Many thanks to everybody who came out for the All New Year Wrap Part a few days ago, including Erin Gibson, who took these phenomenal photos.

All New Year may be over but I’m going to try to post a few more times - to get some closure on the project and thank the wonderful people who helped me so much. And maybe one or two new Taco Tuesdays. Stay tuned.

Tonight’s penultimate new thing was once again at Machine Project, where Zabeth, sister Kate and I all took a class on cheesemaking.

Our teacher was named Nance Klehm, a fascinatingly bohemian artist/chef/urban farmer from Chicago. She spoke at great length about her “decentralized orchard” in that city, where she took tiny bits of green space in the city and planted various foods all over them.

She also talked at length about her belief that milk “wants to be cheese.” To illustrate this idea, she told a story about coming back from a dairy farm with a truck full of raw milk when she passed out for two days. (No explanation was given for this, nor did it seem like she felt one was needed). When she came to, she had found her milk had curdled into cheese, and so naturally, she brought it to a friend’s party and served it as appetizers to unknowing guests.

As she told this story, she passed around a jar of cream, which we shook until it became butter. Kate was actually the one lucky enough to be shaking it when it finally butterized.

Nance is the sort of person who has an amazing amount of knowledge about a subject, so much so that normal people may have a hard time following it. Or at least, that’s what I told myself as I found it difficult to completely understand all of the details of the history and cultural significance of cheese throughout the ages.

The real fun came later when she brought us into the kitchen to make some cheese of our own. We started with yogurt, warming some raw milk and adding natural yogurt cultures. Then we were to take our jar of warm milk home, wrap it in a towel, and take it to bed with us. Yes, that’s right, we were supposed to cuddle that jar until it became yogurt. It had to stay warm, you see, and Nance eschews the “traditional” or “easy” route.

Then we got to make Ricotta cheese. As I was stirring the milk as it heated up to 185 degrees, I was struck with a strong sense memory of the smell of my father’s pasta shop when I was young.

After it was strained of its curds (see? I did learn something) the cheese was delicious - fresh, a little lemony, and still warm. And rediculously easy to make! Of course, this was just baby, beginner cheese, but I had a great time. Even though, I will admit, I did not sleep with my yogurt that night. Sorry, yogurt, you’re just not my type.

It was just a few years ago it seems that Segways were a product shrouded in mystery. Known for a long time only by a code-name, they eventually were unveiled. Everybody agreed that they were a marvel of technology and design, and unlike any other product every developed, had the revolutionary ability to make anybody using one look like a total doofus.

I have never had a problem looking like a doofus before, personally. Its just one of those skills I’ve been born with. But I wanted to try out this gyroscopic two-wheeled dynamo. So I visited SegWow, the site of a local businessman who has made a name for himself offering Segway tours of Los Angeles.

The guy’s name, no joke, is Axel, and he is passionate about Segways. One of the best things about All New Year is meeting people with this level of passion about the things they do - whether it be the study of words, or their chosen religion, or their devotion to fitness through bitchy workout routines. I am a cynical writer who looks at everything askew, so when I encounter somebody who wholeheartedly loves what they do, I am always amazed and impressed. Axel loves Segways.

My sister Kate, Jennie CC, and I met Axel in Beverly Hills for a tour of the hills. He brought out a consent form (how many of these things have I signed in the past year?) saying we weren’t responsible if we hurt ourselves, or, more importantly, the Segway. These little guys cost at least $4500 a pop. He also asked us over and over if we wanted helmets. Being vain, we demurred, and he continued to ask. Axel is a man who does not worry about how he looks in a helmet. I think for the entire time we spent with him, he wore his, even during the extended periods we were not actually riding the Segway.

The Segway operates this way - it is a little platform on two wheels. Inside the platform is either a computer, or a magic elf, which keeps the platform upright at all times. The Segway also knows when you are leaning slightly forward on the platform that you want to move forward, and when you are leaning slightly backwards, it is time to move back. This is either because the computer inside is very sensitive, or the magic elf is reading your mind, or some unholy combination of both.

After we got used to these crazy future machines by driving around the park a little, passing each other and yelling, “Hello from the future!”, we made our way up into Beverly Hills.

Our first stop was a house that Axel said belonged to “one of the Stallones, probably Frank,” which did not fill me with confidence on the celebrity-level of the tour. However as we went along and saw houses belonging to Steve Martin, Kurt Douglas, and David Geffen, the celebrometer rose.

Except we didn’t actually see many houses. We saw a lot of gates, fences, hedges and walls. But not a lot of houses. Axel enthusiastically encouraged us, “look through the bushes here, you can see part of Jay Leno’s house!” But none of us felt really all that inclined to spy on a celebrity we were only marginally interested in to begin with.

But that being said, we were having a blast. Segways are crazy fun. I know, I still agree, people look pretty dorky on them. But as long as you can admit that and put it aside, you’ll be a dork with a smile on your face.

Axel continued the tour. It struck me that he normally gives tours to tourists, and so his quips were aimed towards those who might not know the industry. Now, I work in television, Jennie CC in management, and my sister owns her own DVD player, so we proved a little more knowledgeable than Axel may have been prepared for. “Greta Garbo…” he asked, “Have you guys heard of her?”

As the tour stretched past two hours, it began to get colder. Segways can go up to 12.5 miles per hour, and that can get a bit nippy.

Around this time, I had a bit of a crisis of Segway faith. We were heading downhill from the huge Greystone estate, trusting this little computerized platform on wheels would keep us from shooting down slope at a rapid rate into oncoming traffic. It was a lot of faith to put into a tiny computer. The same sort of computer that loses my work after three hours of writing, that wrongly books my airplane tickets, and causes power outages due to a software glitch. I was overcome with a very strong urge to jump off. The only thing that kept me on was the fact that I had signed a form saying I’d pay for the little machine that would go skittering away from me if I did jump off. I had never put a price tag on my own life before, but I guess if I did it would be less than $4500.

All in all, the Segway tour was fun - not because of the tour, really, just because we got the opportunity to zoom around the empty streets of Beverly Hills on the two weeled wonders. And all without helmet-hair.

After our disastrous, non-relaxing relaxation session at the Zen Zone, we headed up the way at Universal City Walk to our next destination: The Saddle Ranch.

The Saddle Ranch is as much a western bar as Pizza Hut is a fine Italian eatery. Instead, it is a place for aspiring hollywood actors with pre-distressed woven cowboy hats to wear them. Every person who worked there looked as if he or she had a headshot, just waiting to whip out if the opportunity arose. In continuing with my theme of crankiness today, I was cranky.

We sat down for a beer and the “Monster Appetizer Platter” - a dish of different items all fried to such a degree that the chicken strips tasted exactly like the fried mushrooms. Understanding the bland nature of their food, the Saddle Ranch was kind enough to provide four different dipping sauces, which added a different dimension of bland.

We were merely killing time, of course, before the main event: The mechanical bull. It sat out front, unused, daring us to climb aboard. With my cranky level nearing high, I considered blowing it off altogether, but I didn’t want to have sat through the saddle ranch “food” for no reason. So we paid our four bucks a pop and signed a release that said the Saddle Ranch was not responsible if I broke a bone, died, or accidentally was thrown on the bull so vigorously that I landed and accidentally impregnated a passing tourist.

As I climbed aboard the mechanically bull, a small crowd gathered. A couple of fratty boys from the bar wandered over. Before I even started, they began yelling what can politely be called “encouragements”.

“Yeah,” said one guy, “Ride it! Ride it hard!”

“Fuckin’ A!” said the other, and then noticed the small child a few feet away. “F’n A, I mean, sorry.”

The operator pushed a button and the bull spun around several times, like a compass trying to find magnetic north. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. Was that it? Had I beaten the bull?

“Can you take your glasses off?” asked the operator woman.

“Yeah, take it off!” yelled a fratty guy.

My glasses came off, and we started over. The bull began to buck forward and back, and spin wildly.

“Oh, yeah, get that!” cried a frat boy lustily.

“Dude,” I said, trying to speak his language, “Your sex talk is not helping!”

Then, after 21 seconds of bucking and shifting, I felt myself getting tossed and rather than risk a sprained wrist (or a paternity lawsuit from a passerby) I let go and came crashing to the mat below.

“It was a very graceful fall,” said the ride operator, using an adjective I think no cowboy wants to have applied to him. My sister went next, and the fratty guys continued their catcalls, so at least they were equal-opportunity. And despite not jumping off a mountain, and wading through a sea of cheerleaders and getting suprise-massaged by a stranger, I found myself smiling and laughing. Against my better judgment, I was having a good time.

I awoke with the sun this morning, and got dressed in comfortable, loose layers of clothes suitable for jumping off a mountain. My sister Kate came in from New York late last night, and we were both ready to go Hang-Gliding. As we were preparing to make the trek out to Sylmar (town motto: “When you can’t afford Los Angeles, there’s always Sylmar”) I did the recommended thing, call the flight instructor to make sure we were cleared for takeoff.

“Hi,” I said, with the bright, chipper voice of a person excited to jump off a mountain, “I’m Opus, and me and my sister are about to head out to go hang-gliding with you, and I’m calling to check to make sure the weather’s okay!”

“Where do you live?” came the weary answer.

“Um, I’m in Los Angeles.” I said, a little uncertain where this was going.

“Look out your window. How does it look?”

“Um… a little overcast?” I replied.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

So, much like my attempt to fly a small airplane last weekend, it that hang-gliding was called on account of inclement weather. It was as if even God was sick of me trying new things.

I broke the news to Kate and we sat down to figure out Plan B. We briefly entertained the idea of visiting every food-shaped building we could find in Los Angeles (there are a surprising amount - three donut-shaped donut shops and at least one hot-dog shaped hot dog stand) but I thought of a few ideas I had meant to get around to and never did. I may not be able to go hang-gliding but I could head up to Universal City Walk and go to an oxygen bar, and then ride a mechanical bull.

A word about Universal City Walk. Universal Studios already had a hit on their hands with their theme park, but some wise mind thought, “What if we took the amusement park and took out all the rides? Leaving just the crowds and the over-priced stores and restaurants? If we added enough neon signs and flashing lights, perhaps people won’t notice that there’s not actually anything to do?” Thus, Universal City Walk was born.

Also, they charge eleven bucks for parking.

So, it was with a huge and weighty chip on my shoulder than I strolled into Universal City Walk with my sister Kate. Immediately, I noticed something unusual. There were cheerleaders everywhere. Squealing, shrieking cheerleaders. There was, apparently, some sort of Squealing Shrieking Cheerleader Convention in town.

But before you and Chris Hansen get any ideas in your head, let me put it to you plainly. There was not an attractive cheerleader in the bunch. They all wore make-up like they were trying to hide something, and had the sort of severe pony-tails that doubled as cheap facelifts. Each of them was texting or camera-phoning or clinging to one another as if life weren’t happening without a third party to view it. They were Schroedinger’s Cheerleaders.

Of course, as one who has written about every day in the past year, I am not one to talk. But this is the cranky attitude I had coming into it.

Kate and I made our way to Zen Zoo, the last remaining oxygen bar that I could find in Los Angeles. The oxygen bar was a brief trend a few years ago - a place where, for a fee, you could inhale flavored oxygen. The trend died out as quickly as an unattended jar of Sea Monkeys, and now only preyed on the curious tourists looking for something, anything to do at Universal City Walk.

To that end, Kate and I had to wait for gaggles of giggling cheerleaders to finish their turn on the tanks before we could have our turn.

I am cranky, waiting. Note the cheerleaders behind me.

Finally we were summoned, and individual rubber tubes were unwrapped and attached to the machine. A man handed me the tube and told me to put it in my nose, and then walked away. I looked at the machine, which had four flavors and four switches. The flavors were “Chillin’” “Calming” “Zen Blend” and “Tranquility.” These were all synonyms.

A woman approached us from behind. “Hi!” she said, happily, “can I show you our Happy Hands massager?”

“Wait a minute,” I said. I will admit, at this point, i was a little testy. “Some guy just told me to put this in my nose. I have no idea how to work this machien or what it’s supposed to do. What’s going on?”

She patiently explained the different “aromatherapy flavors” and showed how switches could turn each one on or off. She then proceeded to explain the massager, and give both of us a demonstration.

This is another part of the Zen Zone experience that gave me the opposite of comfort. Every few minutes, a person would approach and use a different “calming” product on you, often without warning. This is how my sister Kate was attacked with a vibrating scalp massager which, she explained later, put her on the verge of tears with how uncomfortable it made her.

Worse than that on myself or my family members was the guy who was massaging the teenage cheerleaders. Apparently an employee of the Zen Zone (though I never saw any definitive proof) he was taking his sweet time massaging the shoulders, necks, and lower backs of a row of young girls. If that is not a creepy enough image, then let me add this to it: He had a mustache. Yeah.

And how was the oxygen? I fiddled with the switches and had various blends, but overall, as my sister pointed it out, it smelled mostly of rubber tubing. Probably because of the rubber tubing that I had stuck up my nose.

Between the creepy inches-away-from-molestation massages, the near-dog-frequency shrieks of cheerleaders, the rubbery smell in my nose and the constant sales pitches to buy another kind of relaxation device, I left the Zen Zone more stressed than when I entered. More stressed, in fact, than I had been in ages. So much for zen.

Next stop: The mechanical bull!

Well, after three weeks of infusing, last night i took the final step: straining the detritus through coffee filters to be left with pure bacon-flavored vodka. Only it didn’t really look like vodka anymore. It looked more yellowy-brown. More, well, uh… pee-y.

But I had a few folks over who had expressed interested in braving this cross-section of alcohol and non-kosher meats. So I prepared a big pitcher of Bacony Bloody Marys and some bacon-wrapped tomatoes for garnish, as well as the fixins for Bacontinis (complete with bacon-wrapped olives).

Verdict: Meh.

Sandy and Jennie, who are both vegetarians (yet brave enough to give it a try - bravo!) both thought it was overwhelmingly bacony. But for the rest of us, the consensus was that it was just really, really salty. It seems the man flavor that the vodka picked up was that of salt; so much so that a pure bacontini was akin to scooping tablespoons of Morton’s Table Salt directly into one’s mouth. In the bloody mary, it was a lot tastier, although the bacon flavor didn’t exactly pop to the front.

Nonetheless, a bacony good time was had by all - particularly when we heard that Wade had an announcement that effectively made the party in his honor. I’m not allowed to reveal what it is yet, but it made my face light up, even when mid-salty-bacontini scowl.

UPDATE: The secret was this: The next day, Wade and his lovely lass Christine secretly got married! Which means my bacon vodka tasting party was, essentially, his bachelor party. I’m sure his marriage will be sweeter by far than my bacon vodka ever was.

Me with a bacon bloody mary.

Guest of Honor Wade “enjoys” a Bacontini.

Judy and Sandy bravely enter the land of bacon.

Originally, I had wanted to do a day in which I was barefoot. But I have lived in Los Angeles long enough to know that even in the nicest neighborhoods, a walk down the sidewalk means dodging broken bottles, animal droppings, or, on a hot day, a puddle of Cher.

Besides, there is something terrifying to me about driving barefoot. Even when I drove naked, I still kept my shoes on.

So instead I decided to spend the day in my slippers. My cozy, fuzzy, plaid slippers.

I purposefully chose an outfit that they’d blend with - why call attention to them if I didn’t have to? I headed off to work, and it did feel a little odd, but the slippers had soles and my toes stayed toasty, so what the heck.

Not a single person at work noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t say a thing. Even when I went to a restaurant for lunch, I was worried that slippers might be unacceptable footwear. The policy says “No shoes, no service” and slippers aren’t really shoes. The wait staff didn’t seem to notice. One complimented me on my tie, but no mention of the slippers.

Later that night, though, at the IO West where I perform improv with my team, Trophy Wife, was a different story. Immediately four or five people said, “Hey, are those slippers?” After I said yes, nobody seemed to mind much. That either means my friends have a relaxed attitude or they’re used to my weirdness, or both.

All in all, it was a very comfy day.

I’ve been in pretty good spirits lately. But sometimes I get a little bummed. So I saw this product in the store and figured I’d give it a test.

It’s an herbal remedy based on Mustard Flower extract that supposedly cheers one up. Because any time you see anybody with Grey Poupon, they’re happier than a monkey in a poo-throwing contest.

The package says that it is a “natural alternative to bring back joy and cheerfulness when gloom descends for no obvious reason.” So if you have an obvious reason for gloom, sorry Charlie, there’s no help for you. Maybe bonk yourself on the head with a tire iron a few times, then you may forget the reason, and then you are allowed to use this product.

The ‘remedy’ itself is in four small bubbles, and the instructions say to mix that with water and “sip throughout the day.” Then repeat that process. For three days.

I’m sorry, but if gloom has descended for no apparent reason, three days is not the window of time I need to fix the problem. Halfway through day two I’d be jumping off a bridge and willing the remaining two bubbles of mustardy stuff to my next of kin.

I popped one in a glass of water. Smelled a little alcohol-y, but once it was in the water, it didn’t taste like much at all. Which is good, I wasn’t really into the idea of drinking Mustardade.

I gave it an hour. Yeah, I know. I’m supposed to take one a day for three days, but… i’m impatient with my gloom. I want cheeriness! I moved up to two bubbles in a glass of water.

An hour later - still nothing. No cheeriness. Time for a direct attack. I squirted the final bubble of mustard stuff right into my mouth.

Damn. Kinda tasty, actually. I wonder what’s in this stuff, besides Mustard Flower?

A little internet research reveals this wikipedia page for Bach Flower Remedies. Turns out Edward Bach came up with the idea in the 1930s, and that they contain a small amount of flower extract suspended in Brandy. Brandy! No wonder that was so tasty! No wonder it is supposed to cheer you up! Turns out I’ve been doing itsy-bitsy mini-shots at my desk at work!

I don’t think it did much of anything, to be honest. But later that night, I was not feeling so well after an argument with somebody I hold dear. But I called up a friend, who came over and hugged me. It helped quite a bit. Sorry, Edward Bach - that’s the real mood enhancer for gloom.

The Bunny Museum in Pasadena isn’t really a museum, per se. But what it lacks in museumness, it more than makes up for in bunnihood.

It’s actually a suburban home owned by Candace Frazee and her husband Steve Lubanski. Long ago, the two lovers began calling each other “Honeybunny”, which escalated to exchanging bunny-themed gifts. Now, with an appointment, Candace will let you into her home to see her more than 20,000 bunny collection. When I made my appointment, she signed off by telling me to, “have a hoppy day!”

The house looks like any house in Pasadena - except for the huge topiary bunny out front.

My friend Linda and I wandered, uncertainly, towards the front door. As we were signing in, Candace leaned her head out and greeted us. “Hop on in!” she cried gleefully, as she probably had thousands of times before, and we walked through the front door.

“Wow,” Linda and I said in unison. “Yeah, everybody says that,” replied Candace dismissively.

I took a lot of photos. So did Linda. But I don’t think any of them can really explain what it looks like inside the Bunny Museum. It is essentially a small suburban house, where Candace and her husband live. But they do so surrounded by all sides, in every room, but thousands upon thousands of bunnies. Stuffed, wooden, figurines, paintings, products, big, small… they’re just everywhere.

Candace explained that they are organized into sections - this part is wedding-themed bunnies, this one is mexican bunnies, over here is bunny puppets. But clearly organization isn’t Candace’s strong suit - the persistent and relentless collection of bunny memorabilia is. It reminded me of the shows you sometimes see on television about hoarders - old crazy uncles who insist on keeping every newspaper for the past thirty years. Except, instead of relatives frowning and shaking their heads and talking about getting Uncle Elmer some help, people wander through Candace’s house every day, beaming and taking photos.

And it is just that - a house. After Candace gave us the basic explanation, she went about her chores: folding laundry, doing dishes. I felt the polite urge to offer to help rise in me, but I set it aside to explore the bunniness of it all. In the front hall were bunnies, and more in a small room off to the side. There was a dining room with bunnies on every surface, except the dining room table, which was kept clear to display the large “Bunny Museum” logo.

The living room was full of stuffed bunnies. Not just full of stuffed bunnies - FULL of stuffed bunnies. Floor to ceiling, each wall contained a pile of stuffed bunnies, with no particular order to the chaos. And just to make clear that this was, indeed, a residence, there was a tiny futon couch and a television nestled amongst the piles and piles of bunnies.

Off of the (bunny-themed) kitchen was a small pantry containing five real live bunnies, and Candace gave us spinich to feed to them. Four of them hid behing a shelf, and one brave and brazen bunny stood his ground, gobbling up any spinach offered to him.

And of course, in the dining room was a case filled with the freeze-dried corpses of ex-bunny pets.

I felt a little guilty taking photos of something so personal (if a little creepy) as the freeze-dried remains of one’s beloved pets. But as the next group began to come through, Candace pointed them out with the same high spirits she used to point out the Elvis Parsley bunny water pitcher. “Have you seen the dead ones? They’re freeze dried. In the case behind the door.”

In the back, Candace explained, was the “Garden of Broken Dreams,” - where damaged bunnies go.

I particularly liked this part - something about the old chipped bunnies, missing ears and even heads, the wire-frame bunnies once part of some elaborate float, that spoke to the past each of these figures had. Plus the contractors next door were blaring Public Enemy’s “Fear of A Black Planet” which made for an excellent soundtrack to bunny exploration.

I honestly can’t say I understand Candace Frazzee’s bunny obsession, but she was a kind and gracious host. Charging no entry fee, she allows strangers to enter her house, and her bunny-filled world, for no other reason than because she wants to share it with them. It may seem unusual… heck, I think it’s safe to say that collecting 28,000 bunnies is a bit unusual. But it’s clearly something she’s passionate about.

Besides, how can you be judgmental when looking at all those bunnies? Nobody can hate a bunny.

Today is President’s Day, so I wanted to do something related to that theme. My first choice was to dig up an ex-president and cavort with his corpse, but alas, it seems they are all fairly far away, and I do not have a shover, and most experts agree that voodoo curses to bring the dead back to life more often fail than work.

So I figured I’d break the law and burn some currency. Change wouldn’t work, and a dollar’s not badass enough. But I’m certainly not badass enough to burn a twenty, so here I am, setting a five dollar bill aflame.

Sic Semper Tyrannus!