In mid-January, the PacificSD crew caravanned north to Calabasas, the discreetly chic Los Angeles suburb that’s been home to Britney Spears, members of the Kardashian clan and untold other celebrity train wrecks.
Luckily for all of the Zip Code’s multi-million-dollar-home owners, the neighborhood now has a shining new glimmer of hope: the Wilkinson-Baskett family.
Kendra Wilkinson and Hank Baskett invited us into their home for this issue’s cover and fashion photo shoot (see pages 46-53). And from the moment we carried our equipment across their threshold, the love binding this family was palpable.
With glacial blue eyes and adorable, fly-away curls, two-year-old Hank IV is cuteness incarnate. His doting parents shower him with affection (as they do each other), speak to him gently and shush everyone when he’s napping. But once Little Hank hits the hay, we get down to business: changing outfits, retouching makeup, posing. And when the strobe blinks on, Kendra’s passion for her profession heats up—and she expresses her desire to catch the perfect shot.
“Wait, wait, wait,” says the San Diego native while we’re shooting her hubby kissing her forehead. “If he’s kissing me on the forehead, it means he’s proud of me. If he’s kissing me on the neck, it means we’re about to f#ck. They’re really different. Which one do you want?”
We wanted and got the latter (see page 52)—thanks to Kendra, Hank and the tireless film crew.
This issue of PacificSD celebrates passion and pleasure in its many forms. Flex your love muscles, San Diego. (Not sure how? Learn how to Kegel on page 42.)

XOXO — David Perloff, Editor in Chief

If memory serves, it’s been five years since the birth of PacificSD, the region’s favorite __________ magazine. It’s been a long, __________ ride, and I’m honored that you’ve given me the __________ I deserve.

From __________ beginnings in a crappy office in Pacific Beach, our homegrown company has graduated to crappy offices in Old Town, steps from the freeway, incessant mariachis and the __________ women making tortillas by hand.

Today, 150,000 __________ people like you read the magazine, from Downtown to Carlsbad to La Mesa. Even the guy in __________ who can read picks it up each month, so you gotta know this publication is __________ .

This 60th issue of PacificSD celebrates the holidays in America’s Finest City, which (if the world doesn’t end as certain __________ Mayans have predicted), may become America’s __________ City after the mayoral election in November.

Speaking of holidays, did you get a look at that cover? Holy __________ , right? San Diego artist Court Jones created the __________ Coronado scene to show northern folk how we do things down south.

(Jack __________ nipping at my __________? Uh, snow thank you. If I want to freeze my __________  off, I’ll whip out my __________  and fly to Mammoth.)

Images of  __________  and Santa make me nostalgic. I don’t cry much, but there’s something about Christmas (actually, Chanukah, to be __________ ) that makes me think about family and childhood…and that which can put a __________ in my throat.

I'm the kid smiling in the back

This photo of my family depicts a more innocent time, in Philadelphia, when my big brother wasn’t such a __________ , Mom had fewer  __________ and Dad was still alive. U.S. Navy Retired Captain Joel B. Lench (who lives in San Diego) took the photo in 1975 and emailed me a scan of the original slide yesterday. He was Dad’s best friend, still is my godfather (and one of my best friends) and still smells like __________ and Aramis, just like when he told us to say “cheese” all those years ago.

Ahhh, memories—fleeting, potent, inevitable this time of year. I know if Dad were here today he would say something brilliant, like, “A __________ in the hand is worth a __________ in the Chanukah Bush.”

(He was kind of a __________ like me.)

’Tis the season to enjoy the __________ greeting cards on pages 67 to 72. Court Jones illustrated these examples of __________ for your viewing (and mailing) pleasure, and you can see from his work that he is completely full of __________ .

And again, thank you so much for reading. PacificSD would be __________ without you.

Happy New Year to all, and to all a good  __________ .

XOXO, David Perloff, editor in __________ .

6:30 a.m. Early bird gets the worm.

6:45 a.m. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

7 a.m. Busy as a beaver.

8 a.m. Work like a dog (on the cash cow).

10:30 a.m. Smell a rat.

4 p.m. Get someone’s goat.

5 p.m. Keep the wolves at bay.

5:15 p.m. Walk like a duck.

6 p.m. Take a catnap.

7 p.m. Wolf down dinner.

8 p.m. Chomp at the bit.

8:01 p.m. Lead a horse to water.

8:30 p.m. Drink like a fish: hair of the dog.

10 p.m. Monkey around, go ape.

11 p.m. Have a whale of a time.

1 a.m. Go hog wild, like a bat out of hell.

1:15 a.m. Let the cat out of the bag.

1:30 a.m. Stubborn as a mule.

1:45 a.m. Hoof it home.

2 a.m. Look like something the cat dragged in.

2:01 a.m. Pee like a racehorse.

2:05 a.m. Play cat and mouse.

2:06 a.m. The straw that broke the camel’s back.

2:10 a.m. In the doghouse.

2:15 a.m. Let sleeping dogs lie.

2:20 a.m. Gentle as a lamb.

I love animals…almost as much as I love eating them. And after a month of hearing about them (while I was editing this dining issue of PacificSD), my wife is beyond tired of all the puns.

Oh, Deer. Don’t be such a Chicken. It’s just your animal husbandry talking.

Eat well, San Diego!

PacificSD's David Perloff (illustration by Court Jones)

EDITOR’S NOTE
During a family vacay to San Diego from the City of Brotherly Love in 1978, we drove to Disneyland for a day. Amazing! I loved the rides, sights and snacks—all of it.

I was eight and big into cartoons. Thinking about meeting Goofy and going home with a caricature of myself—tangible proof that I was, if for but an instant, a toon—still gives me goose bumps.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago.

I headed down to the annual St. Baldrick’s charity shave-a-thon at Quality Social in the Gaslamp to watch some friends get their heads shaved to generate awareness and fund research for childhood cancer.

Nearly 50 local men and three women sacrificed their locks for children’s cancer. Their efforts, combined with the take from the bar, resulted in a whopping $25,000 donation to the St. Baldrick’s Foundation.

Time to buy a hat: me with Jamie Sigler, of J Public Relations. (Photo courtesy Tim King)

My friends tried to convince me to go bald, but I wasn’t having it. I hadn’t raised money, so what would be the point?

I was about to leave the event to meet the photographer and illustrator who documented this issue’s blind date (“Caricature Witness”), when I looked over at the shaving station.

Sitting on a bar stool by the DJ booth, a man about my age was going under the clippers. He was smiling from ear to ear. In front of him, a seven-year-old boy was jumping up and down with such unbridled glee, you’d think he was at the Happiest Place on Earth, and Mickey Mouse had just told him the funniest poop joke of all time.

As swaths of hair tumbled from the man’s head, the boy doubled over with laughter, then stood up to giggle and point at his father some more. When I looked back at man, he was smiling even harder—now with tears in his eyes.

The man’s name is Corey. His exuberant jumpingbean of a son, Trevor, I learned, was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a rare children’s cancer, when he was three.

All 200 people in the room seemed to be crying or trying not to.

The love Corey has for Trevor, and vice versa, was palpable, but it was Trevor’s pure joy that moved me most. At that moment, it wasn’t about cancer; it was about Dad being hilarious.

I got my head shaved five minutes later. Honestly, I don’t know exactly why I did it. It just felt right. It was for a great cause, to say the least.

Shameless plug: Sigler cuts a "J" into the back of my head. (Photo courtesy Tim King)

Later that evening, bald, I was having dinner with the aforementioned illustrator, Court Jones, while the blind daters were eating on the opposite side of the restaurant. And while I was working on my appetizer, Court was working on the caricature of me shown below.

Oscar Wilde once said, “Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.” For me, my caricature from Disney and Court’s new one are examples of art imitating life. The former reminds me of my own childhood elation. I suspect the latter, like the original, will continue to give me goose bumps, serving as a reminder of Trevor’s contagious smile.

If my ridiculous bald cartoon motivates anyone to shave their head next year, I guess that would be life imitating art—and welcome
confirmation that this ridiculous haircut brings awareness to more than just my scalp.

David Perloff
Editor-In-Chief

TREVOR has been in remission since 2009. His family (Photos by Tim King) started a nonprofit called TrevorsToyBox.org, the mission of which, Corey says, “Is to heal through happiness, by giving toys, games and arts and crafts supplies to children in hospitals to make their stay more enjoyable.”
ST. BALDRICK’S events have raised more than $90 million in 11 years. For more info, call 888.899.BALD (2253) or visit stbaldricks.org.

My grandmother turns 102 on January 25. No sh!t. No blood relation, of course—it’s my stepmom’s mom. If there were one, she’d have checked out decades ago.

I’ve mentioned Ruth before. She rode a horse to college and didn’t see a car until she was 15. Her first boyfriend was a guy named Ben. They flew a kite together in a thunderstorm and discovered electricity.

Ruth’s one tough cookie. She was speed-walking down a hill last week when the brakes went out on her walker. No joke. Or maybe she didn’t squeeze the thing hard enough. Either way, she jackknifed and hit the pavement, breaking three ribs, one collarbone and one hip. Knocked her head, too. Poor thing. My stepmother watched the incident transpire in slow-mo and feels guilty as hell about it.

“I feel like I broke my Mom,” she said. She had been walking right behind Ruth at the time, and when she told me about it, she sounded as if she were going to cry, which is out of character. She’s tough, too. (Katharine, it ain’t your fault. If you can stop gravity, I have a couple other things for you to come take a look at.)

You must have seen that “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” chick on TV. She’s like 80 years old and stranded in the middle of her living room floor. I’m not trying to make light of her situation; I’m just saying—compared to Ruth, she’s a complete wuss. Ruth could kick LifeAlert chick’s ass with one hand tied behind her cracked ribs.

Now, seven days after the fall, despite the ribs, the collarbone, even the hip, Ruth is already walking around. She’s bored out her crystal-clear mind in the hospital room and doesn’t understand why the doctors won’t let her go home today. Actually, they probably will tomorrow—Christmas Day.

Ruth is my hero. She doesn’t make resolutions. She just plain is resolute.

“F#ck carpe diem,” she says. “I’m living for this instant.”

Kidding. She would never talk like that. (Sorry, Gran, couldn’t resist.) But, regardless of how she would describe it, when I see how Ruth reacts to a smile, a hug, a sunset, I can envision the man I want to become.

Resolutions are for old ladies who forgot to buy their emergency- button necklaces. If you were to ask Ruth, she’d tell you not to promise yourself to be a better person tomorrow. She’d tell you to go outside, smile at someone, share some love and improve your surroundings before the second hand hits the 12 again. Don’t wait, do it now! (Remember, this is Ruth talking. I’m still just sitting here, typing, trying to count how many Santa cookies I’ve eaten. I really need to start cutting down on desserts.)

Carpe momento, San Diego. Love you guys for making PacificSD what it is today—the city’s most popular magazine. I’m so happy to be with you as we enter our fifth year together.

And happy birthday, Gran. My gift to you—new brakes. Let’s resolve to sue whomever made that damn walker you’ve been rolling around on.

David Perloff, Editor-In-Chief

(Ardo, I can’t believe you read this crap. I swear, it’s just you and my mom.)

By David Perloff
(Published in the December 2010 issue)

If the crew at Starbucks hadn’t just changed their apron colors, I might not even have known to do that. Sure, it rains once in a while and gets dark at like 3 p.m., but it doesn’t really look or feel or sound very Christmas-y around here.

Not that being brought up Jewish-ish makes me the arbiter of yuletide cheer, it’s just that I spent my early years in Philly, where the weather sucks in intervals, so I always knew when ‘twas the season. First the leaves fell, then my brother and I raked them. Then it snowed, and we shoveled. In spring, we mowed. Ahhh…summertime in South Jersey—that just plain sucked.

I like to visit the weather, and then I like to get back to San Diego tout de suite. When I get a hankering for the sights and sounds of Christmas, I head to the mall, where sparkling lights, jingling bells and beeping cash registers have set the mood since the day after Halloween. And when the carolers start in, I’m outta there. I mean, I’m no Scrooge, but seriously—can you please keep your fa-la-la to yourself? I’m trying to buy my uncle an automatic-waterproof umbrella-radio at Brookstone over here! (Oh, sorry, a little Jersey might have slipped out there.)

Simone and I decorated a potted palm as a Christmas tree last year, and that worked out pretty well. It’s still growing in the backyard. Folks have asked me about Chanukah bushes, but, to my knowledge, they don’t really exist outside of Hallmark cards. The only Jewish celebration that could be said to have anything to do with bush is probably the Bar Mitzvah (Google: “Today, I am a man”), but I’m no expert.

For anyone smart enough to stay here in paradise this season, congratulations. This Finest City carol is for you.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

Twelve Drummers Drumming: Forget about twelve—there will be dozens of drummers keeping the beat at the annual Poinsettia Bowl Gaslamp March on December 21. If you like the movie Drumline, you’ll love this event, even if you hate Nick Cannon (still Mariah Carey’s husband, believe it or not). Boom shaka laka!

Eleven Pipers Piping: This is actually happening in Ocean Beach as we speak. Stoners may have been too busy buying Cheetos to vote Prop. 19 into law, but that doesn’t mean they’ve stopped making glass pipes to sell at The Black, the neighborhood’s legendary smoke shop.

Ten Lords a-Leaping: Hmm…kinda sounds like Hillcrest. If you want to feel pure holiday spirit, check out the December 1 Tree of Life ceremony in Hillcrest Village, where a candlelight vigil commemorating World AIDS Day will be followed by a performance by the San Diego Gay Men’s Choir. They may not leap, but, man, can they sing.

Nine Ladies Dancing: Sure, you can find a pride of cougars on the prowl north of The 52 from time to time, but your best bet on this one is definitely Downtown, PB or North Park. CAUTION: An all-you-can-eat-wings special might mean a full staff of dancers at the local strip joints, but don’t count on seeing the A Team on center-stage on Christmas Day.

Eight Maids a-Milking: I’m pretty sure you can milk a cow in Ramona. I know they have horses, anyway. There might even be a Home Depot. I kid Ramona. They’ve never heard of this magazine, though, so it doesn’t really have an impact. Giddyup!

Seven Swans a-Swimming: Swans have been spotted (and swatted) in the reflecting pool by the Botanical Building in Balboa Park, but the main attraction there this month is December Nights, when participating museums let everyone in free for two days (December 3 and 4).

Six Geese a-Laying: You know, I can understand the Five Golden Rings, but what is it with all the damn birds in this song? Seriously—seven swans, six geese (all laying), four calling birds, three French hens two turtle doves and a partridge. That’s 23 friggin’ birds…and not one turkey. Poultry must have been like iPods back in the middle ages, because if I put this crap under a tree (or a bush) at my house, “My true love” is not the term my wife would use.

Murray Christmas, everybody. And Happy New Year!

David Perloff, Editor in Chief

In those four little words lay all the vital information the camp nurse needed to assess my health. It wasn’t band camp, but there were a couple kids who brought bugles, and after they’d blow shrill renditions of Reveille each morning, each camper would answer these questions:

How do you feel?

How did you sleep?

Have you had a bowel movement?

How’s your appetite?

After less than a week, our counselor opted to forego the formality of actually asking the questions, and each camper just gave his answers instead.

“Good, good, yes, good,” one kid said, and it went on like that around the bunk…until it got to me. My answers were always the same. “Good, good, no, good.” Every morning, without fail.

“Good, good, no, good.” I ate three meals a day plus snacks. “Good, good, no, good.”

Overnight camp lasted a month. On day 23, the nurse beckoned me to the infirmary. My daily “No” to question three had apparently raised a red flag…after three weeks.

It turned out to be a mix-up. I had thought they were asking if I had gotten out of my sleeping bag during the night to hit the latrine for a numero dos, when, in fact, they really wanted to know if there had been anything to report in that department during the preceding 24 hours. That makes a lot more sense to me now, but I was only eight at the time.

The good news was that the nurse cared that I might be sick. The bad news was the 23 days it took her to catch the would-be gastro-intestinal emergency. There’s irony, too—whether or not it was the nurse’s fault, if anyone was full of crap, it sure as Shinola wasn’t me.

This food-focused issue of PacificSD celebrates the delicious food grown, prepared and served in San Diego. Inside, follow veggies from Suzie’s Organic Farm in Imperial Beach to dinner plates at the Lodge at Torrey Pines (see “Buying the Farm”), learn about all of the beer made here (see “Ale’s Well”) and watch as blind daters take on two of downtown’s hottest new restaurants (see “Recipe for Success”). This month’s cocktail comes with complimentary appetizers (see “Drink to Your Wealth), and the cover offers a farm-to-table look at San Diego’s growers and shakers. (see “C Word”)

Working on this issue has made me realize how much fresh, healthy, organic food is available right here in la ciudad más fina de América. It has also helped me to recognize that, while I no longer have a nurse (for now) questioning my nutritional flow, I do have a wife that cares about what I put into my body. She asks if I’m drinking enough water, when was the last time I ate a salad and whether or not I know what Diet Coke does to lab rats.

She has lots of questions, and when she asks too many in a row, my answer is always the same.

“Good, good, yes, good.”

And just like the camp nurse, my wife knows I’m completely full of it.

Eat well, San Diego!

By David Perloff
(Published in the October 2010 issue)

Tuesday night, the cans go to the curb. Wednesday morning, a pristine truck rolls up to the house, a hydraulic arm grabs the black bin, and the show’s over. I’ve never met the guy who’s got my neighborhood on his collection route—I don’t even know if he’s a guy.

It didn’t used to be that way.

When I was growing up on the mean streets of the Philadelphia suburbs, trash day was a big deal. I heard the mechanical behemoth thundering down the next block, and I dashed to the curb to see Manny the Trashman. I was seven, and he was my hero.

Manny had my dream job.

My love affair with all things refuse began a year earlier. I was standing outside with my father when a trash-truck driver pulled over across the street. His colleague jumped from the back of the vehicle, and then the magic happened. As the guy was dumping a neighbor’s can, a red ball and two stuffed animals appeared amid the rubble. He retrieved the ball and one animal from the gaping steel chamber, inspected them briefly, then threw them inside the cab with the driver. My jaw dropped.

“Dad, does he get to keep that stuff?”

In the instant that my father nodded, I saw my career path. The perfect job. Working with friends, finding treasures on every block and getting paid for it? Sign me up!

I might have missed a few of the next 52 trash days, but no more than that.

The ground shook as the sanitation crew neared our street. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end when the reverse-indicator beeped. When the Dream Team actually arrived, I smiled so wide and waved so emphatically, they had no choice but to wave back. One time, the driver even talked to me.

“What’s your name, Kid?”

I told him it was David. When he said his was Manny, it was as if a superhero spoke to me. He was the man behind the wheel, the conductor of cleanliness and in complete control of the trash- compacting jaws of death—which occasionally kept its mouth open for emergency toy retrieval.

When toys lost their thrill for me, so did

Manny’s job.

Later, I wanted to be a doctor like my dad, but studying for biology exams (or even showing up for class) didn’t agree with me. After college, I interned at a radio station and thought I wanted to be a deejay, but I ended up selling airtime instead. I did that for seven years, then operated a small ad agency for six, and now I’ve been running this magazine for four.

And now I think I may really have found my dream job.

My hours suck a little, and my brother, who did go the doctor route, makes more money in a quarter than I do in a year (he still lives in the suburbs outside Philly, though, so that evens the score), but I love this town and the unifying characteristics of life here that bring us all together.

Working with friends and my wife on a magazine that celebrates this city is a dream job.

Last night, the woman who cleans our office was emptying the trash. Watching her dump the cans was way less exciting than it was when I was a kid—then she paused, reached into a can and pulled out a mint-condition Padres beer holder.

I don’t think a career change is in the cards for me at the moment, but my childhood fantasy has been rekindled. And I just figured out my Halloween costume—Manny the Trashman.

Happy Halloween, guys. If you see me dumpster-diving, don’t feel bad—it’s my dream come true.

My wife just became one.

Ten years ago, she moved to San Diego from Brazil. Today, she’s a gringo (actually, a gringa), just like me.

On June 23, in an auditorium adjacent to City Hall downtown, Simone was one of the nearly 800 immigrants from across the globe sworn in as American citizens. Joel, my godfather—who gave Simone away at our wedding because her parents couldn’t get travel visas from Brazil right after September 11—sat with me in the cheering section, trying to get a glimpse of our little patriot-to-be from the balcony.

“S-H-R-U-R-A-S-H…I? How in the heck do you say that?” said a white-haired man into a microphone. “Sha-rushi? Suh-ashi?”

The audience collectively cringed in 50 languages.

You could tell the guy (let’s call him Uncle Sam) was trying to be kind as he warmed up the crowd during the interminable wait for the presiding judge to appear, but for me, his rhetoric felt like a verbal assault. He might as well have said, “Welcome to America, your name sucks,” followed by a heartfelt, “but really, welcome.”

For all I know, Uncle Sam is a senator’s brother or a City Councilwoman’s uncle, so I should probably hold my tongue—or fingers—but I can say for sure that he should not be entrusted with the responsibility of welcoming foreigners into our intimate circle of blue passport holders. Perhaps the Feds should invite someone more culturally sensitive…like Archie Bunker or Mel Gibson.

Nation after nation, Dude was an equal opportunity offender. “Did you say Konoko? Kanooko? Anybody else here from Japan, raise your hand.” When he tried to pronounce the name of a woman from Eritrea, it sounded like he was going to swallow his tongue.

Zut alors! If I knew enough French, I might have tried faking like I was from Quebec, just so no one sitting nearby would equate me with the global name thrasher at the front of the room. I hadn’t been less proud to be an American since my brother was hit by a tiny car (which he thereby damaged) outside a coffeehouse in Amsterdam. But as I looked at the friends and families en masse, I didn’t see other embarrassed natives. Instead, I saw a sea of beaming faces, several with tears in their eyes, elated to see their loved ones becoming citizens of the great U.S. of A.

Then I remembered our wedding cake, with the Brazilian and U.S. flags sticking out of it, and my own eyes started to water, though that may actually have resulted from the guy in the row behind me. He was eating some horribly aromatic chutney thing, and even though I didn’t understand a word he said, we did have one thing in common—smelling like his food for the rest of the day.

When we arrived at the office after the swearing-in, I busted out a pre-Independence Day freedom cake I had picked up at Albertson’s. With red, white and blue icing and a star-spangled flag in the middle, it was one sweet slice of Americana.

Finally, my wife can vote—and now we’re both waiting for election season so we can oust the incumbent citizenship ceremony moderator. Welcome to America, Simone…I think we should move to Brazil now. How the hell do you pronounce your last name again?

Happy Fourth of July, San Diego!

By the way, please say hi to Seth Combs (Page 12), the new editor here at PacificSD. Seth’s something of an editorial superstar, but please don’t mention that to him—it would just make him impossible to work with.

When we arrived, the place was packed. There were fit, good-looking 20-somethings everywhere, and a crowded bar meant a happy client, so I was pleased. Out of nowhere, one of the show’s producers asked me and Simone our ages, then told us we were just what they were looking for: married, able to travel to L.A. and older. He actually said that. I was 33. Simone was 29.

The guy gave us his card and said we’d be hearing from a second producer. A few days and a couple interviews later, they sent us to L.A. to see a doctor who took our vitals and asked if we had any allergies or propensities toward cardiac arrest. Then we got the call—we’d made the final cut. It felt like I had landed a starring role opposite Julia Roberts (who was a pretty big deal back then).

With six weeks to prepare, we were fired up. Ready to rock! Okay, let’s go. First thing, let’s…uh…what? How do you train for a show where you have to compete for time and quantity in sheep-scrotum consumption? What’s the ideal regimen for getting your body ready to almost drown in a vat of liquefied roach parts while tarantulas crawl across your face?

We didn’t know. So for six weeks, we worked out like crazy, and I ate nothing but lettuce, chicken, the occasional reduced-calorie Hot Pocket, carb-free protein bars and Metamucil. I was the picture of health. To complete the picture, I bleached my teeth and hit the tanning booth.

When Simone and I arrived in Long Beach for our first Fear Factor stunt, I had the skin tone of North County’s swarthiest Cougars. When they tethered us to the back of a monster dune buggy and dragged us down the beach at 50 miles an hour, we managed to hang on and make it to the next round—big, white-toothy smile for the camera, my orangey glow amplifying the effect.

The next day, I moved 20 pounds of earth worms and their excrement (with my mouth) from a plastic bowl to an acrylic box that Simone basically had to wear as a hat—the kind of hat that covers you from collar bones to forehead with worm sh!t—so I was less aware of the color of my teeth.

Simone nearly drowned the following day when they chained us to the bottom of a pool, so we didn’t win the his-and-hers Jeeps.

To maintain my tint and the consequent enhancement of muscle definition, I spent some of the subsequent day in the tanning booth again. That turned out to be the right move. For the next stunt, Simone hung onto the landing gear on the bottom of a helicopter that dropped her in the middle of a lake. She then swam to a kayak, jumped in, and I pulled her to shore. I was minus a shirt—and feeling smart to be plus a tan.

No way I could have guessed when we got married—Simone and I are quite adept at bobbing for cow hearts in pig bile. Sadly, we completed that stunt 20 seconds more slowly than the remaining couples did, so we were eliminated the next day. We returned home to San Diego without the million. Our hair smelled like bile for a week.

A few days later, the same desire to feel attractive that had fueled my year-round tan spurred me to consult a dermatologist. I had an irritation on my face and wanted to rule out any possible worm-dung virus. “You ever get these moles checked,” the doctor asked me? I hadn’t.

Oops.

The rash turned out to be nothing, but what I had regarded as not-so-beauty marks proved to be melanoma, the kind of skin cancer that makes me a friggin’ idiot for having spent so much time in the tanning booth and in the sun without protection.

Today, I’ve been given the all-clear, and the dermatologist says it probably won’t be the skin cancer that kills me. Doctors can be so comforting. “You’re lucky you came to see me,” he says.

He calls it luck, but I know it was vanity. What other possible explanation could there be for my sitting here with a spray tan, still holding out hope that Julia Roberts’ people might call.

Please enjoy this body issue of PacificSD, which demonstrates that if beauty is only skin deep, we’re all in deep worm doo.