So Levi-Strauss wants my measurements, eh? And my address? And my freaking fingerprints? The clothier's new store in San Francisco claims to use biometrics to personalize the shopping experience, and maybe they that's the case. After all, a corporation that once used Ken Nordine to voice its commercials can't be all bad. Then again, they may be the alpha dogs in a global plot to control us through our jeans - you know, where we keep our fun bits. Yes, these are Bugle Boy jeans I'm wearing - for my own good.

Da Bears and Da Bulls may still own Chicago, but if they're not careful, their dominant position may be usurped by Da Cows. From Pioneer Court to the Loop, Chi-town is currently overrun by Cows on Parade, one of the most charming and innovative public art exhibits ever to grace the City with Big Shoulders, or any other American city for that matter. The concept is simple enough - to take a life-sized fiberglass cow and paint it in some vivid, crazy way to match its surroundings - but the execution is something else. A bovine astronaut stands in front of the Museum of Science and Industry; a Neapolitan Sundae cow cools her heels at the Water Works; a grumpy cow waitress stands wearily at John Hancock Center; a "ladybug" cow climbs a building on North Michigan Ave. Farm-fresh fans Brian Ramey and Michelle Bucuk provide photos of every last cow in the herd, even though they're not officially associated with the presentation (that's the Chicago Department of Cultural Affairs, Bossie). Having said that, their boundless affection for the exhibit - and their city - is quite moooving. (I had to do it at least once.) The cows stampede through October; a visit to the Windy City may be in order before they return to the barn. After all, as Ramey and Bucuk put it: "Chicago, with or without cows, is a world-class city with thousands of things to do and see." Chicago - that toddlin' ranch.
 

"How in the hell am I supposed to eat lunch with this stupid thing?" demands little Danny Torrance, age 9, of the unnamed cafeteria matron of Overlook Elementary, somewhere in Colorado. The matron has no answer - after all, what can you say to these kids that Coolio can't say better? - and Torrance, galled by her silence, bends his spork into a "Foon," "spacks" it threateningly at the authority figure, then loads it with a Delicious Tater Tot from his aluminum tray and lets fly. Scenes of spork-related aggression like this one are becoming all too common in our schools, as the little dopes demand to be told, once and for all, what the hell good a spork is. And while the creators of The Slightly Less Than Official Spork Homepage don't have a solution to this hot-button issue ("It tries to function as both spoon and fork, and because of this dual nature, it fails miserably at both. You cannot have soup with a spork, it is far too shallow; you cannot eat meat with a spork, the prongs are too small"), at least they have some cool video files of stupid spork tricks, a list of spork sightings in the mass media and other spork-related goodies. And the kids, once again, will have their say.
 

"I would fight William Shatner," declares Edward Norton, in the trailer to David Fincher's upcoming "Fight Club." Yeah, punk-ass, and maybe Shatner would fight you. Maybe he'd even win. Or maybe, just maybe, he'd just sing - which is all he's ever wanted to do, anyway. The star-trekking, the schmoozing with Heather Locklear, the tell-all books -it was all done to support his imaginative interpretations of the modern-day popular repertoire, a few of which are represented at The Captain James T. Kirk Singalong Page. Drawn from Shatner's 1968 album "The Transformed Man," the RealAudio song selections on this page paint a portrait of a recording artist who's in touch with something greater than he, an artist who dares strip the spontaneity of beat poetry down to its skivvies, an artist who has seen the future and made it manifest . Ah, who am I kidding? Shatner's record was awful. I just can't bear to hear Norton mouth off like that. Listen up, you snot-nosed punk - Shatner will mop the floor with you, singing and dancing all the while, and by God, it'll be entertaining.
 

In the month of Sundays since I've started writing this column - since Christ was a cowboy, I swear - I've used my fair share of cliches. Each week, I use at least a baker's dozen worth of timeworn expressions and the hits just keep on coming. You'd think I'd burn out quick as a lick, but now that I've discovered The Cliché Finder at Westegg.com (old sport), there's no telling how far I'll go. I'm telling you, this page will knock you from hell to breakfast. If I may be allowed the modest cough of a minor prophet, this site is just the thing we need to take us into the next millennium, make no mistake. You can look up cliches by keyword, hit the ever-popular Ten Random Cliches page, or even roll your own for the world to see, if it meets the criteria. To date, there's only about 2000 cliches in the database, but have patience - after all, Rome wasn't built in a day. Needless to say, this page and its creator - one S. Morgan Friedman - are the absolute salt of the earth. I have seen the future, and its name is The Cliché Finder. Be that as it may.

Want to get into the Passenger hip pocket? Okay, don't answer that. But if have any questions, sites to recommend or laundry to hang, just send me a note at passenger@vegas.com. I require no personal information of you - no address, no phone number: hell, you don't even have to tell me your name. Enjoy this little perks while you can. Cheers!