Not exactly a desultory morning, this — I have plenty of work to do. But I’m having a hard time getting started. Reading about Julian Assange, wondering why someone thought this lame-ass blog about Aretha Franklin needed to be Facebooked, thinking about making scrambled eggs, waiting for the coffee to brew. Unfocused. Sapped of energy. And then…
Whoa, that’ll wake you up. I think I actually yeeped a little when I saw it. The third Mrs. G is a strict Catholic, who screwed another woman’s husband for six years — her prime childbearing years, during which I’m sure she used only natural family planning for birth control, along with her paramour’s favorite sex act — before the jig was finally up and he made an honest woman of her. (Don’t worry; I’m sure she’s gone to Confession.) She urged him to convert, and he surfaced from the baptismal waters with the zeal typical of the breed, criticizing Notre Dame for giving an honorary degree to Barack Obama. Among many other things.
She’s only 44. Sometimes a person’s soul shows right in their face, ain’a?
Oh, who am I to judge? We all got to this moment in time via a different road, and my soul-face has many dings and dents. I guess I’ll always reserve a special contempt for women who Do That, although I’ve known a few who Did That, and they’re not bad at all. (Confession: I was always on Team Camilla.) Maybe it’s because Elizabeth Edwards, poor Elizabeth, is in her homestretch right now, and all I can think about is her children, 11 and 13, about to lose their mother. I can only assume that she has taken pains, in recent years, to erect every possible wall between them and their putative stepmother. Or perhaps she’s reached the place where it no longer matters, when you know for sure that life goes on without you, and you can only extend your influence on it for a short time after your death, if at all.
But I sure hope she built those walls. Because as vile as Mrs. G the Third is, Rielle Hunter is worse, worse by far. I wouldn’t want her anywhere near my kids.
Change of subject. The coffee has kicked in.
Alan set up our bird feeders over the weekend, moved the birdbath closer to the house and installed a heater. Did you know birds have a harder time finding water in winter than food? True. Anyway, our deck is now Bird Central, and I’ve been enjoying watching them navigate the main feeder, the Hylarious. I can’t find a website for it, so maybe I’m hallucinating that name, but I distinctly remember it, and that spelling, from when we bought it years ago. It has a spring-loaded landing platform in front of the food, which will support birds and allow them to eat, but not a squirrel — the platform dips and a door closes over the food. (If I were president of the company, I’d add a WAH-wah sound effect.) That doesn’t stop them from trying, and at least once an hour I look out to find some fat bastard trying desperately to get into the thing. And every so often one too many birds will land, and the door will close on one’d head. The trapped bird flings its wings out in alarm, everyone flies away, the platform rises, and the bird is freed. It is truly hylarious to watch, if you have nothing else to amuse you at the moment, like a photo of Mrs. Gingrich.
Bloggage: If you’re watching “Detroit 1-8-7” tonight, wave hello to local-guy Scott Norman, who plays a bit part in tonight’s episode:
He plays the cop who leads the detectives to the bomb shelter. Yay, Scott. He starred in our last short, trailer seen here:
Dig that CGI! Zeppelins! Poison gas! Tanks!
Our governor-elect has made no secret of his dislike for the filmmaking tax incentives, so I expect this golden period in our cultural history will be coming to an end soon, and we can go back to cop shows set in New York and Los Angeles. Maybe Mrs. Governor-elect has a soft spot for some movie star, who can be prevailed upon to pay a call and kiss her hand. Release the Clooney!
An odd bit of bloggage I haven’t gotten through yet: New York magazine asks five novelists, one of them Glenn Beck (!!), to imagine the last decade if Bush v. Gore had gone the other way. Part one, by Kurt Andersen, starts here, which the link to each new chapter at the bottom. So far: Semi-amusing, mostly baffling.
As for me, it’s time to get to work. Release me, why doncha?