Well, judging from the (lack of) headlines, the pandemic must be over. Everybody go back to picking your nose, licking doorknobs, and whatever else you were doing before the world panicked over 0.000001% of its population getting the flu.
So the infamous detainee abuse photos will not be released after all—and yet another piece of Bush’s prosecution of the war on terror falls into place under the Obama regime. (Announcements like this are as close as we’re going to get to admissions that the sober business of day-in, day-out governing requires a bit more consideration than riling fawning sycophants on the campaign trail.)
As close as I’ve ever gotten to People magazine-style celebrity worship is occasionally checking out the photo essays that hang off the news sites. (You know, Entertainment Weekly‘s top ten hairdos, or worst series endings ever, or such.) Well, even those days might be ending soon, because I never know who the hell anyone is anymore. I might know a quarter of the people I see in such things.
Speaking of both celebrities and living in the past, sometimes I think of doing a “Forgotten Babes of the ’80s” series, with an occasional post on a spectacularly beautiful woman who’s pretty much totally anonymous today (and may have been semi-obscure even then). I’ll probably never do it, so I’ll go ahead and tell you the first three were to be Anne-Marie Martin, Cynthia Rhodes, and Ana Alicia.
The boys have had rotten luck with spring soccer this year. If the weekend forecast holds, they’ll be in danger of missing half their games because of rain.
The Indianapolis 500 is a week from Sunday. Danica’s starting 10th.
Oliver has a habit of making a hot spot on my side of the bed immediately before I go to sleep. (And it is hot; normal feline body temperature is about 101.5 ºF). You know, I’m still so glad to see him every time, I don’t much care anymore.