Saturday, January 29, 2011

Sick Kids and Sir Elton John

It has been quite awhile since the Rivertrout posted a missive. Such is the law, such is family.

But this evening, I was inspired. And as is often the case, I was inspired by really gross, inappropriate things. Such is art.

Our kids have stomach flus. This is hard for them. But for we, the parents, it is even harder. We had to explain to the 2- and 4-year-old what was happening to their bodies, and why they have been spending so much time on the commode lately. What to do? And then the obvious solution hit me--really, I am ashamed it took so long: Elton John recently became a parent! What would HE do?

What follows is the little ditty that we came up with, on the fly, to settle the kids down. At the end of our song (which may have made the kids sicker), we were so impressed with ourselves that my wife decided to ditch the law and apply to Julliard. She's a late bloomer. Our kids will complain about this to their therapists in the coming decade. But there won't be any money to pay those therapists, because Sir Elton John will have taken all of it from me in a widely-publicized lawsuit. This is . . .


Woke up this morning, and grabbed my bear
'Bout zero-hour five a.m.
And I'm gonna be siiiii-iick . . . as a dog by then
I miss my mommy, I miss my dad
It's chilly in this place
Just wish my tummy would go to outer space.

And I think that I'll be here a long long time
Feels like my tummy's full of turpentine
I'm not the kid they think I am at school
Oh no no no . . . . I've got ROCKETPOOOOOOOOH
Everything's just movin' right on through!

And I think that I'll be here a long long time!

This ain't the kind of place to play with toys
They're just outside the door
But I'm gonna be heeeeeeeeeere . . . 'til I can poop no more

And so I think that I'll be here a long long time
My tummy's full of really angry brine
I'm not the kid they think I am at school
Oh no no no . . . I've got ROCKETPOOOOOOOH!
Dinner's flowin' straight into the loo!
And I think that some of it got on my shoe!

And I think it's gonna be a long long time . . . .

Yes I think that I'll be here a long long time . . . .

[Some people will do anything to make their kids laugh. We are such people.]

Sunday, August 16, 2009

My "Hat Is On" To The Common Orange County DB

This morning, I missed out on a fight over the quality of my hat.

The offending head wear is a brown-and-plaid-toned, thin-brimmed cap like the one dads used to wear with a straight face during the 1950s, as they rested in their lawn chairs, smoking pipes, drinking Hamms beer, watering the lawn, and smackin' the kids upside the head for misbehavin', all simultaneously. Throw in a set of severe looking eyeglasses and you get the complete picture. But for the fact that these hats are sold in surf shops, they would be decidedly uncool. But my 2 1/2 year-old daughter really liked me wearing it, so I picked one up on my way home from the Piggly Wiggly.

This morning--just one day after the purchase--someone dared to challenge my choice of lids. This happened much faster than I expected. And even more disturbing was the fact that I was confronted about my hat by none other than THE Orange County Douche Bag ("OCDB").

The OCDB species is indigenous to the area: Pasty white dude piloting a moderately expensive car (new model Infinity, in this case), sporting designer wrap-around Gucci sunglasses, tight "Affliction" t-shirt, "True Religion" jeans, blinding silver watch with a dial bigger than his pinhead, and a David Schwimmer haircut that looked like he had applied gel to his bangs then slammed a screen door into his face. (Quick reminder: I am talking about a male here.) Some of them might even be seen in the very hat that this particular DB saw fit to chastise. In its natural habitat, the OCDB poses no significant threat--one will generally divert its attention to ogling OC Chicks (definition pending) and lying about how often he has gotten laid lately. It is rare for an OCDB to confront a member of the same sex for any reason. In fact, on any given business day, this particular OCDB would probably be some sort of executive or semi-executive, headed to work--sort of like me, but in this case, pastier and much, much fatter.

On this particular Sunday, OCDB was bored. Really bored.

I was driving to work, minding my business, wearing my hat. I had not been driving erratically, had not flipped anyone off for at least three blocks, and had not even cut anyone off yet. (In other words, I was having an "off" day already.) I was simply cruising along, at the speed limit, thinking about how delighted I was to be headed to work on Sunday. I stopped at the signal just outside John Wayne Airport. There was no one else around, either on the street or at the stop light.

It was at this point that OCDB pulled up next to me in his new Infinity. He was alone in the car--there was no one in the car to impress. No co-DBs. No blond college girls. As an OCDB-cum-solo, he was the last guy on earth I would have thought would want to start a fight this morning.

But I was wrong. As he started laughing, I realized that he was insulting my hat. In fact, he said something really creative like "Hey, that's a stupid hat!" I looked at him with no expression at all--no anger, no humor, no anything. The truth is, the hat is kind of funny.

OCDB motioned for me to roll down the window. Anticipating a good-natured laugh between two OCDBs over my now-controversial hat, I complied. But to my surprise, as the window came down, I heard him "popping off" at me. As of this point, I had not said anything to provoke this. But all by himself, he escalated his situation. After he was done insulting my hat, he started in on my car. And how slow it is. And how I must think I'm fast, but in reality, I'm really slow. And how I am a pussy. (This in the span of about 10 seconds.) There was no single unified theme to his rant; it began with a chuckle about my hat, then a rhetorical question about whether it was Sunday [in fact, it was], followed by speculation about my car's handling, and finally, a declaration that I was a pussy. Again, I offered no expression and no words. Not even a one-fingered salute, which would have been entirely appropriate under the circumstances. I just watched and listened as he worked himself into a frenzy, until it was no longer clear to me where he was going with this. I expected that, when the light turned green, OCDB would blast off, so as to demonstrate how fast his car was, try to cut me off, or otherwise do something else to engage.

Instead, OCDB did nothing. When the light turned green, I rolled up the window and drove through the intersection at a normal pace. As the window ascended, it choked out the last, frustrated words of OCDB, who continued to yell at me, from behind, about how much faster he was and how I should pull over so that he could show me. (The irony in that was probably lost on him as he continued to rant, but I thought it was pretty good.) I expected he would try to follow me, but he did not. Rather than race up behind me to continue his tirade, demonstrate how fast his car was, or both, he slowed down and pulled over somewhere behind me. Maybe he thought I would come back to hear him out. I kept rolling, dangerously close to the speed limit, as OCDB just sat there by the side of the road, disappearing into the depths of my rear view mirror.

The entire episode had run its course--from ridicule, to anger, to challenge, to backing-down--all without any input from me. I didn't even have time for a one-liner. I may as well have been Amish. It was very unsatisfying.

The whole thing was actually very confusing--I wasn't sure what to make of it. I did not feel any of the desired effects--intimidation, provocation, anger. Instead, I was just disappointed by OCDB's lack of creativity or follow-through. Truthfully, it made me want to take my hat back to the store where I bought it, so that I could select an even more obnoxious one, then try again in the hopes that I could attract more coherent and creative ridicule next time. What kind of knob has nothing better to do in the Irvine/Newport area on a weekend than drive around, by himself, in a luxury car, trying to pick a fights with random yuppies wearing funny hats, only to totally back down when the opportunity presents itself?

Deep down, I suspect OCDB probably wanted to ask me where he could get a hat like mine, but was too shy to just ask. If he had asked, I would have urged him to get one, so that he could complete his look.

And to OCDB, itself, be it known: I drive the same route to work every day, in the same car. Hope to see you there again. Next time, consider using complete sentences when you smack-talk. While I cannot promise that you will succeed (at smack-talking or anything else), your chances are better if your target audience can decipher your words.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Local Man Lays Off Children in Effort to Stimulate Economy, Sex Life

--Boone's Folly, California

Following reports of devastating losses in Q4 2008, local financial services consultant Carl Schweigl, 38, announced that a reduction in force would soon grip his household. Through a spokesperson, Schweigl issued the following statement: "Management has taken a long, hard look at our balance sheet over the last three months while the current economic downturn deepens, and reached the regrettable conclusion that a reduction in force is necessary in order to preserve our economic fortitude in these strenuous times and sufficient capital to maintain the beer supply above critical levels. Impacted family members will be notified at the next dinnertime. Outplacement services (cab fare and $20 in pizza coupons) will be provided. We had hoped this day would never come, but wish the impacted well in their future endeavours."

Three of the Schweigls' six children were expected to receive pink slips at the next family dinner. Mrs. Schweigl, 37, was quoted as saying "Management has made the decision to wait until later in the meal, when it is determined who has been feeding their vegetables to the dog" before handing out the pink slips. Mrs. Schweigl, herself, expressed confidence that her own position was secure, citing her possession of a valid Class C driver's license, gainful employment, a binding prenuptial agreement in her favor, and that one video of Mr. Schweigl getting naked while playing drinking games with his buddies at Lake Mead four years ago.

Reacting to the news of the impending RIF, family member James Schweigl, 12, said "Whatever. The benefits package here sucked anyway. Especially dental."

Saturday, January 24, 2009

A Message from The President (of KevinBaconLand)

Most are familiar with the postulate known as "Six Degrees of Separation." In its simplest form, the theory goes something like this: Any person on Earth at exactly this moment can be related to any another person on Earth at this moment through a direct series just SIX relationships of varying intimacy. (In reality, this theory is really much more complex--thousands and thousands of academics, working in universities around the world--mostly in Mississippi--have been attempting to perfect the contours of this theory with the aide of copious amounts of alcoholic substance and unhealthy exposure to Kevin Bacon movies.)

As a hypothetical illustration of this principle, consider the following: Today, you may have been standing in line at Starbucks next to a woman (1), whose uncle, the writer (2), is married to a carpenter (3), who made a toy giraffe for the daughter (4) of a doctor (5) who operated on Lance Armstrong's (6) torn meniscus (which, by the way, he suffered while trying to emulate moves from the film "Footloose," starring Kevin Bacon). Through this simple, yet elegant, constellation of relationships, you have just been related to Lance Armstrong. The conduits of these relationships could be anyone--a person on the bus, your spouse--the level of the relationship simply does not matter.

And so, it is with this principle in mind that I thank the American People for sending me to Washington, D.C.--specifically, the White House. That's right, the White House. I have attained the highest office in the land in a mere TWO degrees. Not bad for a political rookie. I shall explain.

Please refer to the photo at right. This is the editorial board for the Harvard Law Review, Vol. 104 (1990-1991). Note the festive attire, the good-natured humor, and the mirth emanating from their ranks. These people are having fun.

Anyway, seated at center, holding the staff, is BARACK OBAMA. Mr. Obama was the Editor-in-Chief ("president" as they're known at Haaaarvard) of the Harvard Law Review in 1991. Mr. Obama then went on to become a Constitutional law professor (mid-1990s), and among other things, President of the United States from 2009-2042. (I am counting on a Constitutional Amendment.)

Seated two positions to Mr. Obama's right in the photo is--I am informed and believe--JIM CHEN. Mr. Chen was the Executive Editor of the Harvard Law Review (1991), and more critically, MY constitutional law professor at University of Minnesota Law School in 1999. He was also the faculty advisor to Volume 86 of the Minnesota Law Review, Yours Truly, Editor-in-Chief (nose held high).

Coincidence? No. I am inextricably connected to these two giants. But get ready for the sum of these events: Applying Kevin Bacon's Principle of Human Interrelation, through the transitive property of Professor/Dean Chen, I AM THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. That's right.

Am I just pimping my own Bacon-esque constellation of relationships for political gain? Water skiing over the vapors left behind those who have actually achieved something in their vocation, then shamelessly packaging those achievements up and presenting them as my own? You bet. But why not? Some Presidents are made just that way! (43)

The interrelation does not end with my ascension to the Presidency, though. As yet another amazing turn, Professor/Dean Chen is also currently on the short list to be the next Dean of Loyola Law School, Los Angeles, where my father's wife is currently preparing for matriculation. So, applying the same principles, I have appointed her Secretary of the Interior Design.* Responsibilities include Oval Office decor, coordination of gala events, daily briefings on terrorist activities, and conducting meetings with dignitaries while I am out clearing brush on the ranch.

Once again, thank you for placing the faith of the Republic behind me, and the fate of a nation in my hands. Prepare yourself for Change you won't want to believe.

*Appointment subject to Senate confirmation and presentation of valid juris doctor certificate.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008


The year was 1997. The place was San Diego, California. The man was our crew coach, Mark. The bird was a frozen Hillshire Farms turkey, on special for about 98 cents per pound. In this this place...a chemical meltdown of catastrophic proportions threatened civilization, if only briefly. To the great benefit of mankind, man and fowl united to waylay this near disaster.

This is their story.

We should have been concerned when Coach Mark ended the morning practice session with an announcement that he would be attending our party later that evening. To my knowledge, we had all given false addresses at team registration to prevent this very eventuality. But he knew where we lived and that the team was meeting for one of its semi-monthly parties, and he was coming. With a turkey frier. With that last bit of information in mind, the best course of action would have been to go home, pack, and move back to campus that afternoon. But I simply did not appreciate then the power of this awesome contraption.

In 1997, turkey friers were not yet standard hardware in the American kitchen. They were demonstrated on late night television by men wearing white lab coats and protective eye wear. They were complicated, innovative and intimidating. They were large and unwieldy, and they seemed to threaten sudden incineration of anyone or anything that should set foot within ten feet. Yes, in those days, everyone was aware, at least peripherally, of this fundamental truth: Turkey friers are not to be trifled with, and should only be operated with professional supervision and/or guidance from some sort of cleric.

But Coach Mark was the kind of guy that did not believe in fundamental truths. It's not as if he detested them, or even doubted their existence; he just didn't like them. He liked the world his way. From Mark's perspective, fundamentals of any kind--be they of truth, science, or what-have-you--were annoyances that someone had carelessly left in his path, where they would surely get in the way a good time. Besides, what was more fundamental than one man cooking a 12 lb. turkey HIS way, goddammit?

Unfortunately for those of us on the Varsity team, 1997, "his way" was in our backyard, with five gallons of pure peanut oil and a match. And so it came to pass that, at 5:30 p.m. (D-Day -1:30), Coach Mark arrived at our house, toting the following apparatus:

1. A 7-gallon capacity steel vat (with legs to prop it up), thermometer attached

2. A large Bunsen burner (with 2-gallon-capacity fuel tank on the side)

3. A 5-gallon jug of peanut oil (Kirkland brand, from Coscto)

4. A 12 lb. frozen turkey

5. A match

In anticipation of Coach Mark's arrival, and as a precautionary measure, my team members and I had commenced drinking exercises at approximately 3:00 that afternoon. This meant that Coach Mark and his apparatus gained entry into our house with little resistance. He ordered the bird into our freezer, then proceeded to the backyard, where he went about assembling the components of the turkey frier.

The instructions said to pour all of the peanut oil into the vat, install the thermometer at the top of the vat, light the burner, then wait for the thermometer to reach 500 degrees Fahrenheit. It seemed simple enough, and to our collective surprise, the vat was up and running within a few minutes of Coach Mark's arrival, seemingly without incident.

An hour passed.

At the end of the hour, I noticed that the thermometer had reached 500 degrees. I also noted that the thermometer's element was not actually submerged in even an ounce of the five gallons of peanut oil below. Instead, it was measuring the temperature of the air ABOVE the oil. When I placed the element in the oil, the temperature spiked to approximately 650 degrees Fahrenheit. Sensing a change in plans, I called to Coach Mark. "No problem," he said, as he emerged from our house carrying a full glass of water.

Mark was a gifted rower, a skilled coach, and a great friend to his team. But he was challenged in the ways of kitchen science, and deaf to our warnings. Those of us in attendance ran for cover as Mark dropped eight ounces of water into five gallons of scalding peanut oil. The exact science of water, oil and heat is unimportant at this point--it suffices to say that people pay good money every Fourth of July to attend firework shows that pale in comparison to Mark's next 1.2 seconds of glory. Mark was dispatched to the hedges against the fence as a mushroom cloud of oil and steam erupted in our very own backyard. After we retrieved Mark from the hedge, he hurried back to Ground Zero to see what had become of the turkey frier. To our horror, it was intact, and the temperature of the oil had "cooled" to just over 500 degrees Fahrenheit.

This was Mark's moment to shine. He ordered the turkey out of the freezer, unwrapped same, and made for the turkey frier. We considered warning him that his bird was carrying another eight ounces of frozen water, and that he may experience similar results, but we were afraid to taint his experiment with rational thought. He clamped a make-shift "claw" device to the bird, and with no significant amount of caution, began to lower it into the peanut oil.

What followed was a thermodynamic event that would befuddle and frustrate CalTech professors for years. ("Why didn't WE think of that?!") As Coach Mark lowered his turkey into the Cauldron of Death, the turkey frier roared like a Saturn V rocket on its first moonshot. Coach Mark was thrown backward into the bushes for the second time that evening as the Rocketbird whirred and swooshed into the atmosphere atop two-thousand pounds of sheer thrust. If that turkey accomplished nothing in life, may it at least be remembered as the first dead turkey to hug the edge of the sound barrier.

The insurance people told me I was not allowed to discuss or write about what became of Mark, the turkey frier, or the bird. Just know this: Blackened raw turkey is not a delicacy in ANY culture. It is neither "Cajun" nor "seared." Don't let anyone convince you otherwise--unless they're on late night T.V., in which case they are probably right, and you should buy two.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

How About a Nice Cup of Ole' Gran (You Cheeky Little Bastard)?

This past summer, my wife and I treated the family to a weekend in the woods. This was a particularly important vacation to me, as it was to take place in the national park that I enjoyed several times every summer, beginning at age 6. Now, we have had a number of short jaunts this year, mixed in between hearings, depositions, and garden variety ass-whuppins, but the vacation to the National Forest was my vacation. The vacation that I planned eight months in advance. The vacation that brought the promise of sanctuary, far away from the hustle-bustle that pollutes adult life, where my young family and I would be able to commune with the squirrels and bears and birds, whatever kind they may be. (I used to--and still do--ridicule serious bird watchers as a matter of course. In fact, my sister recently admitted to me that she enjoys identifying birds on hikes, the nerd.)

Anyway. In order to ensure that this trip would be as relaxing as possible, I was delighted that my father, his wife, and our new extended family would be coming along. To protect the innocent, the extended family's name has been changed to "the Brits." "The Brits" is not really their family name. It is a code name (see previous postings). The Brits and the Trouts became one unified family (under Cayman law) when their daughter decided that it was a good idea to marry my father ("These are for you!"). As their surname suggests, the Brits hail from Texas.

Before I proceed, I must express my sincere love and appreciation for the Brits; they bring a new warmth and vigor to my family (and our presence in theirs); we are always very happy to spend time with them, as they bring with them a kindness and curiosity that is refreshing and genuine. I am truly glad to know them, and pleased that they choose to spend any time hanging out with my family, even though they have had ample time to get to know us and should, by now, know better.

But they also bring a relentless--and unforgiving--sense of independence. So fierce is that conviction, that I am unable to withstand it without the assistance of a healthy round of gin & tonics (mixed by Mr. Brit). And so fierce is that conviction, that he is a fool who holds his life cheap that dares to attempt acts of unwarranted politeness. Which brings me to the subject of this entry: Frankie (real name not used, I SWEAR). The only way to preamble this entry is to state, simply, that you mustn't f**k with Frankie. Ever.

I learned this lesson for the first time from behind the bow of a kayak in the Lake, near our campsite. Frankie and her husband, Mr. Brit, had gone kayaking and left us with the River Folk (explained below). My father was enduring the torture of relaxing with the River Folk on a giant inflatable "party barge," his "Range Rover" licensed baseball cap firmly planted on his head. (Everyone liked the hat, even though they didn't say anything about it--it was a quiet reverence.) Dad's wife was along for the ride, sipping a Corona (extra lime) under duress. I stood on the beach wondering how long this would last.

The Brits, however, had departed--they had paddled off into the Forest aboard OPK ("Other Peoples' Kayaks"), leaving us to party like it was 1978. Now, the family's predicament at this point was not the Brits' fault. As I later learned, my own father and his wife were responsible for visiting these circumstances upon us. And they accomplished it literally within minutes of emerging from their car and finding themselves in the River Folks' camp. In a moment of diplomacy that would have killed President Carter with envy, my father not only embraced the River Folk, but--in a very substantial and almost legally-binding way--agreed to vacation with the group of forty-odd complete strangers this very trip, then repeat the untested experience next year. By the time the Trout family (me, my wife, and the youngster) arrived, we had gained another forty cousins. We were promptly invited to join their tribe at the Lake. In all of our years in the Forest, we had never been to "the Lake."

As it turns out, there's a good goddamned reason why not.

But I digress. Now that my parents were stuck on the Party Barge of Death, I was charged with commandeering another kayak (also not ours) to hunt down and retrieve Frankie and Mr. Brit so that we could surrender the kayaks, then graciously get the f**k away from the Lake and return to our cabin to drink whatever alcoholic beverages had not already been carried off by the bears. So, off I went. I charged. And when I found Frankie and Mr. Brit, about halfway across the Lake, they greeted me in the customary way: "We're doing just fine, thankyouverymuch, and we've kayaked more times than you've shit in your life, so don't feel compelled to 'rescue' us."

Thus welcomed, it appeared that the balance of my kayak experience could only improve. Indeed it would have, had a school of piranhas nibbled the bottom of my kayak out and eaten me alive. But the Lake offered no such rescue for me.

So, I paddled on, waiting for Frankie to whack me in the back of the head with her oar (or "paddle," as those who have kayaked more times than I have shit know to call them). When we reached the shore some minutes later, I made the mistake of attempting to help Frankie land and exit her kayak. It was suggested, again, that I go to Hell. So, I decided to retreat to Mr. Brit, who would, no doubt, soon pour me a gin and tonic. He did so, and to make the long story short, Frankie and I made up a short while thereafter. As it turns out, she had properly identified me as a patronizing boy scout, but decided to forgive me for it anyway.

The Epilogue.

The next morning, I made a fatal error. I brought Frankie a cup of tea. The tea was Earl Grey, in honor of her heritage. (You know: "Duke duke duke, duke of Earl, duke duke, duke of EARL duke duke, duke of EARL . . . .") When I approached Frankie with the cup, I extended it to her and cheerfully said "Here's your Earl Grey! :) ." Frankie paused in disbelief at the offensive beverage, then responded, "Well thanks, whipper snapper." Then, she shot a thunderbolt from her eye that caused my clothing to vaporize. It dawned on me that I had just committed the mother of all f**k-ups. (Apparently, she wanted "red zinger," instead.)

What had actually happened was this: When I said "Here's your Earl Grey! :)", Frankie heard "Here you go, Ole' Gran! :P" I understand the confusion there. The words are only slightly dissimilar, and the term "ole' gran" is part of my everyday parlance. So, it was not entirely unreasonable to think that, the day after I was nearly killed for patronizing her during The Paddle From Hell, I would throw a cup of hot tea at Frankie and call her "Ole' Gran!" I do that sort of shit all the time.

After the scalding stopped and I regained consciousness, we all had a good hearty laugh together. Deep down, I think she thought it was funny--even if I really DID mean to call her "Ole Gran." Really, this is how nicknames are born.

With love,


Thursday, June 5, 2008

Rivertrout Clinches Key District in Bid for Democratic Nomination


June 3 was a tumultuous day at the Senior Center on the corner of 3d Street and Marguerite Avenue, where the polls opened at 7:00 a.m. By 8:00 that evening, with all seventeen votes counted, it was over. In a hotly contested race, dark fish candidate "Rivertrout" topped local solo practitioner and Democratic party hopeful Steve Young for the nomination for United States Representative from the city's Second Sub-District of the Partial Congressional District of the "Flower Streets" (representing Marigold Avenue--behind the Chevron station--numbers 2600 - 2656). A write-in candidate, Trout took the lead when Mrs. Trout, a known swing voter, brought the Rivertrout's marks in the popular vote column to 2. "I didn't really research the candidates this year, and almost missed the cut-off. Didn't even realize it was Primary Day until I saw this elderly lady wearing an 'I voted' sticker," Mrs. Trout was quoted as saying shortly after her husband's victory speech. "Since I didn't recognize the other candidate's name," Mrs. Trout explained, "I figured--what the heck?"

The freshman candidate was noticably emboldened. "I don't mind tellin' you that this was a friggin' LANDSLIDE," Rivertrout told a boisterous crowd of supporters (wife, dog and daughter--the cat was off-site, campaigning for McCain). "This proves that, even in Corona del Mar, change is possible . . . though not probable," he added. "Now, it's on to the General Election--which should be interesting, because I never even served in the military."

The Second Sub-District, formerly a Democratic stronghold, turned decidedly "red" last December, when the Erlichmans moved out of Unit 2647 and were replaced by the Smith family, devout fascists. Since December, pundits have kept a close watch on the Second Sub-District to see which candidate might unite the remaining liberals in the neighborhood--specifically, the Jamesons and the McKinneys, who had a falling-out a few months before the primary when Nick Jameson's sprinkler system sprayed water all over Jesse McKinney's Volkswagen, causing spotting.

The campaign for the General Election kicks off this evening at the local Starbucks (Goldenrod and PCH, mapquest here.) The Rivertrout knows he faces stiff odds this November against the Republican incumbent, but he remains optimistic. When confronted with the realities of the Corona del Mar voting population during a recent interview on Larry King Live, the Rivertrout asserted "If I can narrow the gap to something short of 2 to 23,024--you know, if my wife remembers when Election Day is--it will be a great symbolical victory for the Democratical party."