How ‘bout an Emu Burger?

The emu, the bird of the hour, was conspicuously absent when exotic bird fanciers from throughout Southern California gathered in Pomona to exchange bird talk.

“They’re just now laying eggs,” explained emu guru Charlaine Line. She and husband Richard have five breeding pairs at C R EMUS in Lucerne Valley. That’s about $40,000 worth of emus on today’s escalating market.

A female lays 30 to 40 eggs a year, but it’s the male’s job to sit on them until they hatch--in about 60 days. Emus are into family values: They mate for life.

Surely, it’s not beauty that makes this creature so dear. Indeed, the emu, which may stand 6 feet and weigh 120 pounds--second only to the ostrich in size among living birds--is an odd-looking bird, with its long legs, long neck and brownish-gray plumage.

But, explained breeder Jami Kennedy of Saugus, the emu is “the meat of the future,” offering the taste of beef without the cholesterol. Now, if the emu takes over just 1% of the beef market. . . .

When the Lines bought their first pair seven years ago, they paid $700 per baby emu. Back then, Charlaine said, “they were just exotic animals. We just lucked out.”

Then the hapless emu was discovered, not only for its meat but for its leather, its feathers (for dusters and clothing) and even its toenails, which are made into jewelry.

At the bird show, Charlaine, decked out in an emu T-shirt, was hawking emu oil from Australia (home of the emu) as a balm for aching muscles. At $20 for 1.5 ounces, it promises to deliver “an extraordinary aboriginal secret.”

From Texas, she’d brought Emuri night cream, blended with emu oil, and Emuri day cream, with sunscreens thrown in ($45 and $36, respectively). Sales had been a bit sluggish, Line acknowledged--”Some people are still a little squeamish.”

Does the stuff work? Well, said Kennedy, “I never saw a sunburned emu.”

When Reciting Lord’s Prayer, They Say ‘Give Us This Day Our Daily Strength ‘

The speaker is Mario. Like most who have come for Serenity Sunday, he is a compulsive eater. His trim physique belies the fact that he once weighed 300 pounds and lived by the credo that all-you-can-eat means “all you can possibly eat.”

As he talks, heads nod in understanding. Those at this weekly spiritual love-in at Roxbury Park are veterans of jaw wiring, Opti this and that, Scarsdale, Atkins and what they dub the “scarf and barf” method of weight control.

This is Overeaters Anonymous. And it is not about losing 10 pounds before the holidays. It is about controlling a compulsion that takes over your life. Just as alcoholics turn to AA, members of OA seek help from a higher power.

One by one, the men and women step to the podium. “I’m Cynthia. I’m a compulsive overeater.” “I’m Michelle. I’m a compulsive overeater and a bulimic.”

Rene, incredulous, tells of moving in with a roommate who actually “has food in his refrigerator that goes bad,” cheesecake that sits untouched. The group relates.

Mary, celebrating her first year in OA, is overcome with love and emotion as she speaks. Before she found the group, she says, she weighed 360 and was an emotional mess: “When stuff got tough, I shut down, I ate and I hid.” She has lost 60 pounds; she is on her way.

Mary explains that the red dress she is wearing (Size 18) had hung unworn in her closet since 1970. She’d only bought it, she said, to quell the snickers of the clerks when she’d taken it from the rack. She figured someday maybe she’d be able to wear it.

“I didn’t know it was going to be 12 years later!”

Like many here, she understands about not being able to fit into an airplane seat.

Serenity Sunday closes with “The Lord’s Prayer.” Overeaters Anonymous says “our daily strength” instead of “our daily bread.”

As the cars pull out of the lot, “Lean and Serene” bumper stickers can be seen here and there.

Sweet Talk From a Four-Letter Wordsmith

Jimmy Connors, the foul-mouthed, hot-tempered old man of tennis, is taking on everyone who walks in the door.

“Thank you for coming. I appreciate it.”

Jimmy Connors, thorn in the sides of linespeople from Forest Hills to Wimbledon, is mouthing off.

“Whatever you want. That’s what I’m here for.”

Jimmy Connors, as famous for his four-letter words as for his two-fisted backhand, is playing to the crowd:

“My goodness . . . I’ll be darned.”

Meet Connors, now 40, in his new role--author of “Don’t Count Yourself Out: Staying Fit After 35” and celebrity writer du jour at Brentano’s in Century City. Here he is, smiling gamely at even the dumbest questions, shaking hands, posing for photos, scribbling left-handed autographs:

Patron: “What I need is ‘How to Stay Fit After 76.’ ”

Connors: “That’s my next book.”

Patron: “Can you write, ‘From one old man to another’?”

Connors: “Whoa!”

Some buy two, three, four books. Others just pick up the advertising flyer and shove it at him to be signed, explaining that they’d “already bought the book”--a variation on “I gave at the office.” Connors smiles, and signs.

Andre Toscano, a native of Sao Paulo, Brazil, buys a book for his brother, “a great fan of yours.” Connors signs a fuzzy yellow tennis ball and hands it to Toscano’s blond toddler, Julia.

Old friend Joe DeCarlo--who introduced Connors and his wife, Patti, 14 years ago--jokes to Jimmy, “Your clothes are on through the whole book.”

Yeah, says Connors, he’d like to sell as many books as Madonna but “I don’t have that kind of guts.”

A young couple buy a book for themselves. Connors signs, to Lee and Jane. Lee thanks him and adds, “If we split up, we’ll cut the book in half.”

Connors laughs, and picks up another from the stack.

There is a bit of a lull. “Maybe,” Connors suggests, “we should go out soliciting. . . .”

This weekly column chronicles the people and small moments that define life in Southern California. Reader suggestions are welcome.