Ah, me. Eminem filed for divorce today. Was it just yesterday that my hairdresser and I were marveling at the quiet tastefulness of Kim’s wedding turnout, remarking that once you set aside the idea of a woman with two children marrying her baby daddy (the first one) for the second time IN WHITE, she really looked nice as a brunette? No, but it wasn’t much earlier than that. They didn’t even make the 90-day mark.
I’m disappointed. The second wedding seemed like the ultimate triumph of hope over experience. Older, wiser, sadder, but more mature — so much water under the bridge, much of it laced with cocaine residue and the usual celebrity-life detritus. Em remarried Kim even though, during their long estrangement, she’d gotten all strung out and had a baby with another guy. (He adopted the child.) Their own daughter was in the wedding. She was four years old when they married the first time. Maybe she was in that one, too.
Here’s something I learned a long time ago, and still have to relearn, occasionally: No one — no one — is qualified to judge the quality of a marriage except for the people in it. We are certainly free to have colorful opinions about it, particularly if the people involved were given to public pronouncements about what marriage is, ought to be, or should be shaped by the law to resemble, but the truth? We just don’t know. As a wise man — I believe it was Charlie Rich — said way back in 1970-something, “No one know what goes on behind closed doors. Behiiiind cloooosed do-orrrrs.”
I keep hoping to see Eminem in the wild. This is the first time I’ve lived in a city large enough to sustain a working population of famous people, and you know, it would be amusing to see Em oh, squeezing grapefruits at the Eastern Market, or somethin’. I found a discussion board online devoted to such topics, and the best anyone was able to do was say they saw him filling a sports car with gas at a station somewhere in Sterling Heights. One of my friends here knows someone who was in a bar in the city one night near Christmas, and overheard some woman sitting at the bar, singing along with the carols on the sound system. “She’s pretty good,” he told the bartender. “Do you know her?”
“Sure I know her,” said the bartender, whose name was Reeves. “That’s my sister, Martha.”
That never happens to me. I mean, not ever.
The not-so-gory details, in PDF.
Bloggage: Couric will become the first solo female anchor on an evening newscast, which in 2006 is a little like saying she’s been given her own channel on CB radio. My thoughts exactly, Tim Goodman.
Busy day today, which means maximum procrastination. Away with it.