, Southern Californians must arrive late to Dodger games, Laker games and church.

My church in Manhattan Beach is called Church of the American Martyrs, which is, in my opinion, a pretty stupid name for a church. I mean, if you want people to spend their first ten minutes inside thinking about John Brown – that crazy looking, white haired, white bearded guy from our 4th grade social studies book – and whether he was an Abolitionist or an Abolutionist, then go ahead and name the church American Martyrs. But if you'd like easily distracted people like myself to pay attention, call it St. Anthony's.

Predictably, my mind continued to wander, consumed with deep, religious thoughts, like: - Is there an unlimited amount of time one person can take up at confession or do they ask you to come back once a week till you’re better, like a chiropractor?
Is the Pope really infallible? I mean, he did get elected.
Wait, is my confirmation name Andrew or Christopher?
Man, I've got to make sure I have something less than a ten in my wallet next week.

But the biggest thing occupying my thoughts, I mean, troubling my virginal mind was the breathtaking amount of bare, tanned skin I saw in church. Jesus Christ. Isn't there a commandment that says, "Thou shalt not show your belly ring in church" or something? There should be. I must say, though, that it was encouraging to see more women wearing crosses than ever before. I couldn’t help but notice this trend as their plunging necklines revealed golden crosses nestled lovingly in the heavenly valleys between…er, ahem. Suffice to say, crosses seem to be a popular accessory this year.

During the kneeling parts, I was quite impressed by the military precision with which these ladies reach back in sync to pull down their shirts to cover their tattoos and then pull up their low riders to hide their thongs. I now understand why some parishioners refer to singles Mass as “Ass Mass.”

The exchanging of the sign of peace takes on a whole new significance at Ass Mass. Was that a wink? She gave me the “hand on top of the hand” shake! Did she mean, “Piece be with you?” Such thoughts harkened me back 14 years to the Godsend that was the Lewis Hall Sunday service. At Notre Dame each residence hall had its own chapel, some of which became famous for their unique attributes. For example, Pangborn Hall, a loser guys dorm on South Quad, hosted “The Pangborn Express,” a 10-minute – I swear to God, TEN MINUTE – Mass at 10 pm Sunday night for those who had missed 22 other chances; it was like the redeye to heaven.

Mass at Lewis Hall, though, sometimes resembled heaven on earth. I lived in Keenan Hall and Lewis, conveniently located next door, was our “sister” dorm. The Lewis Chapel had a tradition of hugging during the exchange of peace. Hugging. More guys from Keenan Hall could be found at Lewis’ Mass than at Keenan’s. Even on Super Bowl Sunday, the ratio of Lewis residents to horny males was 1:1. The opposite of the Pangborn Express, Lewis Mass normally took about two hours because guys would shamelessly get up and walk across the chapel to wait in line for the chance to offer the sign of peace – a pointy sign of peace – to the cuter girls. You could read the minds of the less attractive ones: “Even in church, Lord, you forsake me.” I shudder to think what would happen if Ass Mass incorporated the hug.

Something has got to be done to turn our focus away from scoring and back to scriptures. I spent a great deal of time pondering this issue – maybe the most important issue facing the Catholic Church in Southern California today – and I came to this definitive conclusion: I am going to need a lot more time to examine it, uh, close up.

Many Catholic churches hang signs out front reminding their lost sheep that, “You can always come home.” Thank God.