So Joanne and Tom and Mike and I are out for a little family drive down the 101 -- just as 2.4-kids-and-a-mortgage as you can get -- when a red Lexus goes rocketing by. In the front seat is mom, frizzy-haired and haggard; in the back are two teenage girls, their effusive blubbliness obvious even over the rapidly expanding distance between us. They sing along to music we can't hear.

And the sides of the car are plastered, wallpapered, with countless magazine pages, color photos ripped from what has to be dozens of different publications. They're tearing themselves to shreds with the speed of the Lexus, but each is still recognizable, and each features the same pearl-white grin and tanned face. Hanging from the back of the car is a hand-lettered sign that reads:

I look over at Joanne and say, "What do they mean 'or'? What good is one without the other?"

And then she hits me.