— Man in bookstore, pointing at magazine, to woman sitting across from him: That’s how skinny you used to be.
***
— HE: Perfect casting. I hate her so much.
***
— HE: So at what age does the Jewel Tone Acceleration Factor kick in? 60?
***
— HE: The spankings must be working; she actually hugged me.
***
— Random Lady behind us at “Indiana Jones†when a photo of Sean Connery is shown on Indy’s desk: So Sean Connery was his FATHER??
Generally, I find radio talk show host Hugh Hewitt a big ol’ blowhard and don’t listen to him, with two notable exceptions: When Mark Steyn is on and when Christoper Hitchens is on. Just now, I’m making dinner and Christopher Hitchens is on the show. I could listen to him forever. I heart him. So smart. So funny. SO British. Anyway, here’s the exchange I heard:
HH: So will Obama put Hillary on the ticket?
CH: Gahd, no!
HH: Why?
CH: Because he would never know a moment’s peace for the rest of his life.
HH: Why?
CH: Because he’d be hounded by a megalomaniac who’s shackled in marriage to a thug.
He then went on to talk at length about Hillary’s “FLAHbbergasting behavior” — not all of which I caught because I was laughing too hard at “FLAHbbergasting behavior,” at the punch, the contemptuous clip he gave that little phrase.
Hahahahahaha! I love you, Christopher Hitchens. There’s no one like you.
Call me!
My Beloved, keyboard player extraordinaire and garter-collecting lothario. I love the black shiny shirt and the wilty flower. Perfect attire when it’s hot enough that you need a fan. Hahaha. Note the elk head sprouting from MB’s head and the banner behind him clearly saying things like “God bless this” and “God bless that.” I imagine it does not say “God bless my garter-collecting lothario ways.” (He’s told me girls would give him these garters — that he did not pursue garterage; it was thrust upon him. Whatever, Peaches. I’m sorry you were so oppressed. Some have garterage thrust upon them. Boo hoo hoo.)
Concert in the gym, obviously. MB has added a romantic candelabra to his repertoire. It’s killing me. I almost can’t look at this photo. It burns. Note Mr. Bluejeans. “I will now disregard you and turn my back on you whilst I jam. Please feel free to gander at my taut little bum.”
I have nothing to say about Sweatpants Boy. Ever.
So the U.S. Open Golf Championship is in San Diego this year, starting June 9.
I feel very antsy to have such large-scale boredom so close by.
— do crunches on your exercise ball
— quietly try on clothes, seeing if those just-now crunches have changed everything
— stop trying on clothes
— sit on bed wondering why you tried on clothes
— decide you hate all your clothes
— crawl back in bed, wondering how much you could make if you sold your cache of Halloween anti-depressants — the, oh, 6-month supply given to you by a concerned loved one — on the street
— no, seriously, actually do this
— handwash some dainties in the bathroom sink, turning on the water just barely so as not to wake the other person in the house, the one lying there quietly, flaunting his sleep prowess
— contemplate waking him up for no other reason but to share your pain
— decide this has too many far-reaching consequences
— calculate again the untold riches that await you if you just, you know, become a drug dealer
— mentally work on your emo version of “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly” from “My Fair Lady”
— wonder what emo is
— finally fall asleep wondering about emo, have a dream about Elmo
Then fall fast asleep.
After it takes your brain.
And makes you do things.
Very bad things.
Have fun!
WINDCHIME (n): a hanging configuration of metal or glass pieces combined with pieces of other material, such as wood, that chime when pushed by the wind
NOISE (n): other people’s windchimes
Remember when I asked you all to pray for my dear friend, MM, who’d had an irregular mammogram? She called me yesterday — she had gotten in earlier because of a cancellation — and, it turns out, she’s fine! I sat there with the phone and just started to blub. Then we both sat there listening to each other blub. Then I blubbed intermittently throughout the rest of the day. It was wonderful.
Thank you all for your prayers.
First, here’s smokin’ hot Jeff Bridges — aka, Tracey’s favorite living actor — his smokin’ hot wife and one of his daughters at the recent premiere of Iron Man:
Mazeltov, Mrs. Bridges, on your hotness. I’d never seen you before, but I would want nothing less for Jeff Bridges. Your daughter is also pretty. I can see Grampa Lloyd in her face a little. Not that that’s a bad thing.
And this photo …. it just makes me so happy. Look at them.
Married 30 years. Man, fidelity is sexy.
Seen here yesterday on a marquee outside a resort hotel:
Welcome Digestive Disease Week
and
SKYNARCS
I am confused on every level.
