Okay, so it’s a little early for a year-in-review, right? I mean, it’s June. But hey, that apparently didn’t stop Time Magazine from writing up the best blogs of 2011 … and, um … apparently I made the cut. Believe me: no one is more surprised than I am.

I mean, secretly I always hoped people would find my blog useful/interesting/entertaining, but I was also convinced for a long time that Dustin Diamond was actually Beastie Boy Mike D‘s little brother. And I am still absolutely positive to this day that Duran Duran actually sings “Mysterious Ways” (please do NOT tell me otherwise.)  The point is, I can’t trust my brain.

Fortunately, having an unreliable brain doesn’t seem to be a road-block to blogging . Judging by my crazed fellow travel bloggers out there, it might just be a requirement.

So, while I try to calm myself down from all of this crazy excitement (Seriously. This. Is. Awesome.), I’ve compiled a list of my top posts from the last year (and beyond). Of course, they’re my opinion of what my top posts have been … and you know how unreliable that brain of mine is.

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The Danish Village of Solvang. (A brief exchange between myself and my husband as we walked through the streets of this central California town – Me: “Can we move here?” Rand: “No.”)

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My experience with the new TSA screenings. By the time you read this, getting on a plane will require a pelvic exam.

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Horrific Temptations and the Golden Gate Bridge. How spending time at the most suicidal spot on the planet makes me crazy introspective (I’ve since concluded this was due to a contact high received from being downwind of Berkeley).

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As I was composing yesterday’s post, I realized something: the problem with having so many good restaurants in Portland, is that we rarely go any place twice. Even if we really enjoyed it, it’s not worth passing up the opportunity to try a new place. Meals are an endless string of one night stands: You promise the pretty girl at the door – and yourself – that you will call again, but you rarely do. So strong is the desire to test the waters, to see what else is out there.

There are, of course, exceptions. The meal so incredible, it makes you want to forget your culinary commitment issues and settle down. You are hopelessly smitten: and you can’t think of anyone else.

For me and Rand, this place is Broder.

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Over the years, I’ve developed a mantra. A little phrase I repeat to myself, when I become so fed up with the entire world that I just might scream. I close my eyes, I take a deep breath, and I say it gently to myself.

“I hate humanity,” I say.

Okay, fine. So it’s not exactly a mantra. Mantras are supposed to calm you down and bring you inner peace. Mine simply serves to put words to the blackness that I feel in the center of my soul for my fellow man, a blackness so dark and hateful, that if I don’t channel it, distill it into those three powerful words, I will start screaming.

I simply utter them under my breath, usually once, maybe twice. My confession instantly makes me feel better. And since I’ve declared hatred for all humanity, my expectations are ridiculously low. If you define people as being generally loathsome, you can’t get angry when right-turning drivers honk impatiently at pedestrians who have right-of-way, or when restaurant patrons belittle the waitstaff for things they can’t possibly control.

I hate humanity. So I can’t be disappointed by it.

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Southern California is a different world.

There are those who are compelled to tell you otherwise. They claim that SoCal is not only part of our planet, but part of our country. This is patently untrue.

After all, the laws of my country are clear.  Marijuana is illegal; llamas do not have right of way; skateboarding is a crime; no shirt, no shoes, no service. The rules that govern my planet are even less debatable: summer last three short months; time, on this earth, passes at virtually the same speed for everyone; cloudy days exist.

Southern California defies all of these rules. It would make sense, then, that the postmen in Southern California also tend to buck convention. I should have anticipated this, but when I saw this guy, my jaw dropped:

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Behold: sunglasses, top hat, Dr. Martens, and classic rock blaring from his mail cart.

This dude was a U.S. federal employee? WTF?

“You are,” I said, somewhat startstruck, “the coolest mailman, ever.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

“Can I take a picture of you?” I asked.

“Yeah. I get that a lot, too.”

So I snapped a photo. And my cousin ended up shaking the guy’s hand. He permeated self-satisfaction, but not in an arrogant way. He was just a guy who was really content with his life and who he was, even if it defied the norm.

The sort of person who fits in perfectly in Southern California.

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Folks, I have news. Crazy exciting news. Well, perhaps not crazy, but exciting nevertheless. I mean, I hope you will find it exciting …

GOD, can I do anything without rambling? Evidently not.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah – the news. I’ve started a new blog all about copywriting.  I wanted a place to ridicule discuss all the terrible copy and ads I encountered while traveling, and I didn’t think that the Everywhereist was the right forum. So I launched Copywronged. It’s full of the same snark and vitriol that you’ve come to expect from me, but it has the added bonus of fantastic pieces of copy like this:

This option should be on every menu.

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Everywhereist loyalists (yes, all three of you) fear not: I’m still going to be posting on this site as often as I have been. There’s now even a Facebook Group page dedicated to the Everywhereist, should you decide to profess your love from virtual rooftops. The group presently has disturbingly few followers. Not that I’m obsessively checking or anything.

And since Copywronged is brand-spanking-new, I’m still making some changes and tweaks. Let me know if there are any features you’d like to see, and I’ll ineptly browse through WordPress plugins to see if I can add them. Oh, and don’t hesitate to email me pictures of terrible copy or ads you encounter.

That’s it, folks. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some blogging to do.

It’s been a bit serious here on the blog over the last few days, and it seems a bit of levity is in order. After all, it can all be nudity and violation of inner sanctums, can it? No, no. Sometimes we need to throw a bit of idiocy into the mix, too.

I was doing some searches on Google the other day, because, as many of you know, my geographic knowledge is more than a little lacking. I can get lost inside my own closet (which, in my defense, is a walk-in). So I was delighted when I saw that the Google Suggest box that dropped down when I was typing revealed questions from people who were, to put it delicately, far stupider than I have ever been in my life. Let’s take a look at some of the suggestions I encountered …

I hear they're very clean and loyal.

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Things started out innocently enough. The phrase “Why can’t I own a Canadian?” became popular after idiot radio personality Dr. Laura claimed that homosexuality is immoral according to the Bible. Someone kindly wrote a letter to her, illustrating what happens when we take scripture too seriously…

Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can’t I own Canadians?

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I mean, it’s not like the people doing these searches actually have some weird, completely inaccurate impression of what Canadians are like, right? (more…)

I may have sustained a serious bump on my head during our last stay at a Kimpton hotel, because the French doors in our room decided to plot against me (note: always be wary of the French). And I might have gotten into a slight skirmish with the packaging on my vanity kit, because I don’t like it when toiletry items tell me what to do. And I might have freaked out slightly when I encountered this in the shower …

GAH! KILL IT WITH FIRE.

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Yes, I put a dime next to it to illustrate juts how long it was. But you know what? Whatever. Like I said, this stuff falls into the “unexpected joys of travel.” Things are occasionally a little off, even if you are in a nice hotel. Hell, things are more than a little off in my own home, and no one seems to mind that (or if they do, they say nothing. Thank you, all of you).

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Well, what a coincidence ...

Disclaimer from my legal team (a.k.a., the voice inside my head that’s see one too many episodes of The People’s Court): I heard the following story from a friend. I don’t condone any of the behavior of these parties, nor recommend it to you to try. I simply think that it is awesome, and deserves our attention and admiration.

What you choose to do with this information is up to you. (more…)