Friday, August 31, 2007

The Dentist

Let me go on record saying that all the dental care professionals who have worked on me are awesome. I love my regular dentist and the endodontist who roots my canals, or canals my roots, and the dental implant guy and anyone else I may have left out. They are wonderful people and deserve to be president.


It goes back to Dr. Smith when I was a child. He hated kids, my mother said. Naturally, you might think the next question would be GEE WHIZ, MOM, WHY DID YOU TAKE US THERE? But I was such a dumfk I never asked. I wouldn't be surprised if Dr. Smith killed small animals on the premises, probably to practice on their teeth. He wielded the drill like a chainsaw. My mother said he was too cheap to hire a secretary and he'd ask the suckers in the waiting room to answer the phone if he was working on a patient. I have previously told the story of when, at age six, I had my first filling and spit out everything in my mouth at Dr. Smith (who never said there was a bowl to spit in). Man, I got him good and my mother also said that she and some unknown man in the waiting room cracked up laughing when they heard him yell at me.

There was a lot more sadism in the old days than people know about.

So anyways, my teeth never looked like this. Even though I brushed conscientiously as a child, every time I went to the dentist I had 7 or 14 cavities.

Mine looked more like this. By the time I was an adult, every tooth in my head had a filling in it.
Then I started with the root canals and the crowns and finally the implants.
I will finally have everything fixed when I am dead. Those viewing me in my casket will hopefully have something nice to say and not GOD, HOW MUCH DID SHE SPEND FOR ALL THAT? SHE COULD HAVE DRIVEN A MUCH NICER CAR.
The Dream is coming to an end, dear reader, only this weekend left, and I wonder who my students will be.
Maybe I will talk to them about dental hygiene.
A bientot

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Girlfriends' Pick: Laura Florand


Eleven o’clock on a Friday night. The seamy, sex-obsessed center of Paris. I balanced over a Turkish toilet in a tiny bistro, one stiletto heel propped against the wall to make some kind of writing table out of my knee, trying desperately not to touch anything around me as I wrote an invitation….

Thus begins Laura Florand's Blame It on Paris, a hilarious and moving true story of a French-American romance between two people, two families, and two cultures.

And may I say I am HOOKED????

What does happen when you put a small-town Georgian in Paris and a handsome, sophisticated Parisian in small-town Georgia? Especially when two huge families, one French and the other American, decide it’s up to them to further this romance. The Parisian’s family wants Laura to learn how to prepare snails, while Laura’s family keeps serving Sébastien Mad Dog 20/20 as good wine. How will true love survive?


Laura Florand is a native of the Deep South who began travelling the world when she was seventeen, backpacking solo through Greece. She went on to win a Fulbright to Tahiti and then to study French literature at Duke University. In addition to the year in Tahiti, she has lived in Madrid and Paris. Now a senior lecturing fellow at Duke and a new mother of one, she divides her time between North Carolina, where she also leads a Tahitian dance group, and France. For more information, please see her website:


“Hilarious…A fun, frothy tale for anyone who has ever conjured up a dashing handsome foreigner to sweep her off her feet. Readers will be happy to live vicariously in Laura's French fairytale.” –Booklist (Aleksandra Kostovski)

“A frothy French confection.” –Publishers’ Weekly

“Laura Florand offers up an outsider’s oddly inside view of Paris, and she does so in a narrative that is by turns witty and touching, but always charming. Best of all, she turns the tables and lets us see our own culture through the fresh, French eyes of the man she loves. Do yourself a favor: Read this book.”--Joshilyn Jackson, best-selling author of Gods in Alabama

“I haven’t laughed so hard over the course of an entire book in a long time.”

“A fabulous romp from Paris to Podunk and back again. Loved it. Laura Florand’s reluctant heroine is adorable, and her perfect Parisian amour can wait on my table anytime.”--Haywood Smith, New York Times best-selling author of the Red Hat Club series
“A romantic, hilarious soufflé of a story! Move over, Bridget Jones. Charming and laugh-out-loud funny.”--Deborah Smith, New York Times best-selling author of A Place to Call Home “This delightful book should come with a warning label: do not read while traveling, otherwise other passengers will wonder why you keep laughing aloud and shouting ‘Vive la Laura Florand!’”--Cassandra King, author of The Sunday Wife “I was taught in high school chemistry never to combine two ingredients whose properties you don’t fully understand. Well, Laura Florand ignored that advice and mixed a Parisian gentleman with a Southern lady, and what she got, predictably, was combustible. Blame It on Paris is a charming, light-hearted romp through a cross-cultural quagmire that proves that love, if it can’t conquer all, certainly is a match for a couple with families at different ends of the universe.”--Larry Habegger, editor, Travelers’ Tales Paris

“As enchanting as Paris in the spring, Florand’s debut sparkles with all the brilliance of the City of Light. Warm, funny, and sublimely satisfying, BLAME IT ON PARIS follows Laura as she journeys around the world in search of herself - only to discover home is in the hearts of those she loves. I’m adding Laura Florand to my must-read list!”—Alesia Holliday, author of Seven Ways to Lose Your Lover

Recommended reading by Marie Claire (November 2006) and Complete Woman (February 2007).

A bientot (and we know Laura knows what that means!!!)

Monday, August 27, 2007


In keeping with recent existential concerns, my day started with this question: What is the purpose of a lone sock?
Furthermore, what is the purpose of KEEPING a lone sock?
This has led to a rather violent cleaning out of my sock drawer today and I'm sorry I started, though I think I'll be glad later. In truth, the formal name for this drawer is the sock/underwear/stopwatch/old prescription granny glasses/truly peculiar jewelry drawer.

I was tough. I was in fact heartless. You would have been proud of me, dear reader.

Here were the rules.

1) Anything over five years old that hasn't been worn or used or wept over? GONE!! VAMOOSE!! HASTA LA VISTA, BABY!!

2) Any underwear with flowers, days of the week, or that used to belong to my mother? [good God!!!] GOODBYE CRUEL WORLD!!! YOU'RE OUT OF HERE!!!

3) Any sock without a mate, even if it's a close match? SAYONARA, BIG BOY!!! DON'T LET THE DOOR TO THE TRASH BIN HIT YOU ON THE HEEL ON YOUR WAY OUT!!

I started out being way cruel to the scarves but then started wavering [that's always death in a purge] Styles come back. We could possibly wear weird Timothy Leary LSD-influenced paisley bow ties again. It's possible. So a few of those made the cut. Any scarf larger than a roadmap of Worcester is now GONZO. Little tiny scarves, like Dale Evans and cowgirls used to wear, I kept, although if I wore one of those, I'd probably strangle myself with it. Those things are small. You could use them for snakebite tourniquets. Remember the ghost story about the woman who always wore the purple choker until the day she died and they took it off and HER HEAD FELL OFF??? Maybe that will be me. Hwaaaaaaaa!

Keep this in mind. THIS WAS NOT THE SCARF DRAWER. So any scarves that were in there were there under FALSE PRETENSES and deserved what they got. As I said, many of them were let back in, including a few schmattes that should have gone.

I even tried to throw out some trashy old paperbacks that were lurking near the drawer. It's hard for me to throw out a book, though, so most of those are still here too.
See, that's what happens with a purge. It only lasts a certain number of minutes before you start to weaken. But some good was done.


Soon I may start on the kitchen cupboards and the police may have to be alerted to that one. The crockery will be flying.
Living the Very Last of the Dream,

Friday, August 24, 2007

Chekhov Friday

That's right, dear reader, it was Back to the Berkshires today for another dose of Serious Cultcha. The whole atmosphere there, in Lenox and Stockbridge and environs is teddibly highbrow. As you rest on the cement wall outside the post office and lick your ice cream cone, the people next to you, also licking, are discussing Ibsen and Shaw. They read books. They talk about Expressionism. They use words like "montage" and "disingenuous." It's very stimulating to me, I admit it.

This is the back yard of the Shakespeare Company. They have a beautiful theatre and evidently do superb work as people were lined up to buy tickets.

We were there to see Chekhov, however.

There are four major Chekhov plays and UNCLE VANYA is one of them. They are full of existential questions--WTF am I doing here? Why is life so boring?

Answers are not given.

How could they be?

Do you know the answers, dear reader?

Does anybody?

The actors we saw were quite good, but I found myself wanting to slap them around. SNAP OUT OF IT!!! JUST LIVE YOUR LIFE AND BE HAPPY!!! My only other exposure to Chekhov was a short story called "A Marriage Proposal." It was hilarious and so I expected Uncle Vanya to be. Wrong!!!!

The play was in nearby Pittsfield and before attending, we had brought a picnic lunch and searched high and low for a place to eat it. Finally, we found a most peculiar place that was called Public Gardens. There wasn't another human present and it didn't look as if the lawn had been mowed in many weeks (not that I can't relate, but a public garden?). It was a little eerie. I kept thinking Children of the Corn.

There was a picture of me here but I have edited it out because my hair looks so bad.

It was hot and humid, dear reader. Wicked, as we say in New England.

After the performance, we wandered back to Lenox, I think, and walked around. I'm not sure which town is which, sorry to say. But they are all very cute and have gorgeous flowers and elegant gardens and lots of little alleyways like this one. You can buy tschotschkes of all kinds up and down the street.

I must say, though, and not to end on a bummer, but I had the worst dinner roll of my life

at this restaurant, which I shall not name. I chewed on it for a minute and feared that it was spoiled or poisoned. My companion said it was some kind of strange rye bread with currants (????) in it. I considered spitting it into my napkin, but I do hate spitting and decided to risk it.

I think I am okay.

So that's the cultchah for this week. My own book proceeds.

Living the Very Short Dream.
A bientot
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Wednesday, August 22, 2007


You may recognize this back yard as belonging to my parents in Arkansas. You would be right. And you may also recall that these two personages, well okay, "statues" if you insist, stood much closer together earlier in the summer. Miss Muffet and St. Francis have quite obviously been separated by someone who took the trouble to hoist and heft them apart. I find that intriguing. I'll bet they were causing mischief.







It probably got vastly annoying so someone separated them. In my mind, they could have been put in different sections of the yard, but I guess it was too much trouble.

In other news, my night of TV viewing was somewhat disappointing. When you're not used to watching, all the shows tend to blend in with each other, so after four hours, my eyes were crossed and my brain was a compost heap of mush and promotional materials. The Conchordes was okay, but not great and I'm about to kick them off my viewing list, except for when they say "dick-hid."
Big Love has so many weird plot lines that I can't keep them straight and they don't spend enough time on any of them. One funny plot is Harry Dean Stanton, the very weird Prophet of the very weird compound, was shot and nearly dead. His son, who CLEARLY wants to take over, vouched for good medical care at home andwas allowed by the hospital to drag poor Harry out of there. The son and his Stepford Sister Wife practically have the hypodermic needles poised in the car to blast the father to kingdom come, forgive the expression. They keep pumping him full of sedatives and it is hilarious.
WEEDS wasn't very funny. I don't like the drug dealer parts. Californication was funny, though, except for the vomit scene.
I really hate seeing vomit. Of course I understand I'm not alone in this--BECKY!! WE LOVE VOMIT HERE IN (insert town)! but I have a real aversion to it. I'm also intensely afraid of snakes, and would you believe that in four hours of viewing I had to see BOTH????
I'm past 30,000 words on my book and including convent scenes, which I didn't think I was going to do. Stay tuned.
I've been reading mysteries and thrillers, including Thomas Perry's NIGHTLIFE about a woman cop tracking a woman serial killer. Hey, it's about time!
A bientot

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Bye, Kitty!!!!!

Actually, both kitties are in there and they have returned home where the sleeping is even better than at my house.
I do enjoy keeping my doors open in my closets and not worrying about pill bottles spewing, or spewing in general for that matter (see previous post)
So freedom reigns chez Motew once again. Now I can concentrate on three syllabi for fall semester (GROAN!!) and my nun book, which is growing backwards right now. That means I'm working on parts I've already worked on rather than going forward. It's a "dick-hid" way to work (see below).
Inside the Scene
So how will they end Big Love this season? Bill Paxton, or as my friends and I call him, cute Bill Paxton, has become far less godly this time around, although he did dump the waitress because his sexual feelings were not "celestial." Too bad for her. See now, if you had to be a plural wife and he was the husband, it would be one thing. But I'd probably get some gnarly weird old dude with severe ear hair. Not that ear hair is a deal killer in and of itself, but GOD!! SHUT UP ABOUT EAR HAIR!!! Actually, there's no shortage of creepy guys on the show, including Harry Dean Stanton and Bruce Dern, if you're into CGs, you'd be in clover.
The best part of the show is still the opening where they play "God Only Knows" by the Beach Boys. I usually have to get up and dance to that.
Okay, so this is how serious TV addiction starts. I go to my girlfriend's to watch Big Love and of course we start watching the show in front of it, Flight of the Conchords, which is also very funny. We love the big guy who says "Dick-hid" a lot. They are New Zealanders and that is the BEST word!!! Dick-hid!! Dick-hid!!
Then after Big Love we have to watch Weeds, which is truly weird.
Watch this show? Yes indeedy weedy.
Then last week we finished up with David Duchovny's new one called Californication, which is jaw-droppingly irreverent.
I really have to tip my hat to serious cuteness here. I know a lot of men find him lacking, but tough toenails--he is tops in my book. I love that aloof thing
So I pretty much laugh my ass off at all these shows and then get home late and sleep in.
All part of Living the Dream, dear reader.
A bientot

Friday, August 17, 2007

Mrs. Warren's Profession

My friend and I went to the Berkshires and saw Shaw's play. It was wonderfully done, thoughtful and provocative. Headache-producing actually. Who was right? Who was wrong? What are we supposed to think?

Okay, here's the premise and the question. You are a modern girl, educated and brought up right. You have never known your mother. She has supported you financially all of your days, and you have just found out that she did it with whorehouses. That word is not said, of course, not in Shaw's day. But that is the truth. Do you love her and embrace her or turn her away?

It seems obvious today, but it wasn't then.

In Lenox and Lee and Stockbridge, everything is picturesque and cute, even the doggy doo-doo bags.

Should you choose, you can tour Edith Wharton's mansion, The Mount, which we did. Yikes. Very elegant. Beyond words actually. Just look.

Edith was the first female to win a Pulitzer for literature She kicked ass in her time and that makes me feel proud and psyched for her. Also, her gardens are lush and comforting, unlike my

own. Haha, like I even HAVE gardens.

It was a day of thought, of gardens, of wondering where the bathrooms were.

Making good progress on my own book and hearkening back to Edith's inspiration. And Shaw's.

A bientot,



Wednesday, August 15, 2007

High School Musical and other thoughts

High School Musical is a Disney film and I expected to hate it. A friend of mine has been urging me to watch it and finally we did. It is filled with coincidences and sappy sweet sentiment. It could never ever happen in real life, plus people burst into song and dance at the slightest provocation. This last bit doesn't bother me because I have always loved musicals.

So there I sat, mentally sneering at this thing. And all of a sudden I LOVED IT. Oh. My. God. I was groovin' and chillin', if those are the right words. The dancing is GREAT and they kindly include all the numbers at the end for your perusal. The finale brings me out of my chair. The best thing about it is that it is so completely far away from edginess. I am so sick of "edgy." Fk edgy. That is all.

In other news, this same friend and I went on a day trip to the Cape yesterday. We hit Falmouth and Hyannis, ate copious amounts of fudge and ice cream. I should be taken outside and shot. This is where we parked at the Mass. Maritime Academy. My friend would not let me walk down the canal and photograph this way cool battleship, the William Brown or something like that. It might not have been a battleship, but it was big.
Here is a cool shot of the drawbridge lowered with vehicles crossing it. You don't often get to see that, I guess. We try to bring you breaking news here at CFE, dear reader, as always.

To celebrate my return from a long day out, one of the visiting cats at my house decided to leave a nice piece of PUKE at the top of the stairs. At first I thought, gosh, how did a pecan praline get all the way up here? Sorry to be so crude. Now I love these cats, don't get me wrong. But it was not a nice homecoming for Mommy (step Mommy)
Tomorrow I am off to the Berkshires to see GB Shaw's Mrs. Warren's Profession. My review will follow.
Just under 30,000 words on the nun book. It's rolling.
A bientot

Monday, August 13, 2007

Writing Hard

I have talked to friends on this subject of writing and everyone is different. Some people say they write because they have to. They have stories to tell. Some say they do it for therapy or to make money (not many in this category).

I'm thinking today about the top moments in writing--the really sublime exquisite ones. What are they?

Book signings? Nah. They're okay, but you have to worry about your hair.

People complimenting you at a book signing? That's good. I always feel I don't deserve it. (I was raised Catholic--we never feel we deserve anything) And what else are they going to say at a book signing? I drove ten miles to this so I could tell you in person that your work sucks.

Emails from readers saying they liked your book? Those are very wonderful and kind of scary. I'm like the person pointing to himself, going "Me? Are you talking to me?"

Good reviews? Those are great. They make you feel good for at least a day and help make you feel better about the bad reviews.

Phone calls from agents saying you have a deal. Those are huge and will elevate you several yards above terra firma. This is close to the top because of the validation you get. Wow, my work really is worth something.

But honestly? A good day writing is the best. When you sit back and read a scene or an exchange or a passage you've written and feel the glow of something special. Now down the road, when you let this puppy out of your tender care, it will get punched around and bashed and you may well lose the glow. It's precious. For me, it's the best part. And I'm having it now.
This nun thing is taking shape. Wish I could finish it before school starts.
A bientot
p.s. Mouse in the house!!! And the two cats look at me like I'm wearing a donkey head when I tell them to GO FOR IT!! KILL THE LITTLE BASTARD!! DO YOUR THING!!! Sigh. Curse of the Old Cats, I guess.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

Living the Dream with Cats

This is Hansel. He gives Living the Dream more of a literal meaning since all he does night and day is sleep. In fact, Dreaming the Dream might be more apt. He used to be far more energetic and I remember when he could leap tall buildings on a whim, catapult from floor to ceiling, or at least annoy the shit out of me by jumping onto the kitchen counter.

What was that blinding gray flash?

It was Hansel exerting his will, living life to the fullest, breaking through the screen window and landing on his feet outside.

June bugs drove him particularly berserk. Unseen noises and specks would keep him on full red alert for hours. And now? Bupkas. Poor guy.

What happened?

It's called age. In cat years, Hansel has made it into retirement, his golden years. In Europe he'd be a cat pensioner. He probably thinks this is his nursing home. I hated to tell him, though, here at Becky's Assisted Living, we do not provide sponge baths or tongue depressors. We do have our version of a bed pan but you have to walk to it on your own four legs. He doesn't have much to say these days either, especially compared to his former rants, mostly on right wing political subjects. Oh, how he used to love Bill O'Reilly. BAL no longer has cable, but that's okay, because our customers bed down early.

The two of them conk out all day long and all night too. It's worrisome to me. I know they're old, but god forbid, what if one of them died while staying here at BAL?

Hi kids, didja have fun in Cali?

Yes, we did.

Was the baby good?

Oh yes.

That's great. Here's your cat back--it was only one, wasn't it?

This is going to be a much easier gig than I imagined, dear reader. Laissez les bon temps rouller....

A bientot

new favorite show: FLight of the Conchordes on HBO

new favorite word: "Dickhid"--must have exact New Zealand pronunciation, We LOVE it.

I'm waking up the cats for it! Listen up, you dick-hids!!!


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Thursday, August 09, 2007

Class Dismissed

Here are exactly half of my final exam takers. They are the ones who show up on time. SHOCKING, I tell you, SHOCKING!! A big shout out to Dee, Maya, Tina, Amy, Keith, and Chelsea for their good work.

It's always bittersweet to say goodbye to students because you have gotten to know them so well and because they know you too (and I have a number of weirdnesses) and bang, it's over and you never see them again. My compost heap brain can't even seem to recall names after a very short time. Three weeks later, I see a known familiar face and it's "Hi! How are you?" What the f is this kid's name? "Are you taking English?" If there could be a big time out, blown by a whistle while everyone stands there for a second, I could come up with it. But those Whistle Time Outs ain't featured at my schools.

Ah, dear reader, the cats have arrived, the older ones. They are very quiet and in fact have not found my room or my bed. Perhaps they are too lazy to climb the stairs. Perhaps they feel shy (students: that would be reticent). Here is my reaction: FINE WITH ME.

Being awakened in the dark of night by a cat walking on my head is low on my personal list of amusements. The younger cats covered every square inch of territory in the day and in the night. These more mature two have inner tasks--composing lyrics to songs or threatening letters to discount stores--I don't really know what. But they're hard thinkers and you can see that in their furrowed countenances. Naturally, everything about them is furrowed and I did know that.
Here is the friendlier one at least making himself known. He is lying on the very hot knitted blanket atop my daughter's bed. "I'd rather be uncomfortably hot than show emotional dependence." Once again, FINE WITH ME.
Stay tuned for Showdown at Fifi's Corral.
A bientot

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

GCC: Ellen Meister

Another great read from the Girlfriends is here and ready for your perusal, dear reader. I myself am buried under final student essays--underwater and fighting my way back up.

This week’s girlfriend from the GCC is Ellen Meister, author of Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA. A Long Island PTA mom herself, Ellen Meister is no stranger to the scandal and drama of the carpool set. Ellen has a background in writing ad copy and short stories—as well a stint as editor of an online literary magazine. Meister lives on Long Island with her husband and three children. She writes, she swears, she sings, she dances … all from the front seat of her minivan.
Cover Image

When a Hollywood location scout comes to Applewood, Long Island, and announces that the local elementary school might make the perfect backdrop for an upcoming George Clooney movie, the PTA's decorum crumbles like a cookie from last week's bake sale.Enter Maddie, Ruth, and Lisa, three women who become the glue that holds the project together, forging a bond of friendship stronger than anyone could imagine.

And not a moment too soon, as marriage woes, old flames, and scandalously embarrassing family members threaten to tear each of them apart. Is their powerful alliance strong enough to overcome the obstacles to getting the movie made in their town? And will their friendship be enough to mend their hearts and homes? Join them as they reach for the stars . . . and try to pull off a Hollywood ending of their own.

At once tender and hilarious, Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA is a captivating story that turns suburbia upside down . . . with more humor, heartache, and heat than one PTA can hold.

Praise for Confessions:
"Meister's debut novel is heartbreakingly funny, her characters facing life's dramas and disappointments head on with wit and spunk." – Library Journal (starred review)

"Ellen Meister has written a beautiful book about love, life and friendship that you are sure to never forget." – Fresh Fiction

"A funny and wonderfully irreverent look at the dark underbelly of suburbia." – Lolly Winston, author of Good Grief and Happiness Sold Separately

"With sexy characters, sharp dialogue, and snappy pacing, Meister's sassy, saucy debut novel could well turn into a movie of its own." – Booklist

"Women, hide this book from your husbands and resist the urge to read passages out loud. Ellen Meister knows our secrets, and she tells them in a smart, honest, and very funny voice." – Maryanne Stahl, author of Forgive the Moon and The Opposite Shore

"Three conflicted housewives in Applewood, Long Island, long for something more fulfilling than what their families and their membership in the local PTA offer.... helping each other realize their dreams. Comical yet poignant." – Kirkus Reviews

"George Clooney should be proud." – Mark Ebner, author of Hollywood Interrupted

"Ellen Meister's first novel is a smashing success ... touches the heart and the funny bone ." – Romance Divas

"Funny, compelling and well-written." – Trashionista

"The best time I've had in years. Ellen Meister's characters are so funny, smart, and real, I feel like I've made three new friends!" – Lisa Kudrow

love and more about me next time


Monday, August 06, 2007

Keeping my head above water

I must remain calm this week so as to complete all summer school grades and number crunching. Also another set of cats will be in here tomorrow. These are older felines of delicate sensibility. I don't expect to find them on top of the refrigerator. The other ones, my daughter's cats, could be anywhere at any time.
Still, I must keep my nose to the academic grindstone. Not to mention, other errands plus I'm at 26,000 words on my nun book and at a good place right now. She is entertaining ten people at Thanksgiving dinner. This puts me on solid ground since I know my frozen desserts so well.
I will of course take time out for Big Love tonight, the HBO series
Stay sane, dear reader, and cool if you're in my hemisphere.
A bientot

Thursday, August 02, 2007

Political Analysis

I am not sure who all the candidates are and have not been paying attention to their actual views, but let's start at the top, shall we? Specifically their hair choices.

On the Dem side, Big H long ago switched from the headband-with-long-pageboy look to this short coif. It's functional, it's flattering, she keeps getting blonder. Well, so do I for that matter. She must own at least ten black pantsuits and I wouldn't mind that either.

Barrack Obama looks good. He's handsome, slender, smart, though in truth I have never heard him speak. I don't watch TV. I like his looks, though, and hope he doesn't start fistfighting Hillary. I hate conflict. His haircut is fashionable and not remarkable.

John Edwards obviously spends the most on his hair. It's awesome and not unlike Jon Bon Jovi/Bill Belichick.

The Rogaine ad agency must salivate every day at the prospect of getting Al Gore as a spokesperson. Also the Brylcreem agency. Here is a shot of Al karate chopping a giant redwood. I liked Al's beard a couple of years ago, but I guess he decided against the Elba Island Philosopher persona. Too bad.
I was going to include the Republicans here, but housekeeping duties await.
Did anyone buy that?
More later.
A bientot