Thick as Split Poop Soup

To the drivers on Lake Shore Drive this morning:

Hi guys. I get that it's super foggy, but at road level, visibility is actually pretty clear, so there's really no need to ride your brakes. I know you're probably scared the all the big buildings have disappeared, but guess what? The mag mile is still there. John Hancock? Still there. Navy Pier? Still there.

Maybe you're just startled that the buildings are rising up Brigadoon-like as you approach them... don't worry. They were there all along. Maybe you're worried that *I* might be worried, and are hoping the soft glow of your taillights will comfort me somehow. Again, don't worry. Just concentrate on your driving, and maintain a safe yet comfortable rate of speed so that we can all get where we're going.

Me? Oh I'm headed to a high-rise, and with today's fog there's zero visibility outside my window. But you know what? I know it's still all there, so I'm at peace with it. A warm, calming peace that does not cause my braking foot to in any way press down towards the floor.

Besos a todos, K

Gay for Natalie Wood

I admit it, I am gay for Natalie Wood. Hopefully Milla Jovovich will forgive me for this betrayal, but it's so easy to love the dead -- they can do no wrong. But Milla, everytime you do another comic-book-or-computer-game-based film and kick major cinematic ass, I love you just a little bit more.

But right now, this is not about you, Milla (you cherry-booted vixen, you) -- this is about Natalie Wood. For many years I denied my inherent Nata-lust because of my father, who had worshiped her as the ideal female. And he should know from ideal females. But there was no denying her, not Natalie. One of my favorite movies is Inside Daisy Clover wherein she is brilliant and tortured, and you too just want to drink martinis and marry Robert Redford and make out with Christopher Plummer and have a breakdown and blow shit up, just so you can hang with her.

It's something about the eyes. Those Wood eyes (hairlip). And her slightly squeaky/raspy voice, like she stayed up too late being one of the boys, but still found time to powder her freckles and put on some eyeliner before she met you for lunch that day.

So all of this gayness means that I now have to get off my ass and buy/read the recent bio book -- I know there were men (Elvis, James Dean, Warren Beatty, Steve McQueen) and there was sadness (drinking, rape, suicide attempts), but I want to know more. Maybe it will humanize her for me, and make her less of a pretty picture, albeit one I would kill to look like.

But I do still love you Milla. Don't you worry, I'll gay-out about you all over this blog someday. In the meantime, keep kicking ass, showing your tits like any good former model would, but just one word of advice: If RJ and Chris Walken ask you on a boat ride off Catalina Island, JUST SAY NO.