Malibu Mart

“In a battle between a hotdog and a corn on the cob, who would win?” Harry asked this from the back seat.

I envisioned the battle, for some reason it took place on horseback: “I’d have to say corn.”

We were on our way back from the Malibu Mart, one of those places where you can buy a $300 t-shirt, visit a gallery of enormous photos of nude super-models, catch a glimpse of Mel Gibson eating ice cream with John Cusack, or swing on a tire-swing with a 4 year old.

“Did you say corn because you think it’s stronger?”

“Yes”

“Because what if the hot dog was smarter.”

“In a battle, stronger wins.”

While we were on the playground, I saw this young woman with a blond ponytail and white shorts. She looked French or Swedish, and she was pushing her baby in a swing and arguing with a man who looked like Ed Asner with a curly black wig.

At one point, the girl took the old guy’s face in her hands and said Oh Honey! Then she ran her fingers through his hair while he stared at her helplessly, like a St. Bernard.

“No it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does.”

“What if he plans an ambush?”

“Then he has a chance, but more than likely the corn will get his bearings.”

I imagined the two of them having sex; there wasn't a single scenario I could come up with that wasn't creepy or upsetting. I know these things happen. I know there's a part of the ordeal that makes sense in a completely twisted way. But it doesn't mean it's not alarming to see right in front of you. Even at the Malibu Mart.

"But I thought you liked the underdog."

"I do. Unless he's a show-off. And hotdogs are always show-offs."