It's not too soon to start thinking about my birthday.

Mr. Microphone by Ronco. I think I want one more now than I did in 1981 when this commercial aired. In case you're planning on getting one for me, note that I'll also need an FM radio to plug it in to.

In the Garden of Beasts

Erik Larson does it again. Fans of Larson's previous work, notably Devil in the White City, will be happy to know that in his latest book, In the Garden of Beasts, which takes its name from the Tiergarten, or Animal Garden, Berlin's largest public park, he proves once again that a history lesson can be every bit as compelling as fiction and reveal far more about the meaning of what it is to be human.

In the Garden of the Beasts takes the reader on a guided tour of Germany and its contentious Nazi politics circa 1933, just as Hitler was coming to power, as told through the eyes of the unwitting, unwillingly and unwelcome U.S. Ambassador, William Dodd, and his family, most notably daughter Martha. Dodd was a history professor with Jeffersonian inclinations who arrived in Nazi Germany with the dangerously naive belief that all statesmen were by nature rational beings.

William and Martha provide first-person accounts of intimate--in the case of Martha, sometimes extremely intimate--encounters with the likes of Hitler, Goering, Goebbels, Rohm and Gestapo leader and original scarface Rudolf Diels. Larson guides us through their initial enthusiasm for the new Nazi Germany as it turns to disenchantment, and ultimately horror, culminating in the exact moment when the march of progress toward a post-World War I, rebuilt Germany, became the march of the Waffen-SS and the march toward death for millions of innocents.

As with many of Larson's books, the story provides insight into the big questions--how could this happen and was no one paying attention? The answers are all too human, starting with an America in the economic free fall of the Great Depression, afraid of offending Hitler lest he default on much-needed payment of war bonds, and emphasizing the perils of the reigning isolationist attitudes of the day.

Larson reminds us of our own shortcomings, the insidious nature of America's own anti-semitic attitudes and the fear that calling out the Hitler regime's then only repressive and not-yet-murderous policies against Jews might conjure comparisons to our still-pervasive Jim Crow laws. He shows us how things like a long-standing tradition of political patronage in the disbursement of ambassadorships and the elitism of the Foreign Service were inadvertent co-conspirators in the rise of Nazi power.

In the Garden of Beasts is an insightful look at a moment in time when so much hung in the balance, when psychopaths operated unchecked in civilized society, simultaneously terrorizing and desensitizing the vastly average majority while unassuming, everyday heroes sounded alarms that went unheard for reasons large and small, reasonable and ridiculous, and ultimately, imperfectly human.

It's a book that is as relevant today as at any point in history.

Aurelio Zen.

Are you watching Zen? It's KPBS' new Masterpiece Mystery! series based on the Aurelio Zen books by Michael Dibdin, and it's delightful--much more compelling than the usual Masterpiece fare, it's more lively than dour Wallender without being ridiculous like Poirot or Marple.

Aurelio Zen is a Venetian-born detective working in Rome with a reputation for integrity that puts him at odds with Italy's longstanding tradition of political patronage, but his willingness to bend the rules and ruin an impeccably tailored suit to see justice done generally prevails.

Zen is at once sophisticated and steely, sneaky and sincere, sensitive and slightly perplexed. Externally, he's cool customer, even when kidnapped, but internally, we know he's crapping his pants. He looks anywhere but where you would expect when a prostitute disrobes, but tells his cheating wife, "I wouldn't wrap a dead dog in your gratitude."

Like Zen himself, the scenery is a study in contrasts, striking beauty marred by human imperfection, full of wide-shots of ancient, crumbling architecture narrowing to close-ups of modern sports cars racing through oddly traffic-free streets. Zen's Rome is inhabited by handsome men and impossibly chic women in pencil skirts lunching al fresco with graffiti at their backs and cobblestones at their feet. And since this is Rome as conceived by the BBC, all the men have charming English accents.

Need further inducement?






Zen is somewhat broken and lives with his mother, so I'm pretty sure I'd have a chance.

But I might have to fight that creeper Alan Cumming for him.

Watch the first two episodes online until August 31st.
Vendetta
Cabal

The third and final episode airs next Sunday at 9:00pm, here in San Diego, but check your local listings, as the PBS scheduling is inconsistent.

My sacred cow is skinny.

Skinny Cow Truffle Bars are the best.

At 100 calories each, I figure I can eat 12 of them a day and still be okay. A box for breakfast, a box for lunch and a sensible dinner.

Bad, bad Fluffy Brown.

There were five in one night, one rat, two mice and two birds.

The rat Fluffy tucked under my desk, near my feet, and ate whole as I typed. It was a quiet night and I could hear the crunch of small bones being chewed over the quick, light tapping of my fingers on the keyboard. I tuned it out, my capacity for denial never greater than when a rat is being consumed at my feet.

He came in a while later with a little mouse, a tiny thing, not yet dead, in fact, still squeaking as he batted it behind the curtains. He eventually tired of it, and Rudy, who has never killed anything, never eaten anything but dry food, is suspicious even of treats, eyed it curiously, and gave it a good licking.

In the living room, there were the remnants of a bird, de-feathered and bloody, a real mess, but easy to clean since most of it had already been eaten. I vaccuumed the feathers and sprayed Folex on the stain, and as I blotted the damp carpet, he came in and gently placed another bird by my knees. Just set it there, stepped back admiringly, and casually flicked his tail and purred.

Really Fluffy?

I went for a shoe box, scooping it up and walking toward the back door, where there on the doormat was a mouse skin butt--just the back legs, the tail and a flap of fur holding it all together. I left it there, subconsciously worried that the other half would sneak up on me in the middle of the night seeking revenge, but knowing that dead rodents left on the doormat are usually gone by morning.

I flung bird number two over the fence and when I came back in, I noticed the mouse number one, the squeaky little guy that Rudy was licking, was missing. His absence barely registered, so tired was I by the evening's death and denial and inevitable cleaning up of carcasses. And the next day, when I remarked on it to my sister, she assured me that if it hadn't been eaten, I would find it. It would, Erin advised, eventually start to smell.

Erin was right on both counts. I found the missing mouse, made known again to me by its smell.

It was in the closet under the stairs, a place known to my Swedish nephews as "the Harry Potter cupboard," and to my somewhat more avant garde seven-year old niece as Artopia, a gallery and light show where she is, apparently, the artist-in-residence. To me, it's just the place where I've stored my microwave, new and unopened in its original box, for two years and three months.

Poor little guy must have dragged itself there in an effort to escape the ignominy of death-by-licking. I screamed when I found him, shuddered in spite of myself, although he appeared wholey unmolested, looking perhaps as though he expired while taking a nap.

Cat will hunt.

I'm getting a dog.

Somebody, please install my microwave.

A liver, a kidney and Ewan McGregor.

Back in January, I wrote this post about my college roommate Laurel (who, despite the title of my last post, has never owned a papasan chair but did once bring home a Heywood Wakefield coffee table) and her unsuccessful attempt to unburden herself of a kidney.

Our friend Robert's liver suddenly failed due to Wilson's Disease, and while he was the successful and grateful recipient of a donor liver, (thank you donor's family from the bottom of my heart), his kidney function never came back. And that's where Laurel came in, offering him one of hers.

Despite Laurel's altruistic motives, the kidney gods were reluctant to cooperate. Three surgery dates were scheduled, and three planned surgeries were wisely but disappointingly called off, sometimes as late as the day before, each because the various organs' antibodies couldn't get along. Three trips from Nevada to California for pre-op tests. Three trips from Iowa to California for Laurels' parents. Plasmapharesis. Chemo. And of course, dialysis. Endless hours of dialysis.

(So what I'm saying here is, if you were planning to sell a kidney on eBay to buy, say, a George Smith sofa or some de Gournay wallpaper, you might want to rethink that plan. It's just not that easy.)

I'm happy to report that Laurel finally divested herself of her not-absolutely-necessary and yet not-exactly-extraneous organ Friday morning, and now the kidney of my very small friend with a very large heart and excellent taste in furniture, even in college, is cleansing the blood of my very tall and equally big-hearted friend, Robert.

In other life-affirming news, Ewan McGregor continues to be hot.



I can't wait to see Beginners.

Rattan. It's not just your college roommate's papasan chair.

Photo: Elle Decor

Like everyone who read the April issue of Elle Decor, I fell completely in love with Sid Bergamin's covered patio filled with vintage rattan. The curved back on the sofa and the striped upholstery kill me. They are stunning. For my own patio, I'd like something like this but with black and white ticking and a hot pink coffee table.

Photo: Sunset

The orange cushions on this give it a completely different feel--much funkier and modern.

Photo: House Beautiful

The clean, simple lines, white paint and neutral upholstery make this set feel very traditional.

Photo: Lonny

And the white upholstery on this is completely serene. I love it, but I don't think I could ever exercise this kind of restraint in my own home.

Maine Cottage Furniture does a great job of reinterpreting vintage styles, and it comes in tons of crazy, beautiful paint colors with coordinating upholstery fabrics. Their new site is scheduled to go live on July 1st and I can't wait. In the meantime, they have a great online catalog you can browse through.

Maybe it's because rattan screams beach house and San Diego is a coastal town, but CraigList San Diego has tons of great project pieces--everything from full vintage living room sets to an amazing McGuire mirror and Palecek side chair.

This sofa and matching arm chair are $35o. I'd ask them to throw in the coffee table.

This loveseat and chair have much simpler lines, but for $59, who really cares? $59. I double-checked.



One spectacular side chair to make any home feel like a summer home. This one just sold, but I'm including the pic anyway so you can see what you missed out on.



Four funky dining chairs pulled up to an outdoor table will set you back $125. These are crying out for upholstery in a China Seas print.





A McGuire mirror for $100 and a Palecek side chair, also for for $100 and you have a fabulous entry.

As usual, it's Craigslist for the win.

(Search vintage bamboo, rattan and wicker. There's a ton more where this came from.)

West Elm has a Hitchcock moment.

Since I find real birds kind of creepy and it depresses me when they crap on my windshield, I don't usually go in for bird motifs on my home furnishings. All that changed with a quick trip through West Elm yesterday where they are wildly merchandising their Fall Preview collection, apparently in an effort to get it out before the summer solstice.

While the images online don't really do it justice, I assure you that in person, it's a stunner.

I'll admit the duvet cover has a bit of a "The Birds" vibe. For a second, I thought Tippi Hedren was running around the shop, but it turned out is was just that one high strung sales guy, clutching his binder full of merchandising plans and mumbling frantically into a Walkie Talkie.



Hey, wouldn't it be hilarious if a single silhouette of Alfred Hitchcock was mixed in with all the birds?

Just sayin'.

Check out the West Elm Fall Preview and tell me what you think.

Urban Outfitters. Where worlds collide.

There's a little shopping center down the hill from me, and while it's not quite grand enough to be called a mall, it does have an Anthropologie and a Paper Source, and it's thankfully Restoration Hardware- and Pottery Barn-free, so I like it.

I swung by Sunday morning to cruise Anthro but was caught off guard by a sea of white Ray Ban- and gladiator sandal-wearing girls elbowing their way in... could it be? Urban Outfitters! It just opened right across the parking lot from Anthro.

I made my way past the mob, thinking, perhaps, I had slipped down Judd Nelson's coke-widened nostrils into some weird eighties shadow world where girls wore Molly Ringwald's sunglasses with Ally Sheedy's sandals. Just inside the front door was a large table filled with long, feathered hair clips, which only added to the sense that I had inadvertently stepped through a portal into the past and landed in a place I would not have fit in in, even back then.

Back in the day, yes, back in the day, feathered hair accessories were always attached to roach clips which were then attached to the feathered hair of stoner girls hanging out in the Indio High School smoking area with my brother, whose existence I did not quite deny, but I certainly did not advertise.

No home furnishings to speak of, save the ubiquitous button-tufted headboard and a bunch of quilts that look like they wouldn't wash well. I went online to check out what I was missing, and it turns out, not much. I do like these folksy little poufs, though. Given the way the similarly priced Calypso-for-Target poufs flew off the shelves, these should have been stacked all over the store. Stoners love a good pouf. It's a a fact.

Oh, and I also saw this online:



Perhaps I was in the smoking area.

All the best beds have benches.

Photo: Lonny

Every bed needs a good bench at the end of it. A place to sit while you put on your shoes. A place to discard damp towels. A place to stack decorating magazines and half-finished Sunday Sudokus.



Craigs List. He's back in my good graces and we've been spending some quality time together. $275.

Go forth and bench-ify.

(I was going to title this post "bench press," but that pretty lame. Even for me. I might be able to bench press Fluffy, but not if he had a mouse in his mouth. And he usually does.)

Lust for lights.

I'm pretty sure Rainman installed the light switches in my house. There's a dimmer on every single one. The the hallways, the stairs, the bathrooms--I have mood lighting in all these places. And mood lighting is pretty important when you're in transit. Or taking a dump.

Unfortunately, none of these dimmers are attached to light fixtures, save one lone contractor's flush-mount nipple light in the entry. It's sort of a mediterranean looking, uni-boob kind of thing. Like Tara Reid when she's spent too much time in the tanning booth.

I love this shell chandelier from Jayson Home and Garden, but I'm still pretty miffed with him for stepping out on me with Lana from Los Angeles.



I've was kickin' it with my home girlz Serena and Lily last night and I came across these two beauties. I think they're hot but not tweet-them-pictures-of-my-wiener hot.




My living room is open to the entry and dining area, the breakfast nook is just around the corner, and all these spaces need ceiling-mounted fixtures--sort of a great room siutation. What's the deal, design people? Is all the lighting supposed to relate visually?

(I don't know what so great about great rooms. They're kind of a hassle to decorate. There's been half a mouse under a side chair in mine since last night. I thought if I left it there, Fluffy might finish it off during the night. He did not. Nothing great about that.)

Forget Craig. I'm with Jayson now.

Despite several trips to Chicago for both work and fun, I've never actually made it to Jayson Home and Garden. I've always wanted to go, but there's only so much schlepping around Chicago in search of home furnishing stores one can do before one's coworkers start resentfully calling one P.O.S.H., not after the Spice Girl, but after the tabletop shop on State Street that one may have blown the entire work group's only free afternoon searching for.

So when Jayson anounced a $1,000 shopping spree giveaway, I entered right away, and for the entire month of May, I entertained the irrational fantasy that I would actually win. I completely neglected Craig while I shopped the hell out of the Jayson site, decorating and re-decorating this room and that. You can imagine my disappointment when Jayson announced Lana from Los Angeles as the winner. What about Eileen from Encinitas?

And what would I have done with a $1,000 shopping spree to Jayson Home and Garden? In all honesty, $1,000 isn't much of a spree at Jayson, it's more of a semi-spree or a spree-lette, so my shopping would have begun with the Dev side table and ended with a Kantha throw pillow-- $1,039.81 out the door, including shipping.

And my sofa? My not-so-great-for-making-out but excellent-for-watching-Investigation-Discovery sofa? Well, it's extremely disappointed. It would have rocked the shit out of both table and pillow. It would have been HOT.

Congratulations to Jayson and Lana! I hope you two are very happy together.

(I hope Jayson gambles away the rent money and Lana disinterestedly sleeps with the mobile home park manager to buy them another month of space rental.)

I survived Ikea and all I got was this Billy bookcase.

For years, every trip to Ikea was the same.

Risk life and limb navigating past the loading zone and in the front door, race by the ball room and up the stairs, and join the masses plodding through the living, bedroom, kitchen and office displays, like herds of joyless Billys from the Family Circus, late for dinner and sure to get an eyeroll from Dolly and a finger wagging from Grandpa's ghost.

In short order I'd be completely overwhelmed. Ektorp and Blanda and Klippan and Lack. It all sounded familiar, but I didn't know what any of it meant. Where the hell was I, really? What if there was an earthquake? How would I get out with no natural light to guide me? This is California, people! And why, why, why did the whole fucking place smell like meatballs?

By the time I'd make it through the warehouse and caught sight of the long checkout lines, I would have completely lost my sense of direction and be well on my way to losing my mind. At the first glimpse of the exit sign, I'd make a run for it, abondoning my cart and leaving empty handed.

It's a system that has served me well and kept my home free of flat-packed furniture for years.

Eventually I developed a coping strategy, though. If there's something I really have to have, I go in the exit, cut through the warehouse, and walk against traffic directly to whatever it is I want. Then I grab it and get the hell out of there before I change my mind.

This Sunday I bought 12 yards of fabric that will eventually become drapes for my bedroom. My mom came with me--we made it to the rugs before she realized we were going the wrong direction--but she bought me the little black and pink vases to go with the fabric.

I'm thinking about getting the reverse print to upholster a headboard and some seat cushions. I'll show ya pictures when it's done!

Bullseye, Target! Smith and Hawken edition.

One of the things Target does exceptionally well is their collaborations with best-in-class product manufacturers. I'm not talking about their seasonal designer collections where they slap Liberty or Calypso and soon Missoni prints on every lampshade and serving tray within arm's reach. Rather, it's with their ongoing partnerships with companies like Calphalon, J.A. Henckels and Fieldcrest, that Target really hits its stride.

The manufacturers' deep industry knowledge and product area expertise and Target volumes result in tightly focused, high-quality, well-designed, product lines at moderate prices. Target gets to offer their customers exclusive lines from top manufacturers and the manufacturers grow their audience through entry-level products without diluting their brands. The customer gets so much more than just a discount--they get real value.

It's a brilliant strategy, really. Add a Diet Coke and a bag of popcorn for a $1.50 and it's no wonder I'm there three times a week

The Smith and Hawken for Target collection is a shining example of this type of collaboration. With only six different furniture collections and a few key accessories, if Smith and Hawken had been this disciplined about merchanding for their own stores, perhaps they would still be in business.



A personal favorite is the Solenti collection. It feels traditionally inspired but very modern in its streamlined simplicity. The furniture is appropriately scaled and well-proportioned--so many outdoor collections on the market now are ridiculously large--and the seats are deep enough that you can actually sink back into them, yet not so low that once you do, you can't get back up.

I was a little surprised by the price tag--a single club chair will set you back about $1,000, not including the cushions. While these are clearly investment pieces, and the great Smith and Hawken quality and elegant design may be worth every penny, it seems like a price point that would be out of reach for the average Target customer. And for those who are looking make a long term investment in patio furniture, and by that I mean dropping a grand on a single club chair, I don't think Target is the first place they're going to look.

Stating the obvious: Arnold edition.

Let me make this perfectly clear. Arnold Schwarzenegger is a...



And also a steaming pile of this...

And Mildred Baena?

She's a...

And a...

Their poor kids.

A nooner with George.

Image: George Smith

Today started like any other day--iced coffee and candy for breakfast, a couple of hours screwing around on the Internet looking for images of Chippendale sofas upholstered in funky fabric--inspiration for a post on how one that I found on Craig's List might be redone. Eventually I got dressed and headed out for lunch at the Yellow Deli with my dear friends Ken and Karen.

The Yellow Deli is a beautiful restaurant in the old town Vista built by hand and run by members of the Twelve Tribes, a christian community that lives communally and supports itself through its restaurants, woodworking shops and organic farming. The place itself felt like the treehouse of my Sunset Magazine-fueled childhood fantasies--paneling made from salvaged barn wood, leather head rests in the booths, macrame booth dividers. Seriously magical.

And the food--white bean soup and a salad with cashews, cranberries and havarti cheese. A basket of home-baked bread! I even put Stevia in my iced tea so my blood sugar wouldn't spike, but there must have been something else in there because by the time I left, I was thinking of joining the Tribes. I'd do it for the homemade bread alone.

Now to understand what happened next, I'm going to have to bring you up to speed on my backstory. My sofa backstory. Yes, I have a sofa backstory! That surprises you?

I've always wanted an English roll-arm sofa. Always. I remember sitting on one in Conran's at the Beverly Center way back in the day when "back in the day" was an expression people still used...so the late eighties, maybe? Must have been. I was in college, anyway. So I remember sitting on it thinking, "Now here's a couch you could make out on. Nice and deep. Supportive back. Low arms."

Image: George Sherlock

But is was a very long time before Captain Universe would see fit to put a roll-arm sofa in my path. For a while I used my sister's antique iron day bed for a couch--not at all good for making out on. It had two boards across the rails to support the cushions and they periodically fell inward. Later, at the height of my Shabby Chic-i-ness, I replaced it with a pink metal garden from the Long Beach Antique Market that was a disaster to make out on. One of the metal slats that supported the cushions rusted through and would sometimes hit the wood floor so hard it would make your teeth chatter.

Eventually I graduated to a real grown-up sofa. A two-seater, not a roll-arm, but an excellent make-out sofa, all the same. I loved that sofa, but Bunny clawed the slipcover in the middle of the night when she knew I was too lazy to get out of bed and make her stop. The seat cushions got squishy and made my back hurt. It needed help and that help was going to cost almost as much as a new sofa. I gave it away to a college student setting herself up in her first apartment.

Image: Domino via Little Green Notebook

I'm not sure when I first became familiar with George Smith sofas. It was probably around the time I started pouring over the resources sections of magazines, which at the time still listed phone numbers--the Internet still being a spark in Al Gore's eye. (God, that never gets old.) And seeing Amanda Peet's stunning, pink-striped roll-arm in Domino, a George Sherlock if we're splitting hairs, well, that just turned me into a crazed, roll-arm sofa stalking freak.

Image: Restoration Hardware

I searched high and low and bought the only English roll-arm even remotely in my price range. From Restoration Hardware. I know, I know. You're thinking, "Restoration Hardware? You hate Restoration Hardware." But this was before they primered everything brown and and got tired of painting. As a make out sofa, I'd give it a B--too many loose back cushions--but if your sitting around in your pajamas watching Investigation Discovery, you're definitely gonna need this sofa. For that, I give it an A+! What can I say? I'm old. Priorities change.

Okay. Backstory's over. Back to the commune lunch.

So, high on a crazy-delicious lunch eaten in a strange and beautiful treehouse-like restaurant built by hand in downtown Vista by members of christian commune and contemplating the benefits of joining said commune for an all-access pass to home-baked bread, I got on the freeway going West instead of East. And that, my friends, is how I found myself just a mile or so down the road from my super-secret antique resource that I'll never, ever reveal, Treasures on the Coast, on the Coast Highway in Oceanside, CA 92054.

I'm walking through the shop when suddenly I stop dead in my tracks, my heart skips a beat, jaw drops, and I swear--I swear--Karen Carpenter came back to life and started singing Close to You. Or maybe I hallucinated that part and it was just a floor lamp. They're both kinda skinny. Either way, there it was, a beautiful chocolate-brown George Smith roll-armed two-seater. Not velvet, no. That bitch was mohair. Mohair! And it was covered--covered, I say--in cushy, down-filled throw pillows made from old kilims.



For those of you who fail to grasp the enormity of this event, let me explain. San Diego County is not exactly a home furnishings mecca, so seeing a George Smith sofa in an antique shop in Oceanside is like seeing George Clooney, well, in an antique shop in Oceanside. I might as well have seen a unicorn or a leprechaun. Or a three-legged dog (I think they're lucky). A George Smith sofa at an antique shop in Oceanside makes the Chippendale sofa on Craig's List that I had planned to post about look like George Clooney with a mullet playing a handyman on Facts of Life.

See what I mean? And check out those eyebrows.

But it was already sold, as were all the throw pillows. For the low, low price of $2,000, which believe me, is a steal. So the moral dilemna of buying a sofa I didn't need with money I don't have was resolved.

And that was all it took to snap me out of my commune-food induced reverie. I'd have a hard time getting up in the morning to stir lentils and bake bread or whatever commune-istas do, if I had no hope of ever owning a George Smith sofa. Besides, something tells me that communes frown on sitting around in your pajamas watching Investigation Discovery.

But I really like lentils and homemade bread. Do you think the commune delivers? What? Maybe they own a VW bus.