We’re having a snowstorm. Very pretty. Every twig is outlined, all the dog poop is covered with a fresh blanket. I ran the blower around for a while and felt the strong need for another cup of coffee. Alan can finish it if he wants it done. Sometimes it’s fun to be the man of the house, but mostly it’s the same drudgery, only outside.
For the record, I am not yet tired of winter. I like this part of winter, the covering-up-of-dog-poop part. It’s the demi-winter that depresses me, when the world outside is brown, not white. But give me two weeks, and I’ll be ready for it all to be over.
[Sits for five minutes, stares at screen, wonders if it’s possible to be even more boring.]
For what it’s worth (noted: not bloody much), the Rolling Stone story on Britney Spears is up, in its entirety. It’s more interesting than I thought it would be, in that scab-picking kind of way. Fun fact: Paparazzi call themselves “paps” for short, which until now I’d always known as an archaic word for a breast, mostly used to apply to animals, in the Wild Kingdom sense: “[hushed voice] Let’s watch while the grizzly sow exposes her paps to her cubs, allowing them to suckle on this fine spring morning.”
Also, showbiz sucks:
There was a wig waiting for her by master coiffeur Ken Pavés, who created Jessica Simpson’s cascading fake tresses — it had been seven months since Britney shaved her head, and her real hair was less than six inches long. All she had to do was sit for the afternoon so the wig could be glued to her head, piece by piece, then remain very still for an hour so it could set, and she would be the old Britney again.
They say Madonna is using testosterone cream on her face as an anti-aging ploy, but it’s making her grow chest fuzz. I’m sure that goes really well with her dick, and makes her irresistible to her husband, but it’s times like this I’m glad a few wrinkles don’t make me want to stick my head in the oven.
Perhaps you’re wondering if I really spend time looking at this stuff all day. I don’t, but it’s inescapable. Just the other day someone told me Jennifer Lopez buys $2,000 jars of Créme de la Mer and rubs it on her ass. Some people consider politics inappropriate for polite conversation.
[Sits for five more minutes, stares at screen, wonders if it’s possible to be even more boring.]
OK, here’s something funny: “American Gladiators” wants you! The first time AG was on TV, the crew came through the Fort to recruit challengers. It was a festival of whining. Ninety percent of the applicants were eliminated at the pushups test, which they were astonished to discover had to be done on fingertips, not flat hands. (This makes pushups more difficult by a factor of a jillion.) “I’m a Marine, I can do pushups all day,” groused on rejectee. “This is ridiculous.” But that was nothing compared to the Gladiators themselves, who came in to sign autographs and pump up the crowd. Sit them down for an interview, and all they did was complain — their back hurts, they need knee surgery, their fingers are always getting broken, ow ow ow. For a celebration of physical toughness, it was like listening to the bingo players at a nursing home.
I notice the application asks for “a Poem or rap.” Good luck with that, glads.
OK, I’m going to go pump some iron. Never know when they’ll add a seniors edition. Later.