I was briefly watching Chris Christie deliver his Sgt. Schulz defense – he knew NUT-ting – and reflected that I’m sure I read somewhere that he had lap-band surgery, and I did. But he doesn’t look like it. I briefly had a boss who had it and became unrecognizable within months, but I guess Christie’s on the slow-diet plan. Good thing, because his fat actually a) looks OK on him, in the sense that he seems to be one of those born-to-be-fat guys; and b) it makes him more believable, for those who do that trust-your-gut thing.
Not that I believe him. I mean, come on.
Of course, heads are rolling, and the first is Bridget Anne Kelly, the aide who first called for traffic problems in Fort Lee. She’ll be fine in the end. The Tracy Flicks of the world always seem to land on their feet. I won’t speculate on how Christie will end up. Republicans don’t trust him, and anyone who would punish an entire city because its mayor wouldn’t endorse a guy with a more than 20-point lead is not going to be beloved by Democrats.
Tough break. I don’t know if a two-hour apology will do it, but we’ll see.
Spent part of the evening at a two-beer confab with a friend, working on a piece of writing. Came outside to discover, hoo-boy, it’s snowing again. It won’t last. Because this weekend it will rain. Character feels fully built right about now.
I don’t have any links today; do you? If so, post them in the comments. I’m going to bed and hoping next week, nobody dies. Happy weekend, all.
UPDATE: Please don’t miss the note from Prospero’s brother, which he left in a previous thread.