The above-pictured marvel of modern engineering is also a bit of a Zen riddle: The Char-Broil Big Easy turkey fryer uses infrared heat instead of oil to cook up to a 16-pound bird. Technically speaking, there's no frying going on, no bubbling cauldron of noxious fat seeping through the tender breast of your beloved Butterball. What is the sound of one bird cooking? Monastery quiet, it is, with but a whisper of propane if you listen very closely.

Frying a turkey has its rewards -- a crisp exterior, abundant juices sealed within. The 18,000 Btu Big Easy takes care of that mandate and more: it cooks whatever's inside its cooking basket quickly and evenly, delivering a consistent result in a fraction of the time. Also, there are no hotspots to worry about -- the infrared heat penetrates the turkey in true democratic fashion. Breasts and thighs alike are done to perfection.

Any huge hunk of meat works in this well-designed dynamo: pork, beef, lamb, chicken -- the only thing it doesn't do well is individual chops and steaks. You can apply dry rubs or inject marinades, anything you'd do with a standard grill or barbecue. Cleanup is as the name states: simplicity itself. The only misnomer is that this thing is hardly statuesque, standing a mere two-feet tall. The Big Easy may be small, but it won't clog your arteries or send you to the burn ward. Turkey tastes so much better at home versus inside an ambulance, don't you think?

Want to see what Vinnie Van Gogh saw after a couple drinks of Bohemian marching elixir? Or write poetry like Rimbaud?

You could jumpstart that moribund career as a dissolute artist by swigging a couple of judicious jiggers of the green stuff, absinthe.

Joining the craze that is sweeping America is easy enough: I wrote to one of Europe's most reliable exporters, Alandia, and promptly received three bottles of the anise-flavored liqueur, each one stronger than the last. To benefit from the reputed psychedelic effects depends on the percentage of alpha-thujone, a poison derived from the wormwood plant. Concentrations vary from bottle to bottle, and most will get you well-soused before you start painting technicolor sunflowers and spouting free-form verse.

In a recent book about Van Gogh, it was claimed that the liqueur could induce "forms of bizarre and psychotic behavior, hallucinations, sudden delirium, convulsions, and even suicide and death." Gulp. I myself have not had such strong reactions to visitations from the "green fairy," the muse incarnate pictured above. But even if you're not planning to fingerpaint portraits of Satan, crank up the Edith Piaf and call up a few adventurous pals for a belle epoque party. Your hip factor will go up fivefold overnight. Sacre vert, baby!

Observe above laser-sharp image. Is it the work of a veteran sports photographer (note that at no time do the tennis pro's feet touch the ground)? Or was said photo taken by your humble correspondent, who, equipped with the new 10.1 megapixel Olympus E-520, could easily find work on Sunset Blvd. chasing down Lohans and other lowbrows for the Tabloid Money Shot! I could use an honest career.

I spent a couple of sets courtside last week at the Countrywide Classic at the UCLA Tennis Center to test-drive the new digital marvel, and was amazed that a fumble-fingered Luddite like myself could take action-freezing shots with very little effort whatsoever. Equipped with a 140-600mm zoom lens (35mm equivalent), which offered intimate close-ups without need of three guys to lug it around, the E-520 is a study in image stabilization. The auto-focus is preternaturally accurate, and can easily be previewed through either the lens or the super-sharp, 2.7" LCD. I could have sworn I was shaking like a leaf while trying to track the players, yet every shot looked like it was tripod-aided. Guesswork, goodbye.

Dust is a big no-no when it comes to shooting crystalline images, and especially when using interchangeable lenses. Olympus's Dust Reduction System wiggles like a belly dancer at ultrasonic frequencies to remove dust and other particles from the image sensor, then catches the invaders on some kind of adhesive membrane. Go figure. Face detection tracks up to eight different humans within the image area, assuring optimal focus and exposure on more than just Grandpa in the middle of the frame. It's lightweight, quiet and a steal at under a grand for the body and a pair of lenses.The E-520 is the post-grad camera for the point-and-shoot set. Ready to matriculate?

Was privileged recently to drive the above Mercedes Benz E63 AMG up the coast to Monterey to play a round of golf at fabled Cypress Point, which ought to have been the high point of the trip, hallowed ground that it is. But as they say of journeys and destinations, the getting there was certainly more fun than hacking perfectly good balls into the Pacific on the fearsome 16th hole. Hugging the shoreline on Highway 1 through Big Sur was a thrill akin to riding Secretariat past the wire at Churchill Downs. This is not a car, it's a growling, road-eating beast that made me the temporary envy of car-fiends from Camarillo to Carmel.

The 6.3 liter, all-aluminum V-8 engine could take you up to 155 mph without a tremor, generating some 500-plus horsepower yet remaining church-quiet in the ultra-luxe interior. This sedan gets up to 60 mph in a hair-raising 4.2 seconds, which out accelerates a Porsche by a whisker. Don't dare tap your right foot to the radio -- the merest toe twitch flies you by the other pikers in their Audis and Bimmers.

Gas mileage is going to come in second to performance, naturally, as the E63 only gets around 11 miles in the city, 17 highway. But if you can afford this level of luxury to begin with, what's fuel got to do, got to do with it? P.S., the swankest of the soccer moms needn't feel left behind -- the E63 also comes in a wagon with all-wheel drive and beaucoup cargo space. The consuming of ice-cream cones, however, ought to be ganz verboten, as they say in Deutschland. As for me, I'm back in my Lexus suffering the cold sweat and shivers of withdrawal. Pity me.

In this corner, from the fertile fields of The U.S. and A., wearing red, green and orange, a heap of fresh fruits and vegetables ready to enter the hungry maw of this ravenous crowd. In the other corner, weighing in at a third of one horsepower, the one and only Champion 2000+ Juicer, a masticating monster that instills fear in the most fibrous and fearsome aggregations of cellulose this planet has ever seen. Should be a helluva bout.

Who's kidding whom? The most naive bookie in Vegas wouldn't touch this match, 'cause no self-respecting carrot or apple would willingly enter the feeding chamber of the toughest and most durable piece of machinery since Robocop. Actually, Champion's been the choice of health nuts for some fifty years now, no more so than now, when the food chain's so rife with deracinated, nutritionless garbage that fresh juices are deservedly back on the front page.

We're not talking that jokey, plastic Jack LaLanne juicer here. The Champion would not feel out of place in a tool and die shop, such is its heft and power. And because it masticates instead of mashes, the Champ chews fibers and literally breaks up the cells of vegetables and fruits. This gives you more fiber, enzymes, vitamins and trace minerals -- resulting in a darker, richer colored juice and a sweeter, more full-bodied flavor.

The bonus? Switching out one part turns this baby from a juicer into a homogenizer, so you can make nut butters, fruit sauces, baby foods -- and a grain mill attachment lets you grind your own grains and flours. Cleanup is no big whoop, which would be a deal-breaker for me. Never have been known for my longevity sink-side. I will tell you this: one week in and I've lost a bunch of weight, feel more energetic and am hooked like I was on something that ought to be more expensive than apples and cucumbers. Call me a juicer -- I won't slug the nice people, will I Champ???

The resurgence of the martini in all its variegated glory -- apple, watermelon, cucumber, et al -- has left some of us civilians in a quandary: How to master this classic without revealing just how culturally regressed one is. Rum & Coke -- no problem. White Russian -- a walk in Gorky Park. Ah, but the mysteries of the martini continue to perplex and befuddle. To shake or to stir? Vodka or gin? Olives or pork rind wedge? It's enough to drive one to drink!

Leave it to technology to take over where human error could result in social ostracism or worse: The Waring Professional Martini Maker, an electric, three-button, polished stainless steel marvel that will make you the talk of the country club -- or at least create the illusion that you belong to one.

It couldn't be simpler: measure out your preferred ingredients, add a bit of ice, push either the "shake" or "stir" button, wait a mere sixty seconds while it jostles or rotates and you have got yourself a perfectly mixed concoction. The strainer is built in, and the microchip does the number crunching: 34º is the optimal drinking temperature according to the International Bureau of Cocktail Standards (or some such authority).

All you have to do is look debonair and pour, so fire up the hi-fi with some Miles Davis and set the time machine for 1959! Your cool factor just went up fivefold.

The new Titleist AP2 irons are a shiny paradox: soft as butter, strong like ox. That happy result is owed to the process known as "forging," where instead of pouring molten metal into a mold, the clubhead is compressed and shaped in its solid form. The result, at least on paper (and in golfer's heads -- a region just smaller than a good-sized galaxy), is a feeling of increased feedback in your hands when you strike a good shot.

The AP2-advantage is that, as opposed to a forged blade -- a hard-to-strike weapon which is only for the best of the best -- these clubs feature a dual cavity that optimizes weight distribution, resulting in a more forgiving feel and less off-kilter shots. Thus, while you do have to be a little better golfer to get the most out of these clubs, the high single handicapper will love the solidity and control, both of which promote confidence, the elusive x-factor.

And while it may seem superficial, the very look of the AP2 is enough to inspire good shotmaking. The visual cue that your brain gets when you see this gleaming slice of silver against the emerald turf is enough to make you feel like Ben Hogan -- well, at least Ben Curtis (who actually plays them on tour, as does Adam Scott). That and the True Temper mid-weight shaft should help you produce a nice high ball flight and consistent spin performance. That all sounds very technical, but once you grip these things in your palm and fingers, you'll forget science and fall in love with the feel.

So there I am on the 12th hole at the Navy Golf Course in Cypress, CA. -- the track that nurtured a young Tiger Woods -- staring down an 85-foot putt with a big hump between myself and the hole. I flip down my sunglasses, take a couple of long looks and then strike the ball with an assuredness that in no way reflected reality. Five seconds later that selfsame sphere settled into the bottom of the cup, a hearty huzzah erupted from my playing partners and I was ready to retire from the game forevermore.

More than half the kudos for my death-defying birdie have to go to VedaloHD, the maker of the sunglasses above, a company universally acclaimed by those to whom acuity of vision is a must -- a list that includes aviation types, hunters and even us humble hackers. The science behind these lenses is well beyond my ken, but the latest edition is made of a nearly indestructible polymer used in the windshields of the Apache Longbow helicopter, several of which landed next to the Navy Course during my backswing. No wonder Tiger's such a cool cuke. He's battle-tested.

But as Billy Crystal used to say as Fernando Lamas: "It's better to look good than to feel good," and the VedaloHD line more than fulfills that mandate as well. There are lots of performance sunglasses on the market nowadays, many targeted at the golf world, but most of them make you look like David Duval, somewhere between dorky and dufus. VedaloHD's come in a dizzying array of styles, each one sleeker than the next.

Whether you're driving a Ferrari or a golf ball, the laser-sharpness of these lenses will keep you on the freeway or the fairway. But even if you miss the turn or the turf, you'll still look like Bond. James Bond.

Okay, I confess yet again: My people don't think pigs is proper eating, but having transgressed most of the biblical commandments by the third grade, I figger the cosmos is gonna put my dietary habits way down the list when it comes time for my day of reckoning. Stand clear!

Apparently, at least one of my tribesmen fears divine retribution as little as I do. His name is Andrew Fischel and he is the owner and passionate front-man for RUB BBQ, started in New York City in 2005 and recently expanded to the Rio Hotel in Las Vegas. Now we all know there's some high-end eating going on in Sin City, but nowhere will they feed you with less pretension and more quality than at RUB (acronym for Righteous Urban Barbecue).

Half the credit for RUB's authenticity is due to Fischel's recruitment of Kansas City's renowned Baron of BBQ, Paul Kirk, a seven-time world champion and a guy who likely as not smokes his eggs in the morning along with his coffee. One of these days I'll get around to attending one of his Pitmaster Schools. He laughed when I told him I'd smoked some backyard brisket for six hours, only half the slow cooking time required for that sometimes ornery cut.

I recently had the pleasure of introducing my old buddy and co-dependent George Wendt to the NYC location, where our genial host plied us with short ribs, beef ribs, brisket, pastrami and even a whole smoked duck! The coup de grace is the bacon they smoke and cure on the premises, thick, crispy and chewy squares of pure heart-choking goodness. Add cole slaw (mayo- or vinegar-dressed), beans laced with chunks of brisket, onion strings and cornbread and you are ready for a hoedown.

Do well at the slots in LV? For $275 they'll bring you "The Empire" platter, a little of everything on the menu with a bottle of Dom Perignon to wash it down. I've eaten a lot of 'cue in my day -- from Sonny Bryan's in Dallas to Hogly Wogly's in Panorama City (damn good sauce there, by the way, and honorable brisket) -- and I gots to put RUB up there with the best of them. Tell 'em the Kosher Kid sentcha.....

White-knuckle road rage get the better of you sometimes? Got a backlog of venal sins clogging up the spiritual plumbing? Do your occasional philanthropic urges wind up simmering on the back burner?

Fear not! Fire up the laptop and navigate your way to Kiva.org, where you can window-shop for the third-world entrepreneur of your choice to aid and abet in their humble dreams of subsistence and even success. Calling itself "the world's first person-to-person micro-lending website," Kiva allows you to put an actual face with your donation -- there are pictures and bios of the people needing investment partners. Each one seems worthier than the next -- and every little bit helps, so you can really impact individual lives in a salutary way.

A glance at the site today finds a 44-year old Cambodian widow selling farm supplies and needing $800 to buy a tractor she can rent out to farmers; a group of five Ugandan women working in retail and needing to increase stock; and a Lebanese father of three seeking $1,200 to produce charcoal for sale.

As little as $25 is requested to get involved -- though you can always contribute more. E-mails arrive periodically detailing loan re-payments, which you can then recycle to others in need. Each story will either fill or break your heart, and there is no question but that your money actually goes to the person you designate. Skip one restaurant meal a month and you'll find your digestion will improve considerably. And your conscience won't go hungry either....