Jun 29, 2004
My cold and I are headed for sleepytown. Sweet dreams, suckers!
posted by Mary Forrest at 4:28 AM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 28, 2004
I'll cough myself to death, and then you'll be sorry.
I'm home safe but feeling poorly. And the only optimistic part is that I know I get extra skinny when I'm sick. I'm preparing for the cold medicine tingles. My face is hot, cheeks pink. But I think I look more like a happy little girl than a fatigued grown-up. That's what a barrette will do for you.
I haven't much voice, but what I have I would use to say sweet things. And you would be sweetened by them. And then I would cough all over you.
The night has been called one.
posted by Mary Forrest at 5:21 AM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 26, 2004
Shame on me, for it is dawn.
I'm doing it again. Shunning the rest my body requires. Even though I am throttled by the onslaught of a cold I do not wish to have. Thursday was opening night, and now it's smooth sailing, but I'm sitting out in the misty mountain nighttime for hours and hours, sucking on cough drops and then marching out to my car only to seek out the revelry elsewhere. Tonight, a cast member who has known me for a number of years asked if I was off to meet someone. Apparently, it looked like I was. I neither revealed nor rebuked. I suppose I am always off to meet someone. But it isn't always anyone in particular.
I liked the look of the hairband I chose, but I'm not so fond of the vise-like pinching sensation I have been experiencing in my skull. It's time to revert to pajama notions. If it weren't for the inherent rudeness of it, I would call everyone I know and tell them something noteworthy.
posted by Mary Forrest at 5:28 AM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 24, 2004
Please don't make me care about this.
I have never been someone who cared all that much about my age. When I was younger, I was often mistaken for older. I was a precocious child. An annoyingly precocious little peepot of a child. I wanted to be a prodigy. I remember watching some "news" magazine story (probably on That's Incredible! or something like that) about a family with an Asian mother and a Caucasian father and four daughters, all of whom had been raised to be geniuses. Their mother read to them in the womb. They were performing simple math problems by the time they were like four days old. They were reading before they could open their eyes. The oldest one was in college at age eleven. And I envied them. I resented my parents for not ever giving me a chance to be that brand of brainy freak. So it shouldn't surprise anyone that by the time I was fourteen and on the debate team, I was occasionally mistaken for a teacher rather than a student. And I didn't mind in the least. The only embarrassment was to be had by the Nabokovian lechers who wanted to get to know me better, only to find that they would be judging my debate round. And that I was still a sophomore. And a sophomore who skipped a grade (and was therefore all the younger).
Looking back on it, I was proud of such things at the time. I could hang with the parents just as easily as with the kids. Maybe more easily in some cases. But I never used this chameleon gift to buy cigarettes or liquor. I was afraid of consequences. And by the time I actually realized I wanted to buy cigarettes and liquor, I lived in Japan, where you can buy nearly anything you want from a vending machine, no questions asked.
So, I was always mistaken for older. Until such time as it no longer made sense to be. And then I started being mistaken for younger. In the Asian tradition. As I have actually gotten older, I have found myself in a sort of age-appearance eddy, swirling around a twenty-something epicenter. And now that I have cut my hair, it seems that I have regressed all the more. I met a few of Beulah's high school/college friends tonight, and they asked which of us was older. Said that we looked like twins. A stylist at the hair salon asked me the same question. I'm seven years older than Beulah. And for a good stint there, I was often mistaken for her mother. It's a wonder what a little barrette will do. I'm sure it's not that Beulah looks older than she is. If anything, it seems that we all just collapse inward towards some vague mid-twenties appearance. Fashion tugs us there. Music, maybe. Something like that anyway. Tonight, a clerk at the drug store looked at my i.d. as I was buying beer and cigarettes and said, "Fifteen. Just as I suspected. Do you have a note from your mother for these?" I laughed, the way you do when you are participating in the social formality of not saying, "Please shut up and complete my transaction. You are troll-like and wasting my time." He made a few other conversational quips. Flirting, of course. I have to admit, I laughed at each line, but I honestly couldn't understand what he was saying anymore. I wondered if he knew it. If he had asked me a question to which laughter would not be the appropriate response, we might both have experienced a moment's awkwardness. Fortunately, I didn't care if he thought I was a moron. When that happens with a friend, I'm mortified. When someone says something to me and I mishear it or try to play along without actually understanding, I might laugh or nod or say some packaged thing, and then in my internal instant replay, I begin to sound out what was actually said, some interpolation happens, and then all of a sudden I realize that my friend asked, "What time is it?" to which I scoffed, "I'll say!" There's no fixing such blunders. You have to just walk away and pretend it never happened or look the person in the eye and say, "I don't know why I just said that. I'm retarded."
I don't take special note of instances when people think I'm younger than I am. My mom always used to. She always used to brag that no one believed she had a pair of grown daughters. People would see her with me and my older sister and tell her that we all looked like sisters, and she would coo over it, and it would make her day. I don't know if any of these people weren't hitting on my mom or trying to sell her something. It's possible these sentiments were genuine. My mom was a very young mother, and she's Asian, and she takes good care to look nice all the time. There's no reason anyone should think she's not a good deal younger than she is. But the difference is she cares about it. And I don't. My older sister likes to cite instances of twenty-three year-old dudes thinking she's twenty-four. And there's nothing wrong with that. But I have never made it a thing on the list. I don't want to care about it. And I fear that all this youthful mistaking will leave a greying hole if it ever ends. If someone tells me I look exactly as old as I am, it might actually hurt my feelings. But it shouldn't. If a crass street urchin points a soiled finger at me one day and cries, "You're old, oldie!" it shouldn't make a crumb of difference. It shouldn't even matter when I one day cross the threshold after which people start saying, "She looks great for her age." Age is for census-takers and tree surgeons. Who cares how old you are or how old I am? The only time it matters is when we're trying to figure out whether we both watched Charles In Charge. This isn't Logan's Run, is it? And if it is, cool! -- I love domed cities.
posted by Mary Forrest at 4:03 AM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 19, 2004
"You've just gone and missed it."
I don't want you to adore me, don't want you to ignore me, when it pleases you.
What is this sunny disposition all of a sudden? Under more pressure than olives giving forth their oil. But it's weightless. This time around, all of the wry looks, the snide remarks, the guise of politeness -- they're unnecessary. Even the disappointments are inconsequential. I just keep moving. I'm finding that it's much easier to keep from getting mired in the muck if you make certain to never let your feet touch the ground. I have often walked down this street before. The pavement and I never parted.
Don't know where I am. Don't know how I got here. Don't really remember what it used to feel like. Even the things that recall the old chaotic exasperation do it in cartoonish parody. And I do love a good parody.
Yeah. I'll do it on my own.
posted by Mary Forrest at 2:16 AM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 18, 2004
Heaven or Las Vegas
I like that it's nighttime, but I don't like the way it gets to be that. I'm tired, and I have every reason to be. But I bite down on it just the same. The week ahead is frighteningly crammed. But I wouldn't be surprised if I come out on the other side of it with a suntan. There will be plenty of poolside hours, I expect. It's the nighttime that will be gruesome.
I often joke about being a vampire, and maybe this goes against that. But I'm nothing if not inconsistent. Anyone who knows me will affirm this.
Last night, late night brought me to Monterey Park and Peking duck and assorted delicacies at prices that make you WANT to drive that godawful stretch of the 10. Bring on the food adventure. Monterey Park is Adventure Town, U.S.A. But then it suddenly felt so late, and I couldn't keep from yawning, and I just wished that something in my body would right itself so that I could feel chipper and rested for just one small stretch. I'll bet I could fashion a metaphor with that old adage about Chinese food and being hungry soon after eating it, but I'm tired again, and I can't make the ends meet.
I'm going to be playing my violin a lot for the next few weeks. a) Hurray. b) Please don't make a point of noticing the red mark under my jaw. You will want to make a sly remark about it being a hickey, but you will be wrong. And I will feign amusement but only enough to make it clear that I've heard it before. Save us both the tense aftermath, won't you? If you like, you can gesture at the bruisy patch and say, "Hey. I like your throat."
posted by Mary Forrest at 1:47 AM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 17, 2004
I don't have anywhere else to put these, and they're building up something awful. I wouldn't presume that they are long-awaited, but they are at least long-promised. If you download them all and scroll through them quickly in your file list, they make a fun yet uninteresting flipbook of sorts. In the story, this girl looks up, then down, then to the left. Sometimes she smiles. And she is nearly never more than the length of her arm away from you. It's not much of a story, but our minds have been dulled by decades of bad television writing. I'm pretty sure SOMEONE will find this plot captivating.
I put some blonde in where there wasn't any before. That's what this is about.
posted by Mary Forrest at 12:00 PM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 16, 2004
Trophies are heavy.
I ended up watching the NBA Finals tonight out of sheer happenstance. And, as is often the case with sporting events that you watch with people who care about such things, it was a fine time and far more meaningful and educational than it would have been if I had watched it on my own. Although I can't imagine the circumstances under which I would ever do such a thing. Maybe a homework assignment...? I don't know. Anyway, I drank a lot of beer, and that makes me happy. As does putting the emblem of authenticity on long-anticipated connections. Remember, Matthew: veryverygay.com.
posted by Mary Forrest at 3:10 AM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 15, 2004
The Killing Moon
Does anyone in the world stay up as late as I do? And I had junk to post, too. But it's so late now that I don't think I shall bother. The same thing happened last night. And the night before. I never even bothered to write about the sunshine or the belly-baring or the bed collapsing in the middle of the night while I slept. And what of the swim? And the militant raw food place? What of all the ideas? And the picture-taking? And the tuna sandwiches I never made? What of all the hopes and the expectations and the fulfillments and the failures? Yes, well, it's always quite a list with me. Here are some things that remain true: I despise Doug Stanhope. Gas costs a lot of money. The Mobil on Magnolia and Mast has the nicest bathroom I have ever seen in a gas station. Generosity isn't free. And neither is being able to hold your liquor. Sunlight makes my nose itch. Dancing is groovy. But only when it's groovy. The drive is long, but the road remains the same. I like to play the violin.
The last time I had a first-time-in-a-long-time swim with short hair after years and years of long, long hair, I was eleven, and it was Guam, and I was at the pool with my little sister. I had just cut off a good three feet of hair that day. And I was anxious to see what it felt like to glide through the water without getting entangled in the kelplike tendrils that used to come up under my arms and bind me to frustration. Sitting poolside while Beulah splashed about, some utterly forgettable Marine sat down beside me and started hitting on me. He asked if my husband was on a ship. I said, "No." But the subtext of that was, "I am eleven years-old you perverted pervert." It was not the last time that a fellow would mistake Beulah for my daughter, but the other story involves less perviness and more Holstein-cow-printed seat covers. Gross.
Could the commercials for the Girls Gone Wild videos be any less enticing? The synthesized steel drum soundtrack loop only further affirms for me how much I really, really hate Doug Stanhope.
Which reminds me, I also can't stand the pants off of Matt Pinfield. He is such a revoltingly inept interviewer he nearly made me hate the Beastie Boys tonight. And I LOVE the Beastie Boys. Why are some untalented people not starving to death in a ditch somewhere?
The girls dancing in the commercial for the Girls Gone Wild video make me think of that movie The Accused. That would be a good way to sell those videos: if they promised that one out of three of the hotties you see shaking it in that classic dancefloor sexual palsy will get gangraped before the tape ends. They're asking for it, right?
After the Girls Gone Wild video infomercial ended, an informercial for one of those motorized geriatric scooter places came on. Classic.
P.S. Happy birthday, Pants.
posted by Mary Forrest at 5:29 AM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 11, 2004
Party Down with Erroneous Information!
Adam sent me the link to this article today. It reveals that the U.S. wrongly reported that worldwide terrorism was way down in 2003, attributing that statistic to American efforts in the Middle East. But it turns out, the report was totally wrong! Worldwide terrorism was actually way up in 2003! Ha ha ha! Isn't that hilarious? Those loveable State Department bozos -- it's like the Keystone Cops over there. I sure wish I could be funning and laughing in Washington right now. What a blast!
posted by Mary Forrest at 5:56 PM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 10, 2004
I cut my hair last weekend. Again. My mom saw it today for the first time and said I look thirteen years old. Hurray, I suppose.
Today, I added highlights to the mix. Another first for me. The pictures of that will follow as soon as I get inspired to make them do so. It's fun to change your look all the time. But it's a bitch to keep up with it photographically. I tell you.
This is the first time I've had short hair since high school. If you ask me, it's about time. I was tired of being known as the girl with the really long hair. I intend to keep changing my look with such frequency that people will be forced to describe me on the basis of my consistent traits, such as kindness, curvaceousness, and really excellent shoes.
posted by Mary Forrest at 2:24 AM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 7, 2004
Cooling All the Blood to Slush
Franz Ferdinand. Best rock and roll show ever. I am happy.
posted by Mary Forrest at 1:17 AM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 4, 2004
Find it where it is.
The dictionary.com word of the day on 2 June was autochthonous. The following day, David Tidmarsh correctly spelled the same word to win the National Spelling Bee. And he totally knew it when they read it to him. In the same way that he clearly knew gaminerie before it. He was near to hyperventilating as he spelled it. I don't know if that's officially uncanny. But it's a good way of learning the word autochthonous. And you never know when that might come in handy. I already knew how to spell it, but -- as with a secret many things -- I might have been hard-pressed to tell you what it meant unless you presented it to me in context. And a sentence like, "Fred was autochthonous," wouldn't have been enough.
My sister and I were talking about this the other day. The fact of her former spelling champion-ness (yes, both of us; can you believe it?) came up in conversation with a client (if I remember the anecdote correctly), and he challenged her to define the word lugubrious. And she said that she could SPELL it. Who cares what it means. Lugubrious, as it happens, means mournful or sad. By rights, it should be a favored word in my lexicon.
This same thing happens to me from time to time. It's the curse of being labeled a smart pair of pants. Everyone wants to unseat you. And I swear that any pun quotient in that sentence is not only unintentional, but you are forbidden to infer it. I was called "Brain" a lot in school. And for some reason that is both a term of esteem and loathing. They admire your smarts, but they also hate you for them. And nothing gives them more pleasure than to catch you out. Like the time my fourth grade math teacher made me cry by getting the entire class to chant taunting remarks at me when I missed one on a test -- FOR THE FIRST TIME THAT ENTIRE SCHOOL YEAR. It was Mr. Atcheson (fondly called "Mr. A"), and he and the entire class sarcastically asked and answered the same sentence over and over and over again until I ran crying from the room. "Mary missed one? Mary missed one! Mary missed one? Mary missed one!" I ran past the open door of my sister's reading class, and Jason Loomis, the cute boy that everyone liked who always carried a Goody comb in his pocket to tend to his feathered hair, leaned over to my sister and whispered, "I think your sister just got her period." And my sister, never one to disappoint, later told me that her greatest concern was not that I was in a state of duress, but rather that I might have gotten my period before she did.
Later that week, when Mr. A was the teacher on duty at lunch recess, he saw that I was red in the face from a game of whatever I had been playing at (probably tetherball or handball), and he placed a hand on my forehead, thought I was feverish, and had the nurse send me home. It was clearly a guilty peace offering. And, while I enjoyed helping my mom fold laundry in front of the Richard Simmons show instead of whatever we would have been doing in social studies that afternoon, I neither forgave nor forgot that incident. If you're reading this Mr. Atcheson, shame on you.
Some of the games we play at the comedy theater require us to get difficult words from the audience, and I am often put on the spot when someone suggests a word like defenestrate or stochastic, and my teammates turn to me, knowing that I will be able to tell them what it means. I ALWAYS feel that sense of panic: "What if I don't actually know what the word means? What if I've been faking it all this time?" Don't worry. I know what defenestrate and stochastic mean. Never you fear. But there are plenty of words I know how to spell and only know how to spell. And having that made public in front of an audience is never a pleasant thought.
When you play the role of the smartypants, you have to fake it a lot. It's a terrible habit. I, in my growing up, have tried to break free of it. I have tried to say, "I don't know what you mean," when I don't know what someone means. I try to say, "What is that word?" when I don't know what a word is. I try to be okay with not knowing everything. Because I have a feeling that leaving the desire to always know everything unchecked eventually evolves into other roles such as the agoraphobic, the sniper, and the cat lady.
And believe me, it's a far sight better actually learning things from people than trying to learn it all behind their backs while no one's looking. If you have something to teach me, I welcome it. Maybe not so much when I was a sophomore in high school. But I've done a lot of growing up since then. And there is actual truth to the notion that it takes more courage to admit that you're wrong or that you don't know than it takes to lord your rightness over everyone. I wasn't going to bring up anything George W. Bush-related today, but there you have it. Why won't he ever admit he's wrong? No one even thinks he's a smartypants? What has he got to lose?
I was really just going to point out that autochthonous was the word of the day only the day before it was the word of the hour. But, as has been known to happen, I digressed. Don't get me going about me and my pants.
P.S. Autochthonous means originating in the place where found. Just in case that wasn't clear.
Labels: NCT, Spelling Bee
posted by Mary Forrest at 1:02 PM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 2, 2004
Say it. Spell it. Say it.
So, I've been watching ESPN's coverage of the National Spelling Bee today while working and doing all the other nonsense I do in a day. And I've mostly been listening and playing along, like you do with Jeopardy. I have more interest in this than most, mainly because I competed in the National Spelling Bee when I was in eighth grade, flying from Guam to Washington, D.C., the longest distance traveled by any competitor that year. I'm noticing that, at least in the rounds I've watched, it helps to have been raised a Christian. With words like "catechistic," "isapostolic," and "trepanation*" coming up in the rotation, the pagan kiddies are at a distinct disadvantage. I would easily have deduced those spellings, even if I hadn't already known them, having had bible stories read to me each night and having sat through hours upon hours of church, Sunday school, parochial school, and (shockingly) voluntary theological discussion. If you actually watch the coverage, they put the word and it's definition up on the screen while the contestant is still at the microphone. But I haven't been looking. You'll just have to trust me that I would have gotten those words right. Because I would have.
People are often suggesting that I should watch Spellbound. I suppose they're right. I should.
Isn't it "interesting" how the conclusion to any contest is always anticipated to be "dramatic." The commentators for the spelling bee coverage (and that's a seat I have to wonder about) ushered me into the commercial break by insisting that I look forward to tomorrow's coverage of the bee's "dramatic conclusion." What if it isn't? What if the runner-up misspells a really hard word that everyone expects him/her to misspell and the winner correctly spells it and then correctly spells the follow-up word, which happens to be somewhat easier and consequently no one is surprised when he/she succeeds? That would hardly deliver any sort of promised drama. Who gets goosebumps when everything goes to plan? If any demographic could answer yes to that question, we might have seen a different archetype in the movie genres Heist, Caper, and Thriller.
And now it's some sort of ping pong championship. Have I stumbled upon a special ESPN network that only broadcasts events that will not alienate paraplegics? And I quote: "Folks, this is a fast-moving sport. Tremendous athletes playing at a high pace." This is just side-splitting to me.
Another thing I should do? Get back to work.
*This one was added for humor. The puncturing of the skull is hardly an exclusively Christian practice. Gotcha! Curiously, I learned the root word "trepan" when reading a book about Jack the Ripper in my junior high school days, while I was still studying for and hoping after the spelling bee prize. So I would have gotten that one, too.
Labels: Spelling Bee
posted by Mary Forrest at 3:31 PM | Back to Monoblog
38 Songs of Hope
Okay. I really want them to find a cure for Parkinson's Disease, too. But do they have to commit brand suicide? There's a benefit CD out now called (get this) ParkinSong. And I'm not saying you shouldn't buy it. In fact, please, accept my invitation to buy it right now. But you must agree: this is a very disappointing naming strategy. Even if it's the best various artists collection ever made, what should you say when your friend asks you what disc is playing when you pick him up from the bus station? You can't very well say, "ParkinSong!" And you certainly can't say it with the same verve that used to embody the name "Freedom Rock!" Marketing people (and I speak as one of them) like to come up with cutesy names. They really do. I don't know if it all got started with Sniglets or if it dates all the way back to the days when everything ended in "o-Matic," but making fun, punny product names that merge two well-known meanings is like THE most popular thing to do, third perhaps only to putting a starburst on the package that says, "New!" and just outright lying. But I don't think any word benefits from having "Parkins" added as a prefix, especially when it's the "Parkins" that comes from the word "Parkinson's." Try it. Parkinsburger. Parkinstastic. Sir Parkinsalot. It really does less to cheer a sentence than even the most optimistic ad wizard might estimate.
Gosh, 38 songs. That's a lot of hope. You can't argue with the value anyway.
I drove down to San Diego tonight to see Dave Chappelle at UCSD. Great show. Love that guy. You know the drill. Buy all of his DVDs. You won't be disappointed. Unless you're some sort of human fount of disappointment. And for you, every sunrise is like a slap in the face, so buy the DVDs anyway so that you will have something new to moan about. Anyway, as I was getting onto the 10 from the 405 a short while ago, his giant tour bus was right in front of me. I had only just seen it a few hours previously, walking back out to the car after the show. And then there it was again. Like in that movie Duel. Only in front of me rather than behind me and not apparently wanting to murder me or Dennis Weaver. Strange coincidence. Nothing came of it. I didn't lean out my window and flash him my boobs or anything. I was driving, for heaven's sake.
posted by Mary Forrest at 1:21 AM | Back to Monoblog
Jun 1, 2004
Let me just start this out by saying that my face is tingling with anger at the fact that I had finished this post and was pleased with it and then went to post it and found that nearly everything I'd written had been cut off. I have tried to recreate it, but I am so tired of having to assure you that I am better at this than I appear. What I wrote the first time around will live on ghostlike in my memory, a taunting reminder that what you will now read is a mere shade -- ersatz.
But on with it.
I had lunch at the Hotel Bel-Air today with Adam and Scott, who wanted to thank me for designing his web site when he was running for elected office (he won). He really didn't owe me anything; I was happy to do it. But the lunch was nice just the same. Lovely company in a terribly beautiful setting. We walked by the little Swan Lake they have there. It was idyllic and sunny and tranquil. It hardly feels like Los Angeles. Until you see all the embarrassingly swanky cars in the lot. And Joe Millionaire was sitting at the table beside us. I have no patience for such things.
As a surefire means of eclipsing the tattered remnants of a month that might have ended without much glory, Martín and I went to see the Paul F. Tompkins Show, and -- like magic -- all that was wrong in the world was set right again. I cannot venture far enough into the depths of the superlative to craft a compliment that would do this man justice. He is the awesomest. He and Michael Penn did a rendition of the Talking Heads' Psycho Killer that you should kill yourself for having missed. Seriously. Right now. Get your affairs in order and get on with it. He even worked an homage to the Violent Femmes' Blister in the Sun into the opening number, and that, too, was several magnitudes more excellent than anything you could possibly have seen or done today. Why oh why did you go to that barbecue where at least three different people brought crockpots with some gross bean dish simmering in them? Why did you let your girlfriend talk you into shampooing the carpets on THIS NIGHT? Why did you waste the day memorializing our fallen soldiers? They can't hear you. And frankly they're not altogether impressed with the fact that you don't think about them at all during the other 364 days of the year. Sure, you have a static decal of the ol' stars and stripes stuck to the window in your Toyota truck's camper shell, but were you really "saluting" it by spending most of the day skirfing? Maybe you just hate yourself. I can't let that be my problem. And I don't actually have any power to compel you in this, but my strongly-worded suggestion stands. You cheated yourself tonight, and for that you deserve to be punished. By you, because the cruel irony will teach you a sterner lesson. I was going to play good cop-bad cop and tell you that you deserve better than the Paul F. Tompkins-free world you are living in, but the more I think about your behavior tonight, the more convinced I am that you don't. A foolish person might see the PFT and wish that everyone in the world could be that funny or that talented or that smart. And another foolish person might call that person a communist.
Martín also finally gave me my birthday present. He had left it in the trunk of his car all this time. We joked that it was a puppy. That reminds me of the time my cousin gave me a brown paper bag that was stapled shut and instructed me to give it to my younger sister. I stuck it in my car and forgot about it for weeks. When I finally remembered, we hesitated before opening the bag, thinking, "What if it's a bag of cheese?" But then we remembered that our cousin is Chinese and not likely to enjoy dairy products. It turned out to be a wetsuit. Which doesn't make for much of a story.
So that's how I spent the last day in May. My birthday month. The only month that doesn't require abbreviation. I also finished up some work, did a little tidying, and looked at hundreds of items on eBay. And while all of that was going on, I let Quiz Show play on the television. And it occurred to me that that film is an uncanny allegory for that whole scandal at the Abu Ghraib prison and the ensuing public relations nightmare. If you need me to explain myself, I will. But you will have to ask me to, and that will be embarrassing for you.
Labels: Adam, comedy, commercials, Paul F. Tompkins, photos
posted by Mary Forrest at 2:55 AM | Back to Monoblog