de plane

So here we are.

Apparently Charlie Sheen, by his own account, is an F-18. 

Indeed, this statement may be courtesy of the demons that are surely whispering all sorts of helpful suggestions in his ears, but maybe he has a point. Granted, he didn’t just win a $35 billion contract from the government like Boeing just did. In fact, he just lost $1.2 million per episode. 

But considering he’s taped 178 episodes, well...

Oh, enough about obscene amounts of money the likes of which you and I can’t even comprehend because of all those zeros. Let’s take a look at the F-18, shall we?

individuality

So here we are.

I was watching Ebert Presents At The Movies the other night. This is not a review of that program, though I will take this opportunity to mention how I was not aware that every chorus boy from Oliver! had auditioned for the hosting job.

That was my clever attempt at saying how young I think Ignatiy Vishnevetsky looks. (It’s not really clever at all. It just makes me sound like some old lady yelling at kids to stop trampling her begonias.)

Anyway, I was happy to see that the program includes a review by Roger Ebert himself, through the aid of a computer voice synthesizer, which he has used for many years after thyroid cancer-related surgeries. I’ve seen reports about how programmers have been working on using Ebert’s many hours of television appearances and DVD commentaries to create a computerized voice that sounds like his old speaking voice, but this was not the voice I heard during his review. Still, it sounded hauntingly familiar. Whom did this computerized voice remind me of?

uh-oh

So here we are.

It’s a dangerous time. Yes, it’s just like the opening title sequence of a Star Wars movie: 

These are dangerous times in the D’Abruzzo galaxy. 14 months after their last encounter, after a lengthy production hiatus, our heroine is faced once again with her mortal enemy: the craft service table on “Sesame Street.” 

I know what you’re thinking. What’s the big deal? Why does she have such an aversion to pipe cleaners? 

And indeed, craft service does conjure up the image of little old ladies knitting or quilting, or little kids gluing glitter to construction paper. Oh, if only that were the case. I wouldn’t be writing this blog right now; instead, I’d be making a turkey out of the traced outline of my hand (because doing it in November is soooo cliché).

goody bag ho

So here we are.

This past Saturday night, my husband produced the Writers Guild Awards on the East Coast. And though I was tired and feeling bloated, though it would have been much easier to have settled in on a misty winter’s night and curled up with an assortment of snacks rather than try to hail a cab, I rediscovered some appropriate cocktail attire and steamed out the stuffed-unused-in-the-closet-for-too-long wrinkles. I dug through my dusty cubic zirconium and other fake sparklies, burned my thumb on the curling iron from sheer lack of practice and shook awake the long-slumbering hairspray can. I spackled and smeared and realized that evening makeup application is just like riding a bicycle, but only metaphorically. I teetered through the cocktail hour(s), nibbled on awkward foods and tried to remember how to avoid getting them stuck in my teeth, smiled at total strangers and made small talk and when it was all said and done, I really didn’t have to be there at all. I barely saw my husband all night.