I had 30 minutes to spare yesterday in between errands and picking up Kate from school. That’s pretty much the perfect slice of time, if you ask me — not enough to squeeze one last chore in, but plenty of time to drink an eggnog latte at Starbucks and play Angry Birds on the iPhone while eavesdropping on a trio of geezers at the next table. I love eavesdropping, and I love geezers. None of them had iPhones, for one thing, which meant their attention was 100 percent on one another. For another, they were difficult to slot politically and didn’t hate the president, although one had recently been acquainted with the concept of the body man and marveled over it at some length:
“He has one guy whose job it is to carry all his stuff. His handkerchief, his cigarettes, whatever.”
“He’s not still smoking, is he?”
“I’m pretty sure he is, yeah. Guy carries his cigarettes and a lighter. He also plays basketball with the president whenever he’s asked. Now that’s a job.”
They also discussed the proliferation of crappy — i.e., benefit-free — jobs in recent years, and suggested it wasn’t good for the region as a whole, all those people not making enough and still having to pay their own medical bills and/or insurance. They discussed Alan Trammell, who had just passed through with his agent. And then they switched to Donald Trump, whom all agreed would be an excellent choice to rebuild New Orleans. I concentrated extra-hard on Angry Birds and reminded myself that eavesdropping is its own reward. I tried to imagine a New Orleans by Donald Trump’s design team. Then I tried to remember if I’ve ever seen a picture of him smiling, as he seems to have trademarked the Trump Scowl, which he wears 24/7 — it’s his brand. MogulFace. I couldn’t remember, but, as always, Professor Google could. Good lord, how many swirls is that combover making these days?
And then the latte was gone, I’d advanced several levels in Angry Birds and it was time to pick up the kid. A big night last night — the holiday instrumental-music concert. As always, my own personal rule of seating prevailed, i.e., whichever seat I choose, my child will be as far away as possible, foiling photo ops. Behold:
I’m so glad her hair is purple — otherwise I could never pick her out.
“Mission: Impossible” came off pretty well, although she said the teacher told her at their final practice that they would “suck.”
“Did he use that word?”
“No. But that was the idea.”
They didn’t suck, but they could have been a tetch tighter. Although, for sure, in seven rehearsals you can’t expect miracles from middle-schoolers. And the bassist wasn’t part of the problem, so, whew.
Ready for bloggage? Sure, and we’ve got some good stuff, too:
Hank Stuever, the Washington Post Style writer too tempestuous to tame! Bigfooted by none other than Oprah! I honestly don’t know what she feared from Hank, who is as upbeat and sunny as SpongeBob SquarePants. Maybe she feared his gay would rub off on her because she totally is not. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
How fair-and-balanced Fox spun the health-care debate, all the while remaining fair and balanced: Just add “government” and serve!
Do you know how to speak Hoosier? I don’t, but I got some valuable tips from this series:
Indiana is the only place I’ve ever heard a college-educated person ask if “that guy was one of your guys’s guys.” And now, if you’ll excuse me, that rabbit needs caught and I’m off to drink some pop.