I didn’t learn of Natasha Richardson’s skiing accident until late yesterday, which I think is healthy — not the accident, but the fact the news was out in the world for hours before I looked up and saw it. (I was listening to Gretchen Morgenson on “Fresh Air.” Stream here, for the brave. The show’s about AIG, and warning: May cause head injuries from smashing one’s head against the desk. Short version: The bonuses are the least of it.)
Anyway, back to the unfortunate actress. I’ve written before at how the digital gossip network, or “press,” for a better word, is a true throwback to an earlier time in journalism. I’m amused by how they mimic the most breathless prose of the old tabloids — “we can now exclusively reveal…,” “told this reporter in a runway chat at the Golden Globes…,” etc. Now it seems they have another claim to the grand press traditions of the olden days. Get it first, worry about accuracy later.
Scanning the reports via Wesmirch, in the space of 15 minutes I was led to believe we’d be seeing Ms. Richardson tread the boards again after a reasonable recovery interval, no she’s brain dead, no she’s not brain dead, yes she has swelling, no she’s in a medically induced coma, whoops she’s dead, no she’s not, etc.
Latest reports are that she’s brain dead, again, but by now, who would trust anyone? Here’s to leaving family tragedies to the families involved, and typing up a sedate death notice later, based on a press release.
Besides, if you’re reading the news for entertainment, the gossip pages can’t beat the police blotter. Nothing like a drug addict for laffs:
That December morning, acting on a tip that Keith (who is on probation), had been seen using heroin, the probation officer demanded that Keith report to a nearby drug-screening clinic in 20 minutes, prepared to pee in a cup.
Keith knew his own urine wouldn’t pass muster. To leave the clinic without handcuffs, he’d need to cadge some untainted pee from a friend. And of course he’d need a Whizzinator.
You have to laugh at people who can split hairs about the relative purity of a bag of dope, yet somehow believe that giving a urine sample through a dildo will fool a probation officer who deals with junkies all day. The Whizzinator ruse is predicated on the idea that cops are so mortified by the chore of monitoring urine drops that they will look away during the collection process and not see such a lame-ass gambit. Of course, some junkies make it so easy:
Sold on the Internet for about $300, the Original Whizzinator comes in five flesh tones. I tracked Keith down after several law enforcement sources told me he had made the critical mistake of using a Whizzinator designed for a somewhat darker-skinned individual.
A very funny story. Go read.
OK, then. How was your St. Patrick’s Day? Mine was lovely, in the sense that it didn’t snow, and I was able to get out and lift a single glass (work night) of Belgian lager in celebration. Yes, Belgian — our friend John C. was spinning Irish tunes (in the sense that “clicking the trackpad” now substitutes for turntables) at the Cadieux Cafe, our local Belgian bar. They were having corned beef and cabbage, but I opted for a Belgian Dip instead, and relearned the lesson I always manage to forget between trips to the Cadieux — nutmeg is a Belgian cook’s favorite spice. I’m not opposed to nutmeg per se, but believe it belongs in cookies and cakes, not mashed potatoes and roast-beef sandwiches.
Still, the Belgians do have a way with pomme frites, I must say. And while the traditional March 17 beer choice is Guinness, I opted for Stella Artois and go ahead, abuse me for it. I cannot stomach that dark stuff without bringing on the sort of biliousness and farting that prevails in, I’m guessing, the Limbaugh household. It’s not for mixed company.
Once again, another entry approaches the 700-word mark without having a direction, a point or much of anything else to recommend it, other than a Whizzinator. And to think I was looking at my site stats the other day and thinking 1,000 page views a day was a worthy goal to reach for this month. (It pretty routinely bumps around in the 950 range, and if there’s anything we’ve learned from the business community of late, it’s to always be striving.) Alas, it will have to wait for a day when I’m not rewriting memos. And so, with that lame excuse, I turn things over to you guys. You are the wind beneath my wings.