Just another odd week in Vegas

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store. Somewhere between the blueberries and the eggplant, I noticed a woman pushing one of those grocery carts for kids. They are usually red and resemble a train or an auto. I turned my attention back to the mushrooms, wondering when stores started offering so many types of fungi, there are trumpets, oysters, shitaki, and on and on when I heard the woman say to her little girl. "Darcy, just spread your legs for your brother."

What? Was this a lost episode of the Beverly Hillbillies? Darcy, it seems, was hogging the seat and in order for her brother, who looked to be two years older, to sit, he needed to do so between her legs.

I don't know. I'm not an expert on raising kids. I'm barely an expert on raising Cain. Call me old fashion, call me a prude, but I just don't think a mama should ever say these words to her daughter: spread your legs for big brother."

Friends of mine, all 2.5 of them, have said, hey, stop blaming Vegas for things. But seriously, I've lived in San Francisco. I've lived in Marin. I've lived in Jackson, Mississippi, and Vicksburg, Mississippi. I've heard two kinds of people say something about "spread your legs" to someone: Gynecologist, and my ex-boyfriends (one who was also a gynaecologist).

People do odd stuff here, they say odd things. The other day, at Starbucks, I heard a woman say to her little boy, "Mommy is getting her breasts done tomorrow and just you wait, it will be an all new me." What?????? The little boy looked confused, alarmed, and scared, but he got over it when Mommy added, "and you're getting a pumpkin latte!"

At work this week, a manager brought his pet scorpion to the office. Yeah. You heard me. Bernice, our HR manager, locked herself in her office and turned off the lights. She is used to putting up with crazy stuff: employee meltdowns, feuds between bosses. We even had one employee who spoke to the dead. We never had any one who brought dangerous pets to work.

Security had to go to this manager and say, "hey, get the scorpion out of here."

I asked both Bernice and the security team, with a straight face, if I could bring in my pet rattlesnake. Fangs. "He's sweet, really," I said. They just looked at me with that, "Why hasn't she quit yet," look that I get A LOT at work.

The thing is, part of me would like to bring in my cat, Sammy Davis, Jr. He'd be a great asset to our team. He would give encouragement to people (he licks faces, thinking he's a dog), he would make them laugh (you should see him roll around on the carpet) and he could probably do my job when I was out.

So what is it with this town? From Mama's telling their daughters to spread their legs, or telling their sons about their upcoming breasts job, to someone bringing in their scorpion as if it is show and tell, I just have to ask, What? As Ricky Bobby would say in Talladega Nights, "THAT just happened!"

Clear Channel's Clear Irrelevancy

Clear Channel may own 1,200 stations, but when they banned Bruce Springsteen’s “Magic,” and the album hit number one, the right should have felt their own “ill wind blowing in,” similar to the one Bruce is feeling in “Living in the Future.”

Clear Channel at first said that they were not giving his CD airtime because he’s too old. ‘Scuse me, waiter? Can I have a side of ageism served up with my hypocrisy? The Dixie Chicks and Bruce could form a support group: “voices Clear Channel wants to stifle.”

I swear, from a PR standpoint, there is no better publicity stunt that Bruce’s PR team could have pulled off themselves. Clear Channel bans his politically left album? Oh man. But, as Bruce himself might say, “baby don’t you fret. None of this has happened yet.”

Hammersmith Odium, 1975

I am often late to the game. Just tonight, I bought the Born to Run 30th Anniversary Edition, which, given today’s date, November 3, 2007, has been out for, well, at least a year.

I bought it because I did not get enough Bruce live on the 2007 tour, which is still going on. As mentioned in the last post, AC, Robby and I went to the LA Arena 10/29 show. I didn’t realize until long after we got the tickets there was a 10/30 show. One song into the set, I said to AC, “we have to see another show after this. Maybe Boston. Maybe London . . .”

My voice was droned out by “Radio Nowhere.”

My husband later said to me, “Okay, so here's the thing: we are not going to London to see Bruce.”

“How about Paris?” I said.

“We have bills to pay,” he said. I got all reverent, because we were suddenly characters from “Darkness on the Edge of Town,” or “The River.” I’m Mary, he’s the omnipotent poor struggling guy who just can’t get things figured out, but. . . he does have a wedding suit and a union card.

“Huh?” my husband said to me, when I explained all this to him. He is not the Bruce fan that I am and didn’t get the reference to “The River.”

As a compromise to going to London or Paris, we spent $40 on the “Born to Run 30th Anniversary Edition.”

I am often anoyed by fans on this tour who complain that Bruce is not playing enough of the old songs. This isn't a reunion tour. This isn't Van Halen trying to make some extra money before they go off to Shady Lawn because they spent all their money on Columbian Bam Bam. Bruce has a new body of work out, his third since"The Rising." He is touring a new album, so naturally he wants to play songs on that album. Or to be put another way, Artists want to be heard. Or to put it yet another way, Bruce wants to make some money.

Having said that, here's a little context: in 1975, I had size 26 or less hips. My waist would have made Scarlett O’Hara jealous. My boyfriend, Patrick, a wiry post-hippy, 16 going on eternal youth, could not decide if he was the next Cat Stevens or the next Bruce Springsteen. “Born to Run” came out, and the decision was made. He and his mom took me to see Bruce in Jackson that same year. Before the show, we went to Pizza Hut, and I scarfed down a medium size pepperoni all on my own.

“Good lord, you are going to be fat when you are older,” his mom said to me. I was smart, I was wise for my years. I took her warning to heed and from that day forward was the vainest woman you have ever met. I was 93 pounds then, and 34 years down the road have never gone more than 2 sizes higher than I was then. Which means I failed and am grossly over weight by my 14-year old standards.

But I stray . . . my life changed that night. I had no idea what to expect. Bruce and the E Street Band sang “She’s the One,” “Backstreets,” “Jungleland,” “Thunder Road,” “Night,” and, “Born to Run.” In particular, I remember “Meeting Across the River” and “Tenth Avenue Freeze Out.”

After the show, I needed to ask what my name was. I needed to breathe-in the night air. I closed my eyes and saw my future. I would be the Mrs. Springsteen.

“Wasn’t that amazing/” my boyfriend said.

“Thank you so much,” I told him. Later, I’d break up, but I’d never forget the gift he gave me. No, not that chintzy fake star sapphire necklace (the only thing worse than a star sapphire is a fake one). He gave me the gift that literally would keep on giving, and I’m not talking about herpes or a trust fund, I’m talking the gift that only a true blue Bruce fan can know--call it a musical passion, a connection to a body of work or an artist, or just the gift of knowing that there are others out there like you, who get that same electric feeling everytime they hear "She's the One," or "Backstreets," or "For You," and even now, there are those of us who share that feeling when we hear, "Living in the Future," or "Gypsy Biker."

In that time--since 1975--I’ve met Bruce briefly (I stalked him sort of) and made an ass out of myself. So much so that he told me to “get out of” his “face.” In fact, I made such an ass out of myself that my friends Robby and Sean immortalized that moment into a song (think Bruce in “I’m on Fire”), “I say hey Donna get out of my face, I say heeeeyeey Donna get out of my face . . .” you have to hear it to appreciate it.

Back to Hammersmith Odium: tonight, when Bruce played “She’s the One,” I had the fortune of recalling that concert in Jackson. I thought that this past Monday night at the LA Arena was Bruce’s best show. Well, it was amazing, but Hammersmith Odium, 1975, reminded me of why I am a Bruce fan. The stage was sparse, the band looked like heroin pimps, the music was loose, and the words would make Dylan Thomas, or Bob Dylan, weep from envy. I ask you, if that is not rock-n-roll, then go ahead and give Britney Speers custody because the world ain’t right.

Once in a while, I meet a true blue Bruce fan. They get it, that attraction, and by attraction, I don’t mean lust, I mean we feel the magic of the songs, the passion and yearning they evoke, the hope and redemption the lyrics and music promise. Early Bruce connects us fans like your first drunken night connects to your memories. It’s a little hazy, but you know you had the time of your life. Loving Bruce all the way back to 1975 is like that. You don’t remember much, but you know that for a brief time, you experienced euphoria. Even if you were merely observing it from row 24 of the Jackson Coliseum. And like herpes that feeling comes back from time to time, but at least with Bruce, you are happy about it. And unlike a trust fund, you are not in danger of relatives or lawyers or business managers telling you it is gone. That feeling is all yours, your own first dollar bill. That is the power of being a Bruce Springsteen fan, and if you don’t get it now, if you’ve never gotten it, then, my friend, know this: Britney is on Page 6 of the New York Post. Have fun and I’m sorry.

Spirits in the night, all night

I have post-Springsteen syndrome. My throat is sore, my legs ache. I’m fatigued, but have the remnants of euphoria floating around in my head. Last night, I saw Bruce Springsteen at the LA Sports Arena. Oh yeah. He proved it all night.

In the universe of Big Bruce Fans, I’m probably about a six or seven out of a ten. I don’t have all his albums: I skipped a couple of the folksy ones. Sorry, but fiddles bore me. I’ve seen him five times on the West Coast and ten times in the Deep South. There are Big Bruce Fans who would scoff at that meager amount; they are the ones who own every breath he ever recorded and who have seen him countless times, stretching back to the Stone Pony and the Main Point, when Clarence the Sax man lined up the women behind the stage and let them gratify him. There are bigger Bruce fans, with a better Bruce history. But, nonetheless, I’m one of the faithful.

Last night, in every song I sang almost every word. I forgot the words to a lot of the older ones. I’d sing a line, then miss a line. I danced, though. We all danced. Those that didn’t dance stood dumbstruck, like they were watching an opera where lightning and thunder were the actors. The E Street Band was tight, the show short (short for Bruce) and the songs fast paced. They didn’t slow down much. My pal Robby turned to me after the show and said, “That’s the best bar band I’ve ever seen.” The other 17,000 of us in the arena would agree.

I went to the show with two of my best friends: nearly life-long best friends, as I’ve known them both for over thirty years. Not that we are old. Last night, we were teenagers again. AC and I started loving Bruce in the seventies. In fact, I turned him on to Bruce, in much the same way someone would turn a pal onto a drug. “Listen to this,” I said to him in ancient times, in a hushed tone. I pushed the button on my 1976 Dodge Charger’s eight track. "Born to Run" started. “This is the best thing you’ll ever hear,” I promised. "You can't go back after hearing this," I warned. All these years later, AC is still a junkie. Last night, he and I sang every word of “Badlands,” “She’s the One,” and we were so euphoric we nearly had to be carried out on stretchers during “Born to Run.” Jesus Christ himself could have risen from the dead and stood in front of us and we would have told him to move out of our way because he was blocking our view of Bruce.

Robby, the crafty one of the bunch, smuggled in a camera and took photos all night. He memorialized one of the highlights of our lives thus far, and I bet, for years to come. Then, he tried in vain to get us backstage, working his LA trickster magic. At first, we were disappointed, or at least, I was, but euphoria is funny. It tramples disappointment. Two seconds later, we were reliving the show, recalling the set list, and gushing over the rousing encore.

I first saw Bruce perform in Jackson, Mississippi. I was on the floor, about halfway back in the Jackson Coliseum. I could see Bruce, this wiry figure in the distance on the stage, but more so, I could hear him. The Coliseum had bad sound, and the band sounded like they were playing in our high school gymnasium. But they didn’t act like it. I remember thinking I’d just seen Rock and Roll live up to its full potential, and the thing is, I was even evolved enough as a human to know that Rock and Roll had potential. I was fifteen, but I saw my life stretch out in front of me, and I knew it would take me out of Mississippi. When I left home after college and moved to San Francisco, I should have told my weeping mother that she had only Bruce Springsteen to blame. He put that seed in my head back in 1975, ten years earlier, when I heard him sing “Born to Run” that night in Jackson. Bruce Springsteen broke my mother’s heart and she probably never even had learned his name.

Every time I saw Bruce after that, he changed my life—never in as grand away as he did the first time, but in small ways. For a week, I’d be happy. You couldn’t rattle me. I would commit to some small life project, and stick with it. Most of the short stories I’ve written were inspired by his music in some way, even if they had nothing to do with any particular song. After I saw him the last time in Vegas on “The Rising” tour, I committed to getting my book published, one way or the other, and I did.

He inspires and he instills joy at the same time. He succeeds where the self-help gurus fail. Just as he was hyped in 1975, Bruce is still a Rock and Roll Jesus, except he actually delivers “The Promised Land” even if it is just for two hours and fifteen minutes, the length of last night’s show. He is my Rock and Roll deity, and today, tonight, tomorrow, for a few days from now, that’s all I need.

Even as I write this, my toes are still tapping.

In the Land of the Blind. . .

My long-time dear pal Robby came over from LA yesterday, and we went to see Kathy Griffin at Mandalay Bay. Kathy sold out the Mama Mia auditorium. Not bad for a red-headed self-proclaimed fag-hag who likes to tell jokes about Paris, Nicole, Lindsey and Britney.

After the show, Robby and I walked through the casino and we watched one obese woman after another obse woman wearing cropped tops walk by us. Finally, after seeing twenty-seven barely-dressed obese women, Robby asked, “Hey Binx, what’s the tackiest person you ever saw in Las Vegas?”

I told him about the time I was crossing LVB, leaving the Bellagio and going to the then Aladdin. I saw a pregnant woman wearing a bikini top and cropped shorts, smoking a cigarette and drinking a “Yard-long” margarita.

“How did you know she was pregnant?” he asked. Good question. In a town where the obese come to vacation wearing "club clothes," it’s a bit like being the one eyed man in the land of the blind.

“She was fairly thin everywhere else,” I said. He looked suspicious as he eyed two women with asses the size of school busses trundle past us on their way to the dollar Wheel of Fortunes slots machines. They were wearing F-me heels and a micro-minis. Their cleavage showed all-right. In those tops, it is a miracle their nipples didn't show, too.

"Why do women in Vegas show so much breast?" Robby asked.

"Breast are big here," I said, not realizing the pun at the time. "I know woman who invest their entire self-esteem in their breasts."

The next morning, I walked downstairs, groggy, sleepy-eyed, breast smallish yet proud. Robby was already awake, Googling "WHY ARE WOMEN IN VEGAS SO TACKY?"

“Coffee,” I said. With one word, he understood my meaning. We got in my car and drove to the “Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf,” which, I assured him, was “classier than Starbucks, and with better coffee.”

Oh how silly I am . . .

We get there and the first thing we saw were two dog leashes sticking out the door. Robby opened large glass doors, and there was a Pomeranian and a Maltese standing there, panting. Their owner wass standing in front of them, talking very, very, very, very, very loudly. I mean she was LOUD.

“OH MY GOD,” she said. “KIDDING, RIGHT? NO? THAT IS SOOOO FUNNY. OH MY GOD.”

She was screaming. She had a thing in her ear, one of those Bluetooth things that people on cell phones wear when they think they are Jordie from Star Trek.

“NO WAY! OH MY GOD.”

“OH MY GOD!” Robby echoed.

I gave him a look. I have the belief, or delusion, that I have at least one last shred of class left in my body.

“OH MY GOD!” She said again. “HAHAHAHAHAHAH!” Do not misunderstand what I'm saying: she did not laugh. She literally spoke the words, “HAHAHAHAHAHAH!”

Robby continued to mock her. I got in line, and maybe it was because it was so early in the morning and I had had no caffeine, combined with her airport PA voice, but I could not concentrate on what the woman behind the cash register was asking me.

“How can I help you?” the girl asked.

I stared at her, laughing at the loud woman with the dogs.

“Ma’am?”

To her, I looked like the ass.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the coke addict.”

She blinked at me then sort of gasped.

“She is loud,” I said, in my defense.

“What can I do for you?” the girl asked.

“OH. MY. GOD. HAHAHAHAHAHAH! YOU ARE KIDDING?” Coke Addict asked.

“A latte,” I said. “And a bran muffin.”

“Make that two,” Robby said.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAH!” Coke addict said.

“Okay, I’m from LA, and we have nothing this bad,” Robby said.

“I told you Vegas has the worst people in the world,” I said, sounding oddly defensive, as if by admitting that I live in a city where the gutter-fish of the universe live made this woman seem acceptable. I forgot to describe her outfit. She had on a skimpy yoga top and yoga pants. Somewhere, a stressed-out yoga instructor told her therapist, “I have this one student . . ..”

The Coke Addict walked outside with her ice coffee and her pedigree mutts. She sat at a table, and from inside we could still hear her on her phone. Whoever she was talking to was a stitch. She kept saying, “HAHAHAHAHAHAH!”

I looked out the wall of windows at her, and then at the other people outside. They all looked as if they had suddenly smelled a gas leak. Any minute, the place would blow. They seemed nervous, twitching, looking for an escape.

I tried to focus on the slow service. A different girl brought us our coffee, but forgot the muffins. “For here or to go?” she asked when I told her that we had ordered them.

“To go.” Two minutes later she returned with them on saucers.

“To go,” I said, again. She looked at me and blinked. A moment later it registered.

“Oh. You aren’t going to eat them here.”

She walked away, and it took five more minutes for her to put them in a bag. That was okay. Robby and I had the Coke Addict to keep us amused. The Maltese was now standing on her table. She was RUBBING ITS ASS. No lie. Then, she slowly wiped her hand across her face, and STOPPED AT HER NOSE. NO LIE, again. Then she swept her hand over her eyes and her forehead and brushed her bangs away.

“Here you go,” the girl behind the counter said to me, holding up the muffins in two small bags.

I took them from her and turned around to see that the Coke Addict had spilled her drink all over the table. She was shaking a guy’s hand. Instead of cleaning up her drink, they moved to another table. She left the dog where it was, lapping up her spilled ice coffee.

We walked outside, just in time to hear her say, “This is Profit,” referring to the Maltese. She then pointed to the Pomeranian. “That’s Chamomile.”

It was clear that this was a blind date. They had met on Match.com or edatesfromhell.com

“So Robby,” I said, as we got into my car. “You asked me last night about the tackiest person I ever saw.”

“Oh hell, I’m from LA and we don’t have anyone was bad as her,” he said again. It was worth repeating. When LA looks better than you, you have to say it tiwce, maybe a hundred times. After all, it is the land of Paris and Britney.

Lady with the two dogs, loud voice and spilled coffee, you take the cake, you take the bran muffin. You take the latte. Congrats. You are one of a kind. Literally, there is nothing like you anywhere. Not Dallas, not Jackson, Mississippi, not Cleveland, not even, LA, land of Lindsey, Paris, Nicole and, naturally, Britney. Thanks, sugar, for making our town the tackiest. By the way, your ex-husband just won custody of the dogs.

Yes, I'm bad

If you know me, you know that once you cross me, there is no going back. Forgiveness happens to other people. That's my motto. As a result, I am short and have wrinkles I'd rather not have. I don't sleep well at night. I'm known for being dramatic.

Recently, a co-worker I don't like died. I didn't like him for a simple reason: he was mean. He was mean to me and others. Mainly, I didn't like him because he was mean to me. I ask you, how could you be mean to me? I'm a pup, a cotton ball, a sack of . . . sugar.

But, he died. Evidently, he was mean to a bunch of us at work, including some clients, because we've joked (yes, I said joked, and the man is dead) that we should form a support group because we feel guilty that he died and we don't mourn him. Oh. We are awful. We know it. But he could be really, really mean. Then there are those others who somehow liked him. To each his own, evidently. One client from India wrote in after hearing about this former co-worker's passing and said, "We are heartbroken by his sudden demise. . . it is a great loss . . . he was a noble man."

I asked Bernice in HR, "are we talking about the same man?" It pains her to talk to me these days, because she feels the need to write me up every time I so much as look in her direction. I am a walking HR violation.

Bernice is troubled lately, not only by this person's death, but how she can classify me in terms of HR violations. Am I insubordinate? Unprofessional? Harassing people? Of course, yes to all three. I'm the kind of gal who likes to go down in flames, my motto, to paraphrase Faulkner, is if you are going to screw up, do it magnificently.

I have been following Bernice around, taking notes of all the odd stories that have come out of this man's death. His daughter is a bartender at a 24/7 gambling lounge in Vegas. It's a smoky joint where balding men who think W and Cheney blew up the World Trade Center towers drink Smirnoff and talk about how cute Paris Hilton is. This man's memorial will be held there. The family is having a private service in a back room, where they will toast him with a Schlitz beer, his favorite. They will then pass around bits of his cremains so people can wear them in lockets around their neck.

No doubt, there are those who loved this man. His family is devastated, as are those few co-workers who knew him differently than I did. They did not see the man who tried to make me feel bad about the job I did, or the man who tried to pawn off on me the work he didn't want to do, or the man who was rude to clients, saying things like, "I'm busy now, what do you need?" or the man who liked to greet people with, "hey, so nice of you to show up today." Or, "Binx, working hard or hardly working?" He reeked of cigarette smoke. He had a TB laugh. He detested gays and blacks. This is my memorial to him, and yes, I am a bad person, maybe bordering on sociopathic. It is people like him that helped me be the bad person I am today. I feel sad for his family. They lost a father, his wife lost a husband. I'm trying to feel something, but, I have to admit, part of me feels relief. There is one less person in the world that will go out of there way to make me feel bad, who will play mind games with me.

It's not right, these things I'm saying. It's not right that his family lost him. And I'm sorry, but the way he treated people, that wasn't right either. I hope that when I go, there is not someone in cyberspace writing about me this way. I hope I never make anyone feel as worthless as he made some of us feel. Mainly, I hope my service is not held in a dive bar, where people toast me with beer.

My "Magic" Review

Thank God Bruce threw out the fiddles from "The Seeger Sessions" and picked up his guitar. You know that when Bruce has both Steve Van Zandt's and Nils Lofgren's guitars backing him, that all is well in the state of Rock and Roll. I'm sure SS was a good album, but I like my Bruce the way I like my men. Straight and strong.

My favorite song on his new album, "Magic," is "Living in the Future," which starts off like "Tenth Avenue Freeze-out" but is way hornier and tinged with subtle jabs about what W & Company has done to the country.

It's rare I get the chance to mix two things I love to do, get syrupy over Bruce and bash W, at the same time. But since Bruce has tackled the effects of this administration on our country in "Magic," I get to write not only about how he hates W, too, but at the same time I get to gush like a school girl over him. Did you see his muscles on that 60 Minutes interview? Did I just say muscles? I meant, wrinkles. He's got wrinkles and muscles. He's nearly sixty and he looks good and is sounding even better. He gives hope to all of us forty-somethings worried over aging. Maybe we’ll just get better like him.

I bought 'Magic" on Tuesday, and have probably heard it a dozen times. The album grows on you with each listen. "Gypsy Biker" is a beautiful song about an Iraq vet coming home in a coffin. Like so many of his songs, it's a short story set to music. "We pulled your cycle out of the garage/And polished up the chrome." Then the theme builds in "Last to Die," as Bruce's anger over Iraq is more palatable here. In "Magic," we see him circle back to "Living in the Future," singing, "This is what will be, this is what will be." Oh he's pissed. Well, so am I and that’s why he continues to be the soundtrack to my life.

"Long Walk Home" is being compared to "My Hometown," except it has more balls. A father speaks to his son, who is about to be shipped out, of sacrifices and "Who we are, what we'll do/And what we won't." I for one, won't let a day go by without listening to "Magic." That is till Bruce puts out another album, hopefully ones without fiddles.

Magic Time

I’ve always wondered about people who didn’t like Bruce Springsteen. I realize that each person has their own taste, but, I’ve never been able to figure out how I can feel his songs so deeply, and, I’m just one of many people who can say that, while others shrug him off completely as a mainstream rocker, kinda like Bon Jovi. Actually, one girl told me once that he reminded her of Bon Jovi, “but he wasn’t as cute.” I always thought she was kind of dumb, you know, like Miss Teen South Carolina. But not as cute.

For those of us who love Springsteen, what I’m about to say is obvious and cliché. For those who don’t, listen up: he’s more than just some rocker, and if you have spent the last thirty years wondering what the fuss is about, pause Beyonce on your iPod and read this article NY Times. Maybe it will clarify some things. It’s not the best article ever written on Springsteen, but it’s pretty darn good.

Bruce’s new album “Magic” is out this week, and while I have only heard “Radio Nowhere,” I’m looking forward to not just hearing the music, but listening to the lyrics. After all, this is the man who wrote lines like, “For the ones who had a notion, a notion deep inside, that it ain’t no sin to be glad your alive,” as well as, “roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair . . . the nights busting open and these two lanes can take us anywhere.” If those lyrics don’t touch you in some way, then maybe you’ve never longed for something--other than Prada. Okay, to be fair I long for Prada a lot, but there are other things I’ve wanted, too, like the strong desire to bust out of a dusty small town growing up, and see the world. I was the kind of person Bruce wrote songs for, and all these years later, as I’ve grown older, and had a career, and a marriage, and this thing called an adult life, Bruce has somehow managed to continue to provide a soundtrack, like the words from this great middle-age lament:

Well my soul checked out missing as I sat listening
To the hours and minutes tickin' away
Yeah, just sittin' around waitin' for my life to begin
While it was all just slippin' away.
I'm tired of waitin' for tomorrow to come
Early on, Bruce’s songs inspired me “to take a right at the light and head out straight onto night,” and I did. Last night, I traveled 20 + hours door-to door from my fourth trip to Hong Kong. I’ve seen a lot of the world, not all of it. I’ve tried to live my dreams, writing, a fun career, and again, I was spurred on to do this in part by Springsteen’s music. All these years later, after I’ve first heard “Born to Run,” I’ve realized something. Seeing the world is great, and chasing your dreams is a worthwhile pursuit, but let’s face it, and if you are a Springsteen fan, you know what I mean: nothing beats dancing to a good song by our guy. That’s why he’s The Boss.

Well, she has a good last name.

Seriously, who is Amy Wineshoue? I’m fairly old, so I don’t know this kind of pop-culture stuff.

All I know is that everyone is up in arms over young girls like her who are drunk, out-of-control, and making a mess of their lives. The media says they need rehab, I say they need to call me so we can have a pajama party. I'll bring my silver flask filled with Absolute.

Here is what Salon wrote recently about Miss Amy Winehouse and ladies like her.

“According to a report by British organization Women in Journalism, teenage girls find "encouragement" in "the soap opera-style lives of glamorous women," even if those women are falling over drunk and look like hell [stop talking about me that way, be-atch!].

Sure, teens (of both genders) are attracted to images of celebrities supposedly living it up [Lablogda note: teens, hell! Middle-age broads like me want to live it up more]. That doesn't mean they want to replicate every aspect of their behavior. Why pin it on Winehouse? She's far from the only celebrity disaster [to the novice, this is media code for, “hello Britney. Is that a gun in your belly or are you just happy to see me?] and hers is a pretty clear-cut cautionary tale. It's hard to believe that teens see her stumbling around with blood on her satin ballet flats and scratches all over her face and think, That should be me! [Well, that might be me, so screw you.]

Teenagers are wrestling with all kinds of influences, but no one of these things is forcing them to become binge drinkers or drug addicts. In a recent study, the National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse cites predictable factors like low self-esteem, peer pressure and concerns about weight and appearance as the top motivations for girls to drink [as well as middle-age women]. That these things aren't sensational doesn't make them any less troubling.”

Okay, new rule: young Hollywood types need to sober up a tad (this isn't the seventies), but, at the same time, the media needs to move on and get on to more serious things than Britney’s expanding waist line (she had two kids, what do you want?). There are men, women and children dying daily in Iraq. Iran is scary because it’s Iran, and there is a short guy ruling N. Korea, and if history has taught us anything, it’s that short dudes are to be feared because THEY ARE FREAKED OUT ABOUT BEING SHORT.


So media, let the drunk gals be. Girls just want to have fun, then turn to rehab so that they can write their memoir and be the female James Frey (minus the fiction). We have a cock-eyed cowboy running our country, and as my grandpa would say, we are going to hell in a hand-basket. For God’s sakes, leave Amy Winehouse alone, and for God’s sakes, someone tell me who the hell she is.

Long live Lindsey.

Something to Gaffe About

In case you missed this in the news, here's an article from Reuters:
SYDNEY (Reuters) - Even for someone as gaffe-prone as U.S. President George W. Bush, he was in rare form on Friday, confusing APEC with OPEC and transforming Australian troops into Austrians.

Bush's tongue started slipping almost as soon as he started talking at a business forum on the eve of an Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation (APEC) summit in Sydney.

"Mr. Prime Minister, thank you for your introduction," he told Prime Minister John Howard. "Thank you for being such a fine host for the OPEC summit."

As the audience of several hundred people erupted in laughter, Bush corrected himself and joked, "He invited me to the OPEC summit next year." Australia has never been a member of the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries.

Later in his speech, Bush recounted how Howard had gone to visit "Austrian troops" last year in Iraq. There are, in fact, no Austrian troops there. But Australia has about 1,500 Australian military personnel in and around the country.

Upon finishing his speech, Bush took the wrong way off-stage and, looking slightly perplexed, had to be re-directed by Howard to a centre-stage exit.

But not before a veteran White House correspondent seized the opportunity to ask Bush whether there had been any new message in his speech. Apparently misunderstanding the question, he bristled and asked, "Haven't you been listening to my past speeches?" before turning away.

Bush is no stranger to the occasional faux pas, and often jokes about his habit of mangling the English language.

One of his highest-profile gaffes came in May when, at a welcoming ceremony for Britain's Queen Elizabeth II, he nearly placed her in the 18th century.

Then there was the famous incident at the G8 summit in St. Petersburg in 2006 when Bush, unaware he was on camera, greeted British Prime Minister Tony Blair with the words "Yo Blair."

Bush's sometimes muddled syntax and mispronunciation of words like nuclear ("nukular") have long been fodder for late-night TV comedians. But aides say his folksy style has helped endear him to Middle America.

I Once Knew a Girl Named Katrina

When I was 17, my pal CW and I went with her mom to New Orleans to see the Rolling Stones play. Van Halen was the opening act. The venue? The Superdome. Before the show, we sat in a French Quarter restaurant and ate oyster po-boys and watched a waitress bolt across the floor and lock the door to keep some LSU frat boys from walking out on the bill. Later, we went to the concert, and I met an English journalist named Dave, who was 25, and I French kissed him that night. Then for the next year, we kept up, what in retrospect, was a disturbing pen pal relationship.

What does this have to do with anything? Today is September 5, and to quote the AP, Nola is “ a cesspool of physical ruin, broken lives and neglect.” More than 160,000 of the population, or 40% have left this once fabulous town.

I live in Las Vegas. The worst trash I have ever met lives here. Awful, terrible, soulless people who wouldn’t know their asshole from their fake tits. The best people I ever knew? Well, it wasn’t in New Orleans, but Lord, I knew some great folks there. They have scattered since Katrina. They live in towns like Baton Rouge and Monroe, places that may very well make Vegas look good. I don't live there. All I know? They are not what New Orleans once was.

Blame whomever you want for what happened after Katrina. I mainly blame George W. Bush because he’s so damn easy to hate, but let’s get this straight: if you voted for him, I blame you, too. for this and for Iraq. And if you didn’t vote at all, move to another country. Finland, Iceland, Poleand, wherever. You think the lesser of two evils means voting for no one? You are stupid and you know who you are.

This country, from the pols to the voters who elected them, have never let down one of its own more than it did with Katrina.

So here's my question to those of you responsible: Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

Rove's Dog Days Exit

I don't have time for a lengthy post, so I copied and pasted this from Yahoo News:

By TERENCE HUNT, AP White House Correspondent 6 minutes ago
WASHINGTON - "Karl Rove, President Bush's close friend and chief political strategist, plans to leave the White House at the end of August, joining a lengthening line of senior officials heading for the exits in the final 1 1/2 years of the administration."

The evil genius is leaving, what is a blogger like me to do? As he has faded more into the background, I've noticed my post have become less and less. A large part of that is that I am lazy, but the other part of it is Rove was just so much fun to write about. Love him or hate him, talking heads and spinmeisters everywhere love to use pages from his book as case studies of changing the way America thinks, speaks and vote.

What I lack in skill I make up for in context

I have no idea what the above headline means, but one day, I will write a book with this title. I fell off my South Beach Phase 1 diet last night and had a glass of a yummy pinot noir. Do you know what happens on Phase 1? Your body gets real clean and efficient on the inside, and when you dump a yummy pinot in your gullet, hilarity ensues, just like a bad seventies sitcom. So as I was polishing off my drink, and telling everyone at the bar how much I adored all of them, truly, and that they were all wondrous, truly, even though they were complete strangers, I turned to my husband and said, “what I lack in skill I make up for in context.”

We both understood that I had said something very deep. The problem is, we are too shallow to really figure this one out. What context? The context of my life? The context of other people's lives? The context of the moment?

Does it matter? We were drunk, having fun, and I said something that sounded really good at the time but in retrospect demands a large “huh?”

It got me thinking about how wine is the adult pot. I admit, I miss my college years. You would get high with your pals and you would say something totally ludicrous that seemed so deep and ponderous at the moment, and a bag of Cheetos later you are laughing at yourself, thinking, “Wow. What a dumb f@#k I am.”

I am a complete dumb f@#k when I drink wine. The world is once again innocent and I know no bad people, only friends. There is no stress, no drudgery, no bills. Just the moment, all happy and fuzzy, and at my age, hot flashy. During the week, I’m a mediocre marketing person with a short attention span and a bad memory, but come Friday night, well, what I lack in skill I make up for in context.

Self-Esteem Happens to Other People

Dear Reader,
I have not blogged lately because I'm too busy thinking about my Botox. It was due to wear off any day now, and I've been trying to decide whether or not to get more. On the one hand, I looked younger, and as a side note, surprised. On the other hand, I suffered from puffy eyes more. Puffy eyes is a side-effect of Botox that doctors don't won't you to know about.

So for the last three months, I've been debating, do I want to do Botox again, and if so, can I deal with looking like a heroin addict? Puffy eyes makes the veins under my eyes more visible. That is not good.

Today, the damn Botox finally wore off. My eyes are not puffy, but on my right eye, especially, there are wicked wrinkles. I turned to Kiehls, my mainstay. I drank some wine. I am getting on a plane at midnight and I am flying to Savannah, where there is more humidity than common sense. I hope the humidity helps. Savannah is, by all accounts, more fun than Botox. On the other hand, the only place I can think of that is more humid than Savannah is the Rain Forest. They have things that kill you in the Rain Forest, at least the part that still remains. What would Al Gore do?

Regardless of what Al would do (obviously, by looking at him he does not do Botox) I still do not know if I will do another round of Botox or just relocate to the Rain Forest. On the one hand, if I relocate to the Rain Forest, I will have snakes and jumping spiders to concern myself with. If I do Botox, I have to deal with puffy eyes. You F'ing tell me, which is worse? Unless you are a man, you will not understand.

Brother Can You Spare a Scooter?

Um, is this irony? If so I’m not getting it. Sheryl Gay Stolberg (there’s a joke in that name somewhere, I just haven’t found it) writes in the Washington Post: “President Bush’s decision to commute the sentence of I. Lewis Libby Jr. was the act of a liberated man — a leader who knows that, with 18 months left in the Oval Office and only a dwindling band of conservatives still behind him, he might as well do what he wants.”

I wonder if Sheryl is like my pal KB’s token Republican friend, Beverly. I’ve known Beverly for the last four years, and during that time, two things remain constant. 1) Her love for George W. Bush, and 2) She’s always drunk. But it’s okay because she has fabulous taste in wine and has taught me about a couple good vineyards that produce consistent wine in the $30 range. I will always, and I mean always, tolerate a Republican who has good taste in wine.

But this is not a post about wine (damn, now I want wine). This is about the demise of what was once an evil marketing empire. W, I have two words for you: Mark Rich. Remember when Clinton pardoned him and your team just raised utter hell. Clinton had just sort of bounced back from the public relations mess of his last term (spearheaded by the Republicans) and the last thing he does is pardon a crone.

This is a bit different, especially in the timing as we have 18 more months of W to suffer through. But it is not much different. Letting a crone off easy is, well, cronyism. Cronyism works really well when I get to be the one who benefits from it. Oh now, I didn't mean that. Truly (Love me, W. Love me!)

Okay, no joking around, this was W showing his cards, showing his real self. Sheryl is somewhat right. I wouldn't call what he's done the act of a liberated man. He would have done the same thing in 2002 if given the chance. This is the act of an ass. Cue Cindy Lauper. "I see your true colors shining through. . ."

Hello? Is Anybody Out There

It's been a while since I blogged. I'm not sure I have any readers left as a result. Not that I've ever had many readers. I'm not sure how bloggers get readers, though I know some have been successful. They must have a wide social network of friends who read their blog. I have some friends. Some even like to read. Evidently, they don't like to read my stuff. I will try not to take it personal, but I can't even get my husband to read my blog. Now that's just sad.

I haven't blogged because we sold our house and moved to another part of town. Actually, we moved a quarter mile away. That's hardly another part of town. I still take the same route to work, that's hardly a move at all. Moving takes a lot out of you, as does selling your house. Today's post is about something that has been on my mind for 2 months. The people who bought my house.

When they made the initial offer, the bid $75K less than we asked. In doing so, they submitted a letter to us with the bid. I tore it up after I read it, but I will paraphrase right here:
"Dear homeowner:
We love your home, and we hope you will take this offer. We are good Christian family who will raise our children in the teachings of Jesus. Mom is a stay-at-home mom, and your house will be filled with the smell of baked cookies and other goodies. Little strays, friends of our children, often find their way here, and Mom takes them under her wing. Your pool will be filled with the sound of children's laughter. Blah, blah, blah, George W. Bush is great, we love Jesus, sell us your house."

Okay, that last line was totally made up, but I swear, they might as well have included that. I tore up the letter and refused their offer. I fumed for days over their nerve. How could they presume that raising a kid with good Christian values (what does that mean anyway, that they hate homosexuals and the French?) would make me take their low offer.

A week later, they came back with an offer much more reasonable. I almost did not take it, but fortunately, I was raised with good Christian values, and understood that a dollar is a dollar, and I shouldn't judge people just for being right wing. Plus the market here is really bad and I wanted to sell, and, the last laugh is on them because the neighbors that live behind us are the largest white trash in the world and it was move or kill the bastards. So we sold.

I have new white trash neighbors. This is Vegas, after all. My new neighbors have two pit bulls who I think might eat me if I look at them. So I don't go outside except to get in my car, which is parked in the garage, so techincially, I only DRIVE out of my house, not walk. It's too hot to walk in Vegas right now anyway.

I wonder sometimes how those people are doing living in my old house? Has the smell of tequilla in the blender been replaced with cookies? Has the sound of Sinatra been replaced with a whiney child's voice going, "Moooom, Timmy bit me."
Do they appreciate the little garden we grew in the makeshift courtyard we created? And most of all, I wonder if our white trash neighbors are driving them as crazy as they did us? If not, then I should have held out for more money.

Exxon and its Carbon Cabal

For years, my pals AC and DB have been warning me about global warming. As usual, I pretended to listen while wondering silently to myself which hair spray really gave my shiny locks the best hold. By the way, I favor Pantene. I know it's passé, but sometimes the classics work best.

I saw my pals recently in Boulder. It was darn cold there; meanwhile Vegas was enjoying another late start to spring. AC and DB read me a story about disappearing bee colonies in Florida, and how that could well mark the beginning of the end. Turns out the disappearing bees may be linked to cell phones.

They've been telling me for years that we've been ruining our environment, and our bodies. I had no idea what they were talking about. I mean I'm a healthy 46 year-old gal going through menopause, suffering the early effects of osteopenia, arthritis and debilitating headaches; all normal signs of aging, right? I dunno . . . I sure like my processed food and chemicals.

I have only myself to blame. However, on the bigger issue of global warming, I can't take credit for that alone. No, to share in my guilt there is that wonder of PR, that master of spin, the protector of large marketing departments: Exxon.

In 2006, Exxon doled out dough to 41 climate skeptic groups to groups like American Enterprise Institute, the Heritage Foundation, the Heartland Institute, Frontiers of Freedom and others. Collectively, the groups are known among their nay-sayers as the Carbon Cabal.

The CC has spent the last ten years trying to "inform" the public about global warming due to manmade CO2 pollution. These groups help Exxon color op-ed pages with "arguments against action to curb rampant carbon emissions, they appear on Fox and right-wing talk shows to blast "liberal" or my favorite, "owl-hooting, tree hugging, morons" for "alarming" the public on global warming.

Since 1998, Exxon has spent $23 million proving denial-ain't-just-a-river.

Oh Exxon, it's not global warming that is the issue. Don't you listen to your own conservative spin-masters? It's climate change. Climate change. Remember those words, Exxon. You wouldn't want to scare the world, would you?

Good-bye to the Girls

In a world where people behave badly, seven years ago i found a retreat. Yes, you guessed it. The Gilmore Girls.

Oh shut up. I know that the world is falling apart: war, hunger, poverty, oppression. I can' take Xanax all the time to deal with the stress of it all. Where there is no Xanax, there is Gilmore Girls.

True to this blog of people behaving badly, I have the beloved stars of Gilmore Girls to blame for the cancellation: they didn't want to come back. Or they wanted more money. It depends on which stories you read and believe. Either way, it's their fault for the show being cancelled. Thanks gals, I guess I'll have my doctor refill my Xanax.

Of course, the producers could let the girls go and keep the show going with the support cast. I've never enjoyed a show more where the support cast carried the show. Kirk, Taylor, Miss Patty, Michele, and especially Emily Gilmore, you are the ones I will miss most. And Lane and her band of misfits, and of course, Mrs. Kim.

Go gently into the cancelled night my TV friends. I'll see you in reruns and on DVD.

Yawn. Religion Again?

In an effort to be fair and balanced (I've never tried this before, but I've got this list of 1,000 things to do before I die. . .) I am posting the below quote from Barack Obama. I do not like what he says. I disagree with him (though factually he is right, I disagree with the sentiment). Keep your religion to yourself, unless you want to bore us. Give us some new rhetoric.

"Secularists are wrong when they ask believers to leave their religion at the door before entering into the public square. Frederick Douglass, Abraham Lincoln, Williams Jennings Bryan, Dorothy Day, Martin Luther King - indeed, the majority of great reformers in American history - were not only motivated by faith, but repeatedly used religious language to argue for their cause. To say that men and women should not inject their "personal morality" into public policy debates is a practical absurdity."

--Senator, Barack Obama
Call to Renewal Conference, June 28, 2006.

"Call me absurd."
--Binx
Lablogda, May 13, 2007

Of course, Obama said that almost a year ago. It will be interesting to see, as we get closer to the 2008 elections, how much he keeps his faith. I don't think this political yarn (or yawn) will bode well with Democrats. Then, on the other hand, if he's the frontrunner, what else are we going to do? Let another Republican in office for another 4 years. Na-uh.

Save me Jesus!

Good Quote

I'm getting tired of this question: Obama, Clinton, Edwards, who will be the next President? Who knows, right, it's too soon, and maybe it will be Rudy or some other Republican. Whatever happens, I heard a quote I like, and I wish W would remember this more (and a few other Republicans, too).

". . . That’s the great thing about the democratic party. You can have a position that wasn’t given to you by a speechwriter."
Bryan Schweitzer
Governor, Montana

Maybe this guy should run.

Friday's Rant

I haven't blogged in a while, not since the death of our cat Liza. Since Miss Manners has not tackled the question of how long one appropriately mourns the loss of a beloved pet, I thought I'd give the blog a rest. But I think I'm back, especially as death is a time for reflection, and during this time, I have reflected a lot and come up with a few things I think are true:

1) My cat Sammy Davis, Jr does not miss his sister Liza, but he does notice that she's gone, therefore, it makes him nervous. What's next? He's thinking. "Death for Sammy?" No fear, kitty, but please, stop waking Mommy and Daddy up at 5:00am. We are not farmers and you do not need to eat that early.
2) On a recent trip to Denver, I realized that Boulder, which is smaller, has more energy. You do not have to be a big city to have energy. Denver, listen up: cities should not be clean, nor should its citizens be so darn friendly. It's Denver, not Mayberry. I had the same problem with Vancouver this summer. Give me grit, a few homeless people, some nasty hookers on the street corner, and I'm happy. That's why I love LA. Angry drivers, dirty streets, whores (I'm talking about the wannabe actors/screenwiriters/producers/directors/etc), hookers and, of course, agents: what's not to love -- or write about? Of course, Boulder has none of those things, but it has good bars every ten feet, which is the number one rule for what makes a city good.
3) George W. Bush still sucks, and instead of everyone who voted for him apologizing to me for ruining the country, I feel they need to slit their damn wrist. You voted for Bush? You suck, buddy. You suck. End of story, go away.
4) Real Estate agents are the new lawyers. We have our house for sale in Vegas and these people are not interested in working for their money. They want a cookie-cutter approach to real estate: your white trash neighbor's house is worth x, therefore your house is worth the same. Lot size, location, upgrades, etc just don't count anymore. If your neighbor goes into foreclosure, watch out, you just lost 100k on your house and the real estate agents are like lemmings jumping off the deep discount cliff.
5) Why does no one talk about Condoleeza Rice's odd overbite? We talk about W's eyes, Dick's heart, why not Condi's unfortunate smile? Huh?
6) People who are trashy never know they are trashy. God needs to put this in the bible and make it an 11th Commandment.

Okay, that's it till I feel like ranting about something new. Probably George W, no doubt.

Curtain Call for Miss Minnelli

Our cat, Liza Minnelli passed away this week. Actually, we had to put her to sleep. While our other cat, Sammy Davis, Jr., is taking this all in stride, and is under the impression that her demise means more food for him, we are not taking it so well.

Sammy has always been our “pet” pet. He was our first, and we got Liza because I thought he seemed lonely. In retrospect, I was probably wrong. Like her namesake, Liza came into our house with a bold attitude. A feline dominance war broke out and eventually, Sammy won. Liza ended up being more of a “daddy’s girl,” and Sammy is such a “mama’s boy” that if he were human, he’d probably get beat up by the other kids. Actually, make that the other senior citizens. Sammy and Liza were both born in 1990, which in human years is about ninety.

Liza had a good life. She played, slept and ate high-end kitty food. She got petted and held frequently, even when she didn’t want to. Still, Sammy has had a better life because he’s more affectionate, and hence, we dote on him more. I’m not proud to admit that, but then again, Liza was a cat’s cat: aloof, a loner, happier sleeping than socializing. Someone needs to tell Sammy he’s not a dog.

As with any story involving me and my husband, Liza’s death has a quirky bent. She had been getting more and more frail, and her kidneys were going. She started going outside the litter box in our laundry room. It finally got to be too much. We agreed on Wednesday morning to put her to sleep. We were sketchy on the details of who would call the vet or take her in, as neither of us wanted to think about it too much. We’d debated much over the last two months, and every time we decided to take her to the vet (or her final resting place) we changed our minds. I could tell my husband was struggling with it a bit more, so I volunteered to take her in.

“Maybe we should both take her in,” he said.

“No, I can do it.” I couldn’t explain why, but I had the strength to take her in alone, but not together. I think it would be too much to do it together, too much of a Lifetime movie.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or I can do it.”

I’m not sure how we left it. I didn’t want to leave it firm. Vague meant no action, and no action was comfortable.

Later that morning, I checked my voicemail at work. I had been in meetings. “It’s done,” he said. “I took her in.”

Naturally, I hit the roof. I called him up. “I wanted to say good-bye,” I said. “How could you just take her in?”

He explained that he had called the vet to make an appointment and they said, “Oh, well, you can bring her in now.” A slow day at the vet’s office meant death for my kitty. He thought about it for a moment, then decided he’d just bite the bullet (or in her case, let her bite the dust) and take her in. He sat with her in a small corner room while they waited for the vet. He told Liza he loved her, and that maybe we’d see her again one day. Neither hubby or I are overly religious, and while we are too chicken to be full-on atheist, we can’t completely accept the idea of heaven --- unless there is ever a 70% off sale at Neiman Marcus, or the wine shop.

He almost left with her at one point. He picked her up and nearly bolted for the door, but her demeanor was telling. She seemed to know it was time. My husband stayed.

When it was done, he came home and washed out her bowl, which sat next to Sammy’s, and put it away on the top shelf of a kitchen cabinet. I don’t think he intended it to be a ceremonial gesture, but it was. He shook out her blanket, then put away the extra litter box we had, one for Liza, one for Sammy. He cleaned away Liza. I came home to a house that was a little tidier and a lot lonelier.

We were a family of four. Now we are three. I feel that there is a hole in our home. Sammy, on the other hand, acts as if nothing has changed. He purrs more than he has in a while, in fact. He evens seems a bit more spry than usual. I’m not sure if he misses her. Except . . .

Last night, we were in bed, the three of us. Sammy likes to sleep at the foot of the mattress, dog that he thinks he is. He jumped off and went to the top of the stairs and started yowling. This is not unusual. At seventeen, he gets a little senile at night and goes into the bathroom often and yowls. He never goes to the stairs, though. His yowl was different last night. Normally it is agitated, like he’s lost. This one was mournful, sad. I felt like he was almost singing a song. I know, I’ve gone too far, but it’s how it seemed. I think Sammy was saying good-bye.

Miss Minnelli, wherever you are tonight, I miss you. You were a good cat, and if there is a heaven, I hope you are now the house pet to one of my dearly departed relatives. If so, you’ll make a damn good pet. And if you are reincarnated, I hope you come back as a cat that roars.

Can We Imitate Canadians?

Now this is funny: Canadian author Yann Martel, worried about Prime Minister Stephen Harper's apparent lack of interest in the arts, sent him a book on Monday and said he would continue doing so for the next two weeks.

Martel, who wrote "Life of Pi," was upset that Harper had paid no attention during a recent parliamentary ceremony to honor Canadian artists.

"What makes him tick? No doubt he is busy. No doubt he is deluded by that busyness. No doubt being Prime Minister fills his entire consideration and froths his sense of busied importance to the very brim. And no doubt he sounds and governs like one who cares not a jot for the arts," wrote Martel.

Um, Mr. Martel, I get that you want to shake up the Canadian Prime Minister, but have you met W? The President who doesn't read? Since you are sending one leader a book, why not duplicate your efforts with our Prez?

The Problem with Vegas

Someone once wrote about Las Vegas that it was a town with a pulse, but no heart. It's true.

I like to write about people behaving badly. The thought never occurred to me when I lived in SF, but after moving to Vegas, since people behaving badly are such a common occurrence, it only seemed natural that I would start this blog.

The worst people I have known live in Las Vegas. Long-time La Blogda readers may remember Chickpea, a co-worker who is now making folks at some other company miserable. I think of him still, from time-to-time and I wonder what made him such a control freak, such a schoolyard bully. The man is pushing sixty, and I once heard him say to someone, "I know I am but what are you?"

Yesterday, I was driving down West Charleston, and a man pulled out of a shopping center to make it across the center divide. Traffic was coming the other way, so he was stuck and ended up blocking traffic in our direction. A few people nearly slammed into each other, every one honked, there was much malaise and anger all because of one dumb made. He pulled out into traffic because he was determined not to wait. His ego, his temerity, put himself above the other massive amounts of drivers. If he had to wait, we wall did. A block up the road further, traffic started to back up because an impatient red-light runner had slammed into a small compact car. He couldn't wait, this red-light runner. His life, his time, was more important than the safety of others.

Vegas is a town where if you err, other's pay the price. It's a town where people seem to delight or not care if their actions annoy, inconvenience, or even harm others. People are transients here for a reason: their other town, or towns, have run them out. Maybe not directly, but they couldn't find work, or friends, or peace, so they come here, thinking they will get rich quick, eat all the food they want, drink and smoke 24/7, and live cheaply in nice homes for the money, all the while saving money because there are no state taxes. It sounds like heaven, but heaven doesn't have scorched earth.

On the bright side, there's another saying about Vegas: Ain't never too late for breakfast or too early for a drink.

Binx on Break

Ahhh, springtime. Flowers are blooming, birds are singing, and teens are puking from Destin to Miami as they enjoy their spring break.

Don't you love spring? I do. In fact, I've got spring fever bad. I've also got a bad case of the "spread-to-thins." Having started another blog (what was I thinking, I barely write in this one), editing my next manuscript, and trying to keep up with my day job is proving a bit much. So I need to take another break, yet again. I'll blog if Bush does something really stupid, which means the chances of me blogging again in the next five minutes is high, but otherwise, I need to devote my time to all the other things I have going that pay little money, offer no respect, and basically, keep me who I am. Who am I again? Oh, right, the person who is not going to blog for awhile. But like the Governor of California, I'll be back, fatter, dumber and probably bitchier than ever. As Gary Busey likes to say when he's signing off, God bless and Adios.

John Edwards’ Unfortunate Marketing Strategy?

Ever since John and Elizabeth Edwards announced that he would continue running despite the return of her cancer, I’ve heard people muse that he was simply employing a marketing strategy in order to get the sympathy vote. Those are the people who never would vote for him anyway, and probably belong to Bush’s 30% base of supporters.

I can’t judge what Edwards is doing. I think his wife is awfully brave and selfless. I can just imagine if the world spun backwards and in a freakish alternate universe my husband decided to run for President after learning that I had a terminal illness.

“You’re going to do what?” I’d scream when he told me the news. “I’m f@#$%^g dying you b@#$@d! And you’re running for the g!@d#$n what?”

The funny thing is, I’ve been trying to decide who I support: Obama or Hillary. I’ve always kept Edwards in the back of my mind, but with the recent announcement of his wife’s illness, and their agreement that he should run, I admit, I’m a bit wooed. I really don’t think this is a marketing strategy as his critics say, but simple ambition (there’s nothing simple about that ambition of course). So call me a sucker, but I’m leaning toward him. Partly because I think he stands a good chance of winning-over iffy voters, but also because I liked him in 2004, and I like him now. Of course, this could all change next week, depending on Obama or Hillary and whatever crisis occurs, marketing strategy is deployed, or political decisions made. Or I might just decide I plain old like one of the others better. Yep, I’m weak.

Today's Word: Hypocracy

Oh dear. Karma is an awful bitch. The poor Republicans are learning this. W is in such a tizzy over the democrats wanting to issue subpeonas and investigate the Gonzales firings. I bet even Ambien can't help W sleep at night.

"We will not go along with a partisan fishing expedition aimed at honorable public servants," Bush said Tuesday. "The initial response by Democrats, unfortunately, shows that some are more interested in scoring political points than in understanding the facts. ..."

This is sounding so familiar to me. I feel as if karmic spirits are at work; what goes around comes around time.

I know, I remember now why this is familiar. W, does Kenneth Star sound familiar? The Republicans nearly burned that Wicked Witch of the West Wing, Bill Clinton, alive at the stake. Mmmhmm. It's okay when your pals do that, right W?

Democrats, have you learned nothing from the Republicans? They do not want you to play in their sandbox. It is their sandbox, they invent the rules, and they don't need no veggie-eating, cabernet-swilling, Gore-loving liberals telling them what to do and making accusations about them. Subpeonas and investigations are for crooks, not Repubclians. Just ask Scooter Libby.

Pick Up the Pace Peter

“I believe homosexual acts between two individuals are immoral and that we should not condone immoral acts. I do not believe the United States is well served by a policy that says it is OK to be immoral in any way.”

This is what Joint Chief of Staff Chairman General Peter Pace said last week about homosexuals serving openly in the military,

Look, Peter Pace picked-a-pickled-pompous-pose, if there is a gay man out there who wants to serve in Iraq, do you really have the luxury of being a picky peter? I mean, let's be honest, if freaking ex-cons want to serve, if cock-eyed psychos want to drive a hummer past a barricade of suicide bombers, are you gonna say, "no thanks?" I don't care if they are gay, straight, not sure or big dykes, let them fight if they wanna. You may be looking for a few good men, but ask any single gal: there is a limited supply of them.

How about we just move beyond this whole gay issue? It’s more worn out than Dick Cheney’s heart. Gays are here, they are queer, and damnit, some of them want to strap on a gun and go kill some Muslims. Let them, bub. What's it to you?

These are a few of my least favorite things

Oh I know. I've posted this image before. But I just hate Bush and I also don't like babies. Republicans everywhere, go ahead, hate me. I just can't help myself.

Hate Kids; Love Margaux

I now have three blogs, which is stupid. I barely keep up this one. Bourbon Decay promotes my book, and the new one, Audacious Ink is simply a blog on marketing and marketing strategy. Then there is this one, which is devoted to people behaving badly, or said another way, a verbal vehicle for my menopausal rants.

I am on Phase 2 of the South Beach diet, or as I call this phase, Finally, I can drink again. But I can only drink red wine. The good news is I usually only drink red wine when I'm drinking. So last night, I shared a lovely bottle of Origins Margaux with my husband. I would have linked to the Origins site, but you can only buy the wine at Albertsons. There is an Origin website, for what I believe is South African wine --- not the same. Albertsons did a great job of getting moderly priced wines from around the world under their own label.

My rambling point that I am trying to make is I am too lazy to blog on three sites today, so check out Audacious Ink where I blog about the I Hate Your Kids T-shirts sold on gawker.

Politicians Just Need a Nap

Today's news that lack of sleep affects moral judgment may explain the problem with our politicians. They are not corrupt, as they are often accused. They are just tired! Give them a bottle (of Scotch) and put them down for a nap.

Imagine, if W and his cronies had rested up, they may not have felt the need to lie about Iraq's WMD. Politicians in Louisiana, a state notorious for crooked pols, are not shady. They are pooped. All that partying keeps you up at night and makes you think that shirking blame or misappropriating funds is okay. Scooter Libby? Not a victim of the liberals, but a victim of insomnia.

So please, politicians, local, state, federal, or the Axis of Evil, lie down. Close your eyes. Go to your happy place.

I Just Like This Photo

I actually don't have anything to blog about, I just thought this photo was funny. It reminds me of how I often feel in work situations, when I watch the news, or how I imagine W often looks in cabinet meetings. The photo accompanied a story on Yahoo about a meat-eating calf that eats chickens.

Columbia: Good for More Than Coffee

Around 150 protesters attacked police with rocks and metal barriers in Colombia, just moments after W landed for a short six-hour visit. What would those people do if he was their president? Seriously, I can only imagine. So, in the interest of national safety, let’s open our borders to any Columbians who want to become citizens. If they will get pissy over a few hours of W being in their country, wow, they’d get really nuts if they had to live with him. So let them in, because we aren’t mad enough at the damage he’s done to us. The Columbians just tore down lampposts. W way out-did them in his reign.

Hey, will I get in trouble with the FBI for this post? It’s hard to know under this administration.

Dick, Dick, Dick (Cheney)

What's with Dick? The guy has more problems than Dr. Marlena Evans on "Days of our Lives." If we go back and look at his history, and then move forward to Scooter's perjury conviction, Dick's got issues.

Dems have long scorned him for his role as a the former head of Halliburton. Every time a government contract was awarded in the Middle East, Dick was given credit on blame, depending on the party doling it out. His health sucks: he had four heart attacks prior to being VP, and now he's got a blood clot in his legs. Critics would say it is in his brain. Far be it from me to judge anyone, especially the critics.

Oh geez, I almost forgot my favorite Dick story, when he sprayed shots in the face of a 78-year old neocon crony.

Then there's his attitude about Iraq, which evidently differs from W on his attitude. Maybe W started believing he was actually running the country and formed his own opinion. That wasn't much better than the old "I'm with Dick," W.

Dick's hard-line on Iraq has spawned cartoons and he's the butt of late-night TV; his more relaxed view on Iran has caused critics to speculate that his perspective is shaded by his experience at Halliburton, a company that would love to do biz with Iran.

I've said it here before, but Dick is, well, a dick. But god, he sure gives a blogger something to write about. Thanks, Dick.

You and the Daily News

My pal Frankie sent this to me. It's making its way around the Internet. I wish I could credit the proper author, but I don't know who created this. Whoever it is, they deserve applause.

Subject: What do you read (and why)?
1. The Wall Street Journal is read by the people who run the country.

2. The Washington Post is read by people who think they run the
country.

3. The New York Times is read by people who think they should run the
country and who are very good at crossword puzzles.

4. USA Today is read by people who think they ought to run the country
but don't really understand the New York Times. They do, however, like
the statistics shown in pie charts.

5. The Los Angeles Times is read by people who wouldn't mind running
the country - if they could find the time - and if they didn't have to
leave southern California to do it.

6. The Boston Globe is read by people whose parents used to run the
country and did a far superior job of it, thank you very much.

7. The New York D aily News is read by people who aren't too sure who
is running the country and don't really care as long as they can get a
seat on the train.

8. The New York Post is read by people who don't care who's running
the country as long as they do something really scandalous, preferably
while intoxicated.

9. The Miami Herald is read by people who are running another country
but need the baseball scores.

10. The San Francisco Chronicle is read by people who aren't sure
there is a country, or that anyone is running it but, if so, they
oppose all that they stand for. There are occasional exceptions if the leaders
are handicapped minority gay feminist atheist dwarfs who also happen to
be illegal aliens from any other country or galaxy provided, of course,
that they are not Republicans.

11. The National Enquirer is read by people trapped in line at the
grocery store. AND

12. None of these are read by the guy who is running the country into
the ground.

Ann’s F Word

Much has been made in the media about Ann Coulter’s recent “joke” about John Edwards being a “faggot.” She’s been vilified plenty, but I haven’t heard one word against the fact that the audience, Republicans, generally applauded her comment. In fact, a number of them thought it was downright hysterical.

Putting aside that her comment was rude and done, per her key to success, to shock, it brought out what Dems have always know: Republicans have a downright mean streak in them. Well, I can be mean, too. So with that in mind, here are a few mean comments I would like to make:

What’s with W’s eyes? Is he cockeyed? Why does he look so stupid? It is because he is stupid? Would he rather be called a faggot or stupid I wonder?

I think I finally figured out why Dick Cheney is so angry all the time. His first name sums him up. I bet his daughter didn’t laugh over the John Edwards joke.

Did those Republicans laugh at her Edwards Faggot joke because they thought it was funny, or because they always laugh when they hear the word Faggot? Do they hate gays or are they just being juvenile, the way Jack on “Will & Grace” would laugh whenever he heard the word “bone.”

Ann Coulter is a lot like dick. I meant Dick (Cheney). Sorry.

Another Crazy Vegas Party

Last night, i went to the b-day party of one of my Vegas pals. She's a great woman who had an interesting career as a showgirl at the Stardust years ago. I went to the party mainly to support her, but also, I knew, I would encounter fodder for this blog. As usual, a Vegas party is a breeding ground for people behaving badly.

First, let me start off with the lone Republican at the party. Let's call her Babs. Babs tore into another guest, "Charlie," who simply made the comment that if a world-wide election were held, we'd be the most unpopular nation. "I am so tired of your godless atheist talk," Babs said,

"What did I say?" Charlie asked, all innocent.

"You just want to throw your godless talk in my face," she said. She had a nearly drained glass of cabernet in her hand. It was not her first.

"Where's the bar?" I asked, trying to change the subject. They ignored me as they went for each other's throats.

Then there was the woman I like to think of as the token demon. People seem to like her. I never have got it because she is so clearly a minion of Beelzebub, but hell, what do I know. Even hubby thinks she's sweat. I think she's a chubby little monster. I spoke to her when I arrived and she turned sharply on her heels and walked away. Later, I went up to a group of people who were talking, she was among them, and I said something, to which she rolled her eyes. Clearly, she doesn't like me. Then, before people had stopped eating, she started putting food away. Okay, I get it, she's clean, but it WAS NOT HER HOUSE.

Then there was our token rich divorcee friend. She didn't feel so well because she had just gotten back from Southern Cal, where her doctor had injected her lips with collagen. Her mouth looked swollen, and I thought, sexy. Behind her back, unfortunately, people were talking. Namely, the token Demon that everyone likes.

It may not rival the post Oscar parties that will go on tonight, but my little microcosm of people behaving badly I think stands up well against most. By the way, the people who went to the party are probably talking about me today. I evidently started the fight between Babs and Charlie simply by asking her what she thought of his ideas, plus, I hit on a gay guy in front of Hubby. But that's nothing new.

It's the End of the World as we Know It

The headline may be an overstatement, but the REM song keeps going through my head as I peruse the news this morning. While Anna Nicole's death was sad, as any death like that would be, I'm surprised at the number of people I've heard say, "God, I just loved her." What? Did you forget her slurring, "Do you love my body?" or her TV show? While I always found Anna Nicole to be someone that the rest of us poor shlubs could, ahem, make fun of so that we felt better about our lives, there is someone living, on the edge of a breakdown (edge? Please, she may be there) who can fill Anna's size 11s. You know whom I'm talking about. Just look at that mug.



That's no alien, my friend. That's Britney Spears, hairless as Yoda - actually he had more hair.

If you can navigate your way through You Tube, there is also a delightful video of Grande dame Sharon Stone acting uber bizarre at a German auction.

Of course, Gawker.com always have good stories of stars behaving badly. So happy Sunday, your life may be boring, but we have celebs to amuse

I’ve Got the Babies on a Plane Blues

Actually, what I’ve got is yet another cold. I blame it on the inspiration for my last post, Babies on a Plane, as I am sure some kid got me sick while flying last week. I hate kids, have I ever mentioned that? I think Bill Maher does, too. So since I’m too ill and feeling too dull to either write about Anna Nicole, or the recent senate debate on whether or not to send yet even more troops to Iraq, or even my hatred of babies on a plane, I’m going to suggest you read this funny article by Mr. Maher.

Babies on a Plane

I have spent the last week flying from Vegas to NYC and back, then Vegas to Savannah and back, and I learned something interesting: it is a Federal Aviation REQUIREMENT that babies and other small children be seated in the row beside me, or in front or behind me. If I am in an aisle seat, the baby may sit in the seat across from mine. There are more rules and regulations to this requirement:
1. Babies on the Plane must spend the entire trip screaming, wailing, crying or babbling at the top of their lungs incoherently.
2. In case the plane hits turbulence, the babies on the plane must erupt ear-splitting screeches.
3. Babies on the plane MUST soil their diapers during take-off or in cases of extreme turbulence when their mothers cannot attend to their needs. The stench must be strong enough to reach my nose.
4. Babies, and/or small children seated behind me must kick the back of my seat often. Under no circumstances are their parental unit to scold or admonish them. A gentle shush to show that they really don't mean it is permissible but not required.
5. Toddlers and small children seated in front of me are required to turn around and stare at me, wave pointlessly, and pester me by saying, "hey," throughout the trip. If I am not annoyed, if my blood pressure has not risen, the child is required to take things up a notch. Try throwing up on me.
6. Toddlers and small children seated behind me are required to reach over the top of the back of my chair and pull my hair. Pull it hard or it does not count.
7. Again, and this is extremely important, parental units of babies, toddlers, and small children must NEVER, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES admonish or scold the children. A gentle shush is permissible but by no means required.
8. Flight Attendance witnessing babies on the plane and/or children and/or toddlers doing any of the above must gush over how cute the children are then give me a dirty looking for passively yet aggressively complaining to myself aloud.
9. Parental Units must say loud enough for me to hear them, after I have groused out loud about their child unit, that some people just simply don't like children and isn't it a shame.
10. Babies on a plane are not allowed to sleep peacefully, behave, act right, or give hope to the rest of us that the human race will turn out okay.
11. AGAIN, and this is of utmost importance, parental units of babies, toddlers, and children behaving badly must do absolutely nothing. Act helpless, act cute, and above all, ignore the fact that planes are a bad place for small children as they disrupt the flights of those who have paid hard-earned, sometimes large sums of money to take that flight. You are also required to ignore the fact that having a baby means your life has changed, in the same way your life would change if you were sent to prison, and your freedom is limited. Instead, book your next flight with your bratty child as soon as possible, but first check with my travel agent to make sure that I am on that flight, and request a seat right next to mine.

Bad Lablogda, Bad, Bad, Lablogda

I've been awful about blogging lately. It's been two weeks, and in that time, five million more democrats entered the presidential race, W is still making excuses for Iraq, New Orleans is, as usual, still a huge mess, and I had a smackdown with the office tramp -- again. On the sad side (as if the above were not sad enough) Molly Ivans passed. It's been a hard time for Good Texas Women.

I'm going to continue being remiss about blogging for at least another week, maybe two. I am off to NYC to take a bite out of the frozen apple, then home for a couple days where I will hopefully get to enjoy the 70+ temperatures the cheesy weather guy on TV promised, then, off to Savannah, where I hope there is enough Southern left in me to translate for my Yankee husband when we get asked the question, "Whey yawl frum," which, of course, means "where are you all from?"

So, let me leave you with a picture. Remember, a picture is worth a thousand words, so that should cover me for my two weeks that I'm taking a break.

Another Blogger Blogging about Hillary

Hillary Clinton is running for president. All the talking heads are chattering about the meaning of this. According to them, she’s going to win the Primaries. I think that is silly talk this early in the game. Obama has barely had his day in the sun, and John Edwards is started to make a lot of sense.

I’m not sure how I feel about Hillary running. I crazy like that woman, don’t get me wrong. She’s tough, bitchy, smart, and apart from her banal power suits, she’s a formidable opponent for anyone, especially another politician wearing a banal power suit.

Is she formidable enough, though? What bothers me is that when I lived in San Francisco, a liberal city by any standards, I knew a lot of women (and men) who hated Hillary. Out here in Vegas, where the sand and dry air seem to be fertile breeding ground for Republicans, she’s overly hated. Then there is the Deep South. My Southern relations pray to God, Jesus, W, and Faith Hill that the “Yankee senator bitch” will die a violent tar and feathers death.” Hey, that’s their words, not mine.

I always cringe at such Hillary-bashing. Personally, she only let me down once: I was annoyed that she defended Bill during the Lewinsky thing. If my husband told me he didn’t have sex with a chubby intern, but had instead played cigar sex with her and gotten a blowjob, I would have kicked his butt out on the street quicker than you can say “We took New Hampshire.” If Hillary would have kicked Bill's butt out on the street, no matter how much we liked him as President, I think she would have shed herself of some baggage that may haunt her to this day, which could also translate into more votes.

But that’s old news. The new news is that Hillary is running. I would love to see her become president. I would also love to win Mega Bucks, lose the ten pounds I’ve been trying to lose since 1998, develop gracefulness, never have to deal with a jackass again, and rid myself of crows feet. Since none of that is likely to happen, I can only assume that if Hillary wins the primary, she’ll lose the presidency due to all the bad press she’s had over the years (deserved or not) and we will have another four years, (at least) of a Republican president.

Please, I have a hangover from the current presidency. Another Republican is likely to make my head explode.

Phantom of the Operatic Birthday

Today I turned forty-six, or as I now think of it, forty-sick. Screw the forties, I’m already wondering how I will spend the big 5 Oh God. Maybe I’ll get some friends together and do a Sonoma weekend, or if I have the bucks, we’ll go to France and drink actual champagne in the actual champagne region. My luck, I’ll be snowed in at some airport in the Midwest reading the latest issue of People.

Whatever I’m doing, I won’t be going to the Phantom of the Opera in Las Vegas, which is what we did tonight. First of all, Phantom is at the Venetian, and it just so happens that there is a porn convention at the Venetian this weekend. Seriously. I had forgotten this and I spent my first five minutes in the casino wondering how the hobags in Vegas could have actually gotten even more slutty. I saw several woman wearing just their bras (granted, patent leather bras) and tight skirts slit up to their hidden treasures, with go-go style boots. Then I saw some other women wearing a tight, cropped shirt and THEIR UNDERWEAR, with the ubiquitous go-go boots. I was despairing that not only was I forty-six, but I had also turned into Lawrence Welk, when I remembered that it wasn’t just that all women but me were getting more slutty, they were just porn stars.

I also saw a really, really, really fat porn star wearing nearly nothing. People were taking photos of her and they seemed impressed. She looked like Divine, but I think she was an actual woman. Plus, Divine is dead.

Then there was the Phantom. I never saw the Broadway production, but I did see the movie. That’s the kind of thing people in Vegas say with pride, by the way. Broadway is too high-brow for us, plus it’s in NYC. Still, this production did the concept of Cheesy Even for Vegas wrong. From the set that wobbled, to the plastic-doll mannequins in the “boxed seats,” to the lead actress who looked like Celion Dion on a bad day (which is really bad), this show was just a mess. Worst of all, the actor playing the Phantom got his roles crossed and channeled a combination of the Rain Man and Benjy Compson from Faulkner’s “The Sound and the Fury.” He spazzed-out during the finale, but it’s okay because it was his idea of acting. All I could do was laugh. My jaw dropped, however, when the two rows ahead of me stood and gave him an ovation. That’s Vegas for you. We’re the town that loves you even when you are awful bad. Hence, Celion’s run at Caesers.

As if to punctuate my feelings about turning forty-sick, I mean forty-six, it snowed in Vegas today. If you know me, you know that the one thing I hate more than snakes, a Bush in office, or weight gain is cold weather. Snow on my birthday is like, I don’t know, a spasmodic Phantom of the Opera.

No blog on Vegas would be complete without a mention of Sinatra, so as my b-day winds down, I’ve been thinking of some of my favorite lyrics that he sung. In particular, I’m reminded of “It was a Very Good Year,” which Sinatra made into a hit:

“But now the days grow short
I’m in the autumn of the year
And now I think of my life as a vintage wine
From fine old kegs
From the brim to the dregs
And it poured sweet and clear
It was a very good year

It was a mess of good years.”

Two things about these lyrics strike me. One, I like the use of starting sentences with And or But, and two, the idea of wine pouring sweet and clear makes me think it’s a Riesling, and I hate Riesling. Otherwise, I like the sentiment.

It was a mess of a day, but all in all, it has been some messy good years.

As Sinatra would say, “May you live 100 years, and the last face you see be mine.”

When Insults Were Classy

We've all been in a situation where we wish we had a zinger of a come-back. Something, as I call it, that will put the other person in therapy for years to come. A friend emailed me the following quotes from smart people skilled in the art of the insult. I wish I could credit where these quotes were pulled from, I only know they are making there way around the interent in a series of mass emails. Read, enjoy, learn, then zing:

"He has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire."
-- Winston Churchill

"A modest little person, with much to be modest about."
-- Winston Churchill

"I have never killed a man, but I have read many obituaries with great
pleasure."
-- Clarence Darrow

"He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the
dictionary."
-- William Faulkner (about Ernest Hemingway)

"Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?"
-- Ernest Hemingway (about William Faulkner)

"Thank you for sending me a copy of your book; I'll waste no time
reading it."
-- Moses Hadas

"He can compress the most words into the smallest idea of any man I
know."
-- Abraham Lincoln

"I've had a perfectly wonderful evening. But this wasn't it."
-- Groucho Marx

"I didn't attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved
of it."
-- Mark Twain

"He has no enemies, but is intensely disliked by his friends."
-- Oscar Wilde

"I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play, bring a
friend... if you have one."
-- George Bernard Shaw to Winston Churchill

"Cannot possibly attend first night, will attend second...if there is
one."
-- Winston Churchill, in response

"I feel so miserable without you, it's almost like having you here."
-- Stephen Bishop

"He is a self-made man and worships his creator."
-- John Bright

"I've just learned about his illness. Let's hope it's nothing trivial."
-- Irvin S. Cobb

"He is not only dull himself, he is the cause of dullness in others."
-- Samuel Johnson

"He is simply a shiver looking for a spine to run up."
-- Paul Keating

"He had delusions of adequacy."
-- Walter Kerr

"There's nothing wrong with you that reincarnation won't cure."
-- Jack E. Leonard

"He has the attention span of a lightning bolt."
-- Robert Redford

"They never open their mouths without subtracting from the sum of human
knowledge."
-- Thomas Brackett Reed

"He inherited some good instincts from his Quaker forebears, but by
diligent hard work, he overcame them."
-- James Reston (about Richard Nixon)

"In order to avoid being called a flirt, she always yielded easily."
-- Charles, Count Talleyrand

"He loves nature in spite of what it did to him."
-- Forrest Tucker

"Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without any address on
it?"
-- Mark Twain

"His mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork."
-- Mae West

"Some cause happiness wherever they go; others, whenever they go."
-- Oscar Wilde

"He uses statistics as a drunken man uses lamp-posts...for support
rather than illumination."
-- Andrew Lang (1844-1912)

"He has Van Gogh's ear for music."
-- Billy Wilder

Fido Gets Thin

Sometimes, Americans do embarrassing things. Pfizer is often behind it. They recently came out with diet drugs for dogs. Evidently, not only are we getting fatter, but so are our dogs.

Okay, that does it. Put down the hot dog. Throw it away. Do not give it to you dog.

Diet pills have side-effects, hasn't anyone heard. I know. I've taken them. I'm more wired with diet pills than a coke-head at midnight. Once, after popping one in an attempt to shed five pounds, which has now become fifteen pounds, someone said to me, "Your eyes look so hollow I think I can see the back of your head." Then they asked me if I was okay. I showed them my pills. They backed away gently.

If you are tempted to put Fido on diet pills, don't. Walk Fido, and in the process, hopefully, you'll both get skinnier asses.