The bike ride yesterday disappointed, but only a little. No Fabulous Hollywood Stars were in evidence down at South High, but apparently they have been; Miley Cyrus spottings are making my “grosse pointe” RSS feed fill like a bucket. Yesterday it was basically your average film set, as seen from beyond the security line, which is to say, a bunch of trailers. You could get a similar thrill at your local KOA campground.
Well, I hope she’s enjoying herself. The Free Press had a story that said she asked some fans at the local CVS to back off and let her buy her chips in peace. I don’t believe this story for a minute. Nobody that thin and pretty eats chips of any sort, and if they do, they have lackeys buy them.
Of course I didn’t see her. I never see the famous person. I have written about this before. I’d link, but I couldn’t find it in two Googles, so pfft. I am the anti-LA Mary. By the time I arrive at the party, it’s over. After I leave, it starts. My friends were wandering through the Ohio State Fair one afternoon and ducked into the Warner Cable tent. Guess who else had ducked in to play an impromptu set, just because he liked the interactive QUBE system? Todd Rundgren! I was not there. I sat in the bar when Elvis Costello traded blows, physical ones, with Bonnie Bramlett in the bar across the street. Where I wasn’t. Another night, at another bar, I left early because I had to work the next day. An hour after I went home, Prince showed up. Played a few numbers. Argh.
Once I was at the video post-production house waiting on my friend Mark to get off work. While I stood reading a bulletin board, David Lee Roth squeezed past, behind me. Brushed up against me and everything. Didn’t feel it, didn’t know about it until someone pointed it out later. That must have been some bulletin board.
Last summer, the local papers contained a funny story, about a Grosse Pointe woman who was sitting in a restaurant, looking at the man across the way. She’s one of those women who knows everyone, and she knew she knew this man, but she couldn’t think of his name. Oh, well, time to get reacquainted. She walked across the room, stuck out her hand and said, “Hi, I’m Muffy McPrepster.” He shook her hand and said, “Hi, I’m Robert DeNiro.”
Needless to say, I was not there. (DeNiro was shooting “Stone,” coming soon to a theater near you.)
I won’t ride my bike down that way today. I expect Miley and Demi will be working the rope line.
We’ve been a shallow puddle of late, eh? Sorry, but it’s been hot and miserable, and I’ve been catching up on this and that. I’m teaching again this fall, for reals and for money and everything, and I need to get my affairs in order, which means learning Blackboard, the system everybody uses and expects me to use, too. I’m baffled by little on the internet, and I thought Blackboard was clipping right along the last time I tried to use it, but nobody could see my posts and my e-mail wasn’t getting through, and grr. One of my colleagues suggested that I may well have been doing everything right, and that “it wasn’t appearing on Blackboard” is the “dog ate my homework” of the 21st century. Well, this time I will attain mastery. This time that one won’t work with me.
So let’s skip to the bloggage:
In the Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From the Dumb Tree Department, meet Ben Quayle. He is not Brock Landers, dammit, but you know what? I think the dog ate that man’s homework.
Dear Ms. Schlessinger (sorry, AP style forbids me from using the “Dr.” honorific for a PhD), perhaps you are baffled this morning (although I doubt it), withering under the angry glare of those who would call you racist just because you used the word “nigger” 11 times on your stupid radio show the other day, all while in the course of telling a black woman she was overly sensitive for objecting to the use of the word by her husband’s white friends, because some comedians on HBO use it all the time, and so obviously that lady just lacks the sense of humor required for an interracial relationship. Or perhaps you aren’t. I suspect you’re reading your heaps of fan mail, and are simply grateful that someone, anyone is paying attention to you, however briefly. (Here in Detroit, your show plays in the coveted middle-of-the-night time slot.) Watching this brief video clip may help explain things to you. Although I doubt it.
Ayn Rand on the playground. Funny.
And I’m off to take the last, seriously-this-is-it, really-I-mean-it bite of my horse-eating project. Seriously. LAST BITE. Here comes the airplane, open the hangar doors.