The Transcendence of B

I remember fondly my first ride in a horseless carriage, as we called them then. Father was dropping off a delivery at the cemetery. It was a simpler time, then. A much simpler time. Such a simple, simple...

We didn't have to bother with seatbelts then, and we certainly didn't have to endure public scoldings by a US cabinet member.

U.S. Transportation Secretary
Norman Mineta was taking the pop star to task for photos that showed her driving with her infant son on her lap.

Mineta called the pictures "troubling."

"No matter who you are, there's absolutely no excuse for this display--not instinct, not fear, not even reckless paparazzi," Mineta said.

[Spears's] apology, which included the tag, "It is what it is, I guess," did not suffice for Mineta, who kicked off National Child Passenger Safety Week with a little kick to Spears.

She is a charming little whore, no?

Les Oscars

Wel, the nominationsa are finally in. A few surprises and a few disappointments and a few delectable Hollywood stars whom I wouldn't mind filleting at the after party. And the nominees are:

Best Picture: Capote, Good Night and Good Luck, Crash, Munich, Brokeback Mountain
Best Actor: Phillip Seymour Hoffman, David Strathairn, Terrence Howard, Joaquin Phoenix, Heath Ledger
Best Actress: Felicity Huffman, Reese Witherspoon, Judi Dench (SIGH), Charlize Theron, Keira Knightley
Best Director: Bennett Miller, George Clooney, Paul Haggis, Steven Spielberg, Ang Lee

Judi Dench? Again? What is this... 2000? I remember an evening Judi and I spent in Picadilly, twirling parasols and nipples alike (but who's and when?) in that superb spring air. She was just a summer stock corkstopper in those days, with less talent than cleavage and I was a tired old director, even back then. We had moments by the river, moments in the Tower of London. I broke her heart and spared her, that night, on the terrace, that leather stretched so tight across my hand. I regret that night.

Paging Mr. Martin

An inside source tells me Mr. Steve Martin will return as host of Saturday Night Live next week.

Yes, we did. And no, I didn't.

Furious!

GWEN! TAKE THAT OFF AT ONCE! I AM FURIOUS!

I am sorry, all, for losing my temper like that. But look at that RIDICULOUS OUTFIT! GRAAAWWWLLLAAARRR!!!!

The Plan

Though I've had more conquests than I care (or am able) to count, few were as satisfying as the night with the Naked Warrior: In my circle of friends, you see, irony is the highest art and to have seduced a figurine such as Richard Hatch, an ephemeral flicker, a -- as you might say -- hologram of fame, is both a delight for my friends and a feather in my cap. I remember him telling me that night, as I covered his thighs in Tazman bandu oils and he took a long, luxurious drag from a Malay stick, that he intended to "pull the wool over that [expletive] IRS's eyes." (I've never paid taxes, but I have friends, you see. And I keep a lower profile than Mr. Hatch.) I smiled, took the joint from him, and wished him luck, but, alas, his plan seems not to have worked.

Hatch, who is considered a flight risk because he owns property in Canada, was led out of the courtroom in handcuffs and taken into custody. His conviction stems from his failure to pay the IRS its share of his $1 million winnings from the CBS show.



He was also found guilty of skipping taxes on $327,000 he earned as co-host of a Boston radio show and on another $28,000 in rent on property he owned. The jury, however, acquitted him of seven bank, mail and wire fraud charges.

Richard, though you were a passing chuckle, I shudder to think what they'll do to you in prison -- only because I won't be in on it. Won't you allow me the pleasure, while sparing you the torture? I have a wonderful stainless steel mezzaluna (Crate & Barrel, I could marry you) that I think would do the trick. And, yes, I'll play that Al B. Sure song you were so enamored of that evening.

My Candidate

I am not a political creature by nature. I find it unclean and uncouth and unsporting to fret oneself with ethics, morals, the this-and-that of society; never mind to discuss such matters with others.

But once in a while a candidate comes along what tickles and excites my better sensibilities and urges me to look up from the boudoir and take notice of that unsavory political sphere. It is with great enthusiasm and good humor that I endorse, for your consideration, Jonathon the Impaler for the executive position in the great state of Minnesota!

You have heard me mention about Impaling terrorists and criminals. Many people may think it is a barbaric form of punishment.



Well, is it more barbaric than what bin Laden and his followers did to us on 9-11 when they killed innocent Americans? Do you think the Al-Qaeda worries about being humane when they attack? How about when they decapitate and kill innocent American hostages?

Is Impaling more barbaric than when an adult rapes an innocent child? Is it more brutal than a man who rapes, beats and/or kills a woman?

Now, tender reader, you understand there are certain elements of his philosophy that I am unable to get completely behind - a mere superficial scratching will tell you that. But I admire his verve, his panache, his dedication. Mr Impaler, I tip my hat to you and wish you luck in this cruel world of simpleminded civility, of laws bent and broken. It could use a little of your style. See you in the ether!

Priorities

I'll admit, there were times when guilt would wriggle its bony hands round my neck and make breathing a little more labored. To absolve it, occasionally I'd volunteer at the Youth Farm, that old stone building and its steaming chimney, shoveling glorp into the mouths of babes. And they'd sing and dance, their lilting cockneyed accent, their simple clothes, a patchwork quilt in fabric and in spirit. I recall those times, now, as some of my happiest: the looks in their eyes, when the ladle would come down, and I, the Bringer of Nourishment. Well...

Hollywood's own street urchin is, no doubt, the lovely Reese Witherspoon, who's been burdened with more this week than most dare think of bearing.

Photos published this week showed the Golden Globe winner wearing the same glittery Chanel cocktail dress that Kirsten Dunst had worn to the awards in 2003.



Witherspoon believed the gown — in a champagne color with metallic trim on the bust — was vintage, her publicist, Nanci Ryder, was reported as telling the New York Post in Wednesday's editions.

"Reese was told the dress was vintage," Ryder was quoted as saying. "It was not. I'm not angry — just a little disappointed, but the big deal is Reese won the Golden Globe."

Reese, I'd love to love you to pieces, and I'd stitch you back up again and have you as my own smiling rag doll. I'll borrow that high gauge thread from a "friend" in Detroit. Don't worry, the maid will take care of the mess. (She learned to stop asking questions years ago.) Just you and I. In the foyer, in the study, strolling in the garden. The moonlight, the night. You go limp in my arms, forever smiling.

Mentor

Remember when he had one glove? That was my idea. The ghouls rising from the grave to show off their rhythm? Me. Molesting all those children at his amusement park home? C'est moi. For years, I've acted as a consultant to the King of Pop during his most debauched and most inspired chapters. But this, ladies and gents, is a masterpiece all his own.

[A] recent lawsuit [against Michael Jackson] hits the trifecta, alleging the pop star sexually abused a boy in the 1980s and 1990s, lifted lyrics and melodies from the child, who was as young as 2 at the time of the reputed plagiarism, and reneged on a deal to pay for the songs.



Perhaps making the lawsuit at least a quadfecta, Jackson, 47, is also accused of burning, beating, and torturing the then-child, and forcing him to undergo "unnecessary cosmetic surgery procedures."

Though the bloods of temptation have run thick through me, a teacher could never destroy one of his most prized pupils. Not without provocation, anywhow. No, this one I want to watch.