is an unapologetic, bleeding-heart liberal who writes about everything from politics to private parts. A TV-writer in a former life, her credits include "Big Spender" for Animal Planet,and "A Child Too Many," "Cradle of Conspiracy" & "Deceived By Trust," for Lifetime
There are fewer things more frightening to me than Dick Cheney and the damage he's done to this country, except perhaps his Spawn of Satan daughter, Liz, who seems determined to carry on the family's legacy of hate and lies. Her latest attack on President Obama for going to Dover Air Force Base to honor the 18 fallen heroes who died in Afghanistan last week represents a new low, even for a Cheney. In this video, Lawrence O'Donnell calls out her vicious lying ass. Happy Halloween.
First of all, it was crazy windy and I still went to the movie. Points for me! And I stayed awake. More points for me!
The movie should more than satisfy any Jackson fan and even those who weren't. At its core it's that backstage look at the putting together of a major show by a major superstar -- glimpses of a world few of us will ever have the opportunity to see.
I was not a Jackson fan. I didn't dislike him. I sang along and grooved to his music whenever it came on the radio, but I never bought an album (yes, as in vinyl), CD, DVD or anything else produced with his likeness, and I was completely entranced by this film, which is lovingly culled from 80 hours of footage by the very talented choreographer/director, Kenny Ortega.
It starts out with the audition of the dancers as they speak into the camera, bearing their emotions as they tell us what Michael (or MJ, as he's often called) and this opportunity to perform with him means to them. The theme of the film, and the tour, and Michael's fragile life, was always love and these amazingly talented young people unabashedly express that love not only in words, but through the 110% they give in their performances.
It took me a while to get past Michael's appearance. He looks so frail and his face, that face that he methodically distorted so as not to look anything like his much-detested father, reveals a deep internal struggle to prove to the world that he's still the king, while at the same time someone who is exhausted from continually having to prove himself. But get past that I did, and you will too, because there is so much more to this film and to Michael.
What struck me the strongest is that his inherent sweetness, gentleness, and joy; his love for the music and for everyone around him and, yes, for the world, still shines like a beacon. That's his humanity. But there is something else, his genius, that comes through so strongly and seems almost inhuman in that it's hard to grasp that any mere mortal could be capable of transforming themselves so completely into their instrument.
Fans of Michael's music will not be disappointed. It's all there. Watching him rehearse a song, putting together every beat in meticulous coordination with lighting and effects, along with his interaction with his musicians, is absolutely dazzling and showcases his brilliance in a way that is completely devastating as one realizes that amazing light is gone forever.
I could go on, but this is just my experience. Yours will be unique to your feelings about Michael, his music, and his life, but I will say that just purely on a level of a rock 'n' roll movie, "This Is It" delivers and then some. I doubt anyone will be disappointed.
I woke up to wind today. Not just a breeze, but the real howling type. I hate the wind. It messes with my mind, and does untold damage to my coif. I can take any type of weather, but the wind. It truly makes me uneasy. I like order in my world, predictability. I’m not one who appreciates surprises of any sort. Why would a friend casually ask you to stop by to help her hang curtains, fully knowing you would show up in dirty jeans and a hoody, with greasy hair and no makeup only to have 30 people, dressed in their finest, each one armed with a camera, pop out and yell “Surprise!” Why would anyone think that would be appreciated?
I’m a planner. And I like to stick to the plans I’ve made. Spontaneity and adventure are not my friends. I have dinner at a certain time. I watch certain TV shows and I go to bed at a certain time. I don’t even like to go out after dark. In my defense, I have a bit of night blindness that makes driving at night something of an adventure and there’s that word again that I like to avoid. Oddly, and completely contradictory to my disdain for any unplanned event, is the sport that is my life’s passion which is riding and, most of all, jumping horses. Yes, I actually get on the back of a 1200-pound horse, canter down to a fence and over we go, most of the time. There have been a few times when I’ve been the only one to go over, definitely an unplanned event, but still I continue to do it. Go figure.
Tonight, I’m moving out of my comfort zone. I’m going to a 9:00 o’clock showing of “This Is It,” the Michael Jackson film. That is the only time it’s playing and I really want to see it, but I wasn’t going to go because, well, it’s dark at 9:00 o’clock, and by then I’m usually on my third glass of wine, drifting toward my jammies, and thoroughly settled in. But a friend of mine wants to see it, too, and to goad me into going with her she called me “an old biddy.” Then she apologized, but she’s right. I am “an old biddy,” and you really have to stick dynamite up my ass to blast me out of my routine. So tonight I’m breakin’ out, baby. I’m riskin’ it big time. I’m going to a 9:00 o’clock movie.
There was a lot that went on this week, some of it funny, some of it not so much. Bear with me… (I could bitch-slap myself for that one.)
At “Bears On Ice” in Russia this week, a five-year-old ice-skating bear, being righteously pissed off because he was being forced to be an ice-skating bear, lost it and went postal on his trainer, killing him. And, once more, all the TV talking heads are shocked. Really? Shocked? What shocks me is that when something like this happens – over and over again – we still don’t get that wild animals do not belong on fucking ice skates, or dressed in tutus standing on their heads, or jumping through hoops of fire for our fucking amusement. I’d like to dress these trainers in tutus, put them in ice skates and jump their asses through hoops of fire.
To me, the tragedy here isn’t that the trainer was killed. That was an unfortunate consequence of his chosen actions. The real tragedy is that after displaying the natural response any wild animal would display in defending itself, this bear was killed -- because he was a wild animal! No shit! If I had my way these heroic, majestic creatures would be given a fucking Medal of Honor when this happens for standing up for all the other innocent, helpless animals being tortured in these freak shows so somebody can make a buck.
And while I’m at it (and I seem to be on a roll here), there wouldn’t even be circus animals if people didn’t shell out money in support of these atrocities. What the hell kind of message does it send to kids to take them to watch animals be tormented like this?
Bullfights – same thing. I always root for the bull. I root for the bulls during those crazy-ass bull runs every year, too, and actually cheer when one of those testosterone-driven idiots gets themselves gored. (Not to rag on the guys here, but I’ve yet to see an estrogen-driven idiot in one of these exhibitions.)
Wild animals belong in the wild. Not suffering in a show so that someone's cotton-candied-faced little darling can partake in this barbaric form of “entertainment.” And yes I, too, was once someone's cotton-candied-faced little darling who was taken to the circus, but I'm older than dirt and those were the dark ages. We were ignorant of the beatings and the chains and all the other horrors these animals suffer for our benefit. We know better now. We have no excuse.
Wow… Three uses of the F-word in one post. That’s a personal best
Yeah, I've seen the commercials, too “There’s an app for everything,” my ass. Oh, sure. Maybe if you want to hear fart sounds or translate fuck you into Mandarin Chinese. But what about the things we really need done?
I need an app that will make me a Margarita.
Exercise for me so I can sit here sipping the Margarita it just made while it revs up my heart rate and makes me sweat like a pig. (Do pigs actually sweat? Wait. There’s an app for that.)
Clean the toilet, and the cat's toilet, too.
Run me a nice bath.
Now give me a manicure.
Go get that nasty little pap smear I’ve been putting off, and shove your tit in a vice, too, while you're at it.
Time for another Margarita.
And I’ll have a Cobb salad for lunch, please.
Print me some money, small bills will do. I'm going shopping. No, thank you. I can do that myself, but I'll need you to park the car.
Kill the rat-bastard gophers who are killing my lawn.
Now re-seed the lawn.
Unclutter my desk… and my life.
Wash my car and go get gas -- 25 miles out on the highway at the cheap station.
Grocery shop. Don’t forget the tequila.
Empty the garbage. Recycle, and crush the boxes, please.
A foot rub would be nice right about now.
Fix dinner. The fat-absorber app will take care of that cake I'll be having for dessert.
Oh, look. Empty glass. I believe I’ll have another Margarita, thank you.
Back rub before sleep? Absolutely. And hand me that Ambien.
So how about it, Apple? Is that really too much to ask? Oh, wait... There's an app for that, too.
Today injaynesworld was featured in the October newsletter of Gusty Gals Inspire Me , a great website that celebrates women's endeavors of all kinds. They included an excerpt from "Out of My Hands," the story I wrote about the night I took a freak fall and broke my neck. Since that story is buried back in my August archives and readers of the newsletter have been directed here to read the entire story, just clicking on the link should take you right there. If you like what you read, take a further look around and, if you're so inclined, you can click the follow button and join all the tiny heads on my sidebar. I do love those tiny heads.
A special thank you to Deborah Hutchison, founder of Gusty Gals and one of the gutsiest gals I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. She is also the author of the truly awesome just published book "Put It In Writing," which should definitely be in every gutsy gal's library.
Thanks so much, Deb. I'm so honored by this incredible shout-out.
It seems lately like all the really cool people are gay. Neil Patrick Harris, Rachel Maddow, Ellen, of course, Queen Latifa -- who rocks more than the Queen? -- Melissa Etheridge, even the Enterprise's own Mr. Sulu. Okay, maybe he's not all that cool, but I could go on and on. I bet you have your favorites, too. There are just a whole lot of really cool gay people. I want to be gay, too, but apparently it’s not something you can just sign up for like a frequent-shopper card.
I do think it would be nice, and certainly reasonable, if God had simply created us all bi-sexual. It would instantly double everyone’s dating pool and we wouldn’t have so many repressed, closeted Republicans Larry Craig. Besides, given the option we all know that men prefer to hang with other men and women prefer to hang with their girlfriends, and I’d bet the big bucks that given the biological choice you’d see a lot more same-sex couples than opposite sex ones.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we lived in a world where “gay marriage” weren’t an issue? Where gay teens weren’t prone to higher rates of suicide? Where the perpetrators of hate crimes had one less group to prey on? I think God really screwed up on this. I honestly do.
Another thing I think God could have done better is the design of a woman’s body. Why is it that the female of every other species can get pregnant only when she’s in heat, while the human female can get herself knocked up pretty much any time except when she’s in heat. In fact, other species don’t even want to have sex unless the female is in heat. Think about it. If you knew exactly when you could get pregnant and you didn’t want a kid, you could simply not have sex then. Abortion would cease to be an issue. Teen pregnancy – a thing of the past.
And while I’m second-guessing The Big Guy here, what’s up with Victoria Secret model-types being the standard of what’s considered beautiful? When I’m God women who look like that will be considered freaks and ostracized from society. In fact, when I’m God good things will only happen to good people and bad things will only happen to bad people, and Prozac will be a natural ingredient in the water supply the world over thus making people far less likely to murder and start wars.
You know what? This God stuff? It’s not all that hard. I think I’d be pretty good at it. If you were God, what would you change?
So the big story of the week was the balloon boy (aptly named "Falcon") who actually turned out to be only a box boy. Far less interesting, but that didn't stop The Today Show, Good Morning America, and others from dragging the story out ad nauseum until the little guy literally hurled on national television. The big question now seems to be was this or was this not an elaborate hoax by the Heene family who, it's been revealed, have been hawking a reality show about themselves all over town for months. (Notice the clever use of yet another bird metaphor.) Well, I don't know if it was a hoax. I do know that if I'd done something like that as a kid, my ass would still be blistered and that kid doesn't look like he's gotten much of a punishment to me. Although, as the story develops, being part of that family may be punishment enough.
In other riveting news, Levi Johnstone has signed to pose naked in Playgirl. Reportedly, he is getting in shape by working out with a personal trainer and eating moose meat. No, really. Moose meat. And, apparently, he shoots the moose himself. Personally, I couldn't eat something that I had looked in the eye. Call me a hypocrite, but I want someone else to kill my moose. Meanwhile, as Levi's star is rising, according to a new Gallup poll Sarah Palin's favorability rating has plummetted to a new all-time low of 40%, despite her highly-anticipated book, "Going Rogue." It would seem that most people just want her going gone.
On a sad note (not really), it seems that white, fat racist, Rush Limbaugh, will be denied his opportunity to own part of the New Orleans Rams, a team of 35 toned and buff black men who hate him because, well... he's a white, fat racist. Can I get a collective "Awwww."
Moving on, our "Golden Balls" award this week goes to the producers of this clever political ad. Enjoy. I know I did. And, as usual, please share your favorite moments of the week, because I can't be everywhere.
Yours truly has received some very nice acknowledgements for my musings here at injaynesworld. From Lucy and Jane at Four Jugs, I received the Gushy Blog Lovin’ Shout-Out of the Week, and from yet another Lucy of A Modern Day Ricky, this Lovely Blog Award.
I’m truly stoked and humbled. Now, don’t worry. I’m not going to go all Sally Field on you. But seriously, it’s really sort of nice because writing is kind of an arrogant thing to do when you think about it. You put stuff down on paper (because I’m actually old enough to have really put stuff down on paper) and then you expect other people to read it and give a crap. So any time someone leaves a comment or decides to publicly associate with me by placing their tiny heads in my side bar and declaring themselves one of my followers, I’m honestly excited about it. Sad, you’re probably thinking. The woman obviously has no life. And you would be right... But look at all the tiny heads I’ve collected in my side bar. I know. It is just a little Jeffrey Daimer-ish, isn’t it. Still…
I often visit blogs that have hundreds of tiny heads. One had over 1,000. Imagine that! I have to wonder what’re they giving away over there, free blow-jobs? Most of those massively followed blogs seem to have a shtick, a gimmick, a target audience, while I, it would seem, am just a mish-mash of wherever my declining brain cells seem to happen to venture at any given moment. I’ve written on everything from eloquent prose on cat poop to rants against right-wingnuts to my battles with junk mail to perfectly reasonable explanations for why I do not travel. And yes, I am aware that making links out of those things to get you to visit other pages is shamefully manipulative, but please read them anyway. My point, and eventually I will make one, is that I just like to write. And writers really do need an audience. So with all sincerity, thank you Four Jugs gals and A Modern Day Ricky’s Lucy, and everyone else who supports my addiction. Because if a tree falls in the woods and no one’s around, it really doesn’t make a sound.
Many of you may or may not know and/or may or may not care that I have a four-pound Chihuahua named Dixie who is my heart and soul. Go on. Say it. You know you want to… Awww. Until recently I also had a cat named Chelsea who pretty much raised Dixie and was her best friend. Chelsea died last month and while it was very sad, she was 17 years old and had completely used up and worn out every fiber of her body pursuing the simple joys of living. We should all be so lucky. I understood this, but Dixie did not. Dixie just missed her friend. So a trip to the local shelter with Dixie and two hours of “auditioning” cats for her approval, and enter Mason.
My biggest concern had been finding a cat who would be as sweet and tolerant of a rambunctious Chihuahua as Chelsea had been. Tall order. Let me just say I would never have chosen the name “Mason.” “Mason” is a fat kid who gets the crap beaten out of him on the playground. As it turns out, he fits his name perfectly and Dixie immediately let him know who was boss in this house.
But it didn’t take long for Mason and Dixie to bond and this is how I found them yesterday. Excuse the poor photo quality. My cheap camera died so this is from my cheap phone.
Mason has turned out to be the sweetest, most laid back, loving kitty I could ever have hoped for. He is perfect in all things except one. He can’t manage to poop in the sandbox. It’s not as if he doesn’t try. He just doesn’t quite get where his ass needs to be to accomplish this maneuver. As near as I can figure, he stands on the edge of the box with his butt to the outside instead of the inside. I thought about taking a photo of this to share, but have never actually caught him in the act and saw no point in posting a photo of a just big pile of cat poop. But I will upon request.
When Chelsea was alive, being perfect in every way, she would not only poop in the box, but carefully bury it. This provided Dixie with the amusing pastime of digging it up and carrying it around in her mouth like a prized piece of Almond Roca if I wasn’t quick enough to dispose of it first. And yes, it is as gross as it sounds. I am relieved to say that Dixie has no such interest in Mason’s poop, perhaps because it lacks the tasty, crunchy cat litter crust. Meanwhile, a solution to the misplaced poop continues to elude me.
Any pet tales you'd like to share? Don't be shy. It's not like this is going to be posted on the Internet or anything.
Because cheering America’s loss of the Olympics wasn’t loathsome enough, the Republicans found they still had enough vitriol to trash the awarding of the Nobel Peace Prize to an American president and vote against a law that would allow employees of U.S. defense contractors (Halliburton) who are raped to bring charges without fear of reprisals. In the actual case that triggered this legislation, a female employee of Dick Cheney’s biggest source of income was gang-raped, then locked in a shipping container without food and water and threatened with reprisals if she reported the incident. Fortunately, decency prevailed and the law passed. Here is a link to the story which names the 30 apparently pro-rape Republicans should you want to drop them a line and, may I just add, kudos to the party of “family values.”
NASA crashed a rocket into the moon as if we owned it and had the right to do such a thing. This is the type of arrogance I thought had exited along with the Bush administration. Obviously, we still have some cleaning up to do.
Letterman and J & K (they’re not even interesting enough anymore for me to spell out their names) continued to vie for scandal of the week. Ho-hum.
And after a whole week, Khloé Kardashian is still married. Raise your hands if you care.
If any of you found something newsworthy this past week that actually made you laugh, I beg you to please share, because I’ve just had to double up on my Prozac.
Today our President won the Nobel Peace Prize. As an American, I am so very proud. But I know the Fox News driven haters are already at work finding a way to spin this negatively. More to come on that...
Inspired by my friend and fellow blogger, Kristi Stevens, at Stepford Stories, who today writes about her own experience with family members who express racist attitudes, but don't believe themselves to be racists (because who does?), I'm pulling out a piece about my struggles to deal with my own family who worships at the altar of Rush Limbaugh and other such right wingnut haters.
Aside from some cousins who live in another city, I have no blood relations. Both my parents had died by the time I was 23 and I was also an only child. I have to admit that when I see friends who are struggling to care for aging parents, while still struggling to care for themselves, I can’t help but believe there’s a lot to be said for being an orphan. Except for a brief time with a live-in boyfriend in my 20’s, I have always been single, preferring the company of cats and dogs with their complete indifference to my rather lax attitude toward housework. The single life just suits me. Plus, I’m pretty cranky.
This does not, however, mean that I am anti-social or a recluse. Far from it. Throughout the years, I’ve created little pockets of friends wherever I've lived and organized them into loving, supportive family tribes. I have friendships that go back 40 years and some longer, people who I am not obligated to love and who are not obligated to love me, but somehow the love is there and I believe sometimes even stronger than blood because it has been created out of choice.
We enjoy such rituals as monthly Margarita Night where we all take turns hosting the gathering with guest of honor, José Cuervo. It’s always a fun group of interesting and diverse women, mostly linked through our mutual love of tequila and horses. We’re bonded by the fact that no matter how many times we get bucked off, we will rise to ride again, despite how crazy our doctors think we are. They all totally understand when I say my dying wish will be that my carcass be tossed into the landfill with those of my departed, beloved steeds. I know that sounds creepy to normal people, but anyone who reads this blog with any regularity knows by now that I regard normalcy as vastly overrated.
Another of my tribes, affectionately known as “The Usual Suspects,” has gathered to celebrate each other’s birthdays every year since 1996. There are seven of us in this group and, on occasion, we allow their hubbies to join in the festivities. I often hear single women talk about how they are excluded from the activities of their married friends and feel like married women regard them as a threat. I guess I’m fortunate in that no one regards me that way. Or maybe I should be insulted. At any rate, it’s never been an issue.
At Christmas, I always have a tree-trimming party with about 20 guests, the main course being an awesome tomato-bisque soup made especially for me by a local restaurant. My friends know I don’t cook and don’t expect that to change. My friends also know I can sometimes appear to have Tourette’s Syndrome in that I seldom stop to edit my opinions before letting them rip. They don’t expect that to change either. They accept me warts and all and I them, because that’s what friends do.
Over the years, we’ve shared the bad times, like when I broke my neck,as well as moments of great joy. We’ve encouraged each other’s endeavors and commiserated over disappointments. As we get older, I suspect we will come to appreciate and rely on our friendship even more. I will likely not be the only single one in the years to come and I sometimes worry about how my friends will adapt to being on their own. Fortunately, our friendship guarantees that none of us will ever be alone.
That cliché that goes “if you want to make a friend you have to be a friend” is sucky, but true. I cannot imagine my life without these smart, funny, raunchy, loving bunch of kick-ass great people and I can only guess I must’ve done something right to have deserved them.
This week it’s hard to choose between the ongoing war of words between “Jon & Kate Plus Hate” and David Letterman’s little game of “hide the salami,” but since a good sex scandal trumps everything, our “Blue Dress Award” has to go to Dave.
This scandal has it all. Dave cheating on his then-fiancée and girlfriend of 23 years with a woman who was cheating on her live-in boyfriend who then discovers it by reading her diary and blackmails Dave for $2 million by threatening to expose him in, of all things, a screenplay, and then gets busted when he accepts a check. A check?!
Okay, let’s break this down. It’s come to light over the past few days that this isn’t Dave’s first problem with keeping his pants zipped. Apparently, Dave has a long history as a man-whore. A producer of a movie he did way back in 1979 revealed that he no sooner arrived on the set than he was banging the crew. She says she was amazed that he managed to get laid that quickly. I share her amazement. I mean, this is a guy who is often confused with Alfred E. Neuman from “Mad” magazine fame. And I have to confess, I still continue to be surprised by famous men who think they can get away with secretly parking their penises in any garage they want when the whole point of being the receptacle for said celebrity penis is to brag about it -- even if it’s just in your diary.
Second, what person over the age of 14 even writes a diary these days? And even if you were so inclined, why would anyone with an ounce of sense write about an affair they were having with anybody, much less a celebrity, especially if you’re living with your boyfriend at the time. “Dear Diary, boned Dave again today. Sure hope no one ever finds out.” I’d love to know where her extortionist boyfriend found it. In her “Hello Kitty” sock drawer? You’d think she would have learned something from Mark Sanford’s now famous e-mails to his paramour. It’s completely beyond me why people who cheat continue to document their indiscretions in writing. This is not called the “information age” for nothing.
Oh, and the boyfriend is a piece of work, too. This genius thinks it’s going to add credibility to his threat by writing a screenplay treatment about it. Screenplay writers have about the same credibility in Hollywood as George W. at a Menses Society gathering. Everyone is a “writer”. The guy who washes your car has a script to sell. Did he think some movie studio boss was going to say, “Hey, an exposé of Letterman. Let’s make this and get our asses sued?”
And not even in the worst straight-to-DVD-movie ever are you going to see a blackmailer accepting a check. I mean, really. Seriously? Because attempting to deposit a $2 million dollar check from David Letterman at your local B of A branch isn’t going to attract any attention at all.
It’s really difficult to assess who is the most stupid in this scenario. Come to think of it, maybe it would make a good movie – a comedy. Any casting suggestions? I’m thinking Seth Hogan as the boyfriend.
Well, it's been quite a week. After 31 years on the lam, Roman Polanski got arrested and after just one month in the sack with Lamar Odom, Khloe Kardashian got married. Taking bets here on who gets bailed out first.
Already calling it quits after only 15 months of wedded bliss are tennis great, Chris Evert and her husband, what's-his-name-who-cares, totally supporting my argument that if gays aren't allow to marry, straight people shouldn't be allowed to divorce.
This week our "Golden Balls" award goes to freshman Democrat, Representative Alan Grayson from Orlando, Florida, who bitch-slapped the Republicans on the floor of the House when he said that the GOP health care plan amounts to "Don't get sick and if you do, die quickly." When the GOP demanded (whined) an apology, Grayson responded, "I'll apologize to the dead!" And just when I thought I couldn't love Grayson more, he comes out with this statement on The Ed Schultz Show: "America is sick of you, Republican party. You are a lie factory -- that's all you ever do. Why don't you work together with the Democrats to solve America's problems instead of making stuff up? I think I may have just had an orgasm.
Senator John Ensign (R-NV), of screwing the wife of one of his aide's fame, argued against health care reform saying that it's not fair to say that the U.S. ranks 22nd in the world in preventable deaths because if you take out gun and auto accidents, we really only rank 17th. Yay! We're 17th! We're 17th! Damn those accident victims. Making us look bad and then having the nerve to expect medical care.
House Minority Leader, John "Bonehead" Boehner (R-OH) said he hasn't met a single American who's told him that they are for a public option. Yeah, it's kind of hard to hear with your head up your ass.
Spawn of Satan, Liz Cheney, appeared at a gathering of Republican women in Nashville alongside GOP brain trust, Joe the Plumber, to further espouse her father's views on an aggressive and interventionist approach to national security, which has worked out so well in the past. Said to have a "sunnier disposition than Dick" (Hannibal Lector had a sunnier disposition than Dick), Cheney and right-wingnut, Michelle Malkin, were seen exchanging air-kisses, because apparently even Cheney doesn't want to make actual physical contact with Malkin. A woman from the audience was heard to call out, "I'll pray for your abundance." I don't think we need to be concerned. She's a Cheney. Her father's crooked dealings via Haliburton will pretty much guarantee that.
Amidst plummeting ratings, "Jon & Kate Plus 8" has dumped Jon's sorry ass to now officially become "Kate Plus 8", because all-Kate, all the time is so much more enjoyable. Meanwhile Kate, on the set of her new talk show with Paula (would deep-fry a cube of butter) Deen, broke into sobs saying she hates to be away from her kids, but because of her divorce she has to now work to support them. And here I thought being akiddie-pimp was a full-time job. Jon's response was to get a court order to shut down the show. Suddenly getting all "Father Knows Best" on us, he professed to Larry King that he'd had an "epiphany" that exploiting his children on TV might not actually be in their bests interests. Yeah, especially if you're no longer lining your pocket from it. ###
A big Happy Birthday shout out to Barbara Walters who turned 80 last week -- a living testament to a lifetime of eating foods high in preservatives.
And last, but certainly least: Sarah Palin's memoir "Goint Rogue" will be out on November 17th. Presumably, it will include pop-ups.
As always, feel free to add your own personal favorites...