Oh, how I love my Sunday papers. I cannot live without the Daily News funnies, the Post's lurid headlines, and of course, my beloved NYTimes crossword puzzle.
And then there's the Book Review. Today's vanity press ad has some nice things in it, such as Living the Life I Always Wanted, by a gentleman named John F. Willey, who wishes to tell us about being born in 1930, and how "Tough times awaited him and his family as the Great Depression got underway." But, "Despite some bumps, John has lived an amazing life of adventure, loving relationships, and friends."
Oh, yawn. I can just see a little tiny playlet at the Willey house on Thanksgiving:
Ed: Mom, I'm sitting at the children's table this year.
Mom: Ed, you're 43 years old. Whyever would you do that?
Ed: Because if I have to listen to Uncle John talking about his amazing life one more time, I'm going to vomit all over the turkey.
Then there's "Now I Can Call Myself A Biker," by David Royle. "This is the story of David's exploits and adventures to gain experience he so desperately wanted. It has shown that even at his age, in his mid-life crisis, it wasn't too late to learn how to ride a motorbike." A MOTORBIKE? Not even a Harley? You might as well write a book about how at the age of 45, you finally learned to ride that tricycle. I can just see him, that badass David, wearing his leathers...on his Vespa.
However, my favorite is this one. ". . .talks about Sorala Nakib's adventures during her long flying career as a cabin crew (a cabin crew? must have been a REALLY small plane if she was the entire cabin crew...) and her musings as a spiritual guru and peace seeker. It's a biography that will blow your mind!" How we got from being a cabin crew to a spiritual guru I'm not quite sure, although I must say that in these days of air rage, it probably came in handy. However, what this gal really needed was an editor to come up with a better title...this little epic is called "Underneath A Flight Attendant." Really. Good GOD.
Other than that, I was all set to go and see friends for a Saturday night drink last night, but it didn't quite work out. My friend Lee called last week to tell me to come over to our friend Jeremy's bar last night, so I called Caesar to get him to come along. He poohed out on me at the last minute, so I went over to the bar (on the Lower East Side)...only to find no Lee and no Jeremy. So I had a beer (feeling distinctly out of place among the 20-something hipsters) and came home. Never trust half-drunk martial arts crazies. Oh, well.
On the far brighter side, Katie from Grant Wilfley called earlier this week to confirm me for another Boardwalk Empire shoot this coming Wednesday! Yay! I really need it to get the taste of that lousy Iceman shoot out of my mouth. God only knows what they want me to do this time...after my toothless scene, I'm quite prepared for them to tell me I'm going to be an aging madam in the whorehouse set (yes, there is one) wearing period underwear. Who knows? But then, who cares? Like everyone else who works on that show, I love it to pieces and don't much care what I do...
So tomorrow I will go and get my furry face waxed (too few people talk about the billygoat effects of menopause...damn nuisance), and I already took care of my hair, since I don't want them putting that awful dark spray on it again at Boardwalk...took me three applications of shampoo to get that junk out. And I'll go to the library so I'll have something to read on set...and hope for a nice long shooting day.
Love, Wendy
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