Women I Love to Hate

This morning I watched a documentary ("Headliners and Legends") about Betty Broderick. I hate her. I know this because I have seen that same documentary almost a dozen times. I have seen the Meredith Baxter/Stephen Collins made-for-TV movies about Betty over and over again, too. I even read a book about her case. Which is how I know I hate her. To the uninitiated, Betty is the dumb, self-centered bitch who in 1989 shot her ex and his new wife as they slept in their beds, and somehow still claims she was "abused." She is an insult to abused women everywhere, women whose exhusbands are deadbeat dads who don't pay their former wives tens of thousands of dollars every month, who threaten their wives' safety, instead of the other way around. Self-destructive, whiny narcissist has the chutzpah to present herself as some sort of feminist martyr. My blood pressure is rising as I write this. I hate her.

I also hate Kathie Lee Gifford. She is so goofy, so self-congratulatory, such a schmaltzy throwback to another phonier time, that she literally makes my teeth hurt. Yet I am transfixed every time one of her segments comes on The Insider.

I hate Madonna, too. She is less an artist than a savvy marketer, reinventing herself regularly to make a buck. Her product is as sincere and as expressive as a $3 bill. The bisexual leather-wearing dominatrix who sang about "hanky panky, nothing like a good spanky" somehow became a Burberry-clad children's book author with a faux English accent. Shudder.

I hate Angelina Jolie. I am strictly Team Aniston. Angelina is our generation's Liz Taylor. Except back in the 1950s, Liz proudly and boldly was what she was -- a man-eating carnivore. None of this, "Love me cuz of my work with poor" shit for Liz. I believe that Brangelina spend so much time in Africa to avoid the paparazzi and to try to rehabilitate their tattered images. (Damn you, Brad, you were supposed to be Jen's lobster!) Liz and Dick had the integrity to decadently throw around scads of cash on diamonds and yachts. (Though I am gratified to see that Brad Pitt has belatedly discovered that there are poor people here in the States, too.) Also, back in the 1950s Liz was more beautiful and a better actress that AJ.

I read about these women, I watch TV coverage about their antics. Just so I can hate them.

But you understand it, don't you? It's the same impulse that forces you to keep sticking your tongue into your cavity, even though it kinda hurts.

What I've Learned Today

We are approaching the third solid week where I've had little or nothing to do at work. At first I really enjoyed it. During my tenure here I've put in plenty of overtime, so I felt this was my cosmic due.

Then I felt a bit unsettled. How long can they continue to pay me for doing nothing? And worse, how bitchy and resentful will I be when an assignment finally rolls in and they expect me to (EWW!) work?

This week I've moved on to the third phase of being underutilized: bored. I'm actually pissed that I got up on time this morning to sit here and do nothing. I feel like the ballplayer who demands, "Play me or trade me."

So what have I learned? That if I have to come to this house of horror, I'd rather have something to do once I arrive.

Tomorrow we have a project kick off! Hurray! Work! Of course I'll have to remind everyone to be careful about due dates and scheduling presentations, since my boss did indeed approve my vacation request form for the 20th through the 23rd. When I head out west to (hopefully) see my beloved Greg Maddux and (even better) old what's his name. I'm not telling my coworkers the truth, of course. They have no idea that I'm going to LA to spend two nights with my best friend. Since they all knew him well (after all, he used to work here) I do delight at thinking of their faces. I'm not doing it, though. I may be perverse but I'm not stupid.

It makes me sooo tired

Today was the annual agency/client softball game. I hated every hot, sunny moment. I have such a hard time with small talk. I can't talk about chunky jewelry with virtual strangers. When I am presenting my work, I am glib and quick and passionate. But when it comes to chit chat, I am terrified. I am so glad it's over for a year.

What reflects "the Real Laurie?"

I have acquiesced to be photographed for this year's church directory. I did it in 2003 but not 2004 or 2005. The decision is based on how I'm feeling at the moment the invitation arrives. This year I'm still enthusiastic about the coming church year. (I don't recall exactly, but I suspect that by this time in 2004 and 2005 I was already feeling that my fellow congregates were either corny or full of shit.)

The photographer has sent along some helpful tips to make the photo session a success. I am supposed to "consider wardrobe and grooming." Check. I should avoid wearing prints. Check. And I should remember that "props such as Bibles, musical instruments, and etc. are welcome. Household pets are also welcome." The important thing is that the photo should refect "the real me."

Naturally I considered wearing my official home #31 Cub jersey. But the name "Maddux" is on the back, so I'd have to be looking over my shoulder for anyone to see it. And I'm not sure if Cubbie blue pinstripes violate the "no print" rule.

I considered bringing Reynaldo to the shoot. He wouldn't be in the photo, of course, because he would be bouncing off the walls. But he could infuse the shoot with some real energy.

Or maybe I should be photographed with one of my fave rave photos of Sir Paul. Macca is turning out to be the most enduring love of my life.

Or maybe I should stop thinking about this, because I can see my attitude is wandering into that "Everyone here is either corny or full of shit" territory.

My Last 2006 Telethon Post

Because WGN cuts away for the Cubs, the Telethon is still on here in Chicago. Harlem Furniture has promised to double every pledge that's called in locally. I find it comforting that our newscasters can tell us that a "$125 pledge becomes $250!" I would hate to get news about Iraq, Iran, Korea or Lebanon from a bimbo who can't multiply by two.

Jerry has had a higher profile this year than last, and I'm so glad. I think being in Vegas is good for him. He leers at Jan and verbally abuses Ed. He snaps his fingers when he sings. He lets the water dribble out of his mouth when he talks. He wells up when he looks at the tote board. He banters with comedians we thought were dead. In short, he's why I tune in.

I'm not heartless. That little Luke kid who is this year's poster boy has touched me. He's so cute, and he's so into the applause and so hot for Jan and her cleavage (after all, he is 12).

And yes, I've donated. So I can sit here with a clear conscience as I am amused, horrified and aghast yet again by the spectacle of old Jer singing "You'll Never Walk Alone" yet again to children who will never walk at all.

Meet the Gang

Right now I'm surrounded by slumbering felines, and when they're asleep like this, they are just TOO CUTE! So let me introduce these adorable snoozers --

Joey: A big old gray and white tom. (The vet has referred to him as "massive.") He ended up at the local animal shelter at Christmastime, 1998, because the family that owned him could not afford his special diet. (He had recently battled a urinary tract infection.) These folks put him in a box, taped it shut and left him on the shelter doorstep with a note explaining their circumstances. While this exhibited very bad judgement, they undoubtedly gave him a lot of affection because he simply cannot get enough petting. He is especially fond of my nephew, Nick. He also loves other cats. The problem is that he's so much larger than most other cats that he doesn't understand why they don't enjoy wrestling with and being chased by him. Truth to tell, there is a lot in life Joey doesn't understand. I named him after Matt LeBlanc's character on Friends and well, he's aptly named. Joey is as dumb as he is sweet. But in some ways, he is my hero. As long as there is a sliver of sunlight warming the carpet where he can nap, his life is good. I wish I could be as happy and in the moment as old Joe is.

Charlotte Ann: A petite, no-tailed feline who is part Siamese and all diva. She came to me in early 2001 after the shelter caught fire. Little is known about her background because her paperwork was lost in the fire. The vet believes she lost her tail as a young kitten (he suspects the culprit was either a refrigerator or car door). She doesn't accept that she no longer has a tail, gesturing with the healed over stump to register her disgust when I try to shoo her out of the armoire. She is very chatty and very helpful, always nearby when I am putting on makeup or moisturizer, watching me and sharing her opinions. She hates poor Joey. Part of it is the disparity in their sizes. Part of it is that his basic existance offends her. The thing of it is, Joey forgets this and needs to be reminded anew, usually by Charlotte hiding under the furniture and hissing at him.


Reynaldo. Ah, Rey. What can I say about this skinny beige shit? I got him as a kitten back at Thanksgiving 2004. He ended up at the shelter as a stray -- they suppose he snuck out, I bet his owners kicked him out. He is a trial. I enjoy watching him sleep, as he's doing now, because when he's awake he's joyfully, inexhaustibly and imaginatively destructive. I used to chalk this up to his kittenhood, but he's no longer a kitten. The vet assures me that there is nothing wrong with him chemically, yet I don't find this comforting. I wish I could just shove a pill down his gullet and have a docile feline. But no, I have Rey. Who likes to eat books and umbrellas. Who has a vendetta going with every piece of framed artwork in my condo (he leaps at the pieces hanging on the wall, trying to pull them down, and sends the ones with easel backs sailing like hockey pucks off my desk and cabinets). He hangs off drapes. He attacks the thermostat and the light switches. When I'm on the phone, he sings and howls to divert my attention away from the caller and back to him. He steals food off my plate. He has so exhausted me with his noisy, destructive ways that I honestly have considered returning him to shelter. But I haven't and won't. I'm afraid that his next owner would do what I believe his previous owner did -- just kick him out in rage and frustration. So Reynaldo is mine and we will make this work ... somehow. The problem is that he cannot differentiate between good attention and bad attention. All attention, to Rey, is good. As in, "Oh, good! Laurie's going to play that game where she yells at me and hits me!" Or, "Yea! Here comes the water spritzer! I love that!" No matter how loud I yell, he looks at me with the same bright, delighted orange eyes. Nothing frightens or displeases him. Everything makes him happy. There is an upside to this. Joey can toss him across the room in play and Reynaldo loves it. The little boy next door, a toddler, can pull on his ears or tail and Reynaldo loves it. And since nothing scares him, he is the perfect traveling companion when I take Charlotte to the vet. When they're in the carrier together, he senses her discomfort and very compassionately grooms her ears, which calms her down. And he is so filled with love that he is oblivious to my anger. After completely destroying a tower of CDs, he'll come jump on my lap, purring and gazing up into my face.

It's worth making only 75¢ on the dollar to not know how this feels

CHICAGO -- Cubs catcher Michael Barrett could miss the rest of the season after he was hit in the groin with a foul tip and underwent surgery.

He will miss at least two to three weeks and was scheduled to be released from Northwestern Memorial Hospital on Sunday, trainer Mark O'Neal said.

Barrett was injured by Matt Cain's foul tip in the fifth inning Saturday. He left the game after batting the next half-inning. Barrett went to the emergency room and an ultrasound showed bleeding inside his scrotum. Surgery took less than an hour, O'Neal said.

"He had enough of a bleed that it needed to be addressed surgically," O'Neal said. "Guys get hit a lot. You see guys get hit and very rarely does it get to this extreme."

A Good Day, A Really Good Day

I went to church this morning for the first time in months and it felt really good.

I did my 12 laps around the high school track (5K) and took approx. 5 minutes off my time.

I arrived home, satisfyingly sore and sweaty, and got a call from a friend who wanted to meet for lunch at one of my favorite local joints. Cleaned up quickly and met her for one of my last outdoor meals at Poor Phil's, enjoying a crab cake, a frou-frou drink and mild temperature, blue skies and sunshine.

Caught the last half of the Cubs-Giants game, and while we did lose and Bonds did get yet another HR, it wasn't without its charming moments: (1) The completely adorable little boy in the bleachers who caught Bonds' HR did what any right-thinking Cub fan should do whenever an opposing hitter sends one into the seats -- he threw the ball back. Even though it was Bonds and it's possible that ball might have been worth something. Other right-thinking Northsiders got together and rewarded the kid a new Cub cap. (2) D Lee came off the bench to pinch hit with the bases loaded. A grand slam would have been nice, of course, but it was still a thrill to see him take a swing and drive in a run, even if it was just a sac fly. (3) Ron Santo, This Old Cub, led the crowd in "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." I love Ronnie so; he's the continuity that connects my adult summers with my little girl summers.

And now I'm curled up, ready to watch the Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon. This year it's out of Vegas, Baby! JER-RY! JER-RY! JER-RY! (Remember, if you're going to mock the man, you must support the cause. 888-HELP-MDA.)

All this, and heaven, too.

At least now he's easier to spot

Oh, I simply must develop a spine! My very nice, very old but very loquacious and very, very annoying neighbor, Mr. B., was seated out in front of the building for 20 minutes yesterday. Because of construction on the building next door, we can't use our back door. So Mr. B. was obstructing my only exit, and so I was trapped inside my building for 20 sunny, mild, blue-skyed minutes.

I know this is silly. But last time I was cornered by Mr. B. (the end of July), he completely bullied me into ordering Avon from him. So I chose some items I really don't need or want, and guess what -- he screwed up the order. Again. I simply cannot bear yet another conversation that goes on for pointless minutes and ends with him saying, "But I'll take care of you. Don't I always take care of you?"

No. No you don't, Mr. B. You screw up every order. You scare the crap out of me by ringing my bell at all hours, so I'll know you left yet another Avon catalog outside my door. If I keep the catalog, you come by and ask for it back. If I return the catalog with my order, you come by and tell me I'm supposed to keep it. I cannot take this anymore, Mr. B! I am being terrorized and tyranized by the oldest, sweetest and most male Avon Lady ever!

There is good news, though. He's taken to wearing a bright yellow baseball cap. I like to think of it as a bright yellow lighthouse beacon, warning me to stay away.

Labor I Won't Be Doing on Labor Day

I won't be scrubbing the underside of my bathmat. It grows black mildewy gook faster than … hell, I can't think of an example to illustrate the speed with which black mildewy gook grows. Can't we just say it gets icky dirty really often?

And so I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to keep it clean. And losing.

I bought a new one. It cost $8. Clearly it's a better use of my time to simply say "out with the old, in the with the new."

Geez! I can be so cheap at times. $8 for a new one. Why have I waited so long?

I'm the same way with my shower curtain. A new liner is less than $5, yet every time I dye my hair I struggle to make sure that all bits of splashed dye are rinsed away. What an incredible waste of my time.

Of course, I'm not always cheap. I'm travelling 2000 miles and staying in a nice hotel, all to see a ballgame.

It's happening! It's really happening!

I saw two rather attractive firefighters today, moving among the motorists at the intersection of Harlem and North, collecting donations for MDA in their big rubber boots.

I love firefighters. I love MDA. I love big rubber boots. And you know why, don't you?

JER-RY! JER-RY! JER-RY!

The Telethon is nearly upon us.

Keep Your Labor Day Karma in Balance. Remember, if you're going to make fun of Jerry (as in laughing at him, not with him), you must also make a contribution to MDA. (888) HELP-MDA or (888) 435-7632

Go West, Pudgy Middle-Aged Woman!

It's all coming together. My favorite baseball player is in Los Angeles, pitching for the Dodgers at least through October 1 (longer with the play-offs). My best friend is in Los Angeles four days a week, working on a special client project at least through October 1.

Clearly this is a sign that I should get myself to Los Angeles.

And so later this month I am going to Los Angeles for two nights. Hopefully one of those nights will coincide with Greg Maddux' place in the Dodger pitching rotation so I can gaze upon him one more time this year. When I'm not gazing upon my best friend, who will be seated beside me, having a beer and a Dodger dog.

So now all I have to do is clear up my skin and lose 20 lbs in the next two weeks. How hard can it be? Just because I've been trying unsuccessfully to do both for the last several years shouldn't deter me.

And I sank into nothingness

So I'm watching a Gidget rerun. She's writing in her diary, making a fake entry to pass the time, and she pens, "Jeff kissed me as I have never been kissed before, and I got goose-pimply all over." Then goes "EWWW! ICK!" and changes it to "Jeff kissed me as I have never been kissed before, and I sank into nothingness."

The thing that bothers me about this is that I remembered the line. This afternoon, Sally Field and I said, "and I sank into nothingness" together.

Considering that I am battling hormonal acne and that Gidget herself is now the poster girl for an osteoporosis drug, I think we can all agree that this show is very, very old. 40 years, maybe? And still I could remember, "And then I sank into nothingness." Do you suppose that when I was younger I had any idea what Gidget meant?

Why I Love Greg Maddux

He's the tenth winningest pitcher of all time. As of last night, Steve Carlton takes a back seat and the Professor takes sole possession of 10th place with his 330th win. Good is sexy, great is hot.

He's modest. In last night's postgame press conference, he spoke respectfully of passing Carlton. "It's kind of cool. I got to watch him in a few games when I first came up and I always admired and respected what he did on the mound."

He's an all-around baseball player. He hits -- he got his 80th RBI last night. He fields -- 15 Golden Gloves. With Greg Maddux in the world, there's no reason for Roger Clemens to exist.

He has the sweetest smile. He looks like a Precious Moments doll in a Dodger uniform. Which comes in handy, since I've read that in person he's as slick and insincere as Tim Matheson's Otter. Reporters make it sound like he's likely to grab a stranger's hand and pump it, "Eric Stratton, damn glad to meet you."

His looks are deceptive. Friends who do not understand why he inspires my lust as well as admiration have dismissed Greg Maddux as looking like "a suburban dad" or "a computer geek." That is precisely the point. When you see Michael Jordan, you know instantly he's the best there ever was, the best there ever will be. MJ looks like he was kissed by the angels before he was born. Greg Maddux is an example of the power of concentration, will, and intellect. And I think that is sooooo hot.

His wife is his high school sweetheart. The first time I saw her, I thought, "Of course, a blonde." I mean, he's a ball player, and aren't blonde wives one of the reasons boys want to become ball players? And Greg Maddux is more than a ball player, he's a ball player who grew up in Las Vegas. I just assumed that meant he had the desire for peroxide in his blood. Amazingly, all my assumptions are wrong. Greg and Kathy met in high school! And here they are, quarter of a century later.

He gives back. The Maddux Foundation supports youth programs and shelters for abused women and children.

Yes, I've seen the old Nike commercial where he said rather memorably, "Chicks love the long ball." But rest assured, Greg Maddux, this chick will love you till I die.

Melanie Griffith = Mother of the Year

Love that photo of Melanie Griffith lighting her teenage daughter's cigarette for her. Clearly in the Griffith/Banderas household, the health and fitness regimen is built around Pilates and nicotine.

I've been seeing the photo bounce from website to website for a couple weeks now, but have yet to read any comment on the subject from Ms. G. herself. I wonder what she has to say …

I know that Melanie Griffith has battled addiction since her teen years. And I am very sincere when I say that I appreciate her struggle and applaud her for staying on the straight and narrow.

But this means that she has an addictive personality, a trait she could very well pass on to her kids. To borrow a phrase that has become very popular here in Illinois (thanks to our gubernatorial race): what's she thinking?

Labor Day Dilemma

I love, love, LOVE the MDA Jerry Lewis telethon. Jerry is the King of Show Biz Schmaltz. I adore it when he calls Ed McMahon "Pussycat." I quiver when he goes to the big tote board. I thrill when he insults the people (everyone from firefighters to convenience store managers) who bring him those oversized checks. And where else can you see ventriloquists, impressionists and plate spinners? (Yes, I appreciate all the good works MDA does all year around; that's why I make monthly contributions. My joy and delight in Jerry's antics have nothing to do with how valid and useful MDA is.)

But, in a masterstroke of counter programming, the USA Network is running a Law & Order: SVU Labor Day Marathon! I am comparatively new to Elliott and Olivia and am completely hooked! There are so many episodes I haven't seen.

So what's a girl to do? Which will I choose to accompany me as I go through my annual Labor Day ritual of cleaning my closets, putting away my summer things and going through my fall clothes?

The Important Stuff of Life

Watching the Emmies instead of changing my shower curtain liner, these terribly important observations have occured to me …

It's not like Tom Cruise is an anti-Semitic, misogynistic, homophobic drunk driver or anything. OK, I happened to be home last year when Tom jumped on Oprah's sofa proclaiming his love for poor Katie Holmes. Seeing it live and unhyped, it completely creeped me out. (Though I thought Oprah was just as weird that morning, murmering, "The boy is gone!" over and over.) And the Brooke Shield thing was awful. And where is Baby Suri? All that said, this piling on really bothers me. It's my way. Once a cause is completely lost, I must support it. First Tom gets fired by Paramount because he's only made them one gazillion dollars when they hoped for three gazillion. Now tonight on the Emmies, the South Park boys show him coming out of the closet. Enough. Let's leave poor Maverick alone. And start aiming our bile at Mel Gibson, where it belongs.

Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart are perfect. No, really. They are.

Mariska Hargitay has outstanding shoulders. I wish I had her body, Debra Messing's face and Lindsay Wagner's voice. There. I believe I have constructed my perfect alternate self completely out of Emmy winners.

Steve Carell deserves all the praise he's finally getting. I just saw Little Miss Sunshine and he's poignant. Who knew?

Of all the Sheen men, Martin is still the only one I'd do. And I wish Jed Bartlett had been our president these past 6 years.

I never thought Seinfeld was funny. Nor anyone who ever appeared on it. So I really don't care that Julia Louis Dreyfuss' win tonight heralds the end of the Seinfeld Curse. I'm far more interested in "The Kotter Curse." The actor who played Horshak mentioned that on the THS or something. Except for Travolta, none of the Sweathogs are working. And yet somehow the academy still found people to award Emmies to!

Patrick Dempsey is the most gorgeous thing on the show. Of course, that's only because Hugh Jackman lost to Barry Manilow. (Wonder how well Barry would have done if there had been a swimsuit competition.)

I wonder if Mrs. Greg Maddux is happy. This has nothing to do with the Emmies, but it's on my mind anyway. Rumor has it Bruce Springsteen and his "Red Headed Woman," Patti Scialfa, have hit the skids. We already know that Heather Mills is about lose her title. I have long lusted after The Boss and have loved Sir Paul since I was 6 years old. My admiration/obsession/adoration of The Professor has increased with time, and if he was to become suddenly single right now, what a fantasy trifecta that would be!

I really do appreciate the sentiments, BUT …

Last Saturday I received a surprise phone call from a good friend of mine. She's not a "phone person." Generally she only calls to confirm a meeting date, time or location. On this day, she had an important message to convey. She was at a weekend-long seminar called The Landmark Forum and it was having a huge impact on her. She wanted to tell me that she had a breakthrough about her marriage; she was concerned that I disliked her husband because of things she'd said to me about her their relationship. I told her not to worry -- that I just thought of her comments as "venting" and I never doubted the strength of her marriage to a good man. She then told me she wanted to share The Landmark Forum experience with me, that she knew I had issues I was wrestling with and she hoped I could get as much out of the Forum as she did. So I told her that yes, I'd go with her the following Tuesday night. She was very sincere in wanting the best for me, and I appreciate that. Also I was honored that she wanted to share this with me. So I went with an open mind.

The Forum ran from 7:15 to 10:00. I listened to everything. I participated in the exercises. I shared with the rest of the class. I admit that I got something out of it. I felt energized about my power to shape my own short-term future. I had gotten my Day Planner out (I'm not a Blackberry girl yet) and was trying to juggle dates and finances so that I could take the full Forum myself this autumn. Then my session leader -- an unpaid volunteer named Dan -- started on me.

He moved his chair too close to mine and wanted to know which Forum I was signing up for. I said I was thinking about it but simply couldn't commit just then. Needed to check on when/if my windows are being replaced, which weekend I'm going to Vegas, my nephew's birthday … He told me that was a cop-out, that with this attitude I was never going to reach my goals. Huh? What? I told him I didn't see how being responsible to loved ones and commitments would doom me to failure. He wanted to know details ("Why?" "Why not?") and I told him I resented having to share my finances with him. "I don't care about your money," he said. "I don't get airline miles or a new toaster if you sign up." But then he took the brochure out of my lap and wrote on it, showing me different areas of the fine print regarding refunds. Honey Bunny, I'm a financial writer. I COMPOSE fine print. Nobody's got to show me what to read before I sign something. I know that he was trying to convey to me that if I signed up then and there, I wouldn't necessarily be out anything if I had to reschedule. But he was invading my personal space and intimidating me. (Remember Hillary Clinton's debate with Rick Laszio?) I told him I felt bullied and he apologized. I also told him he had strengthened my resolve not to sign up. He apologized for that, too.

Not good enough.

My friend told me that his goal was strictly to help me reach my goals. Since he was an unpaid volunteer, what other motive could he have? How about being the center of attention? And the opportunity to force his will on a new woman?

I can't emphasize enough how uncomfortable his behavior made me. So I googled The Landmark Forum and was surprised to see quite a bit of negative input. And that it's just EST renamed. There doesn't seem to be a terrific premium on independent thought at the Landmark Forum. And it seems you're never "done" with the program. There's always another continuing course to take. The word "cult" was used more than once.

So I won't be going back. We're all different, like snowflakes. If my friend got something of value out of this, I'm genuinely happy for her. I'm glad I went that evening because now I will better understand what's going on with her. Most of all, I'm touched that she cares enough about me to try to help me out of my current funk.

But I won't be going back.

Get well, President Ford

What do Linda McCartney and Gerald Ford have in common? I was unnecessarily harsh to them in the 1970s and I'm sorry about it now. Let's blame it on my youth.

When it was announced that Gerald Ford was Nixon's choice to succeed Spiro Agnew, I was in the backseat of a friend's family car, being ferried to some after-school activity. As I heard Nixon prattling off Ford's attributes through the car's AM radio speakers, I remember adding my own, "And he cheats really good, too." Cracked up my friends, but their dad behind the wheel was quiet. As a kid, I had no idea how serious this was for the country. All I knew was that Richard Nixon was a loser, a crook, a waste of space, a bad man. And anyone he selected as his second in command had to be a loser, crook, etc., as well.

When Ford became president himself and pardoned Nixon, I was appalled. Gypped out of an impeachment by his chickenshit resignation, I wanted to see Nixon go to trial. When the pardon came down, I was sure some kind of "fix" was in.

Decades later, during the Whitewater/Lewinsky affair which weakened our country and made us look more than a little ridiculous the world over, I appreciated what Gerald Ford did. That pardon was patriotic. That pardon saved this nation a messy and ultimately pointless debacle. Naturally Nixon deserved impeachment more than Bill Clinton did, but with the wisdom of age I understand better how much a Nixon trial would cost this country, and how tiny the benefit would be compared to the cost.

Gerald Ford is an old man now. He has health problems. I hope that he takes solace in the Profiles in Courage award he won a few years back, awarded by the Kennedy Library in honor of his courageous decision to pardon Richard Nixon. I hope he knows that people like me are sorry we were so hard on him back in those dark days.

Get well, and God bless you, sir.

OK, so I'm xenophobic

Here I am, trying to kill time while my new Wamsutta sheet set is in the dryer, taking a voyeuristic peak at other people's lives by hitting the "next blog" button over and over.

As I'm surfing from blog to blog, I don't want to be confronted with Asian symbols or exclusively Spanish entries. To be honest, I don't even want to read English entries by American expatriates living in New Zealand or wherever the hell they've gone. I don't want to expand my horizons by learning about other cultures and foreign lands.

I want to read about relationship troubles, money troubles, career troubles. You know, the juicy stuff of life. I enjoy reading about the triumphs, too. And looking at cute pictures of other people's dogs and cats. Peering into other people's blogs is as much fun as an old Judith Krantz novel. (Remember Scruples?) And I don't want it interrupted with foreigners and educational stuff, OK?

Confused

So let's just say for a moment that John Mark Karr is a pathetic nut with a fragile grasp of reality. If he didn't kill JonBenet Ramsey, does this mean her parents are suspects again? To borrow a phrase, "Where's Johnny?"* Is he still under an "umbrella of suspicion?"

*Heard someone on TV say that today's incoming college freshman have only known Jay Leno as the host of The Tonight Show. Does that make anyone but me feel really, really old?

The End of an Era (Hopefully)

I've had bad skin for about 30 years now. Not really bad skin. Not bad enough that if you sat next to me on the bus, you'd say, "Oh, that poor thing." If my skin was that bad I would have done something done about it long ago.

Instead my skin is just bad enough to sap a lot of my time, energy, money and self-esteem. I've got a little of it all: monthly hormonal break outs, a few acne scars, uneven color, stray facial hairs. Every morning I spend an enormous amount of time tending to it. Then I can go out without scaring children, or horrifying you if you so happen to sit beside me on the bus.

I went to a new dermatologist today. It was rough to go out of the house without foundation. But I did it. And since he's a dermatologist, he's seen worse and wasn't the least bit horrified. He pretty much contradicted everything my former doctor told me. Yes, I can use a topical cream on my monthly break-outs. Yes, I am a candidate for laser hair removal. Yes, he can help me even out my skin color/tone.

I wish I wasn't so shallow. I wish this didn't fill me with relief. I wish I didn't care so much.

But I do.

… as big as my head!

There's a Lane Bryant Store opening soon on Wabash. I walk past the location every day, twice a day, on my way to and from the el. The in-store renovations are going along furiously, and to keep the public in suspense until the grand opening, Lane Bryant is doing what many stores do: covering the windows with big, full-color shots of models in their fall finest.

So far, so good.

Except one of the photos is of a model in a black strapless bra. It's a big photo and, since Lane Bryant caters to women size 14 and up, she's a big model. And I hate walking past it because, well, it kinda scares me. Just one of her cups is, quite literally, as big as my head!

I'm no longer a petite flower. I wear a size 10. But oh me, oh my! That photo is darn right intimidating. Forget Snakes on a Plane. The Lane Bryant window on Wabash -- now THAT'S scary!

YUM!

Check this out.
No, really.
Ladies, I promise you will thank me.

http://www.tmz.com/2006/08/23/matt-lauers-pricey-pecs/

The Laurie Guy

Now that my life is half over, I have belatedly come to the realization that I have "a type." Three of the men I have loved look very much alike. Short dark hair, lighter-than-you'd-expect eyes, good cheekbones, glasses. I'm pretty short (my driver's license says 5'3") so height isn't really relevant. Two of the three were very into martial arts; two were Catholic; two were (said affectionately) financial nerds.

How did I never notice these similarities before?

Is it that my affection for these men subconsciously began with attraction (OK, lust) but my conscious mind wanted to dress it up as something loftier?

Certainly my relationship with the 1980s model Laurie Guy was based on lust. He was savvy and boyishly charming, but certainly not smart. (The phrase "dumb as a box of rocks" has been used to describe him.) We had two speeds: fighting and f***ing. I cannot remember anything we had in common, other than our mutual willingness to blame me for all his problems. Whence last I heard, he was working at a Domino's Pizza. He would easily be 50 now. (I could look it up; he was very proud of the fact he and DisneyWorld had the same birthday.) To borrow from Babs, "It's the laughter we will remember ..." so I will try to remember something positive or sweet about that relationship. Ummmm ... In addition to martial arts (carefully pronounced "kuh-rah-TAY"), which he did obsessively but not well, he loved The Three Stooges. Considering how depraved many areas of his life were, his love of The Stooges was pure and kinda touching. His favorites were (in order) Curley, Moe, Larry, Shemp and Curley Joe.

The 1990s model Laurie Guy and I had a more genuine connection. He actually thought about stuff that we could talk about. Things neither of us could necessarily discuss with other people, because not everyone was as geeky as we were. Like the relevance of the Electoral College. (Yes, I sure know how to seduce a man, don't I?) I loved how his mind worked. The two people he admired most were Dr. King and economist Adam Smith. Now come on! How can you not be intrigued by that? He also had a terrific body and terrific control of it. He was a black belt in kuh-rah-TAY. He was modest and very, very remote. No matter how often he said it, I never really believed he loved me because there was so much he kept tucked away. He was smart, never boring, and could be very tender. My happiest moment with him: being awoken by how tightly he was holding me as he slept. He's married now, and I hope he's happy because he really was a very nice man.

The New Millenium Laurie Guy is my best friend. Since we've never slept together, and aren't likely to, I don't know if we'd be compatible. I do know that there is a certain level of tension between us that we diffuse most clumsily. (Bickering, teasing, kicking one another under the table ... come on, you remember 7th grade!) I love how open he is with his emotions, how hard he works at being a good dad, how accepting he is of the things about me other people find grating. In fact, I don't think I've ever felt as accepted by anyone in my life as I have been by him. While he's more serious than people realize, my favorite thing about him is how when we're together we play and act silly. My favorite moment with him would be (this is very non-PC) the night we watched Brokeback Mountain on pay-per-view and laughed till the pizza and beer were practically coming out of our noses. "Stem the rose" is a phrase that can still crack us up.*

Let's see now ... what have I learned on this jaunt down Memory Lane. That I have "a type." And that (saints be praised!) I never make the same mistake twice. The 1980s Laurie Guy was an abusive drunk with questionably calibrated moral compass. 1990s Laurie Guy and New Millenium Laurie Guy are better men, better to me and for me.

*I know, I know ... Brokeback is one of the great movie love stories of all time. Yeah, yeah, whatever. Gay cowboys lassoing one another out on the range is funny. It just is. Not our fault.

This is so sweet, so heartening

The other night my nephew Brent, the one I barely know, the one I just met, called to ask me to attend my neice Becky's baptism. Of course I couldn't. For reasons all her own, my kid sister chose to invite the relative who molested me, and who still harrasses me when given the opportunity. I couldn't tell Brent that -- he's 19 and has quite a bit on his own plate -- so I made up an excuse about having to work.

After I hung up I was so angry. Once again I'd been put in a position to protect the skinny mean old ass of the man who fondled me.

I didn't have to. When Brent asked my mother and his mother why I wouldn't be there, they told him. Not the whole truth, but a reasonable facsimilie thereof. They told him that old Jim made me uncomfortable and unhappy and I couldn't bear to be around him. Brent said he'd "protect" me, not leave my side, not let Jim be alone with me. I answered so quickly and so definitively and so convincingly that he didn't bother to offer.

This is big. This is important. This is the first time I can recall that anyone ever offered to protect me. Brent, my young nephew.

Also, my mother seems to get it now. She seems to believe that my pain is real and substantial and lasting -- and not my fault. This is big and important, too.

I want to cry. And it's because it's so good.

Forever my guy

Former President Clinton turns 60. Happy Birthday, Bill. Stay healthy and active. Love 'ya.

Oh, Bill and I have had our moments. I believe that he was so concerned with saving his political hide during the Lewinsky Affair (all puns intended) that he wasn't able to pay enough attention to business, so he bears some responsibility for 9/11. I've never been able to understand how he could square the circle and get behind that welfare reform bill. And yes, I've heard the rumors about Belinda Stronach. And yes, everything I've just written leaves me feeling either a little heartbroken or a little skin crawly.

But then I think of my America BC (before Clinton), and I forgive him.

Remember that song, "The End of the Innocence?" We had twelve years of "the tired old man that we elected King" and Bush 41. In those days, my leaders had no connection to my life, nor to the lives of my friends. The chasm was so great that any interest in politics or goverment felt irrelevant … or worse, hopeless.

Then Bill arrived and it was like one of those Warner Bros. cartoons. The clouds broke, the sun came out, all the little woodland creatures came out of their holes and down from the trees and the birds began to sing again. With Bill at the helm, I had a leader I recognized. I felt like I knew this guy. And that even if I didn't agree with all he did, I believed my interests were heard, understood, appreciated.

Bill managed to convey that he was a man of faith, yet he understood the vital importance of the separation of Church and State. He cared about individuals rather than corporations. He spoke in a way we could all understand about issues we (my friends and I) cared about.

Best of all, he made everyone feel he was their President. And he still does. This past spring I visited the Clinton Presidential Library in Little Rock. I was there alongside a busload of middleschool students from Dallas. I watched them watch the little film Bill made as an introduction to the library exhibits. He had them. These are kids at an age when it's fashionable to make fun of everything. These are kids who are really too young to remember much about his presidency. And yet he connected with them.

I used to compare and contrast Bill with Senator Kerry and it seemed very unfair. I believe that Senator Kerry is as smart as Bill, has exhibited better judgement than Bill, and is the right man for this country at this time. Yet Senator Kerry would not have been able to grab and hold those kids' attention -- by video, no less -- the way Bill did.

George W. Bush is just as casual in speech as Bill. Just as loose in body language. Yet his message would not have resonated with those kids. So it's not just about charism or packaging. Content plays a role, too.

Bill came from nothing. His gifts and determination carried him from Hope, AR to the highest office in the land. He never forgot where he came from, and how to reach out, communicate with, and include everyone. And from that inclusion comes faith in goverment and hope for the future.

That's intangible, I know. But it's important. So thanks, Bill. Enjoy your birthday and take care.

Happy Birthday, Hubbell

The Sundance Kid. Johnny Hooker. Jay Gatsby. Paul Bratter. Bob Woodward. Roy Hobbs. They're all Robert Redford, and they all turned 70 this week.

70. Gulp.

I had a LIFE magazine cover with his beautiful photo on it in my high school locker. I had a big black and white poster of him in his STING pinstripes next to my bed. And he turned 70 this week.

70. I feel so old.

Well, happy birthday. Thanks for all the great work that entertained and influenced me. Thanks for launching a million square-jawed, blue-eyed fantasies. And thanks for the Sundance catalog, which sells really great jewelry.

About a boy … or two … or three … or four

I have a weakness: I really like men. I think most of them are fascinating, even when I find them frustrating. These days, these specimens have been on my mind.

Brent. He's 19, the oldest child of my lunatic older sister. Because he lives 2000 miles away and because he is the son of my lunatic older sister, I really have not had much, if anything, to do with him. Last time I saw him was (I think) in the summer of 2001. As I recall, he had no real interest in me then at all. So imagine my surprise when on Tuesday he called me as soon as he arrived for the Big Baptism. "Hi, Laurie. This is Brent. I want to have lunch with you tomorrow. What train and bus do I take?" Seems that now that he's almost an adult, beginning a new phase in his life (starting classes at the community college), he has decided to reach out to his rogue Aunt Laurie. Part of it was curiosity, part of it was to annoy his lunatic mother. Still, I was surprised that he did it and have to acknowledge that it was courageous of him. Both he and his younger sister, who came along for the ride, are attractive and literate. I was impressed. And sad, too. They really do hate their mother. I certainly understand it; all the best people hate their mother. But still, to think of those three unhappy people rattling around in that house together … it's sad. I gave both kids my email address, just in case they ever want to contact me again.

Ed. My former boss. We got together for dinner this week. He brought his daughter's college graduation photos, gave me an update on his health maladies, bragged about his wife's new-found professional success. He even had a little present for me -- a DVD similar to VH1's I Love the 70s. I left with a really good feeling. Ed's a good friend. When I was unemployed a few years ago, Ed made sure I had freelance work. He's one of those people who thinks about me every now and again, even if I no longer cross his path ever day. I am lucky to have friends like Ed.

My best friend. He is ensconced in his new job. You'd think that would mean I'd hear from him less. But, thankfully, it's just the opposite. Now that he has a routine again, we have a routine again. And while he has a new job, we're both still in the same industry, so we still have that in common. It's comfortable, natural. None of the stress of the conversations we had when we spoke less often. I wake up in the morning and I'm happier. When I was freaking out about all my family drama, he was very available to listen. I have my best friend back. We're still us.

Perry March. Poor SOB. He was convicted on all counts related to his wife's disappearance and death. Yet he was deprived of his day in the Court TV sun. From opening arguments, through prosecution and defense testimony, onto closing arguments and the beginning of the deliberation watch, Perry was the brightest daytime star on that cable tv channel. And then, Wednesday night, after 10 years, some skinny perv in Thailand admits to the JonBenet Ramsey slaying and steals all his thunder. I read that Perry is on death watch. No wonder.

Frustrated

The agency I work at (not for) is on a losing streak of epic proportions these days. One of the major daily papers is gleefully chronically our demise. For the most part, I don't care. Since this place is poorly run and pretentious, the old Lennon song "Instant Karma" keeps running through my mind. If things get much worse, there will be more layoffs, and I don't think getting cut would be a bad thing for me. I know I should find another job but I'm not doing a damn thing about it. Getting laid off might be just the kick in the butt I need.

The agency is working on a multi-million dollar pitch right now. I read in the paper that winning this new piece of business is critical because we are on the verge of losing one of our more famous and venerable existing clients. (It says a lot about this place that I learned that from the newspaper.) This pitch has been in the works for weeks and weeks. All the creative and marketing elements have to be tied up by Monday morning so the team of Cool Kids who are presenting can be in Northern California on Tuesday morning.

Wednesday afternoon it was decided by the Cool Kids that my team needed to be brought in. We were told to cancel all our evening and weekend plans so we could spend all our time from here on in at the office. This should have occured to this brain trust weeks ago. This reveals the contempt the powers that be here have for my team and our discipline, but OK. Pitches are always a pain in the ass, but it's the nature of the beast. My complaining about spending Thursday night, Friday night, Saturday night and Sunday night at the office would be like an accountant complaining about long hours at tax time. Plus, given four days and four nights, we could put together a presentation we would be proud of.

If we had four days and four nights. It's now Friday morning, and the Cool Kids have yet to give us any real input, any real explanation of the parameters of the project, so that we can get started. I called Mr. Primo Cool Kid every two hours yesterday, leaving voice mail messages explaining what we need to get started. He not only never returned my calls, he was gone by 5:30, when I walked over to his office to speak to him directly.

Prick.

So my team and I get to spend all night tonight, and Saturday, and Sunday, doing work that is destined to suck. Creating new concepts is like cooking a Lean Cuisine; it takes as long as it takes. If you're supposed to cook a Lean Cuisine at 7 minutes but you only have 5, it will be barely edible. That's the professional situation we're in now.

I'm frustrated. Upset. Pissed.

Oh well. I've vented here. Now I have to suck it up and be all enthusiastic in front of the team.

We meet again

Today I had a very emotional conversation with my mother. She had no idea I'd be as upset as I am about being "bumped" from my neice's and nephew's baptism this weekend so that the "highly respectable" relative who molested me could attend. It was a good exchange. I felt that my mother heard me. Not that this will make a lasting difference in my relationship with my family. It won't (though it is comforting to know my mother loves me). But because I understood something very clearly about myself.

My mother heard my POV and said it was no wonder that I was so hurt and angry. That gave me pause. Certainly it would make sense if I was hurt and angry. But that didn't quite describe it. I'm a writer, I try to be precise with my language. My feelings were big and uncomfortable and unacceptable. I was upset because this situation made me feel fragile and helpless. It made me feel vulnerable.

It made me feel like HER, my past self. She was isolated and defenseless. A victim.

I hated being her.

I have worked my adult life to become strong and self-sufficient. To reject being a victim. To leave her behind.

Today, she and I met again.

The teenage girl I was, the confused and repulsed and overwhelmed girl he fondled, still lives in me. Instead of denying her, I should recognize her, and reassure her that this will never, NEVER happen to her (to us) again.

Perry March: Snidley Whiplash for the New Millenium

I know I shouldn't view murder as entertainment. I do, of course. But I want you all to know I feel really bad about it. And I feel just terrible about how much of my day off I spent devouring the Perry March trial on Court TV. Shame on me.

For those of you not in the know, Janet Levine March disappeared in August 1996. She left her suburban Nashville home one night after a fight with her lawyer husband, Perry. According to ever-lovin' Perry, the fight was about all the passes he'd been making at one of his paralegals, and how he seemed headed toward a sexual harrassment suit. (Some women are soooooo humorless!) Perry says his wife, his college sweetheart, the mother of his children, left the house with a suitcase, her bike, and a small bag of pot. Perry told authorities that she left him and their two children Sam and Tzipi (yes, that's Zippy with a "t," poor kid) in the middle of the night and no one has ever seen her again.

Now, 10 years later, Perry is on trial for Janet's murder. The system demands that even Perry March get a zealous defense from a dedicated lawyer. And it's Perry's lawyer that I feel so sorry for. His client is so arrogant, so unlikeable, so obviously guilty that he makes OJ Simpson and Scott Peterson look like Ben Affleck and Matt Damon.

Let's see what poor lawyer man has to work with:

Perry's own father has testified against him. According to dad, father and son worked together to dispose of Janet's body. Isn't it lovely when two generations come together?

Perry has been found criminally responsible for Janet's death … twice. The first conviction was overturned on a technicality.

The letters Perry wrote his paralegal, while still living with wife Janet, are downright pornographic. Which is not to say I didn't enjoy hearing them. I just don't think they will endear Perry to a jury.

Perry has a little problem with embezzlement. He's been found guilty of stealing from his law firm.

Perry has a little problem with his inlaws. He has already been convicted of conspiring to have the Levines killed.

If an author (anyone from Judith Krantz to Stephen King) had made Perry the villain of a novel, that book would be panned as unbelievable.

I appreciate Perry so. He keeps my mind off the mess the world is in. Iraq is an expensive sinkhole that is absorbing all of our resources and keeping the government from making us safe here at home. Our ports are trecherous. Our borders are porous. Yet as a country we scoffed at Senator Kerry during the campaign when he told us that from now on, the war on terror should be an intelligence and police issue, not a military one. He was right, of course, as he was on so much in 2004. I mean, let's look at who rounded up the Londor terror suspects: the London police. We're still trying to find terrorism on the map so we can bomb it. It's sad. It makes me angry. It breaks my heart.

I tried my best, my hardest, to get Senator John Kerry elected. I raised money, I wrote letters, I worked the phones. I was never an ABB Girl (Anybody But Bush). I always emphasized Senator Kerry's biography and qualifications. It didn't work. I feel responsible. I feel hopeless. I feel like pulling the sheets up over my head and crying.

Instead I take refuge in the Perry March trial.

Lookin' better than a body has a right to

Remember that old Dolly Parton song? "Here you come again and here I go …" I'm watching Sen. John Edwards address a barbecue in New Hampshire. He's so gorgeous.

He's talking about how we don't need politicians, we need leaders. He's talking about the heart of the American people, and how the world doesn't realize that in addition to being powerful, we're decent and caring. He talked about Darfur and New Orleans, about healthcare and poverty. I agree with everything he said and was striken by how long it's been since our dialog has included talk about the less fortunate and our responsibility to our fellow citizens, fellow humans.

I was also, truth to tell, striken by how good that blue shirt looks with his blue eyes.

That's not all, of course. I love how proud he is of wife Elizabeth, who is waging a battle against breast cancer. I love his moonlight and magnolias voice, and how his hair looks in the sunlight.

Having a crush on a possible president makes me uncomfortable. My never-disguised lust for Edwards was OK back in 2004 because he was undeniably our vice presidential candidate. Senator John Kerry was the top of the ticket, our alpha. There was never any Bush/Cheyney "whose in charge here?" confusion.

But with the possibility of John Edwards being our candidate, and our president, in 2008, I'm not sure my distinctly carnal feelings are appropriate. Politicians should be leaders. Presidents should be even more than that. Viewing the president as my dream date just seems wrong somehow. Frivolous. Icky/incestuous. Like being in love with your minister.

So instead I'll turn to ESPN, and more comfortable territory. Why look at that! Greg Maddux is taking the mound for the Los Angeles Dodger! The 12th most winning pitcher in the history of baseball, the one with the sweetest baby face, is about to face Barry Bonds in the heat of a pennant race. Dodger blue doesn't look as good on him as Cubbie blue did, but to me he still looks better than a body has a right to, too.

How do I help?

A good friend, old and true, is having money troubles. Her ex-husband is up to date with child support but a few months late in his payments to the kids' doctors and school. Her payments on the new used car don't fit as easily into her monthly budget as she thought they would. Neither she nor the kids have dental insurance, so she has quite a bit of toothy debt on plastic.

To make matters worse, she feels like a fiscal crimnal because the man she is involved with and desperately wants to marry does not believe in accumulating credit card debt. (Because he's been "cleaned out" by two ex-wives; a man with two divorces behind him may not have money issues, but I bet he's carrying baggage of the emotional variety.)

And now her cat Callie has resumed urinating on the furniture. "Callie's got to go." I asked her what she was going to do with Cal. After all, shelters are overcrowded and prospective owners never come in looking for overweight adult cats who pee on the furniture. She said she didn't know. We both know what she's going to do with poor Callie. I asked her to please not do anything until she takes Callie to a different vet. Her current vet dismisses Callie's behavior as purely behavioral, and while I know that cats are finicky critters, I believe there must be a solveable problem at the root of this. (My cat Charlotte peed on the carpet for months and months until the vet discovered an internal infection and I installed a second litter box.)

Karen says that she simply cannot afford to take Callie to the vet at all.

I want to help. I make more money than she does and I have a very strong credit rating. I get tons of balance transfer offers in the mail every week. I'm thinking of lending her money that way and letting her pay it off according to the terms of the promotional offer.

I realize that will just be more debt, but I'm quite sure it will be at a more attractive interest rate than she's paying. I wish I could just give her the money outright, but I can't afford to do that right now. I have more debt, and less in retirement accounts, than is wise for a woman my age. Digging myself in deeper to help her just doesn't make sense. Plus it would send my long-term goals, renovating my kitchen and bathroom, even further into the distance.

And I can't take Callie. That would be 4 cats in a two bedroom condo. Aside from the fact that I'd be in violation of village ordinance, it would further cement my reputation as crazy cat lady.

So we'll see what this week's mail brings, credit-offer-wise. If it makes sense for her, I hope she'll take me up on it. This is what friends are for, right?

Farewell, Mike Douglas. Way to go, Kinkajou!

I'm not stupid. I'm not airheaded. Honest. I just enjoy taking refuge in lowest common denominator entertainment. Like Court TV. And The Insider. I love that my job has summer hours, so I can leave early on Friday and catch up on all the celebrity news with sleazy Pat O'Brien and plastic Lara Spencer. I positively devour every second of it.

Today I was sad to learn from Pat and Lara that Mike Douglas died at age 81. His show was on every day after school and I watched it because … well, we didn't have cable back then and you didn't expect me to go outdoors or do homework, did you? Mike Douglas seemed like such a nice man. I thought it would be neat if he was my dad (instead of the one who came home angry and argumentative every night at 5:30). And it was through Mike Douglas that I saw all those Vegas-y acts like Steve & Eydie and Charo and Wayne Newton. I still love all that schmaltzy crap. I'm a sucker for a crooner in a tux who snaps his fingers when he sings, or an over-ripe gal in bugle beads.

And Paris Hilton was bitten by her pet kinkajou! This wise little rascal chomped down so hard that Paris had to go to the emergency room. She was told by the authorities that it's illegal to own an exotic animal in Los Angeles, so I hope that someone responsible takes custody of kinkajou and gives him a more suitable life than he gets riding around in that dumb slut's purse. He deserves it. Kinkajou didn't do anything that the rest of us wouldn't have done if we were condemned to long-term exposure to Paris Hilton.