I hope your holiday was pleasant. Mine was, although at some point I shifted into hibernation mode — all I want to do is sleep, a condition that will likely last until we change the clocks again. Sleep and eat. You ask me, the bears have the right idea.
Maybe cutting back on carbs will help. She said as she finished the last slice of birthday cake.
If any of you doubt that I basically pull every entry on this blog from my nether regions on a daily basis, I offer as evidence the preceding two paragraphs.
I’m a little rusty this morning. Lots went on over the weekend, lots coming up. We had a production meeting/casting session for the upcoming 48-hour film challenge, and I took a moment to look around the table at all the smart faces there and reflect on what these Michigan tax incentives for filmmakers have wrought. The difference between what we brought to the party in June 2008 and what we have just over a year later is pretty remarkable. Not that the 2008 team was bush league, but most of the people we have now, from actors to crew, have serious professional filmmaking experience, and it shows. A year ago, casting the zombie movie, some of the people auditioning had trouble reading. Saturday, we had a 13-year-old girl who most recently worked with Rob Reiner. In fact, as I looked around the table and asked myself who’s the weak link in the chain? It’s me. Time to bring it, I guess.
We also had house guests, John and Sam, for Saturday night, when we finally celebrated my birthday. Lovely cake and presents. Pork tenderloin with an Indian spice rub on the grill, yum yum. We discovered that even though both John and Sam are plugged in net people, being childless they’ve missed many YouTube classics — Charlie Bit Me, the Panda Sneeze, and of course, the Dramatic Prairie Dog. John learns fast, however, and quickly threw together this video homage with his iPhone and one of my birthday presents, which we’re calling…
That’s a pen from some cowboy museum on John and Sammy’s recent trip out west. Punchline: It doesn’t work. Glad it’s good for something.
And now my attention is drawn by the events of the day — the president’s speech on Afghanistan tomorrow, the next phase in heath insurance reform, and, of course, Tiger Woods’ marriage, about which I could not care less. I am interested in human behavior, however, so before we go on, let’s stipulate something that is, to me, as plain as that Escalade wrapped around the tree, yonder:
Woods is lying. He’s lying about the accident, he’s lying about whatever preceded it, and he’s lying about the role his wife played in it. He probably started the whole chain of events by lying to her, too, the classic, “Who, me? I wasn’t with her! The National Enquirer is lying!” That’s OK — everyone lies sometimes, and none of us would want to live with a 100 percent truth-teller. Sometimes the greatest honesty comes out of gentle deception, etc. I’m thinking today of his wife, who I’m going to speculate was wielding that golf club not to rescue her husband, but to threaten him and perhaps knock his block off. Eric Zorn and I have been exchanging e-mail on the subject, and he contends her target was the car all along — nothing like a smashed window to punctuate your peril when you’re trying to escape the fury of a Swedish giantess. I think maybe she was aiming for the man himself, which would be pretty damn stupid on her part — any physical injury to the ATM
machine she shares her life with would imperil its future smooth operation. But then, I doubt Woods married his wife for her brains. Maybe that’s what he found in the New York “social director” he was allegedly dallying with, an intellectual equal to his Stanford-educated brain.
Let’s take a look at this TMZ item, though, one that says Tiger was shopping Zales (Zales? Yeah, that sent up a flag for me, too) for a “Kobe Special,” i.e., a big flashy rock to appease her feminine furies. I’m reminded of the female comedian who, after the original Kobe special was delivered, remarked, “Just what every woman wants — a big shiny reminder of her husband’s infidelity.”
Let me just go on the record here, and say I hope my child will grow to adulthood knowing that her mother never went after her father with a golf club. Good lord, Elin, one misjudged swing and you’re talking closed-head injury and the rest of your life being the next Dana Reeve. Suck it up.
Ten a.m. looms, dragging behind it a busy day. We’re back to the mangle, folks, and starting the long slog to Christmas.