As you all already know LA is surrounded by fires to the north. Fires sporadically starting in the more natural landscapes surrounding Los Angeles due to the long hot dry humping summer. The station fire, not to be confused with the deadly Station nightclub fire, just north of Los Angeles has escalated and engulfed a large part of the Angeles National Forest.
It's been a strange experience for me because, I routinely rode my bicycle up the narrow twisting roads in the Angeles Forest on my weekend bicycle rides. A few weeks ago I took two friends up there and they said it was an amazing and beautiful ride to do just outside of the city. Going into the mountains was one of my favorite things about living in Los Angeles and having the ability to be submerged in wilderness just an hour bike ride from my front door.
Now everywhere I rode has been burned. I can see the areas in my mind, smell the trees and sage, see the little lizards running around, check out the funky hippie cabins and church retreats, and now it's just all charred and destroyed. It's a part of nature and I know it needs to happen. It'll probably take until my kids are my age for the mountains to look the way I remember them again.
The fires have spread very close to civilization and many neighborhoods and communities are right on the edges of it. The fire fighters have been doing an amazing job and according to Mount Wilson's tower cam(or go here if the link doesn't work), they've even saved the observatory that is located at 5,700 feet and my favorite stop on my bike rides.
As the pictures below attest you can see that huge clouds of smoke have been hovering above LA for days. It has created an eerie color and hue to everything that is at one moment surreal and the next literally intoxicating as you realize it's all from fires, huge fires, fires big enough to create a pyrocumulus cloud that I previously had no knowledge of and are made when volcanoes, bombs, and huge fires occur.
In central Los Angeles we've smelled a little smoke and I found some ash on my motorcycle this morning since vigorous activity is strongly discouraged I haven't been riding my bike. It was also really humid this morning and the temperature has dropped to the low 90's and the fire fighters said it maybe coming under control. It'll be strange seeing the smoke disappear and reveal the charred mountains in a week or so. . .
From Space. . .
View from makout point. . .
Pyro. . .
Firefighters fight fire with fire. . .
This reminds me of the Neverending Story. . .
I rode down this rode this Spring. It's on the northside of the mountains. . .
If you’ve been reading the NYTimes and Slate.com recently you’ll know that you shouldn’t be talking on your cell phone while driving. The U.S. has withheld findings that talking on a cell phone while driving has very deadly consequences.
“Even with hands-free use, phones suck your brain out of the physical world, fatally distracting you from the road. Second, the effect is as bad as driving drunk. Hands-free phone use can impair driving skills more than intoxication does.” – William Saletan, Slate.com
So once again as a cyclist and motorcyclist who daily has to deal with meandering SUV’s and people intoxicated on their own conversations. . .
Hang it up LA! I thank you and so do all my loved ones. . .
I’ll be back with something more up beat about the garden soon. . .Have a safe and happy summer. ..
There is a place in Studio City that I heard about when I was twelve. Eye on LA did a spot on it, or maybe it was Huell Howser. This place makes great pizza, but it is famous for its salad that supposedly induces labor in expectant mothers.
I was the last to know I was gay, so when I was twelve, I just assumed that someday in high school, I'd take my overdue girlfriend, with some gloves and hot water to Caioti Pizza for "the Salad" and do it right there.
Plans changed.
I finally went last night with my overdue friend Crystal and her husband the Smoker. Not at all what I thought it was going to be.
My expectations after 20 plus years: Big place that feels like a HUGE party is going on, feels a lot like Chevy's on meth. Wall of polaroids of women with big bellies, women with babies, women with twins, each marked with sharpies bearing the names, dates, poundage, etc. I also expected that each time someone ordered "the Salad" about eight or so wait staff would escort it to the pregnant patron, with sparklers and a catchy clapping jingle.
What is: Tiny fucking place. Two servers, both as useful as armadillos with iphones. No babies, no polaroids. No fanfare, no sparklers.
In addition to my full time job at the art factory with benefits, 401K and reserved parking, I am now officially a freelance automotive journalist for a range of auto websites. I can't tell you what sites, because they haven't made that clear to me at this time. You think I care? I'd write for Taliban Car and Driver.
I am aware that Ben posted an April Fool's day article suggesting that I'm moving on to greener, CO2 emitting pastures, and I have to admit, I was swept away in the fantasy.
Well, thank you Ben for articulating a dream I was too timid to name. It's a small thing. If you're interested, I'll let you know when my articles get published. I'll be writing primarily on the most mundane elements of car ownership, such as stick shifts and safety belts, in a tone reserved for the 7th grade audio-visual lab, circa 1972. Not complaining. Yet.
How it happened: Ethan sent me the post from craigslist, Matthew Kennedy nudged and coached me through the process. He reminded me to follow up after a week of no reply, even though I didn't want to. Then BAM! they sent me an application. I filled it out, I wrote an article on how to change your oil. In addition, I submitted the previous post as writing sample number 2. Twelve hours after I hit send, they sent me an email welcoming me to the company.
I am keeping my present art career as it is. I am also going to keep up the blogitude.
This job is not going to get me a new gate for the mansion, or even a fake rock to hide the key. The pay is measured in cheetos. As a car nut, I see this as a paid education and suddenly all the twists and turns of my life thus far seem to make a little more sense right now. The message I'm getting is, stay open, even if your heart can't seem to see past lunch. I have all of you, my friends to thank for it. Friendship is the free exchange of support and inspiration, and in this area, I am a wealthy man.
Sometimes, just to uncoil my Kundalini, I go to a converted warehouse on the west side, off of Bundy, behind the Roger Dunn Golf Shop. I meditate at Siddha Yoga.
You park on the roof and only on the roof. If you park elsewhere, you will loose your shaktipat when you walk out of the mother ship of bliss to find that your car has been towed. Apparently Siddha Yoga people can’t align their carbon burning vessels properly on the tarmac and have thus infuriated their neighbors.
I like this place because it’s commitment free. No contracts to sign, no service to perform, no need to go door to door, work the airport, or jangle your tambourine at the Farmer's Market - just a friendly come as you are vibe. Newcomers can go to the newcomer table for Q and A and the world’s most delicious cookies. This is not a superlative I’m tossing around like last season’s sari. If they wanted to, they could easily finance the entire operation from the sale of these cookies. Supposedly they are vegan, organic and blah blah, but I detect notes of bacon in them.
The cookies are the primary draw, and the meditation is a decent by product. I can chant Sanskrit phrases I don’t understand at home, but I’ll never make cookies this good.
When you walk in, what you are really doing is participating in HEAVEN: THE RAINBOW DRESS REHEARSAL. You won’t be greeted by some catty twenty something in an 80s potpourri of blindness and shoes bought on credit like at Fred Segal. Here, a wizened soul, in a waterfall of loving color and open toed sandals greets you with warmth and anticipation as if you are arriving from a harrowing, centuries-long journey. I give them the devil horns. They’re cool with anything.
I head straight to the back where the eats hole is situated. It’s vegan world back there, but last week they served an incredible pizza selection. It blew the regulars away, and me too. I was expecting chick peas and echinacea, but what we got were cornmeal pizzas from Krishna’s own wood fired oven.
This famous hair stylist is a regular pracitioner. I try to avoid him because his peace and love aura is a little smug for my taste, but he is a good friend of my friend, Heather, so I have to rap with him before the cosmic ho-down.
At five minutes ‘til pranayamathon, someone walks up and down the corridor ringing a bell to signify that the medi-jam is about to blow up and that we’d better empty out all of our holes, take off our shoes and get comfortable for the rock-tastic ride to the infinite.
We all shuffle in to the sanctuary in silence. The sitar is already blazing, along with the drums, the harmonium and the other chanters. The opening chant is in Sanskrit and projected clearly with translations. I go with it, and I sway with the rhythm even though I look and feel like a platinum club member, frequent flyer on the Magic Bus.
There is a brief announcement followed by a reading. This is the part where I tune out. I don’t much care for readings, particularly when delivered in breathy awareness, with eager anticipation of the spiritual punch line. Laughing within – one hand clapping like a mutha.
At some point in the parade of symbols, a lady, usually the white kind, wearing a sari, comes from the back with a plate full of candles to light another set of candles. It is not mandatory, but it seems to me that you must follow her with your gaze when she comes around, otherwise something terrible could happen to you. I do it because I’m not here to fuck with the program or to innovate, just saying yes to everything.
Then the lights dim and we begin the high-production value, hour-long chanting session followed by 30 minutes of meditation. The chant usually translates into Oh Guru, light my candle, or I want to know you – your basic stuff brought back to the 4/4 time world by George Harrison.
It’s the sitar and all the other instrumentation that really gets me. They start slowly and almost imperceptibly build up to this maddening hindu jazz Temple of Doom crescendo that makes me feel like a rhesus monkey hopped up on goof balls. It takes all my will power not to jitterbug. Many many times, tears have streamed down my face from the sheer elation generated within the room and I’m surprised more people are not moshing/levitating, but just lightly swaying like tranquilized palms in a breeze. I can’t help but be reminded of the time I saw Fugazi perform at the Watsonville Vets Hall. The force of the music was so pure and clear that I bawled standing on a bench next to Tara Jepsen. These Siddha Yoga guys should take it on the road.
They take you to this peak of whateverness, and then they gradually take you down down down to meditation city. I find the come down sad and the meditation boring. It’s thirty minutes of getting to the oneness, and last time, I spent most of it envisioning my next orgy.
I’m relieved when the wake up chime starts jingling and the lights gradually come up. Anyone is welcome to kiss the feet of the big statue. I get to the shoe rack before someone decides to go home in my leather dress shoes. Heather told me that once someone took her shoes. I guess meditation can also cause amnesia.
I don’t feel transformed, I don’t feel any more closer to the universe, and I certainly am not closer to liking the countless photos of the guru ecstatically meditating on a block of ice in the mountains. But I do feel that it’s worth it. One day, I’ll be whacked in the back of the head by Ganesh’s trunk, but for the time being, I’m going to look busy with the others.
Maravilla Foundation 5729 East Union Pacific Commerce, CA 90023
RE: Site Inspection, May 31, 2009 My Apartment
To Whom It May Concern:
I’d like to apologize to the woman and two men who visited my apartment this afternoon to inspect the furnace and foundation. I was uncharacteristically unhelpful and rude to them. Please know that I was entirely unaware of the benevolent nature of their visit and mistook them for the representatives of the Freed Leeds Property Management, the underachievers who manage this building.
I received no prior warning from the managers and in fact was on my way out when the Maravilla Representatives arrived.
These are the reasons I became annoyed:
1. Not one individual from Maravilla made it clear what organization they represented. 2. Not one individual made clear to me the altruistic nature of their visit. 3. I was asked if I wanted a new furnace installed with ZERO background as to why I would need one. 4. Still not having clearly identified themselves, the woman then asked me if I could produce my utility bills and asked me to state my income to see if I qualify for low-income assistance. 5. When I pointed out that they could have called, one gentleman put the onus on me as the one responsible party for gleaning this information from Corinna Martinez the apartment manager. 6. Confused by this, I asked her if she was the new apartment manager, and she handed me her badge to inspect while she glanced at my DWP bill.
I did not fully realize the intent of the visit until I reviewed your website some hours later.
All in all I’d say this interaction was an example of abysmal communication and I’m willing to acknowledge my part. I hope you can understand that my vexation was borne from a feeling of being blindsided by strangers wanting details I was not prepared to share. From now on, I will be more cordial to any and all representatives of your organization.
Your people need to learn how to introduce themselves more formally by initiating each interaction in this way or similar:
“Hello, my name is _______, from the Maravilla Foundation, you may have received notification from your landlord that we were planning on stopping by…”
instead of:
“Helloooo. (knock knock knock) Hellloooo. We are from the building.”
On another note, I’d like to donate money to the foundation if possible. I have a broad giving portfolio and would like to include the Maravilla Foundation on my list. Your website indicates that you do work that I whole-heartedly support and I would love to assist by giving. If cash donations are not an option, please let me know how else I could contribute.
Again, please pass on my sincere apologies to the people who visited today. I’m truly sorry for my part in the misunderstanding.
Please feel free to call me if you have questions or concerns. My cell phone is (323) xxx-xxxx.
It seemed to me that my wincing, gasping and bleating didn’t matter to the woman killing me. It delighted and inspired my Thai massage therapist to dig deeper into my battered legs with her metal corkscrew hands. She seemed to take pleasure in finding each knot and boring into it as if she were eviscerating the evil mind control pods that had taken residence in my muscles.
“You have knot, here, here and here. Bery many,” she observed.
“Yeah, and they all hu-urrt. A lot.” I strained.
“Did you jogging today?” She asked.
“Sort of. I ran the Marathon.”
“Marathon? You run dit? How long the Marathon?
“26 miles.”
“Oh. Okeh,” and unimpressed, she pounded me even harder with her rolling pin fore arms as I struggled to keep my fleeting grip from letting my consciousness tumble down the cliff.
I imagined her inner dialogue to go something like this:
“Hmmph. Marathon only 26 miles. You prolly run only in shorts and t-shirt. In my country we have to run from airplanes shooting at us while holding two baby and carrying family goat on head. We do this until we get to other time zone and we no cry, we no get massage at end of day. We no have Gatorade station, no fresh cut banana, no cheerleader saying, ‘so proud of you. You keep running.’ We no meet fwends for dinner in Thai Town, we keep running until no more blood in body.”
And that might be the case for some Tamil Tigers or other displaced people in other parts of the world, but on Memorial Day in Los Angeles, I, and thousands of other runners participated in the annual Los Angeles Marathon, with perfect weather – cool and overcast, free of helicopter gunships, apocalyptic marauders and metal clad beasts of battle.
I never considered myself capable of running a marathon and thought that the only way these feet would ever cover 26 miles on their own power would be on a death march to the world’s largest 24 Hour Target Superstore.
My coworker Tammy Coleman challenged me last October when she stood at my desk, slammed down a training schedule and proclaimed, “You are running the marathon and you have 18 weeks to do so.” There must have been the perfect amount of LSD coming out of the AC vent above my desk because I accepted the challenge and immediately began training that night by running 3 painful and boring miles.
I diligently followed the schedule in spite of the changes to the race date and route, and my better judgment. It somehow didn’t matter to me because I had accepted the reality of the marathon in my mind and heart and I sincerely knew that in some future time and space, I had already completed it, and that I was simply allowing my present circumstances to catch up to this fact. Houston, we have nutty space ship talk.
******
The Rundown
Thursday, May 21. After months of training and mental preparation, I feel the onset of a cold and a sense of exhaustion, accompanied by cold sweats in the night. My friend Andrea gives me magic homeopathic grapefruit seed extract pills and we go out for steak and wine on Melrose.
Friday, May 22. Slept in until noon. I enjoy red wine, chocolate cake and almonds for breakfast in front of Family Guy. Sleep the day away.
Saturday, May 23. I hiccup a few tears as I pull into the Convention Center to pick up my bib at the Marathon Expo. I feel the weight of the moment bearing down on me. I check out booths in this wondrous, verklempt state and almost buy a pair of wraparound sunglasses. The marathon is about getting swept away in the current of enthusiasm and by this point I’m extremely prone to buying things that are designed to make any person look magnificently dorky. I examine this specialized mini fanny pack that comes only in patterns and colors suitable for casino carpeting. And all the emotion brings me teetering on the edge of buying a load of bullshit that I’ll regret after the race.
Ethan and I have dinner at Tendergreens in Culver City. Can’t stay long, chilled to the bone and eager to get back into bed. I take a detour via Grand Spa in Koreatown for hot tubs, steam rooms and sleeping on the hot clay floor.
Sunday, May 24. Sleep til noon. Buy new socks. Make my own fanny pack. Friends of Blogitude, Matthew Kennedy and Jen Tracy join Ethan and I for the Carbo Load at Souplantaion. I drive the course after dinner, go to Tammy Coleman’s house to pick up the cookies she and her beau William baked for me, I get a burger at Carl’s Jr. and go to bed.
Monday, May 25, 2009 – Day of Marathon
5:00 AM – Wake up and I think of the song Sister Golden Hair, by America that tells the story of a guy who wakes up, gets dressed up, stares down the barrel of his own future, and then bails out on his wedding. In the days leading up to the Marathon, so many people express their excitement and congratulations about THE BIG DAY, and I can’t help but feel that I may have mistakenly signed up for marriage. I want to go back to bed.
5:15 AM – Still getting dressed. It’s only shorts and a t-shirt, but there seem to be more things to attach, clip, pack, stuff and remember.
6:00 AM – Wake up Ethan, the most committed boyfriend I’ll ever know. After a few last minute pick-ups around the house, we depart. The Acura Bike Tour is already in full swing outside our house. Some people are riding in jeans and Chuck Taylors. Baffling. We play frogger to cross the street where the car is parked, outside the course.
6:35 AM – Arrive in downtown via Chinatown. Ethan gives me one final kiss good-bye as he drops me off at 5th and Grand. I follow the rivulets of people wearing the official Honda white running shirt to the starting line. Tears well up in my eyes and at the same time I imagine that we are all preparing to board the space ship, all called to assemble here and directed by some internal compass receiving directions from John Travolta’s star cruiser.
I arrive at the runner’s corral where they separate well-wishers from runners. I can’t believe that I’m among the “runners”. I think of ways to harness the electricity we are generating. I get choked up at the confluence of race, class, gender, age, sexuality and ability. I take comfort in the accepted lack of fashion sense. We all have ugly running shoes and fanny packs – there is no getting around these.
6:50 AM – Porta Potty Lines. I’m amazed at the natural order of western society. There are two long banks of porta potties, one on each side of 5th street and the people have formed orderly lines, in alternating directions, each governing a band of four porta potties, maintaining a minimum distance of 10 feet from the doors. In other countries, my guess is that people would be standing on top of the porta potties, pissing into the exhaust vents.
6:55 AM – Wheelchairs start. The bell rings and it further electrifies the air.
7:07 AM – Elite Women start. Anticipation builds as all the runners slowly push forward.
7:10 AM – Call from Alfredo Fajardo. Where are you?
7:15 AM – Unite with Alfredo and his friends Eric, John and Sean. The crowd is dense and giddy. Runners start to pack the starting zone.
7:25 AM – Start bell rings for full field run. I Love L.A. blares from loudspeakers and we are on the move. I cry some more. It all seems so surreal.
***** This is a day of many surprises. I’m surprised at the number of kids under 10 who are running this, I’m surprised at all the different shapes of people I mostly see in passing cars talking on the Bluetooth, but I’m mostly surprised at how many, very many people are having full fledged conversations about their lives while running.
I look at this as the great cattle drive requiring training, dedication and focus, but others use this as catch up time. I guess it makes sense, it’s a lot of miles ahead.
Because I drove the course the night before, I’m thrilled to see it in the daytime, and I have good idea of what to expect. I’m astounded to realize that the most beautiful way to see this city is to run the marathon and I understand the desire completely. You see things you’ll never see in a car or bus. I have driven most of these roads and neighborhoods before, but never have I seen the buildings, signs, trashcans, bus stops, donut stores, used car lots, tailors, check cashing places with such crisp detail. And the entire time we were showered with love from strangers who, just the night before might kick my ass or try to scam me on craigslist, but today are eager to help each of us along on our journey.
Even those with hardened hearts would be humbled as I am by the experience of travelling through this city in this way.
It’s all so effortless really.
Mile 9 – IT Band Friction, left leg. The Iliotibial band is a set of tough fibers connecting all the muscles in your leg from the hip to da Butt to the knee. For me on this day, this means an inability to bend my left knee and an excruciating pain with each step.
Thank god I knew nothing about this syndrome on race day. Research on the intergoogle many days later suggest that if this ever happens, you must STOP RUNNING RIGHT AWAY and go home.
Mile 10 – Heather Huber and her dog Coco. Heather tells me it’s my IT Band and suggests some stretches. I feel like walking up Crenshaw and taking a cab home. She and Coco run with me for half a mile until we meet Lynn and Arnie Sperling on the course, holding a sign bearing my name.
South Central is perhaps my new favorite part of the city – it’s beautiful.
Mile 13 – Venice Boulevard. Back north of the 10 Freeway. People of all cultural backgrounds are out in full force. Jesus loving Koreans with signs proclaiming such dole out cut oranges and water. An association of Hindu families forms a gauntlet of water bearers. A youth organization stands in order of ascending height, with hands out for high-fives.
Mile 14 – Fairfax Avenue. My turf, my people, my street, my training ground. I just love every minute of it, even though I’m in hell and the four ibuprofen have zero effect on the pain that is ever worsening.
Mile 15 – La Cienega and Lynn and Arnie Sperling. A women’s group running ahead of me recognizes them from Crenshaw and turns to cheer me on.
I round the corner onto Pico and I see Tammy Coleman and her boyfriend William screaming loudly at me and for me.
A few blocks later I see Ethan and somehow Lynn and Arnie are with him. Ethan has arranged for a middle school cheer squad to greet with a very loud, very personalized cheer. They hi-five me as I crash to the ground. Ethan refills my nutrition packs, gives me a fresh bottle of water, new socks and sunglasses. A little boy standing over me, watches the whole transaction, intently observes me unfold my last packet of ibuprofen. I stop, look up and say hi. He is transfixed, smiles at me.
Ethan, Lynn and Arnie help me up and Ethan runs alongside me until mile 18.
He runs with me, pacing me, supporting me, giving me all that I need and more to take each step. I ask him to let me know if I’m about to run into anything or anyone as I’m running with my eyes closed.
This guy has officially broken all records for the model boyfriend.
Mile 18 – Fairfax Avenue. As Ethan and I approach Sixth Street I see a woman screaming hysterically, jumping frantically and pointing at me. I can’t focus my gaze, still intent on dragging my leg with me. It’s Rachel Drews and she is with a gang of people holding a large banner bearing my name in a style reminiscent of rabid football fans who paint their faces with accompanying signs reading John 3:16. In the blur, I recognize Jen Tracy, Matthew Kennedy, Jeanne, Jill, Fathia, and Sue and some small dogs. Rachel takes over for Ethan and runs with me until Mile 19.
Mile 20 – Hancock Park. Alfredo Fajardo and Eric Merz who were way ahead of me by Mile 10 come from behind. It’s a team reunion. We take a tiger balm break. I see A at the corner of Rossmore and 6th, but the pain in my knee and now my hip interferes with my face recognition software. A joins me for one mile.
Mile 21 – Ben and Kate. To be joined on the route by Blogitude Staff is a sweet surprise and a welcome gift. Ben, Kate, A and I trot along for a while until A ducks out and catches the bus to downtown for the Finish. Ben is running in dark jeans, Kate also in street clothes, but slightly more athletic. I’ve come a long way, but the pain in my leg is worsening and my mind can’t shut it out.
Ben decides to stop running gets in the Prius to the finish, but Kate, swept up by marathon fever continues on, helping me to keep my running/walking pace by counting steps to keep me focused. This allows me to close my eyes and trudge forward.
Mile 23 – Koreatown. Olympic and Harvard. Kate is still running with me, cell phone in hand. I ask her if she’d ever consider running the marathon and her answer is a resounding YES. We enjoy the various bands playing along the route – the Guatemalans, the Taiko drummers, the hippies, the cover bands.
Lynn and Arnie appear again as if for the first time. Ridiculous. I’m shocked at their ability to scramble around town so swiftly. They must have access to a worm hole.
Kate separates after Mile 25, at Olympic and Flower.
Final Stretch - It’s a long final uphill stretch to the finish. My leg is just killing me and I’m crying from joy and pain. The spectators are densely gathered along both sides of Flower Street. The screaming causes me to bawl while I bear down and attempt to have some semblance of good form. I hear my name from the crowd. I later find out it’s Ben. I keep on and under my own power, under the power of the crowd, or perhaps some invisible tether from John Travolta in the space ship, I am carried to the finish line. By the time I cross the finish line, it seems so obvious at this point, I don’t know what I’m feeling.
Two paramedics greet me immediately and help me to realize that I’m too wobbly to stand on my own. They put me in a wheel chair and wheel me to the medal area. A woman puts a medal on me and several people whom I don’t know cheer raucously.
This is when it hits me and I clasp my hands together in gratitude and joy, completely speechless.
They want to keep me longer, but I convince the paramedics that I can walk and they let me out of the chair.
Post Finish Line. Ethan, Heather Huber, her dog Coco, her boyfriend Dan, Ben, Kate and A await in the friends and family area. Before I walk out to meet them, I waddle through the lovingly arranged relief stations for water and clif bars. I stop to recognize how infinitely wealthy I am, how I could not live this beautiful life without the support and love of family and friends. I stood humbled by the entire experience and in many ways – ways I cannot name, I have crossed a great divide. And there is nothing like the feeling of having friends there through the process and waiting on the other side.
This is what happens when you throw three people into one blog, in one city, put a tight lid on it and shake it up. In this space, you will find the disparate musings of one car driver, one bicyclist and a public transportation fanatic who have come together to triangulate their observations about this 22-hour toilet flush that’s called Los Angeles. This is LA BLOGitude.
