You know, half the world's problems would be solved if we could just eradicate spam. And by that I mean spam of all shapes and sizes and places, because there are more kinds of spam in the world than you can shake a pig-in-a-tin at. I open my email, and I see spam. Let's see. Do I want to have various organs enlarged? Do I want to see various brainless idiots removing their clothes in a brainless manner? Do I want to win a poetry contest with low APR and five thousand down on the marginalized insurance existentialist structure? Do I want a virus to tell me the measure of its love? No! I don't! Nobody does! But when I run away from my computer and jog to the mailbox for some catalogue relief, what do I find? Let's see now . . . give it a good hard guess . . . um, er, lookhoneyhere'ssomemore SPAM! Do I want five thousand credit cards with limitless debt? Do I want coupons? Do I want a lot of coupons? Do I want a Big Freakin' Pile O' Coupon Fun? Do I want to make a donation to the Find Brainless People's Children Corporation? Do I want you to sandwich my bills between all of these things so I can't find them and run the risk of throwing them away immediately because, hey, surprise, no one actually reads spam so why are you wasting your time sending it to me?

And don't even make me go into media spam. Frankie was right when he said sex appeal is dead. The media killed it. You can only be flashed with brainless sexual images so many times before it begins to mean nothing. They used to say that sex sells. That's rubbish now. Why? Well, my merchandizing little cookie, I'll tell you why. "Sex appeal" is the new spam, cluttering up the media screens, cluttering up the eyeballs. And spam does not sell. Spam eels its way in and is immediately expunged into the trash bin, virtual, physical, or mental. So. Eliminate spam, and the world is no longer plagued by nothing-trash. And voila, the world is saved! Spamless and saved! I always knew I'd do it someday!

Except for that whole hunger thing. But never fear; I hear Jennifer Lopez has a chinchilla fur coat, and surely she'll be glad to sell it for the benefit of starving folks everywhere. Someone just has to tell her that fur is the new spam.

It's summer. Feel my pain. Even though it's been frigidly cold lately (because when have the weather gods ever paid attention to the actual seasons?), summer is definitely here. And I can tell because people are starting to wear less and less clothing, defying the cloudy skies by waiting for the inevitable sun. And I know the sun will be coming out sometime, and when it does, in comes the pain. Because when you think about the sun here, you think about people under that sun. People getting tan under that sun. Cut to Christa. Pale, pale Christa. Fade to black.

Don't get me wrong. I am perfectly fine with being a non-tan. I'd even go so far as to say hey, pale is pretty. No no, you see, it's other people -- tan people, the very people who are currently outside shivering away in their determined sundresses -- who make my pale little eyes to roll up to the summerfied heavens. "I think I'll go outside and tan!" "I bought some new tanning lotion today!" And my personal favorite, "I can't stand those fake tans from a bottle! They're so gross!" I am always tacking on a mental response to that one, and it goes, "Boy howdy! I can't stand this skin cancer! Losing my hair and being prematurely wrinkled is so gross!" So, tans and summer, I demand that you separate. If I had more oxygen in my blood, I'd be tan too. Or better yet, if I were less comfortable in my pale cancer-free skin, I'd be summer-lovin too.

Last night my dad and I cruised home from the ball game -- yes, apparently father-daughter bonding is still alive and well, and it is done over peanuts and triple plays -- when we passed one of those stupidly giant trucks fixed up with stupidly giant wheels. Suddenly my Dad gave an innocent grin and asked, "What is it you say about guys who drive huge trucks mounted over huge wheels?"

I blinked a bit and laughed myself. "Oh Dad, you don't want to know what I say about them. I really don't think you do."

"Come on, what is it you say?"

Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of father-daughter bonding. I cleared my throat, I laughed, and I said, "Well, I've only ever seen a guy driving those cars, so . . . well, I say, 'Do you think he's compensating for something?'"

Dad laughed too. "So what does that mean?"

"Um." I scratched my head. "It means he's, uh, small." I looked over at Dad. Dad didn't get it. I looked out the window. Then, in a sort of rush, "It means he's probably less-endowed, and he's trying to look like he isn't because he's in this stupid giant truck for no other reason than appearing stupid and giant . . . you know. Compensating. For something." A beat. "Anyway, I guess it's not very nice. Sometimes I'm not, you know." I looked over at Dad. Dad laughed anyway, but I still don't think he got it.

And somehow that's perfectly all right with me.

I saw one of those new BMW Mini Coopers from The Italian Job in my rear-view mirror today. It was being driven by An Old Guy Trying To Look Cool And Rich, of course, complete with McCartney shades, salt and pepper goatee, suspicious tan, and close-cut hair to hide the balding factor. Come on, you know what I'm talking about. An Old Guy Trying To Look Cool And Rich is usually the only kind of person who can afford A Sweet Ride, although he is occasionally interspersed by Wealthy Old Lady With A Scarf, Young Anorexic Chippie Driving Daddy's Car With The Brainpower Of A Paramecium, Soccer Mom Who Drives An SUV Or A Hummer Because She Doesn't Want To Drive A Minivan Like She's Supposed To And Who Must Be Found And Stopped, and lastly, Nasty Punk Who Spends More Time Souping Up His Car Than Washing His Acne And Who Checks You Out Before Speeding Up To Cut You Off Like The True Pasty-Faced Bastard He Is.

I'm not sure I'd define the Mini as A Sweet Ride, though. The Mini looks like the aftermath of an automobile orgy involving a Volkswagen Bug hopped up on green tree air fresheners, a Mazda Miata swilling down cheap petrol by the hour, and a golf cart from Vermont, who just happened to fall in with the wrong crowd. And you know, there's got to be a country song in there somewhere.

Busby Berkley is no more. We no longer see long-limbed legs kicking around in circles and forming geometric patterns filmed on high. I wouldn't mourn that, I suppose, except we no longer see the divas of the Busby Berkley-age, either, and they were just too cool. They strutted around in ostrich-feather robes and high-heel slippers, and they sang with emotion-filled, lusty voices, and they said things like, "I am big! It's the pictures that got small!" Or if they were nicer and less Dickens-inspired, they said things like, "Randall, get me a gin and tonic! And make it two!" Or maybe even, "Fellas, I'm so exhausted I might just wring a kiss out of you!" And they didn't look like sticks, and they didn't inject themselves with plastic. And they knew where they were going. And even though people occasionally glimpse one of them in a movie or theater piece or two -- like the 42nd Street show of today -- they've all but vanished into older days. Those were the good old days.

Except for the whole equal-opportunity thing. That was a sucker.

57 and 58 are new. Well. Not so much new as finally updated.

Summertime must be in the air, because newness is here at last. After strife strife strife and finals finals finals, I've got a little free time coming to me. Hell, if we want to go around tallying up rightly-deserved free time, I've got almost all of it coming to me. I may even have to take some of your free time, you ardent fan you. I hope you won't mind. You shouldn't mind, because what kind of weak-sauce ardent fanship is that?

Methinks all this crimson has given me a more imperial-driven attitude. The royal kind, not the butter kind. So go on, let me know what you think of it. Because your opinion ought to matter. Especially if I'm the one enjoying all your free time. After all, it is not-so-often said that "one cannot live by coconut milk alone." Aren't you glad I'm free to test that theory?