What Kids Think About The Gifts We Give Them

  

The little girl in the picture is June. She just got a stuffed sheep from New Zealand named Bungy for her third birthday.  Her uncle Brandon gave it to her. That's it?! You went to New Zealand and brought your niece a cheap stuffed sheep?  I'm not the only one who wants to know what you were thinking, Brandon. June has that fake smile kids get when they're wondering, "Why does my uncle Brandon assume I won't notice that he picked up this little trinket for me from the shelf next to the cash register at the airport? Next time we go to the Jersey Shore I'll put a jellyfish in his swim trunks. He won't do that again."

I'm Still Waiting

 

My girlfriend Nancy has ten grandchildren. Here she is with six of them on their recent trip to Mammoth, CA for a biking, hiking weekend. At the bottom of this picture she wrote, "Na na na na na."

Did You Know?

Before John Swartzwelder wrote 59 shows [give or take] for the Simpsons, he was a great ad writer.  One of his award winning campaigns was for Kitty cat food. Yep, he named the cat food KITTY. I guess eventually they had to take the product off the market because it was missing an ingredient that male cats needed in order to live. When they started dying -- no more Kitty cat food.  At least, I think that's the story. 
     I discovered several of Swartzwelder's Kitty cat food spots on Kurtz & Friends' reel. [I guess they're posting all their award winning animation on the Tube.] He worked very hard to get them to create a really stupid looking cat. I think he succeeded. You can also tell by the script that he wrote it. Well, I can tell, at least. Here's where you can see one of them: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7YsreSVhLuM&feature=related

Wassup Dawg?

 

On a whim, I checked to see if a fun commercial I wrote back in the eighties happened to get uploaded to YouTube. Son of a gun, there it was. Bobby Garland [my excellent art director at JWT back then] did it with me. I wrote the lyrics and produced the music while Bobby worked with Kurtz and Friends, the animation house we hired to design the dog. They have posted the spot on the web. The way its posted makes it seems like Kurtz came up with the idea. NOT. [NOTE TO KURTZ: The client was Quaker, not Quaker/Ralston Purina.] 

      If you want to hear Leon Redbone, as a redbone hound, singing the award winning song, go here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JieSRsAYr0A

Saturday Six Lives

Back in the good old days, when AOL was a haven for a neighborhood of citizen bloggers who had no aspirations beyond their daily or weekly entries, there was something called The Saturday Six.  Now in its 281st week of existence, despite the end of AOL Journals, I decided to play again.

To play the Saturday Six yourself, go to Patrick's Place.

1. What single thing were you most afraid of as a child? 1] Dogs 2] Wetting my bed and, 3] The sounds of trolley cars at night -- the Korean War was on and I thought they were tanks. 

2. Do you feel like you’ve been able to overcome this fear or does it still bother you?  

Thanks to a very friendly Irish setter who practically purred while I sat and petted her head, I got over my fear of dogs when I was 8.  


I stopped worrying about wetting the bed years ago. Recently, I started worrying about wetting my pants. 


One night, after weeks of terror, I woke up my dad and told him the tanks were scaring me. He told me those were just the trolley cars on Cottage Grove Avenue.  

3. If you’re alone in the house on a “dark and stormy night,” and there’s a scary movie on TV, are you likely to watch or avoid it?  I don't watch horror movies. I'd rather read a book. 

4. If you were to watch it, would it make you have any trouble at all in getting to sleep? Nope. It's only a movie. 

5. Take the quiz: Do You Have the Fears of a Child or an Adult? I'm a teenager in the dark. 

6. What is your biggest fear now that you’re an adult? I am terrified that I'll live to 100. 

Mad Woman Avatar

Go to http://madmenyourself.com and create an avatar of yourself working in a 1960's ad agency. I didn't smoke, but that beehive and those pearls look familiar.

Chuck Wolf, M.S.

If Sylvester Stallone were tall and Jewish, Chuck Wolf is who he would look like. I found this picture of my softball coach from *mumble mumble* years ago. I Googled him and it looks like he's gone on to become an elite exercise physiologist and consultant, writing books with esoteric titles like Human Motion Manual -- A Pictoral Guide to Functional Integrated Movement Patterns. He's also getting rave reviews for his lectures on body mechanics and other stuff I have never understood.

The first time I met him I was trying out for a spot as a pitcher on his women's team. He told me to throw some stuff his way. I said, "Do you want to hit it?" He laughed and said, "Just pitch it." I threw the first pitch and he hit a home run to right field. Then he switched to the other side of the plate and nodded toward me to throw the ball again. I threw one pitch and he hit a home run to left field. Then he started hitting home runs to opposite fields.

So Chuck, how's the family? Lauren? The kids? Your sister? You talk to Peter anymore? I thought he'd be dead by now. I found this picture when I was sorting through a huge box of photos from the 80's and 90's. Got me a new pair of hips this year. Shiny titanium ones. Polish 'em every day. Don't want them to get corroded. If you Google yourself -- I mean WHEN you Google yourself -- and find this entry with your name all over it, let's do lunch. *kiss* *kiss*

Another Picture That Could Have Been Deleted

Those eyes! That coldsore!! We all have bad days. Ah, but this one will last forever.

Lay Away? No Lie!!

Lately, I've noticed a few grammar errors in places I didn't expect. Not that I don't make plenty of my own mistakes, but some of these are coming from people who should know better.

On TV, too many sportscasters say,

"I have went. . ."

Makes me cringe. I go. I went. I have gone.

A writer for a news agency wrote,

"I have drank. . ."

Sorry TMZ breath. I drink. I drank. I have drunk.

Another writer I read just a minute ago wrote, "before laying down for his 11:00 AM nap." Nope nap-boy, it should be "before lying down for his 11:00 AM nap."

People lie, things lay. People lie like rugs. After they lay the rugs on the floor.

The trouble occurs when people confuse present tense "lay" meaning to set down or place an object with past tense "lay" referring to a person who was resting or reclining yesterday.

I lay the object down. I laid the object down. I have laid the object down.

Lay. Laid. Laid.

I lie down to nap. I lay down to nap. I have lain down to nap.

Lie. Lay. Lain.

Somewhere something is getting laid.

Thank you, Mrs. Linklater. Isn't it your bedtime?

Photographer to the Stars

Remember the infamous photograph of Monica Lewinsky in a line of admirers giving Bill Clinton a hug? I believe Time Magazine ran the photo after their mouth to mouth rescusitation became public. According to the photographer [please don't make me look up his name] that picture is the reason he prefers to shoot film. If the picture had been shot digitally, he would have deleted it. After all, who cares about an intern giving the president a hug? But, after the scandal broke, he remembered the shot and had his assistant track down the negative. And the rest is history.

I was going through a box of photos over the weekend and I also found some pictures that would have been deleted in this digital age. But because they were shot on film they survived. In duplicate, no less.

To live another day. In this blog, for instance.

You'll notice a photo of my former roommate at Duke. She is accomplished in many areas, especially academically and philanthropically. She was also most recently honored as one of the top real estate sales people in Dallas, a career change for her, after a long, successful career in healthcare. She is tall and slender with a carefully orchestrated designer wardrobe [Escada, for instance, but only when it's 75% off] and beautiful, one of a kind shoes to go with her statuosity. I believe you can see an example of her excellent head to toe taste in the photo. A shorter, more down to earth version of it, as it were.

Usually she's photographed by skilled professionals sitting with her family in a more formal setting or posed in the sand on the beach with everyone all matchy matchy in white, just before the sun goes down.

This picture, not so much. I call it her WTF moment, although she doesn't use that kind of language. A keepsake photograph [I'm keeping it for goodness' sake] to help keep her humble.

Oh, where's the picture you ask? I'll have it up tomorrow. After she spends a night worried about how bad it could possibly be. Oh look, there it is now.

That's what friends are for.

A World Class Geek, But I Mean That In A Good Way

John Scalzi is a professional writer/blogger who has a ten year old blog he calls Whatever. He has just won a HUGO for a book of his best Whatever entries entitled: Your Hate Mail Will be Graded: A Decade of Whatever, 1998-2008.

HUGOS are awards presented to people who write SCI FI novels. Scalzi already got an award a year or two ago when he was acknowledged as the best new SCI FI writer for his novel, Old Man's War.

Since blogs tend not to be science fiction, and, unless I'm living in an alternative universe, oh wait, given the name of my blog, maybe I am, so nevermind.

Regardless, I was curious about what SCI FI category an award for a book of not exactly SCI FI blog entries might fit into. So I checked. Here's what I found:

[DRUM ROLL] The Category Is: Best Related Book.

I'm assuming RELATED means this particular HUGO award is given to a SCI FI writer who has written a successful SCI FI novel and then decides to write about something else. Like grading hate mail. In both instances, writing took place and a book was the result. So there's a relationship, but it's like calling your mom's boyfriend "Uncle Joe." Unless, of course, Scalzi really and truly wrote enough blog entries about science fiction to turn them into a book, always a possiblity.

Obviously I haven't read it. I'm only contemplating it vis a vis the award and my knowledge of Scalzi's blog, which I have read. It is filled with many subjects I would never consider SCI FI-able.

So why, then, am I now going to provide a link to an entry in a completely different blog he writes for? Here again, because it's RELATED. It's writing. It's a blog. It's about something science fiction-like.

Frankly, I had no idea that anyone actually contemplated the subject that Scalzi writes about here -- a top ten list of bad designs of 'droids and other things in the Star Wars universe:

http://blogs.amctv.com/scifi-scanner/2009/08/bad-designs-in-star-wars.php

Boy it's geeky. Damn, it's funny. Scalzi has a fine-tuned gift for lightheartedness. There's always a chance that he wrote the list seriously, knowing full well that the result would be amusing. A degree from the University of Chicago can do that to you. [I can say that because my dad also went there and he too was a world class geek.]

Also, since I'm linking to Scalzi's stuff, here's one I recommend for budding SCI FI writers on the subject of WORLDBUILDING, one that anyone will find interesting, once you learn what building worlds is all about:

http://whatever.scalzi.com/2009/08/21/worldbuilding-briefly/

Okay. I have to stop. My brain hurts. Clearly, I'm not smart enough to write about these things.

Remember When Life Began At Forty? What Were They Thinking?

A friend of mind is turning forty and I've been trying to think of what to give her for her birthday. Besides a Coach purse -- so pre-October 2008, and currently out of my tax bracket. I'd like to keep my expenses to $40 or less, so someone suggested forty cups of coffee at 7-11, her favorite caffeine station. Perhaps along with a prescription for an overactive bladder.

Or I could buy her forty lottery tickets. Another good idea. As long as she didn't mind signing a pre-nup to split any winnings over $1000.

I could make her a time capsule with forty things in it. That's one way to get rid of my analog TV with the rabbit ears and the VHS player. And the Twister set. My Zsa Zsa Gabor wigs. I even found a set of false eyelashes I used to wear. [THEY'RE BAA-A-A-CK!] Where's that fondue pot anyway when you finally need it? I could soak a sweaty t-shirt in mud, drive over it a few times, pour beer on it, rub it in oregano, burn a hole or two, and tell her I wore it to Woodstock. Throw in some chunks of asphalt and say they were from the walk on the moon. Finally unload that Blood Sweat & Tears LP. And the Lava lamp. Wait, not the lamp.

I'm open to suggestions. Only 36 hours until the party.

FILE UNDER T.M.I.

In this week's issue of People, Brad Pitt suggests to the interviewer that he or she ask Quentin Tarantino what he does to people who fall asleep on the set. One of the features of working with people who are affiliated with all things movie related is that you sometimes know more than you wanted to know about certain subjects. This is one of them. But you can get on board just by Googling a few key words. [I'll let you figure out which ones.]

Apparently, QT has a purple dildo he calls Gerry, allegedly after some woman named Geraldine. I do not know the history. I do know that if someone dares to fall asleep, Tarantino will place the dildo next to the hapless victim's face and take a picture. This photo is then posted on a wall of shame. And there's a three strike rule. If you get caught three times napping you're out. Although I'm not sure how out. Out of the movie? I don't know. Apparently one of the female stars got caught twice.

Our reporter was actually going to ask QT about Gerry on the red carpet last night. I didn't think it was a good idea. At the same time I thought it was interesting that Pitt brought up the subject in a family magazine, albeit surreptitiously.

That's showbiz.

The Sure Signs You'll Live To 100 And How To Prevent It

This just out from Prevention Magazine -- The Sure Signs That You'll Live to 100 [or die trying]

You don't snore.

An 18-year study found that people without obstructive sleep apnea, a snoring thing, were 3 times more likely to live longer than those with severe apnea. [BTW, what's the lifespan of the people who can't get any rest because they're sleeping with people who snore?]

You're the life of the party.

Outgoing people are 50 percent less likely to develop dementia. [Most outgoing people I know are shit-faced as part of their outgoing-ness. Or as we said in college, LIZARD SHEEEE-TAH. Does this mean that, by association, excess alcohol consumption increases longevity?]

You run for 40 minutes a day.

According to a doc who knows these things: "Aerobic exercise keeps the immune system young." [Your knees may feel 78, but your veins are only 25.]

You like raspberries in your oatmeal.

Add just 10 g [of fiber per day] and reduce your risk of dying from heart disease by 17 percent. [And increase your chances of hemorrhoids from all those trips to the can.]

You feel 13 years younger than you are.

According to a fancy pants researcher, "Feeling youthful is linked to better health and a longer life." [So I should try to wake up every morning and think, "I don't feel 65, I feel more like 52." When was the last time anyone wanted to feel like they were 52? ]

You embrace techie trends.

Learn to Twitter or Skype to help keep brain cells young and healthy. [No mention of the rise in blood pressure because you get so frustrated trying to learn all this crap.]

MORE:

Your Mom Had You Young.

Well, she shouldn't be TOO young. It's hard to live long and prosper when your mother is a high school sophomore.

You're a Tea Lover.

Drink it, don't smoke it.

You'd Rather Walk.

To catch a cab.

You Skip Soda [Even Diet].

Chocolate is a good substitute.

You Have Strong Legs.

You bet -- I'm half titanium.

You Eat Purple Food.

Yesterday I had orange, white, more white, red, white again, red, brown, green, but no purple.

You Were a Healthy-Weight Teen.

I would kill to be 18 again.

You Don't Like Burgers.

Yes, I do.

You've Been a College Freshman.

Apparently this means you won't be a smoker. Or at least you'll have a much lower risk of smoking.

You Like Your Friends.

If you don't like them are they still your friends?

. . .And They're Healthy.

Even better than healthy, they're rich.

You Embrace New Challenges.

Start small. Begin with getting up in the morning.

You Don't Have A Housekeeper.

Not that I haven't tried.

You're a Flourisher.

This sounds like someone who makes an entrance into the room like Loretta Young. [I know, who's Loretta Young?]

I don't know about you, but I don't want to live to be 100. I've seen those people and it isn't pretty. The problem is when you're thirty you can't imagine anything like old age ever happening to you. You expect to arrive at the century mark pretty much as is, except with a little more gray hair.

Heck who wouldn't mind being thirty for about seventy years in a row?

But sometime during re-hab after my second total hip, I began to see the tunnel at the end of the light. The dark black hole with the long, long slide into assisted living. Oh sure, some new body parts can make you feel brand new again -- but being a brand new 65 year old lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.

The good news is I have sleep apnea. I don't run anymore. I love burgers. I drive everywhere. I refuse to twitter. I like raspberries, but only on pound cake. I don't eat purple food. I really don't feel or look 13 years younger. And my mother was 27 when I was born, which was considered old by members of her generation. So I should have plenty of chances to croak before I'm 100. Phew.

Unfortunately, I drink a lot of tea. I've been a college freshman, which is an oblique way of saying I don't smoke. I like my friends, who are all in better shape than I am. I can't find a housekeeper. I don't drink much soda. I was a skinny teenager. And, all things considered, my legs are strong. None of this can bode well for leaving the planet anytime soon.

In retrospect, I'm kind of in the middle of the good stuff and bad stuff, which would mean living to 50, but that was fifteen years ago. Do the math, and it looks like I've got 35 years to go to make it to 100. A lot can happen between now and then.

I hope.

Joan Rivers, Eat Your Heart Out

The difference between an event on the Red Carpet in Chicago and anywhere else is that here it's usually a green shag. Or linoleum. Joan Rivers would have a field day with the people behind the velvet ropes in the Windy City. Most look like they haven't missed too many meals. Tonight was the-stomach-oozing-out-from-under-the-t-shirt-with-their-fat-feet-in-flip-flops-crowd, except for the one girl wearing a sequined top and a tulle skirt that reached down to her Skechers.

Also the only star who walked the carpet here in Chicago was Quentin Tarantino, who isn't exactly chopped liver, but he was alone. Not that Brad Pitt would have added anything. Much. I do like the movie poster with his picture and the headline: BRAD PITT IS A BASTERD.

I worry. Will the creative spelling of BASTERDS become the preferred spelling? Are we forever doomed to a generation of young people who will spell it with an E instead of an A in future references to Commie Bastards? Will its real meaning as a person of illegimate spawn be lost to history? Anyway. . .

Unlike other premieres of his new movie, Inglourious You Know Whats, Tarantino wasn't dressed up fancy, he was dressed up to go out for pizza afterwards. Maybe with some of those large Chicagoans holding up their iPods and taking pictures of him from behind the lines. After his introduction, QT gracefully stopped and talked to one interviewer after another -- I think I counted thirty or so.

Jennifer, the reporter I accompanied, had heard that the actor/writer/director likes women in short skirts and strappy shoes, so she went for it -- in a navy blue designer dress that hit its stride about four inches above her knees with her feet almost tippy-toed in a pair of four inch Jimmy Choos, covered in Swarovski crystals. As usual, I looked like her devoted servant, carrying her stuff -- a purse, some B roll footage from the studio, a folder and a clipboard. My shoes, while shiny and gold on top were flat on the bottom with rubber treads so I wouldn't fall on my ass.

Most of the time movie theaters are icy cold, but tonight it was warmer inside than outside. So during the red carpet, I was sweating like a pig, since I wasn't in a short skirt, I was wearing slacks. As a matter of fact, I had even added a couple of layers in preparation for the usual movie theater chill. Unfortunately, this plan backfired. And throughout the event, I looked like I was in the middle of a nonstop hot flash.

After the interview with Tarantino, Jennifer interviewed the president of the Chicago Film Festival which would benefit from the premiere, since people were being charged $250 to watch the movie, although I thought I was getting in free. Over to one side there was a very tall blond in a low cut black satin gown wearing Manolo Blahniks. I wouldn't know Manolos from Payless, but apparently this blond, who was clearly part of the Tarantino entourage, had seen Jennifer's shoes and, turns out, wanted to find out where she got them. Next thing you know -- they're making plans to go shopping. This exchange was caught on tape, so I can't wait to see how it plays tomorrow. After the interview we gave the mystery woman some Chicago swag which consisted of a baseball cap in a knit bag. Do we know how to treat celebrities, or friends of celebrities, or what?

After the interviews everyone retired to the theater to watch the movie. Except me. Apparently there was some mix up on our end. Jennifer had purchased two tickets for $250 and invited her fiance to join us. For some reason she thought that my media pass was all I would need to get in to see the movie. Turns out my media pass and $250 would get me in, no problem. That's when I decided to wait for the DVD.

I hate to admit it, but I was happy to go home. If only to get out of that hot theater. On the way out of town I had all the windows and the roof open with the air conditioning on full blast.

And Brooks and Dunn singing ONLY IN AMERICA.

How true.

Style Points for Patrick Kane

You've heard the story.

Patrick Kane is twenty years old. Right away you know his brain is mush. He skipped college to be drafted as a professional hockey player for a nice chunk of change. So he has an unbridled sense of entitlement. Plus he's so good that he's already an All-Star for the Chicago Blackhawks. Which means he will test positive for testosterone poisoning until he retires.

He and his 21 y.o. cousin, James Kane were home in Buffalo, spending a night on the town. So that means testosterone poisoning and a mushy brain -- times two.

At 5 AM they grabbed a taxi and headed home. I guess the tab was $13.80. Patrick gave the driver $15 and expected change. Stop the video. CHANGE? I guess that's how you know he's a hockey player.

The driver gave them a dollar, but didn't have the remaining $.20, so the boys yanked their money back and prepared to get out of the cab and stiff him. What a couple of hoodlums.

But the cabbie [driving without a license and 2 DUIs on his record] turned the tables and locked them in the cab until they gave him the money back, which is illegal -- locking them in, not taking the money back.

Naturally, the five foot nine-ish Patrick [did I mention he was a hockey player?] and his 220 pound 6 foot 4 inch cousin roughed up the guy [allegedly], until he gave them their money and let them out. "Do you know who I am?" screamed Kane [allegedly], as he pounded on the 63 y.o. old guy. Nothing but class.

I guess at some point, there will be a multi-bucks civil suit filed by the driver for the beating he got.

I think he's also got brain damage because he hired a lawyer who threw him under the bus during an interview with a Chicago radio station. The lawyer for the cab driver went on and on about how everything had been blown out of proportion, that the driver shouldn't have locked the kids inside the taxi. How he didn't recognize Patrick Kane. And there was no way there would be a felony charge against the boys. Hello?!

After the driver sues Kane, he should turn around and sue his lawyer for malpractice.

Meanwhile, Kane is charged with felony robbery, theft of services, and criminal mischief. Which shows what lawyers know.

Of course, who knows what will happen to the old guy for driving without a license and locking the boys in his taxi. But chances are they will drop the charges against the two goofs [because one of them is a hockey player], so they'll probably drop them against the taxi driver, too.

Here's what I don't understand. Patrick Kane makes millions playing hockey. He got a $13.80 ride, then had the balls to pay the guy $15 and ask for change. He gets a buck back. But he and his cousin just had to have that last $.20.

In the end, it's not the change that is so egregious.

It's NOT TIPPING that boggles the mind. That's a much better reason for locking them in the cab.

If the cousins had done that to me [assuming I was a 63 y.o. cabdriver] and Patrick Kane started screaming, "Do you know who I am?"

I would have said "Yep. You are one cheap bastard."

Sunday! Sunday!

Woodstock was forty years ago. BFD. Zippity do dah. For those of us who had jobs, nice cars, a place to live, and didn't do drugs, it was just another mud-free weekend.

Last night the Bears looked like the Bears of recent history in their game against the Buffalo Bills, losing 27-20. Robbie Gould [He says GOLD] may have been the only bright spot, kicking two field goals, one for fifty yards. The "Cover 2" leaves a lot of receivers wide open. There seem to be two defenders in the area on every play, but they're always playing catch up. Guess why? Because the Cover 2 is a zone defense. There's no man to man. It also leaves a weakness in the middle -- think BIG HOLE. I read up on it today because I think the Cover 2 sucks, but I didn't know why. Tony Dungy adapted the Cover 2 by having the MLB fill in the hole, in effect turning the scheme into a Cover 3, or as it's known, The Tampa 2. Supposedly Brian Urlacher is fast enough to play that same role for the Bears, but SOMETHING'S NOT WORKING. The Bills marched on the Bears whenever they felt like it. The good news for the Bills, I noticed there wasn't an empty seat in the house.

But last night's game is not what this entry is about. This entry is about breakfast this morning at 9:00 AM at a local booth and counter place. You can call it a restaurant, but it's a diner. Great food for not much money, and it's always packed with the local swells from the surrounding communities -- people who follow sports like curling, wear pink Polo shirts, and drive BMW's. There's also a very private health club nearby, tucked away behind some buildings about a block away. A lot of pro ballplayers are rumored to work out and re-hab there. You have to know someone who knows someone just to get in the door.

After a tasty repast that included my mushroom and cheddar omelet, hash browns, English muffins with butter, fresh o.j., and bacon, it was time to pay. With few exceptions, the weekend patrons at the diner tend to eat in family groups that include three generations -- grandparents, parents, and the kids.

But, there was a guy waiting to pay who was alone. Not only that, he looked about twenty-something. Kind of early for his particular demographic on a Sunday morning. He was also dressed like a California surfer dude, with baggy shorts, a t-shirt and flip flops. He also looked like he had just showered. And he looked familiar. Was he the son of someone I knew? Perhaps still living at home and trying to decide what to do with his life? Nah. Those kids don't get up until after 1:00 on Sundays.

I look again, but not so much that I stare. Okay, I was staring, but more like that faraway look people get when they're waiting their turn in line and you just happen to be what they're looking at.

Wait a minute, that's not the spawn of anyone I know. That's Robbie Gould [he says GOLD], the Bears' kicker. Wasn't the team in Buffalo just a few hours ago? Didn't he just kick his first field goals of the season? How did the bus get back here so fast? Kidding. I bet nobody else on the team is up this early, unless they've got a new baby.

There he was, standing in line, completely anonymous, except for me and I wasn't telling. He suddenly started checking his iPod for texts and tweets. "I'm at the greasy spoon. I think I see Mrs. Linklater. Even worse, she can see me. Somebody help."

If you've ever encountered a celebrity of any kind, you may have sized yourself up while standing or sitting next to him or her. I remember once when Dick Clark came into a cafe and stood next to me to order something to go. I looked at him and thought, "Geez, I'm about three inches taller than he is." And, "He doesn't have ANY gray hair; it's gotta be dyed."

I was at a Notre Dame event walking behind Rocky Bleier when he was playing for the Steelers. Egads, I thought. He's shorter than I am. [This seems to be a theme]. So as I was leaving the diner this morning I sized up Mr. Gould. He has short, reddish hair. Freckles. And I noticed that he was actually a little taller than I am. But, I also noticed that I have bigger feet.

Just to come full circle, during this anniversary of the Woodstock Festival, he's about forty years younger.

And probably thinks Woodstock was named after the bird from Peanuts.

Guess What I Got For $20?

Had a girls' day out hair day. Since my stepma can't drive yet [three more weeks -- knee replacement] I get to take her places. And one place she goes is to a woman at a Hair Cuttery in the next town. She has been going to the same woman for more than a decade no matter where this woman works. At a fancy place. At a faraway place. Or at a discount place. So she has paid a lot and a little for the same hairdo, depending on where her stylist, a tiny little Bolivian lady with twinkle in her eyes, was located.

The Hair Cuttery is so reasonable that my kind and caring stepmother treated me for driving her around all day. Mostly I drove her out to breakfast, shopping for food, and for a couple of hours of hair fixing.

I don't know why, but the Hair Cuttery is just $20 for a wash, cut, and style. Most places in the burbs cost around $40 to $50. So we got a two-fer. And my hair looks as good as it did when a fancy former Londoner, featured in ELLE magazine, who did hairdos for the girls in James Bond movies used to do mine.

Too bad this 'do won't last until Tuesday. I am doing the Chicago version of the red carpet for Inglourious Basterds. One of those deals where my hair has to look like I didn't just wake up. I have to wear something besides my un-ironed summer linens, a sports bra, and flipflops.

Got any questions for the director of the movie? You know who I mean. [If I write his name his people will Google him and find me and wonder who I am and why I'm writing about him in my blog. And they may try to track me down or something. So let's keep this on the QT. Oh, s**t, that's his initials.]

Law and Order Billionaire Style

Ripped from the headlines on AOL's main page. There's a story about sons and daughters of billionaires gone bad. Mostly they just have an inflated sense of entitlement and get caught doing drugs or trying to explain away internet videos of themselves having sex.

But the heartwarming story that caught my eye the most is this one:

" . .[T]ough love was the order of the day for Fredrick B. "Cannon" Smith, son of billionaire FedEx chief Frederick Smith. In 2007 Cannon was packed off to military academy for a year after being caught in possession of ecstasy."

Here comes the punchline:

"He is now a quarterback for the University of Miami." That's Criminal U to the rest of us. More players convicted of crimes than any other team in the country. Or something like that.

Hanging With The President

See that picture up there? The one with all the mountains? I shot that photo from the porch of my friend's wonderful log house in Belgrade, Montana, just outside Bozeman.

You know where the president is going to be tomorrow?

That's right. Belgrade. At a hanger in the airport. I hope he's looking out the window while they're coming in for a landing. The view of the Bozeman Valley is pretty spectacular when you fly in. Eleven mountain ranges and all.

He's going to have a town meeting with the people who got tickets for the event. [My friend didn't even try]. Then he's off to Yellowstone. This is a free weekend at the park. Lots of people at Old Faithful. Yellowstone Lake. The Falls. The president will probably arrive by helicopter. That's a ride I'd like to take. Then follow the Snake River into Jackson Hole. Get a once in a lifetime gander at the Tetons up close and personal.

But no-o-o-o-o. I'll have my own spectacular view of the back end of a semi trailer, blowing exhaust into my face as I commute to work. Otherwise I'd be there.