I’ve felt so sad about the passings of Tim Russert and, most recently, Tony Snow. But in the midst of that, I found this piece of Snow’s, written a year ago about the unexpected blessings of his illness, so moving and so strangely uplifting. Thank you, Tony Snow. You will be missed.
I encourage you to go read his piece.
(Another post from my lonely bulging “drafts” box. Didn’t I recently start a now-languishing crusade to throw out or finish these drafts? I did, didn’t I? Seems like something I would do with totally extreme gusto for about five minutes. This post I just saved from certain death originates from October 16, 2006. I was working at The Beanhouse with all the kooks and malcontents, as you may or may not recall. I mean, I barely recall, so you’re definitely off the hook here. And, oh — I’ve cleverly disguised most of the names of celebrities in this post. Why “most of” and not “all”? Because it just makes sense to me that way. If you can finish the New York Times Saturday Crossword, you MIGHT be able to decipher the disguised names on your own. Maybe. In the end, if it’s still too big a mystery and you simply must know who I’m talking about, you can email me and I will tell you, ‘kay? Also: If any of you email me about this, I will think less of you forever. But please email me if you’re still not sure. Just know that I will think less of you. For eternity. Don’t let that stop you, though, because, you know, who the heck cares what I think?)
Oh, yeah. Here’s the post ………
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She was always sucking up to me. Buttering me up. Which I kinda liked at first. No, not “kinda”; let’s be honest: I completely bought into all her obsequious patter because — I discovered — I’m a weak-willed egomaniac. From Shondra’s first day at The Beanhouse, while I was training her, there was a steady soothing stream of “ooh, you’re so smart,” and “haha, you’re so funny,” and “ooh, what a good idea!” Which was sorta nice, you know? I mean, unless that someone is breaking up with you, who among us would stop someone openly extolling our privately believed greatness? Well, maybe someone afflicted with humility. So not me, basically. And because of my massive, crippling ego, I found myself agreeing with her at every turn. There was nothing she said that wasn’t absolutely pleasant and true, resonating deep in the shallows of my heart: Wow, she gets me. She appreciates me and all I have to give. She’s right, you know. I am smart. I am funny. I am ingenius. Thank God someone around here finally noticed. The best new hire since, well, me. A real keeper. No. No. A jewel.
A mere month later, however, it was unanimously decided by all The Beanhouse crew that Shondra was a pathological liar.
It started small. I mean, I actually thought she was joking when she told me that actress Istina Crapplegate was her very best friend. It just didn’t seem like a match, somehow. And this is where I’ll be racist and prejudiced and a hater, I guess, but I just couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see this lumbering black lesbian with a blonde buzz cut who also worked at a place up the street that made fruit bouquets and had two grown children being very best friends with sleek, blonde, funny Istina Crapplegate. They just seemed opposites. Like they might not have a lot in common. Still, she seemed quite in earnest about the whole thing.
So naturally, I inquired further.
“Wow. So how did you two meet?”
“At a party.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah.
“Wow.”
I just let it drop. For now. But the next day, I brought up the conversation again. All curious. I mean, who wouldn’t be curious when they hear someone else is very best friends with Istina Crapplegate? Who wouldn’t delve into that just a wee bit further? And who wouldn’t question the Very Best Friend about Istina Crapplegate’s recent artistic achievements? Because what Very Best Friend wouldn’t already know what you — a mere observer of the entertainment world — also just happen to know? And wouldn’t it be fun to discuss your shared knowledge of Ms. Crapplegate’s career? And wouldn’t it be even MORE fun to hear all the juicy tidbits from a person in the deep deep know, especially someone who thinks so highly of you and would probably not hesitate to tell you anything you want to know?
Well, duh. That’s what I thought, too.
“Soo … how often are you in contact with Istina?”
“Oh, all the time. We’re real close.”
“Uh-huh.”
Pause.
“Sooo …. wasn’t she just on Broadway or something?”
“Uhh –”
“Seems like I heard that.”
“Uhh –”
“Yeah. What’s the name of that show she did?”
“Um … well, I don’t know. I know she did a show, though.”
“Oh, yeah, I thought so too.”
I am evil.
Pause.
“Soo … you met at a party, huh?”
“Yep. A party for Noprah Sinfrey. I met Noprah, too.”
“Wow, Noprah? Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“She helped me get my book deal.”
Eh, there, Peaches?
“Oh. You have a book deal?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your book about?”
“Oh, well, it’s kind of like a memoir thing. Like about my childhood. Some really intense stuff, you know?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah. She calls me about it all the time.”
“Who does?”
“Noprah.”
“Noprah calls you?”
“Yeah, to check up on me. She wants me to finish it so I can be on her show.”
“Noprah wants you to be on her show to promote your memoir?”
“Uh-huh.”
I found myself suddenly thinking about that James Frey fellow … Noprah sure loved him …
“Wow.”
“Yeah, it’s cool. I’m a really goot writer. Jus’ comes real easy to me.”
I remember how she said goot.
“So it’s not hard for you to write about all that intense stuff?”
“Nope. Not at all.”
“Wow. Well, lemme know when you’re gonna be on Noprah so I can watch.”
“Oh, for sure. I will.”
One way or the other, God help me, I could not wait.
Yeah. I supposedly gave up pageants a long time ago, and yet … I’m watching this one right now. I’m too swept up to feel the self-loathing right now. Plenty of time for that later.
So here is what you need to know:
— Miss USA just fell smack on her little sequined bum in the evening gown competition. Dammit, Miss USA. Don’t you know you’ve just shamed our entire country and lost this pageant? But … oh, here we go …. she gets up quickly, tight Vaseline smile momentarily dropped, and claps for herself. What is that all about? The clapping? I’m unsure what it means. What does that mean, really: Look at me! I’m up! I stood back up again! I’m UP as opposed to DOWN! I mean, I could have stayed down and slid around the stage on my ass or maybe rolled offstage but …. I didn’t! (Clap clap) You know, lots of other people might trip and fall and just stay down but not me! Think about it, world! Of the split-second choices I had just now to: 1) get my live-on-TV butt back up to vertical or 2) never get up, ever, I got back up! So if you ever fall down in the future and go through a dark split second of the soul and contemplate not getting up ever, think about me and get up! Clap it out! I mean, do I want to die right now? Sure I do. This is the worst thing that could ever happen to a person. But I want to show people that you can have the worst thing in the world happen to you and live through it even if you don’t want to or even if other people think you won’t. I mean, to anyone out there thinking, “Wow. Look at that. I bet she doesn’t get up ever. I sure wouldn’t” see how crazy and negative and doubty that thinking was? You too can fall down and get up and live to clap it out again! Of course, I just totally tanked this pageant and I want to die but tomorrow I’ll be all over YouTube inspiring people with my indomitable spirit! Clap clap ….
— So I really didn’t like the clapping, I guess.
— Sometimes a big ol’ swear word is just more human, you know?
— Miss Dominican Republic is wearing a gown of mirrors. I kid you not. It’s like Liberace’s piano. Lord. Teeny tiny mirrors all over her, you know, assets. Men in the audience all go mad with applause. I can see myself in her boooobs! Woo-hoooo!
— Miss USA doesn’t make the top 5. She falls to the floor in despair and doesn’t get up this time and Donald Trump drags her offstage by her hair and marries her.
— That didn’t really happen.
— The not-making-the-Top-5 part is totally true, though.
— She FELL and then clapped it out like a robot, okay? Of course she didn’t make the Top 5.
— Plus, her dress was lame. It looked better before she stood up.
— Also this is LIVE! from exotic Vietnam, so they have to play a video of the girls sightseeing, naturally. The group visits the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum to “pay their respects to the father of modern Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh,” host Jerry Springer intones.
— “Pay respects,” really??
— It’s down to Miss Colombia and Miss Venezuela. (Insert your own political comment here.) Miss Colombia is pretty and when asked What would you change about your life so far, responded, “My family is so supportive and I am always happy and I would not change a thing. It’s perfect.” Miss Venezuela is smokin’ hot and when asked Who has it harder in life, men or women, responded, “Men think the fastest way to a place is a straight line; women know the fastest way is to go through all the curves”; so, of course, with this totally nonsensical, non-responsive answer AND smokin’ hotness …… she WINS.
Fine. Whatevs. But can she do something about the price of gas?
At my brother’s house, ’round the pool.
The nephews and men are playing water polo on one end. The nieces — Piper and cousin Banshee — are splashing around in the other. Piper comes close to the edge, so Sister and Banshee’s mom say, “Piper, show us your swimming.” She does so. “Yay!” they say. “That looks great! Good job!” etc.
Banshee, now 4, narrows her eyes. “Hmmph,” says she.
Sister and Banshee’s mom quickly say, “Banshee, show us your swimming now.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Oh, come on. Show us!”
“No. I don’t want to and I don’t think I will ever want to!”
(Okaay. Uhmm, Banshee …. precious …. you must learn to calm down …. and, well, not be so …. how shall I say? …. intransigent. Tee Tee loves you. She wants everyone else to be able to love you, too, ‘kay?)
(Two men standing at the coffee condiment stand — adding sugar, etc. — in mid-conversation):
MAN 1: …. and if the Muslims do that, that’ll be the end of all the Christians.
MAN 2 (after a pause): Okay. So you bought me coffee — does that mean I have to listen to your conversation?
MAN 1: Oh, yeah. I mean, this is pretty much THE conversation.
MAN 2 rolls his eyes as they walk away together.
Okay. Check out these photos from a lecture in a Civil Engineering class. Who knew how versatile pennies were?
And here I’ve just been puttin’ all of mine in a jar and ignoring them.
Also, because I seem to be all about wasting time this week, there’s now Mr. Picasso Head. Yep.
I’m sorry. I’m just a terrible influence. You should probably break up with me.
My top score — 800 — on the stupid parachute game that is ruining lives — thanks to me. Spreading the joy; yup, that’s what I’m all about.
It happened once. It has not happened since. Oh, believe you me.
Someone sent me this game in an email. I ignored it for a while because I hate hate HATE any and all emails that start with “Fw:” Nothing good ever comes from “Fw:” Some people almost exclusively send me “Forwarded” crap mail and — they don’t know it — their forwarded emails go into my spam filter. I’ve set it up that way because that’s how much I simply cannot endure it.
This particular person isn’t a constant offender on the “Fw-ing,” nevertheless, I ignored it until a bored anxious moment struck last night and I clicked on it. What followed was about two hours where MB and I alternated playing this stupid stupid addictive game. I mean, words cannot express my level of personal dismay about endlessly playing a game involving DAFFY FREAKIN’ DUCK and actually being BAD at playing a game involving DAFFY FREAKIN’ DUCK.
I will tell you right now: I cannot score above 500 on this game. I CANNOT.
So here. Consider yourselves Fw:-ed.
By the way? Your kids will like it and score higher than I did, I’m sure.
This is an all-time low, I’m pretty sure.
I need a hug.
I love him. Kapow!!
…. longest one in Wimbledon history — 4 hrs. 48 min. — just went to Spain’s Rafael Nadal, 6-4 6-4 6-7 6-7 9-7, dethroning reigning champ Roger Federer, who was attempting to break his record of 5 consecutive Wimbledon titles — a record he shares with Bjorn Borg. Alas, not to be. Amazing match. Possibly the greatest ever. It was Rafael’s time, finally. He’d been so close before.
What a day! Two rain delays. Over 6 hours in total time elapsed. I swear, these men could NOT have been more evenly matched. It could have gone any way at any moment. I think it came down to a one-point difference if you total all the points together. I mean, at various points in the match, they kept showing a tally of the total points won by each player and they were literally TIED. The match ended at 9:15 p.m. London time. A sweaty Rafa crawled up into the stands to hug his parents and, oh, you know, the prince and princess from Spain. Hahahaha. So spontaneous and wonderful. Like, Rafael Nadal, you just won Wimbledon! You are totally sweaty and dirty from falling to the ground in victory, what are you going to do now? I’m going to crawl my sweaty winner’s butt over the broadcast booth into the stands to hug the prince and princess of Spain in all their sartorial splendor! And when the trophies were handed out, wow, such class from Roger Federer, the runner up. Calling Nadal a “deserving champion.” Uh, yes, definitely. I’m totally tearing up at this. Writing as it’s happening. Nadal in his comments thanked Roger Federer, said he is still No. 1, said how great he is for tennis, said “He’s won 5 times; this is just one for me.” These are the comments from the WINNER. Wow. Such humility — and in his somewhat broken English. Adorable and classy and beautiful. Man, I love tennis. Roger was clearly disappointed not to break the record — he will never break it now, not consecutive wins — but he went out of his way to acknowledge the unquestionable greatness of the man he’d bested.
John McEnroe waited back in the locker room to get some immediate reactions from the players and he — John McEnroe — felt so bad for Roger that he blurted, “Can I give you a hug?” I mean, this is JOHN FREAKIN’ MC ENROE; not Oprah Winfrey. He is not a “huggy” kind of guy at ALL. I’m laughing and crying because I love these moments; these moments that are spontaneous and awkward and real. What you see come out of people in the middle of it all. John McEnroe, tennis’ perennial bad boy, just HUGGED Roger Federer! I love him. (I must write more later on why I love McEnroe.) Seconds later, he talked to Nadal and Rafael thanked him for “hitting with him the other day.” McEnroe clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Well, thank you for lying.” Hahahahaha. I am in love with this whole darn thing.
AMAZING TENNIS. I didn’t want it to end.
Roger Federer, 5-time Champ!
Congratulations, Rafael Nadal, New Wimbledon Champion!!
