<<< Kelly Le Brock, how could we hate you when you gave us luxurious Pantene hair AND "Weird Science"???
And now a string of seemingly unrelated stories ...
-- I hate memoirs. No matter how well-written, how riveting, by the time I am halfway through I am hating on the author. Come on, to be so filled with thoughts about oneself that you write an entire book? I was taught that was "bragging" or at least "acting hot-shot." Seriously it doesn't matter who wrote it -- I start feeling that way. After four chapters of reading about a nun who served with Mother Teresa in Calcutta all I can think is, 'on and on with leprosy, at least you got to travel.'
-- Ichsnay on the Talkie-Talkersons. I took a class my freshman year of college entitled, "Ethics in Society." I remember only a few things from the class. One is the girl next to me with the folder displaying "Ethnics in Society" in extra-wide Sharpie marker. She either never realized the difference between ethics and ethnics or did but wasn't embarrassed about the misunderstanding.
Secondly, I remember a girl. Let's call her "Liz". That was actually her name, I can't come up with her last name but I vividly recall her glinty eyes and unusually big hands which gesticulated wildly as she talked. And talked, and talked, and talked. She was smarter, louder, and way more aggressive than the rest of us. Incidentally, she really hated me. It might have been because at 18 I didn't know my Bosnia from my Herzegovina or because I have lady-like hands and a sunny disposition. Her constant narration and cool, edgy devil's advocate-style was actually painful. Sort of like a constant assault. You get my point. And if you don't, because really who would ... stay tuned.
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