vBulletin statistic
You are here: Home / Entertainment

Is Romance dead or is it just sleeping it off in a twin bed?

May 10, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 2 Comments

Is Romance in danger of joining the Tyrannosaurus? Is romance becoming something else we can live without?

A good friend of mine had just seen the musical “South Pacific.” I saw it on PBS about 6 months ago. We both talked about how much it made us cry.  Not because there was a war going on or that Nellie thought Emile might be taken from her. It was the lyrics and the melodies that pulled at our emotions and made us both feel like we live in a world where romance is on life support.

How did that happen?

People say we can’t maintain that level of romantic love. So it just morphs into something else –is Apathy the new Romance of the 21st Century?

If people can maintain angry and craziness without missing a beat, then why can’t they hold romance up there with all those other moods?

How come a bad mood trumps a good mood?

Some enchanted evening
Someone may be laughin’,
You may hear her laughin’
Across a crowded room
And night after night,
As strange as it seems
The sound of her laughter
Will sing in your dreams.

Some Enchanting Evening by Rodgers and Hammerstein

Words can change us. And a little melody behind it can transport us back in time to when we could not catch our breaths.

Where did you first meet him? Me – a bar.

What did he say to you? Me – who knows.  It was loud and I was drinking.

How did he make you feel? Me – superior because I had great tickets to see the Rolling Stones and he didn’t.

Okay I may not be the best case study in the romance category.  And this isn’t just about me. It’s about all of us.

I am all for feeling my knees weakening, my pulse racing (and not because of too much dark chocolate) and feeling a tad secretive because I have just the right amount of romance in my life.

I love watching Dancing with the Stars (and I do read the Republic of Plato during the commercial breaks) because there is something so romantic about 2 people playing a dance of seduction. Now if the husband showed up in sequins, I might not be able to maintain a straight face. But I would give him credit for trying. Okay, I am lying. He does not have the body for sequins.

I’m gonna take my time, she gon get hers before I
I’m gonna take it slow (woah woahh), I’m not gonna rush the stroke
If you don’t know by now, Doggy Dogg is a freak freak freeeeaak
I keep a bad bitch with me, 7 days out the week
And all that we ever do is play in the sheets sheet sheeeeettss
Smoke us a cigarette and go back to sleep

Sexual Eruption by Snoop Dogg

I don’t know. Is it me? I will admit I wore latex gloves when I typed in Snoop’s lyrics, but could this be causing the death of romance? I think if I ever woke up and found the Snoop in my bed, I’d take up smoking again.

What’s the solution? Maybe a little of Rodgers and Hammerstein and a pinch of Dogg.

Send a card, make the bed (better yet, change the sheets when they start standing up by themselves), go for a walk, hold hands, remember something cool about each other and don’t keep it to yourself.

Turn off you ipod, iphone, ipad, laptop, computer, bluetooth, blackberry and hold onto someone you like or even love.

We were meant to be touched and not texted.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion

What happens in Vegas . . .

May 2, 2011 By Deborah Batterman 6 Comments

I cashed out at $29.75 last night. I called it a win. My husband said we broke even. No high stakes here. Just having a little fun with a one-armed bandit at Caesar’s Palace. Every few years my husband is lured to Las Vegas for a trade show. Every few years I tag along, although full disclosure demands I tell it like it really is: I’m the one more eager for the trip to Sin City. Every few years.

Tell most people I know that I like Vegas for two or three days, and they look at me like I’m crazy. Then comes the nod, well, they kind of get what I mean, Disneyland for grown-ups, right? Yes, there’s something about all those blinking flashing lights that beckon in an R2D2 kind of way. And yes, I can pretend, with all the faith I give over to magic and mystery, that the right touch of a button or pull of a lever will make my wheel of fortune spin till it spills over. And yes, the stimulation becomes physical, the fantasy transformed into innuendo, the hotel room now a den of pleasure.  But what I think fascinates me most here is the dreamscape of it all.  The old woman making her way through the casino with a walker, the man with a three-year-old sitting on his shoulders, the motorcycle dude chugging a beer, the woman in a sequined mini-dress and high heels are drawn to this Mecca  in the desert for mostly the same reasons.  And even if they never took a psychedelic drug, they recognize a good acid trip when they’re on one.

There’s no getting around it — Las Vegas is overkill, the ultimate in artificiality.  And maybe that’s the point. It might as well have been Bugsy Siegel who coined the phrase, “if you build it, [they] will come.” Even if he never imagined a skyline that would one day morph into a giant stage set (look one way for the beckoning wink of a sphinx, another for the clarion call of knights around a table, another to mill about in the shadow of gods standing sentry in a sea of marble, no crazier than they ever  were), the man knew the value of a good dream. Not his problem if one person’s dream is another person’s nightmare.

This morning I took a break from keeping my husband company in his booth at the convention center. I sat at the “beach” at Mandalay Bay, watching children of all ages ride wave after wave (it’s all here – wave pool, lazy river, loud music). My father, were he alive, would shake his head, what’s the world coming to? if I told him about family fun in Vegas. He loved the art of the card shark, no counting on penny machines for his luck to turn around. In his day I highly doubt there were billboards for free dental implants, cheap divorce, Wet Republic  (some ad team’s idea of making an MGM Grand pool the place to cool off). But in this town sometimes known as the city of lost wages, some things have always been a constant. There’s a young woman walking past me, the bottom of her long white gown edged in a pattern of feathers stitched in red. No royal wedding here, just the very royal flush of a bride straight from the chapel.

Visit Deborah’s website here . . .

Filed Under: Entertainment, MISC, Opinion, Style

Getting the Royal Rush from Will and Kate?

April 28, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 7 Comments

As a young girl, the world of royalty fascinated me. So much so, that I actually told people that I had been kidnapped and was actually a member of Britain’s royal family. Hard to believe, but no one bought into that idea. So I continued to live with this very proper American family. In my heart, I thought it would just a matter of time before the truth came out – that I don’t dabble in reality all that much.

I, for one, love all the pomp and circumstance when it comes to the upcoming nuptial between Will and Kate. You know, that couple from two good gene pools (if you don’t include Charles’ side) who reside across the pond are getting married on Friday, April 29th. That’s right. 4 AM EST. I’ll be up. If I got up for Diana and Charles, I can get up for Will and Kate.  I am looking forward to it because my invite is still lost in the mail.

This young couple, who met at university, dated and sampled life on their own finally realized that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. And then the Queen informed them that they would have to do it front of millions of people who are sitting in front of their TVs attired only in their underwear.  How cheeky is that?

You know how you can look at a couple and proclaim that, “they will be suing each other for divorce in six months?” I am rooting for them to make it to their golden anniversary. And then they can date other people. I’ll be dead. I won’t care.

Quite the love story for our time. No drug arrests, no hookers, no “winning,” and no tweets from either of them.

It’s not to say that being royal (or becoming one) does not come with it’s share of embarrassments – there’s a queen who doesn’t realize that clothes from the 1940s belong in a museum and not in her closet and then there are those wonderful, wacky and witless group of royal ancestors who should get their own show on Bravo: “Real Housewives of New Jersey Lose their Heads over Henry the Eighth.” Please God, I won’t ask for anything ever again.

But Kate and Will have risen above it all and are going to get married. In front of their family and friends and about a billion people. If a billion people are watching the nuptials, then one billion people are not fighting, killing or blowing up anything. How bloody good is that?

So if you don’t like all the coverage – rent a heart.  You can return it on the 30th and the world can go back to being a slightly horrible place again. Bah! Humbug!

But for one day, I’d like to believe that love can push hate into the background. Where is belongs.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia

What I will miss when the world comes to an end

April 12, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 8 Comments

A few weeks ago I wrote about what I wouldn’t miss when the world comes to an end. That Glenn Beck’s Fox show got dropped leads me to believe that I have some power. And I won’t abuse it … Sean Hannity – you are getting very tired.

Someone suggested (thanks DB) I write about what I will miss when the world comes to an end. Good point. I have to say this list might be harder to fill since I am not always feeling the love. And I mean that about myself and the world.  OMG – I am a coach and I just admitted to being human. Hot damn. I just might be able to fill up this list.

1.) Not getting to spend time with my long list of interesting men. And by spending time, I don’t necessarily mean reading by the fireplace. Javier – call me. I hear the end is near.

2.) The possibility of …

3.) Watching kittens get their walking papers. And puppies who ice stake down the hall with wobbly legs.

4.) Putting words in a certain order that makes people laugh or think. Or think about laughing.

5.) Real passionate kisses from men who know how to kiss and don’t look at kissing as a way to wipe off a feature or two off your face. Call me old-fashioned.

6.) The chance to get back into that crocheted dress from the 1970s that I used to be able to wear without a bra. TMI?  Perhaps.

7.) Being able to talk to my darling friend David who left us in 1997. I just think about him and he is all around me – messing with my hair. Hmmmm … maybe we will see each other again? That would be just lovely. Remember David – Karma means never having to miss you ever again.

8.) Linguine and clam sauce.

9.) The ocean. One of the few places where people aren’t staring at me and wondering how I forgot to exercise over the last few years. It happened, people, it just happened.

10.) Yelling at the Tea Party members. Who needs therapy with this crowd around?

11.) The chance to own a closet full Christian Louboutin heels.

12.) Seeing the people of the world living in peace. We didn’t even get close.

13.) Friends who keep secrets. On second thought, they will have to go with me. I don’t think I can trust anyone that much.

14.) My VHS and DVD copy of ‘The Way We Were.” Robert Redford in bed.

15.) Good wine. Bad wine. Any kind of wine.

16.) Giving Donald Trump a Mohawk and telling him “You’re fired.”

17.) Manhattan. You can keep the Bronx and Staten Island, too.

18.) Hearing the late Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech.

19.) Concealer. Not that I ever needed it.

20.) Laughing so hard.

So what are you going to miss?

Visit Elizabeth’s site,  My Views from the Edge at: My Views from the Edge

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion

Born this way

April 6, 2011 By Deborah Batterman 5 Comments

Let me just say it – I have a thing or two in common with Lady Gaga, not the least of which is a Birkin bag. Mine is orange, a gift from an extravagant, dear friend who wanted to give me something she knew I would never buy for myself (she got that right).  I’ve been accused of treating mine more like a precious pet than a handbag; Lady Gaga has personalized hers, with scribbles on her white one and studs on her black one. Whether you call it defacement or art depends on which side of the fashion fence you sit.

Likewise, we share an appreciation for fabulous footwear. Christian Louboutin may be de rigueur for the Fame Monster; I don’t (yet) own a pair, but I have a fair selection of (other) designer shoes. The point? Anyone who dismisses shoes as frivolous trappings misses their cultural implications and what they reveal about worlds long gone to us; not to mention the individual stories they tell.

Here’s one: I’m at a Lady Gaga concert, not in high heels, much as I admire the (young) women in spikes and (frothy) white wigs. I’m in shoes meant for dancing, sporty French flats my daughter frowns at, but, hey, I’m here, on the floor of the Staples Center, L.A., less than fifty feet from the stage. My daughter, iPhone at the ready, is amused at my giddy state after a margarita (or two) and sends out a tweet, all her friends now privy to our repartee, She: are you drunk? Mom: no, I’m just high. And why wouldn’t I be? I flew across the country for a weekend with my daughter timed to Lady Gaga’s Monster Ball. The Scissor Sisters just happen to be opening for her, and right now they just happen to be playing “Take Your Mama.” Life is good.

Turns out that the night I’m at the concert, March 28th, is Lady Gaga’s birthday. She’s twenty-five, a milestone that my daughter hits a few months from now. I won’t even contemplate the implications. All that matters, right here, right now, is that I can’t resist the call, just dance. I’m in the thick of it, la crème de la crème of concerts, maybe you know the feeling – the thump thump thump when your heart isn’t beating on its own.

Stop callin’, stop callin’, I don’ wanna think anymore
I left my head and my heart on the dance floor
Stop callin’, stop callin’, I don’ wanna talk anymore
I left my head and my heart on the dance floor

So now let me say this: if not for another (almost) twenty-five-year-old, I might have dismissed Lady Gaga as more style than substance. No doubt marketing has played its hand in the phenomenon, a woman at the right place, the right time. But there’s also this: as talented a singer and musician as she is, it’s the medium she mines brilliantly to bring her message. The stage sets, the costume changes, the choreography, her connection with her fans become part of an equation in which person and persona merge, which may be the thing I admire most about her. Only two vowels – “a” and “I” – stand on their own as words.  We think of ourselves as ‘persons’; pay attention now, hear the word, the closed consonants. Persona, with its afterthought of a syllable is the more open-ended concept. Lady Gaga has cultivated a persona around being who you are. So now this person will stop writing, head into the kitchen, pump up the volume, make a dance of chopping radicchio. No cameras, please.

Visit Deborah’s website here . . .

Filed Under: Entertainment, MISC

This Is Your Life

March 18, 2011 By Deborah Batterman 8 Comments

My least favorite day of the year is in November, when we move clocks back an hour. Whatever I gain in sleep is no compensation for daylight taken from me earlier than I like. The other side of the coin, the springing ahead in March, is so worth the lost hour of sleep.  Both are a reminder of the arbitrary nature of measuring time.

Most days I get up in the morning to meditate. What draws me to meditating is a sense that, if I can’t really slow the passage of time, I can slow myself down; if I’m really lucky, I’ll get a glimpse of the tiniest bit of stillness, and with it a clarity that allows me to see the start of a day for what it is, nothing more nothing less. To be ‘in the moment’ is a kind of grace, no conscious thought about being in the moment. I tried meditating years ago, only to stop when I realized I was doing it for the wrong reason, which was to fix something in me.  What brought me to that realization was a celebration, my mother-in-law’s 80th birthday.   My husband and his siblings had orchestrated a surprise, three of their mother’s lifelong friends joining us in California, where she lives. To spend four days in the company of four very golden girls in full acceptance of whatever it means to be where you are, no searching for some deeper meaning in it all, was a gift.

An aunt of mine turned 80 last week and we celebrated, ironically the very Sunday of Daylight Savings Time. This aunt has three daughters and eleven grandchildren. She’s a woman who has traveled the world with my uncle, and she’s had her fair share of joys and heartaches. She is one of my few remaining aunts, and I don’t see her often. It’s the way we live now. One of her daughters put together a booklet, This Is Your Life, Marilyn. Turn back the clock, metaphorically speaking, and there would be a few more aunts and uncles, not to mention my mother and father, crowded into a private party at a small Upper West Side restaurant. Life events are as good a measure of time as anything.

Time – it passes too quickly, it’s what you make of it, it never stands still. Clichés, yes, but at the heart of them a wish, if only implied, that things can be other than the way they are. Time – it marches on, waits for no one – if only it didn’t rule our lives the way it does. Computer time – measured in tweets, hop-scotching hyperlinks, and typo-filled e-mails –speeds us up. If you’re staring at the second hand of a clock, it’s a good guess you’re bored and/or waiting for something or someone. And speaking of clocks, as Howard Mansfield points out in a delightful New York Times op-ed piece, clock time is nothing more than a “convenient fiction.” He sheds light on the Puritan ethic that gave rise to the popularity of clocks, expensive as they were, in the formative days of the U.S. of A. Apparently there was a law on record in Massachusetts that made wasting time a crime: “No person, householder or other shall spend his time idly or unprofitably, under pain of such punishment as the court shall think meet to inflict.”  I kid you not.

All of which is to say, whatever it is that I don’t seem to have time for today is bound to be the very thing I crave when I have too much time on my hands.

Visit Deborah’s website here . . .

Filed Under: Entertainment, MISC, Parenting

How Can I Get Old If I Refuse To Grow Up?

March 14, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 7 Comments

I have been saying for years that growing up, getting old and slipping into sensible shoes is someone else’s future. Not mine. No levelheaded hair styles for me, and while I am at it, lose the “can I help you ma’am?” attitude. If I needed help, I would call upon any one of my admirers once those silly restraining orders against me have been lifted.

So the other day, I am going about my fantasy life and this little ditty shows up in my email box. I asked if the sender wanted to be identified and she foolishly said, “I don’t care.” So, this is Esme, my oldest friend. We have known each other since we were three when I came flying out of my parent’s house to inform Esme and her mother to stay off my property. The police report noted that I spat at Esme, but I think that was a gross exaggeration. At that age, I was still drooling on myself.

“You know what else I hate? Getting ready for bed. Between the going to the bathroom, brushing my teeth, using the water pic, going to the bathroom, removing the makeup- without which I can’t leave the house anymore- cleansing my face, going to the bathroom, applying numerous anti aging moisturizers, layer by layer because I figure if one doesn’t work, there are 10 more on top to cover for it, going to the bathroom, taking all my various medications and constipation remedies, checking the door and going to the bathroom, it takes me an hour and I’m already tired when I started. There is nothing good that I can think of about getting old.


I forgot to mention, I have to wear glasses if I want to see anyone more than 15 feet away from me and even in the last row of the movies, where I have to sit. They’re very stylish- Do you know how freaking old I feel? This is besides the other glasses that I have to wear if I’m interested in reading anything- like the labels on the increasing medications that I take – do you know how freaking old I feel?


Just a thought…….”

My, she does go on, doesn’t she? I have to admit I laughed my butt off and then I had to go the bathroom. The power of suggestion is very strong.

I am not immune when it comes to reaching my next birthday. Several years ago, I had to start to take Synthroid because I have a thyroid that refused to get down and give me 50 sit ups. I asked for how long I would have to take this medication and the doctor said “forever.” I started to cry. So I am not Superwoman. I have to call my doctor out on this one. She told me I would start to lose those stubborn (fill in blank) pounds that were hanging around. Oh, really. Does it say big, fat liar on your diploma?

And I do find it a little insulting when I go to a new doctor and they ask how many meds I am on and say “two.” They look at me as if this poor dear is losing it. How about good genes?

For as long as I have known Esme, and when we are not in a wine induced haze, we are sarcastic, intelligent, humorous, catty and self deprecating. The latter is to keep those aging police from coming to round us up. We kill them all with our charm. Charm doesn’t age. Nor does it get brown spots. And in my world those damn spots are freckles. End of story. Oh, but before I really end it, the two of us can hold our own in a room filled with 30 and 40 year olds. Well, as long as they are men.

I can’t help Esme when it comes to wearing eyeglasses. I just look at them as accessories that keep me from falling down the stairs. Sort of like earrings with radar.

Same goes with constipation remedies. To know my family, is to know that we do not have bodily functions. It was never discussed amongst my people. I see the ads for the whole assortment of things our bodies do or don’t do and wonder who are these people who take such things and why do they not live in my village?

So in closing, I want to say to all…what was I talking about?

Not!

Nature gives you the face you have at twenty; it is up to you to merit the face you have at fifty.
- – - – Coco Chanel

The photo above was taken before everyone started to use Botox. I do miss the waxed lips days. (we do not dress alike -I was living in NY and Esme was living in Italy so there were enough miles between us.)

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

Confession: I watch a soap opera

March 3, 2011 By Katie Barber 4 Comments

Those of you who know me know that I have a favorite soap opera. It might be slightly misleading to refer to it as my “favorite,” implying that I have tried other soap operas and this one has emerged the winner, when that is not the case. This has always been my one and only soap opera. I’m not concerned with the semantics, however; I will proudly declare that it is my favorite, and I DVR it every day.

I was first seduced by this soap opera when I was in high school. The summer storylines centered around younger characters (which, I now understand, is a ploy to entice the younger viewers home on summer vacation, just like me) and even included a guest stint by a popular R&B artist, and, most importantly, the show was only thirty minutes long and on during lunch. It was the easiest thing to watch while eating my sandwich before moving on with my day.

My devotion to the soap waned when school started each fall, but, each summer, I picked back up where I left off. Sometimes there were new characters, or old characters replaced by new actors, but I only needed a few days to get back into the swing of things. I became a regular viewer in college, and, in a happy surprise, the girl who lived across the hall in my sorority house was also a fan. When she and I lived together with a third roommate, we recruited that roommate as well. We taped the show (because we had VCRs back then) and watched it together every day. We crafted a sign with cut-out pictures from Soap Opera Digest that read: STOP! DID YOU REMEMBER TO TAPE THE SOAP? We affixed it near the lightswitch so that the last person out in the morning would check to make sure that the VCR was set.

Our love for this soap opera, while a little silly, has helped keep us tight. We don’t see each other often (I live in New York, one lives in Chicago, and the other lives in downstate Illinois), and our lives are not as parallel as they once were (I dropped off the radar for years during law school, one runs marathons, and the other has a husband and a baby), but we can always connect through the soap. It’s our own special language. We regularly exchange emails, texts, and tweets voicing our disbelief about the leading lady’s latest scandal, our concerns over another character’s increasingly bad wigs, or our opinion on which beau the young blonde should choose.

Some people find it surprising that I have such a dedication to a soap opera. Soap operas are, after all, a dying form of entertainment and still conjure images of the target viewers being housewives eating bon-bons. I’m not embarrassed about it, however. The show provides some escapism and some laughs (because, honestly, sometimes the plot lines are too ridiculous to be taken seriously), and, most importantly, it helps me keep in touch with some of my dearest friends!

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, MISC

Don’t try this at home: Five tips to save your sanity while working at home

March 1, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 18 Comments

When the time comes and you decide to work at home, please follow these fool-proof tips. I can’t speak for the rest of the world, but this fool didn’t and now I wish I had a Fairy God Mama who would have pointed me in the right direction. There is nothing worse than having your clothes hire a SWAT negotiator to get them out of your closet and into a safe house.

Number One with a bullet: For the love of God and everything we hold dear in this world, do not, I repeat, do not buy sweat pants for comfort while working. You can be just as brilliant in your own damn trousers! I fell under the spell of “well, they are kind of cool black sweats and I did not buy them at Wal-Mart and I could even go walking with them on” line of crap. I don’t care if Giorgio Armani designed sweats for his couture line. Do not wear them at home while working. They do have their place – putting laundry in, cleaning out a litter box or 5 but if you sit in front of your computer for 12 to 18 hours a day, you will develop a HUGE butt and don’t get me started on locating the land where small waistlines go. You need to feel the cold, hard metal of a zipper against your flesh each day of your life.

Number Two: Get outside everyday. Regardless of the weather, open the front door, crack open a window and escape. Don’t put it off until later in the day because you know damn well you won’t do it. Don’t wait till the cops show up because the neighbors thought they smelled something funky coming from your house. You don’t need to read your obituary in the paper. They always put a picture of you with in your eyes closed. Take the cat for a walk.

Number Three: Cleanliness is next to impossible if you don’t bathe. I could write a book, but I am in the shower. Finally.

Number Four: If the green mold on the bread starts to bubble, call the Hazardous Materials hotline number. These guys could use a good laugh and who knows maybe you’ll get invited out to lunch. I would just suggest that someone else taste the food.

Number Five: Oprah’s Final Season. And try as you may, you can’t just unplug your computer and move it to the bedroom to watch Ms. O’s 25th Season. Why don’t I have a lap top? Silly, I work at home now and my 401K just had last rites…again.

So now I will keep on working in heels with a fully made up face and 2 pairs of Spanx. As God as my witness.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Opinion

The Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards and Me: Separated at Birth.

February 15, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 2 Comments

I want to come back as The Stones’ Keith Richards in this lifetime. Just in case I am scheduled to back as a frog in my next life.

I mentioned this to The Husband and he threw up a little in his mouth. He is used to me making proclamations that others would not dare to dream, much less utter, but perhaps he needs to hear me out. So sit back and be ready to be dazzled by the likes of Keith Richards – guitarist to the second best rock and roll band that ever existed. I got to give The Beatles their props. I think Keith will understand that.

I have not read Richards’s memoir “Life” (it is sitting in a pile by my bed) but I have seem him being interviewed recently and I want him and his family to come to my house for Easter. Okay, my sister’s house. I don’t cook. I get to make a salad. I am told my salads are legendary. Because I can open a can of black olives? Aim higher, people.

Okay, back to Keith. Each interview I have seen on him leaves me wanting more. My first “ahha” moment with Keith was when he talked about being drug free for 30 years and yet no one will let him move on. Ah, Keith, allow me to introduce you to my family. I did things when I was 16 that they still talk about. I am not going to tell them about the Nobel Peace Prize I won this year. It doesn’t compare to what I did at as a teen. So I get that, Keith, I really do. Ironically, I wrote OD first. Which you are not doing anymore.

So I plan on having a party for all of us poor souls that people determined would die young. Pssst….We are still here.

When asked what his big regret in life was – it wasn’t dancing with heroin or any other self destructive behavior he exhibited. It was not being there when his two month old son, Tara, died. You saw the sadness in his eyes and felt his deep regret. That made me want to put my arms around him. He was a father still mourning a 34 year old loss.

So now at the age of 66, he tends to his garden in CT., grows lemon trees, and comes clean about Mick Jagger being a royal pain in the arse. Based on his findings I withdraw my petition to sleep with Mick. I like it when men remember my name. Yeah, like Mick would forget me.

And finally, what I really like about Keith Richards is this:

He gets to walk around in all his glory. The last time I saw wrinkles like his they were on an elephant.

I think his face is a message to all of us women – show your history – line by line.

Of course, he is not a woman. See you all at the plastic surgeon’s office. I am going for the Keith look.

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...
Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Opinion
« Older Posts