The CEO of the leaked adulterers site, Ashley Madison, Noel Biderman, is resigning. He wants to spend more time cheating on his family.

In Denmark, a man was arrested for drawing penises on the furniture at IKEA. When asked why he did it, the man said he was feeling prickly. (It’s Friday, give me a break)

The most popular girls name is Emma. The least popular girls name?  Caitlyn Von Trumpinbieber.

A company is putting together a Catholic Tinder-like dating site. Not sure about their slogan, though: Catholic Dating: Half the Hook-Ups, Twice the Guilt.

Has anyone else noticed Donald Trump has not said anything stupid in a few days? Oh, thank goodness, I thought there was something wrong with my hearing.

A lawsuit filed in L.A. claims Chicago Bull, Derrick Rose, was involved in a gang-rape. Although I have to say I think Derrick is innocent. He could not be involved in a physical activity with that many people without seriously hurting his knee.

In an attempt to show his hair is real, Donald Trump had one of his female campaign workers touch it. She said the hair was real. Almost as real as her desire to still collect a paycheck.

Since you asked:

What A Nice Surprise. Bring Your Alibis

This is mostly based on a trip I took last year. But here is my idea of a perfect lone wolf road trip from San Diego to Santa Barbara. 

Arrouewwwwwww, cried the 57-year-old, married-with-a-kid lone wolf.

Throw my stand up paddle board on top of my car and strap it down tight. Toss a pair of jeans, some board shorts, a couple Hawaiian shirts, t-shirts and a dress shirt in a bag. Toss that and my briefcase of harmonicas in the car. And my stand up paddle. Wet suit top, booties.

Head North on Five listening to my Road Trip playlist that includes the Stones “All Down the Line” Jackson’s “Running on Empty,” Eagles version of Tom Waits “Ol’ 55,” Stevie Winwood’s “Roll With It,” Doobies “Rockin’ Down the Highway,” Clapton’s “Rollin’ and Tumblin’’” Little Walter’s “Key to the Highway” and the Stones’ “Shine a Light.”

Make a stupid joke in my head about the giant boobies at the San Onofre power plant. Look in awe at the mock-up on the side of the hill of Osama bin Laden’s compound the Seals and the Marines at Pendleton trained on. Give a silent thought for the WWII hero, John Basilone as I pass his street just North of San Onofre.

Spring for the toll on 73 and shoot up and over into the fog and the clouds into Irvine thinking about all the great soccer tournaments Ann Caroline and her team played at UC Irvine.

Cross the 605 and observe the IQ’s of the driver’s plummet. While driving through Long Beach, try to remember all the girls I, well, dated while living in a dorm at the Brooks College of Fashion Design and Modeling. A wonderfully impossible task.

As a reward for making it through this L.A. freeway without getting killed or caught – thank you, Jerry Jeff Walker – I get off on the 10 and head West for Malibu. It is the coast for the rest the way, ‘cause I ain’t in no kind o’ hurry.

Stop at Duke’s for some caught-that-day fish tacos and a salty margarita rocks.

Malibu, Zuma Beach, rock and roll history. Fight the temptation to steer the car up into Laurel Canyon and see where rock and roll found its inspiration in a one mile neighborhood.

The farther North I get, the more I reminisce about trying to sell computers after college to the military at Pt. Magu and Port Hueneme and all the desperate and starving law firms sprinkled inbetween. Those poor bastards.

By now I am back on the 101 in Oxnard. Could they have found an uglier name for a pretty area? The Cowboys are training here. Jerry Jones is an a-hole. See the Dewey Pest Control sign. Think of Dewey.

Now I am on the Ventura Highway, ocean to my left, green hills and cliffs to my right. Thinking about that spoiled brat I dated in high school who said she thought of me when she heard America’s “Ventura Highway.”

“May you live where they film car commercials” is a fortune cookie saying I invented, and boy, is this it. Channel Islands in the distance. Cool wind in my hair, warm smell of . . . sorry. Always forget how beautiful those islands are.

Check out Rincon and see if the tasty waves off that break are lining up row after row like an army on parade.

The theme from “Chariots of Fire” always plays in my head as I make the sweeping turn up from the coast inland into lower Ojai. Carpentaria beach claims to be the safest beach in the world. How do they get to make that claim? Polo fields. Now that is a sport that I would play iffin’ I was a rich dude.

Sam Adams. Always think of my UCSB Decathlon coach, Sam Adams, at this point.

Time to hunker down. About to enter my beloved Santa Banana.

Now, I have never seen them, but I know they exist: the ugly police. If you spend any time in Santa Barbara, you know there is a secret patrol at its borders preventing ugly people from entering the town. 

Must try and sneak past.

Miraculously, I made it past the ugly police once again. Swing by the beach South of the harbor at Leadbetter. The wind is up so I don’t have a hard time talking myself out of an afternoon surf session in lieu of going for margaritas. So I make a pact with myself to surf early tomorrow morning like Laird Hamilton on a triple espresso.

Great white sharks be damned. 

This is when that mystical smell of ocean, fog, eucalypti’s and beach tar meld into a heady whiff. How do I always forget how gorgeous Santa Barbara is? Those mountains are so close. The harbor is majestic. Aforementioned islands. 

Check into my hotel. It is a wonderful combination of a Best Western type and a bed and breakfast. Park in front of the room. The room is small but nice and clean, big bed, nice bathroom, great, strong shower, big screen and air conditioning. (Whenever I walk into a hotel room, I say in my best Forrest Gump; "You have air cond dish un ning."  When I stay in a hotel, I crank the air. I want to see my breath when I walk in and get a freeze headache.

This hotel has metal keys and really friendly folks who work at the desk.

Find a chic dive bar – yes, those two words seem to fit comfortably in Santa Barbara – for a couple of over-priced maggies on the rocks.

Back to the room. Watch sports/half-nap for one hour. Think of my dog, Wally, back home and have a pang of missing him. Oh, yeah, and my lovely wife and daughter too. Give them a call. They don't miss me. Dinner time.

Wash up. Spritz cologne. Spray hair. 

Stroll down the street a couple of blocks to the Santa Barbara Brewhouse. Looks like a locals college joint, because it kind of is, but the menu is great. They have a rib-eye in a thick red wine reduction sauce with mushrooms and garlic mash potatoes that make you want to slap Aunt Gerty in the jowls. Paired with a robust Cabernet.

There is a three-man band setting up. When I ask the young cool guy, who is the lead singer, what they play, he responds Neil Young, rock and blues. There is a god and he loves me. Back to the room for my harmonicas. We play together for two hours.

Back to the room by 11:30. Got to get up early and surf.

The rest of the trip is a blur of stand up paddle surfing at Leadbetter, a backyard party at the greatest family on the planet, the Wopats in Goleta with the snake brothers. Dogs barking at chickens, and grilled tri tip so good, crack smokers call crack the Ron Wopat's tri-tip of drugs.

Warm smell of Goleta, rising up through the . . . ok, again, sorry.

Writing in the room on my laptop, naps, burgers, good breakfasts after surfing hard. Earn that meal. Joe's for drinks and hot, fresh sour dough bread with butter and salsa. Brophy’s for fish. The Boat House for happy hour crab cakes.  Watch from the bar as the dolphins frolic in the sunset. Maybe one night a sojourn up to Cold Springs Tavern for dinner? Who knows?

Santa Barbara is magic for me for all the reasons things are magic. My memories are painfully wonderful. And it is an enchanted spot like Santa Fe, Central Park and Wrigley Field. Every now and then god leans down and kisses a place and it stays kissed.

You can check out anytime you like, but you don’t ever want to leave.