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July 14, 2001

love is all you need

We can all agree that the most disgusting television program in existence is Entertainment Tonight.   Viewers who intentionally watch it should give consideration to mass suicide.   The remaining viewers are those who, through negligence, pass through it while channel-surfing.   Oh, I suppose there are those who are bound to a chair with their eyelids fastened open Clockwork Orange-style to watch ET.   And there may be those who watch ET because there is no other way for them to keep tabs on Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones and their baby who, by all accounts, is special and, therefore, completely different from the newborn child of, say, Michael Sixpack and his wife Catherine Zeta Housewife.   But I digress to no point.   The point is this:   I have been depressed by my journal-site ever since I learned on ET (in passing, mind you) that Melanie Griffith maintains such a journal "to help her deal with her addiction." 

What is Ms. Griffith-Banderas addicted to ?   Stud-muffins?    Lip-collagen and Botox?  Forgettable movies?    In the end, I resent her efforts which trivialize addiction and which, frankly, succeed in out-whining me.   I would quit writing this pap but for the fact that I have nothing better to do.    So I continue....   For now.

I will hold off on my expose of the Condit-Levy saga until more facts are in or the D.C. police arrest Bob Barr for the murder, whichever comes first.   Until then, I urge Gary Condit to hold a press conference to explain why a man with such a pasty, wrinkled puss would sport such a youthful, towel-dry-it-and-go hairdo.

In the days leading up to my birthday, I was unable to muster the self-interest necessary to render a State of the Psyche / Spirit Address.   I sort of limped to the finish line.   But on Friday, I was showered with, if not an out-pouring of affection, a serious trickle.   From my dear friend, Jeff, I received a DVD player.   He assures me that the stop-frame picture quality is excellent and that, if I wanted to stare at a clear, frozen picture of Charlize Theron's ass in the Cider House Rules, I could do so.   I had not thought of this.   Much.   Jeff also gave me a DVD of Neil Young Live in Berlin and a book on Jefferson Davis.   My office friends gave me a bird-feeder and birdseed for my office window and I received a number of cards, emails, phone calls and hugs.   While I am fully aware that my shameless self-promotion accounts for at least half of this recognition, I am nonetheless gratified.   Sometimes I allow myself to think that in small, yet important, ways, I give comfort to others.

©  2001 by the beastmaster