The headline on the LATimes.com site reads: Body found in burning car on 10 Freeway onramp.

Which triggered this thought:  burning airlines give you so much more.

Squirrel underpants.

I prefer my squirrels naked.

Look closely.

(I should note that on the TV show, that rope was often slack, which would seem to defy physics. And “Hollywood Squares”-level celebrities would pop out of windows to talk to the caped crusaders. I guess in Gotham, crime really isn’t that pressing an issue.)

Here it is, free and available for your own use. There are many reasons I love the random corporate slogan generator, but here’s just one:  the awful crap it generates typifies what keeps me in business.

In Steampunk.

Courtesy of Slate, here’s a look at Newt Gingrich’s doodles from years past. You may notice two things about them, as I did:

1. Gingrich is at the center of every visualization. You may recall that John Sununu called Mr. Gingrich a megalomaniac “whose own leadership kicked him out as Speaker because they got tired of the megalomania.” These doodles do nothing to dispel that characterization.
2. While ordinarily I wouldn’t hold one’s doodle fantasy against the artist (I myself seem to recall once drawing an image of a large knife dripping blood — and I wasn’t trying to lead Republicans), I would like clarification of this note, found in one: “If it’s not important enough to do right don’t do it.” The syntax makes the meaning difficult to decipher. Does he mean one must do something well, or not at all? Or, more ominously, does he mean that doing the right thing, the moral thing, is exigent only if it’s somehow (politically?) important? (And, if the latter, was this written before or after he greeted his cancer-stricken wife in the recovery room of the hospital with the news of his affair and his on-the-spot demand for a divorce?)

I have to say, I did find myself oddly cheery today when it was clear that the Toad of GOP Toad Hall was going to win today in South Carolina. I had been rooting for him out of hope that it would confuse the GOP race, even moreso than those of us outside that race are confused by it. In bed late at night the other evening, my wife and I were debating who is most loathsome among the main contenders. This makes for a fun party game. I think it’s Santorum, who seems oddly preoccupied by gay sex and all its permutations and who seeks to return women to a status unseen since the last Puritan died off; my wife finds Gingrich revolting in all ways. Mitt Romney seems like precisely the wrong person at the wrong time — a man who profiteered from laying off tens of thousands of people while claiming that he was somehow creating jobs — and given the state of the economy and unemployment, it seems the height of unreasonable arrogance to go around campaigning on that theme. Re Ron Paul, I actually respect and agree with some of his positions; but could he please refute that newsletter that puts him into Santorum country? It’s truly saying something when Herman Cain now seems like the hip candidate.

Whoever gets the GOP nomination — and unluckily for them and perhaps, fretfully, for us, it must be one of these candidates — he will be left to contend with a party of three tents:  Wall Street; the Tea Party; and Evangelicals. These three want very different things, and, so far, none of these candidates represents all three (or even two). I don’t think President Obama is a shoo-in for re-election; politics being what it is, 10 months is an eternity, and anything can happen. Moreover, Republican enmity toward Obama is so great that they would vote for my used handkerchief over him. But if the rest of  voters look at that GOP candidate and scratch their heads, as they must be doing today, then Gingrich and the rest will have plenty of time to do self-centered art projects at home.

No, it isn’t Charles Nelson Reilly.

It’s this lemon, courtesy of the tree in my back yard. Freud would have a field day interviewing people about what they see in this. To me, it looks like an alien succubus, or a lemon giving birth to another lemon, or an outgrowth on Swamp Thing, or the Elephant Man’s backside, or Tim Burton’s take on the Emmy Award, or a lemon grown near Chernobyl.

Other thoughts?

Instead of sheep, three new devices help you count and track sleep statistics.

I’m not sure I’m going to be buying any of these (and I suspect not),  although the first one, the Zeo, promises to wake you at “the best time” in your sleep cycle. It’s my hunch that your brain is already wired to wake you at that point, so if you aren’t waking at that point, this might be helpful. But if you’re a somnambulist like me — someone who is never fully asleep (or, as a hypnotherapist once suggested in my case, “never fully awake”) — you’re already in some state of semi-wakefulness too often. I don’t need more wake-up calls; I need to sleep through. Also, because the Zeo requires that the sleeper wear a headband, it leaves a big suction mark on your forehead, like the big killer octopus/alien in any number of horror movies. I don’t want that; I get enough abuse in my daily life as it is. Moreover, because I dream about the last thing I’m thinking about before I fall asleep (reminder:  “Don’t think about Newt Gingrich!”), I envision thinking about how uncomfortable this thing is and how unsightly it’s going to make me, and then ripping it off in my sleep.

The Sleep Clock uses Doppler Radar (!) to track a sleeper’s movements. That might be helpful for those who sleep in a bed all night, one meter away from the device (its signal limit). But I tend to prowl the house in my sleep, and I don’t relish being tracked like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, and I certainly don’t want statistical reports about it in the morning.

Here’s the best sleep device I’ve found, and I recommend it:  Maker’s Mark.  I’ve been using this for some time now. I sleep better, it doesn’t report data I don’t want to know, after using it I can carry it around wherever I go, and while it makes its mark on me, it doesn’t do it in a place anyone else can see.

Law enforcement has now, somewhat tentatively, identified the head and other body parts found in the Hollywood hills.  as belonging to a Mr. Hervey Medellin, aged 66, a former employee with Mexicana Airlines.

Here’s what interests me about this latest development:  In previous reports, the head was described as belonging to a person with Armenian features and appearing to be in  his mid-40’s. Now it’s a man 20 years older, and from south of the border.

All across the country, I’ve had people come up to me and talk to me as though I’m someone else they already know. The shopping carts at my local Albertson’s supermarket feature an ad from some Realtor, with his photo; I don’t see the resemblance, but three times people in the supermarket have approached me and pointed to the ad and to me, as though I’m a local celebrity because I’m on their shopping cart. And recently my own iPhoto account has started tagging photos of other people — men roughly my age, with similar facial hair — as potentially being me. When I was younger and lived on the East Coast, I was routinely mistaken for being Puerto Rican. I am of 100% German descent.

Remember all this the next time you see or hear about a police lineup, or witness testimony, or any other sort of personal identification.

And, for added measure, we might all dwell on the people on death row who were released decades later after DNA evidence exonerated them.

Now that they’ve found more of that body — one hand, then another, then two feet — I think the LAPD is ruling out suicide.

The AP story includes this classic line: “The remains are believed to come from the same man.” Unlike many beliefs, this one seems valid.

The situation can’t help but remind me of this joke:

An English P.O.W. is in a German hospital with serious injuries. The doctor comes into his room and says, “The news iss bad. Ve are going to have to amputate your leg.” The Brit replies “Right then. War is hell and all that malarkey. But could you ask your commandant if he wouldn’t find it to much of a bother to drop it over my beloved homeland when he goes on his next bombing mission?” Off goes the doctor, and with the commandant’s permission, they fulfill his request.

A few days later, the doctor returns into his room and says, “More bad news. Ve are going to have to amputate your other leg.” The Brit replies “Right then. War is hell and all that malarkey. Could you ask your commandant if he wouldn’t mind terribly if he could drop it over my beloved homeland when he goes on his next bombing mission?” Off goes the doctor, and again his request is fulfilled.

Another week passes, and the doctor returns to his room and says, “Achh! More bad news. Ve are going to have to amputate your arm.” The Brit replies “Right then. War is hell and all that malarkey. Please do ask your commandant if he could find the time to drop it over my beloved homeland on his next bombing mission?” Sure enough, it is done.

More time passes, and the doctor once again returns and says, “Ze news, she does not get any better. Ve are going to have to amputate your other arm!” The Brit replies “Right then. War is hell and all that malarkey. It would warm my heart dearly if the commandant could drop it over my beloved homeland on his next bombing mission.” The doctor goes off and returns with an agitated look on his face. “The commandant says NO, he vill not do ziss for you. He thinks you are trying to escape!”