We're bracing for the onslaught, tens of thousands of people who, when they think of a summer holiday weekend, picture our curving coastline.

To mark the occasion, here's a hilarious 30-year-old bit of the myth-making machinery, shot right here in Paradise Cove, that adds to the many layers of the Malibu.

Recovering from another day of construction? Prepping for the three-day invasion weekend? Do they really need a reason?

Even before you reach the Las Virgenes land fill, you're in another world. You've passed through a lovely canyon, a shaded boulevard and a tidy subdivision, and you've left behind a freeway onramp, a kind of last chance at civilization.

Enormous semis rumble by, burly men in the cabs yanking the steering wheels. Around them, schools of pickups swarm like pilot fish, escorts sucked along in the wake. And then there's me, the lone female, driving the smallest of the trucks, a petite red Ford with a ton (literally) of stuff in the bed and 285,000 miles on the odometer.

You've arrived at the landfill when you hit the scales, big steel plates that weigh your load. Behind thick and shiny glass, a guy you can't quite see asks for a zip code, and for forty bucks. Then it's onward, along vague and unmarked dirt roads, just a hand-lettered sign here, a roughly-drawn arrow there, sending you deeper into the moonscape.

The land fill kind of freaks me out, but it's also fascinating, this other world where tons of junk is tended to, ministered to, by workers who know you and me by the things we leave behind. I dumped the remnants of my mobile home bathroom yesterday, along with old life vests from my kayak, a torn wet suit, cracked book cases and a bunch of moldy leaves. It landed on someone's couch cushions, a two-legged camera tripod, and some complicated chrome lamps you might see in a fancy showroom.

When the pickup was empty, I borrowed a broom from the guys next door and swept it clean. Then, on the way out, shot this photo of my hot water heater, so filled with minerals and crud after 15 years it took the better part of a day to drain, and was still releasing Malibu water, drop by drop, onto the hardpan of the land fill as I drove back to the ocean.

Here it is was, the last vestige of my 1973 Meteor mobile home which, and I love saying this because for a journalist, it's akin to living in one of Elvis' old houses, once belonged to Otis Chandler. Check out that linoleum. How about that red formica vanity?

And here it is right now, the stripped-down bathroom, which could be why I'm having a teensy anxiety attack, what with all the ripping and tearing sounds, and the huge chunks of wall and bathroom vanity and paneling being hauled through the house.

And do you see that crazy '70s wallpaper? And the shiny, silvery, 1973 Meteor mobile home skin? And holy crap, the wall is gone and you can see right through to the outdoors.

I know, I know, that's a crow we saw perched on the blooming agave during a walk this morning, but oh what a view.

Sometimes you buy flowers for their scent, other times for shape or texture. Yesterday, who knows why, the only flowers I had the faintest interest in were this rich, deep, buttery yellow.

This is one of my favorite signs at the Saturday farmer's market in Santa Monica, proof we're not in Kansas any more, Toto.

Coming soon in this space -- DIsney! Ground squirrels! The Great Remodel of '09! Plus, more pix of Maisie, the Teacup Lab®.

It's cloudy and cool at the beach today, and while I have something to say about ground squirrels and being raised on Disney movies where cute animals talk, I'm posting instead a vintage Johnny Carson clip in which Ed McMahon (RIP) is drunk off his ass.

And if you're wondering about the Malibu connection, well, Johnny Carson lived here. We'd see him all the time at the late and much-lamented restaurant, Granita, holding court in his favorite booth. Those were the days.

(h/t to I Am Bossy.)

We're in the home stretch of redoing the deck which means my mind is mush so here's a shot of Maisie the Teacup Lab®, flying high despite her freakishly small size.

Remember the lovely egrets nesting in the trees in the Cross Creek ghost town shopping center?

Lots of stuff falls from those trees, like egret feathers:

And egret poop:

And the occasional egret snack, like fish guts, which bounced off a shiny white BMW and landed in the street.

Heads up!