It started a few weeks ago when one of the world’s most famous women took her clothes off publicly: the nude version of the Mona Lisa was discovered, closeted in some guy’s (really old) library. Since then, there’s been a rash of worldwide nude activity.

First, there was that Nude Bicycling Day. Hundreds of bicyclists around the planet stripped and jumped on their bike seats (speaking of a rash). Then, in mid-month, the news was full of that nude rugby match in New Zealand. (If you don’t believe me, click here to check out the team in play, miraculously photographed without exposure of anyone’s, um, Monty.)

Then, as if we had not had our fill of nude news, there was Nude Hiking Day on the Sunday of the solstice. Bare-assed people participated all across America, trudging up the Rockies and marching down the Appalachian Trail. (Mark Sanford missed out on a good thing.)

So it’s hardly surprising to hear about that guy on the US Airways flight today who disrobed, forcing an emergency landing in Albuquerque and some expert blanket positioning by the flight attendant.

Who are we to call him nuts? Given the state of things, I’d say he was just getting with the program.

My daughter, Nora Rothman, will be singing a set of jazz (and a few pop) songs with her band at Catalina’s Bar and Grill in Hollywood at 6725 W. Sunset Blvd… (http://www.catalinajazzclub.com). Her set is at 8 p.m., this coming Tuesday the 23rd, and I, for one, cannot wait.

To get a glimpse of this fabulous young singer (and I say that without a drop of  maternal bias), check her out at http://www.myspace.com/norarothman.

She’s also singing at Spazio’s in the valley on July 2nd, in case you need some pre-4th fireworks…

I was interested to read the news story last week on the findings of two scientists from the University of Oxford. After three years of study (at a cost to taxpayers of about 300,000 pounds), they announced that ducks like water.

Provided with a pond, a water trough, and a shower, the study group of ducks gravitated toward the shower, apparently “spending a lot of time under the shower, just standing there.” (My husband does this, too, much to the irritation of his family and the DWP, but unobserved by scientists.)

If somebody at Oxford had read my blog a few weeks back about the ducks at Fox studios, like you guys did, they could have saved themselves a lot of trouble; one quick visit with Fox’s lucky ducks would have led to the same conclusion.

The news from Oxford inspired me to appeal to them for funds to continue a study I’ve been conducting at my home, which is similar to their ducky one but focuses on another species: the dog.

For two years I have observed my golden retriever Oliver’s relationship to water. He has been provided with a swimming pool, a bathtub, and a hose and has shown an aversion to all three. If Oxford approves funding, I thought I might expand the study by trying the Dog-O-Matic. I just read about this doggy washing machine; you throw your pooch in and he emerges clean after a brisk cycle.

My guess is, however, that a spin in the Dog-O-Matic would leave Oliver with a solid case of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Check it out here and see what you think.

I’m feeling really out of step with the world. I read in Real Simple magazine (the January issue–the dentist was running late) the results of a survey of 2600 people. I was interested to read the top five wishes of women: 1. A spouse who makes more money.  2. Plastic surgery.  3. Telling her boss exactly how she feels.  4. More kids  5. Separate bathrooms.

As for number 1, swapping the current spouse for a richer one, I so do not want this. Finding a new spouse would be way too time-consuming and would involve going on dates to places like Hooters and besides, I like my spouse, although I hate the word ’spouse’ which makes him sound rodent-like.

As for 2, I once saw a terrifying documentary of a facelift that totally put me off —way too much gore—plus it’s barbaric and anti-feminist and also I’d be afraid I’d end up looking like the pilot of a plane that’s going way too fast.

3 is irrelevant because I am my own boss and I tell myself exactly how I feel 24/7 which is sort of irritating but most likely I will not fire myself as jobs are hard to get these days.

And 4? Nope. Had ‘em, love ‘em, done.

5 is another story; on this one I’m finally in synch with the masses of women surveyed. I believe that it’s in the best interest of romantic partners to avoid seeing each other doing things involving floss, shower caps, bandages, ointment, razors and…all that other stuff. The bathroom should be like Vegas: what happens in there, stays in there, out of a spouse’s line of vision. The best way to achieve that is with a His/Hers setup.

But I’d give up the separate bathrooms in a heartbeat if someone would grant me my fondest wish, one that I’m surprised is not number 1 on  this list: I wish my spouse (there’s that word again) could cook.

Apparently, my kitchen is a day spa.

I’ve just learned that Cool Whip and mayonnaise can double as excellent hair conditioners, and for that final rinse, use Lipton tea or Budweiser beer for extra shine. And if you’re in the mood for a self-inflicted manicure, Pam cooking spray will dry those nails in seconds.

My source also tells me that Jello can be used to freshen up smelly feet (okay, I have a little trouble getting my mind around that one) and that if you go to your “everything” drawer and grab some Elmer’s glue, you’ve got the makings of a facial. You just schmear it on, let it dry, and peel it off. (I used to do that as a kid, making pretend I was hideously sunburned.)

These are all excellent ideas and much more wallet-friendly than similar services in the Hills (the Beverly ones). I’d be tempted to try this stuff, to spruce myself up before my daughter’s high school graduation next week, but I know what would happen. I’d be in mid-treatment and the doorbell would ring. I’d have to open the door; it’d be the UPS guy with Nora’s graduation gift.

I can see the thought bubble above his head: “W.T.F?” There I’d be with mayo in my hair, Elmer’s on my face, Jello in my shoes, Pam in one hand, Budweiser in the other. I’d put the Bud down to sign for the package. His thought bubble would change: “Obvious party animal.”

“Oh, ha ha,” I’d protest, “it’s not what you think, ha ha! I’m just going to pour that on my head!”

Then I would have to miss Nora’s graduation, due to the straightjacket, so I think I’ll skip the kitchen spa and just, you know, head for the Hills.

In a follow-up to the swine flu cocktail story, I just learned that in the entire country of Afghanistan, where eating pork products is forbidden for religious reasons, there is only one pig. The lonely critter, who lives at the zoo in Kabul, just got even lonelier when he was quarantined, assigned to solitary confinement, because  zoo visitors were sure he was a flu-spreader.

While attention was focused on the Kabul zoo (they say it’s a dump), other tasty stories emerged about its history. Apparently, feathers flew at the zoo when, in the early ’90s during Afghanistan’s civil war, Mujahadeen fighters killed and ate th

e zoo’s birds and deer. They also shot the elephant for unknown reasons (not for dinner) and shattered the aquarium with bullets. One fighter climbed in the lion’s den (I know, goofy, right?), but the King o’ Beasts was not in a hospitable mood. He killed the guy, so the guy’s brother came by the next day and sent a grenade into Marjan’s lair, leaving the lion toothless and blind.
I tell ya, it’s a wild world.

So, anyway, Afghanistan is a pig-free zone. Not only can you not visit Wilbur at the zoo, you can’t eat bacon, pork chops or ham. Although I complain about making bacon, I’d complain more if it were unavailable. So, if you hear me say I’m moving to Afghanistan, please remind me about the pork thing and suggest I change my mind.

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There’s something sweet going on at 20th Century Fox, and I’m not referring to the grosses from “Wolverine.”

Maybe she lost her way in mid-migration, or maybe she’s hoping to snag Hugh Jackman’s autograph, but a duck recently took up residence in the fountain right smack outside the offices of Fox’s top execs, and then promptly became the mother of eight.

We visited them on Mother’s Day, and they are certainly the cutest family on Pico Boulevard. Sadly, their numbers have been reduced by two; some predator made off with a couple of ducklings. Most likely it was a crow like the one that almost grazed my forehead while I watched Mama Duck teach her kids a trick. She climbed up the ivy beside the fountain, babies in a row behind her, to the top of a retaining wall and jumped into the water, followed by six happy splashes.

Fox execs are so charmed by the duck invasion they have constructed a wood ‘n wire shelter for them, right in the fountain, to protect the ducks from further crow attacks. Fox is  hoping that, if they make the perks good enough, the ducks won’t migrate to Warners or Universal.

I just read this story in the news about a German scientist named Dr. Hilbig who claims to have proved that fish can get seasick. He came to this stunning conclusion after putting forty-nine fish in a small aquarium, sending them up in an airplane, and then sending that plane into a steep dive, simulating the loss of gravity.

Apparently, eight of the fish started spinning around in circles. “They were behaving like humans who get seasick,” Dr. H. claims. “They became…confused and looked as if they were going to vomit.”

Okay, so I’m impressed the guy knows how to read a fish’s facial expression, but, I have to say, if I were in a plane that suddenly plummeted towards earth, I have no doubt that I, too, would go into a tailspin and vomit, but I’m not sure I’d call it ’seasickness.’ The real mystery is why the other forty-one fish remained calm.

Smartypants Hilbig posits that “In the wild such ’seasick’ fish would become prey for others because they are incapable of fleeing from danger.” But my guess is that the fish were already incapable of that, or they wouldn’t have been passengers on Flight Nosedive.

Adding insult to injury (or actually injury to insult), the eight flustered fish later had their brains examined to determine the exact cause of their ’seasickness.’ If you ask me, someone does indeed need to have their head examined, but it ain’t the fish.

Maybe it’s because my husband works for the company that’s releasing the movie, or because I’m given to flights of cuckoo fantasy when performing tedious culinary tasks. Or maybe I’m just, you know, losing it. You be the judge.

But when the Salad Hands I ordered from Sur La Table arrived last week, I became Wolverine. (If you have never seen an X-Men movie, you will not know who this is. Shame on you. Google him.)

These Salad Hands look awful cute online; white plastic with handles that come in a variety of cheerful colors. But when they arrive and you hold them, you can’t help but feel like that iconic mutant superhero, whose distinguishing feature, on display now in posters everywhere, is the scary, metallic version of my adorable kitchen tool.

If only I could, along with the Hands, aquire some of Wolverine’s special skills. 1) When wounded, he heals instantly. This would have come in handy the other day when, with my usual kitchen impatience. I sliced my finger instead of the carrot. 2) He never ages. Rushing around for centuries, growling and stabbing people and he still looks like, well, Hugh Jackman.

It’s not such a bad way, by the way, to get through the dinner hour. Grab those Salad Hands and flip your imagination switch: tossing a salad becomes much more interesting. I just have to try not to growl at people, which is a stretch for me even when I’m empty-handed.

(Click here for the recipe for Wolverine Salad.)

BLOG4-17-09Bruce

Our seats at the Sports Arena were a lot better last night than they were at the same venue 22 years ago (the Tunnel of Love tour—I still have the t-shirt). But you coulda been in the nosebleed seats and still gotten a hit of concert-induced euphoria. No matter where you’re sitting, when Bruce Springsteen’s in the room, your whole life gets rocked.

I’m hesitant to be hyperbolic in public, but what I really believe is that The Boss owns the planet.

The last time he was in L.A., Tom took one of our daughters. She later commented that she’d never seen so many old people in one place in her life. Last night was a little more multi-generational; fogies carried children on their shoulders, and Jay Weinberg, the son of Bruce’s regular drummer, Max, subbed for Dad.

But the Boss is roughly sixty years old, and Nora’s right: there’s a lotta grey hair in the mosh pit. The good news is that a Boss concert is a place where a person can let down their hair, no matter what color it is. If you’re middle-aged, you’re in the majority, and you can rock with abandon, humiliation-free. Tom and I were on our feet for two-and-a-half hours.

My new t-shirt reads: “Tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.” If Bruce is coming to a venue near you, run and get tickets. It’ll make you feel like you’ve still got a few Glory Days left in you.