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So Dina Ruiz's assistant came into the store yesterday & bought a PETA apron and dished that Dina was developing a mild case of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome due to forging Clint's signature on all that AT&T Pro-Am paraphernalia. Apparently there is a complicated algorithm that is used to determine who gets authentic Clint Eastwood autographs and who gets Dina's. Dina's assistant didn't know the details.
She's been in the store several times before but hadn't previously identified herself as celebrity chattel.
And of course since I am always super-friendly to everyone who comes into the store – it's part of my temple whore mentality – I didn't have to do any extra fawning after she told me who she worked for.
Better get crackin' on that screenplay for next time though. ("Die Hard in a hot sauce store! Pretty Woman meets Colon Cleaner!")
I must say it does give me a vicarious thrill to think of Dirty Harry barbecuing by the pool with nothing between his balls and the cruel ultraviolet rays of the afternoon sun but one of my bright red People For the Eating of Tasty Animals aprons.
In other news, now the Kenyans have been fired from Cirque de Méprise. I found that out when I called Ray early Saturday to get the new performance lineup so I could write yet another cheery, uplifting press release about the must-see family entertainment everybody's talking about!
"What happened?" I asked, thunderstruck.
"Well, they drank," said Ray. "And they were stealing the coloring book money. You know, they go around the aisles between acts selling coloring books? The count was off."
I have a hard time believing they drank. I'd struck up an email correspondence with one of them: Abdalla Mwahozi, nicknamed "The Professor," a good Muslim boy, the son of a fisherman growing up in the Mathare Valley district of Nairobi which is the hideous tar-paper-shack slum – beset by the worst draught in living memory and an AIDs epidemic of staggering proportions – where I hope Dick Cheney gets to live out the first twenty thousand years of his sentence when he finally goes to hell.
The Chinese government sent one of its periodic cultural missions to the Mathare Valley. Mao Tse Tung – I know he changed his name about the same time that Peking became Beijing, but I can never remember the new spelling – was just crazy for circuses. Who knows why? All throughout the eighties and the nineties, Chinese circus troupes roamed the third world, looking for native artists to develop.
Abdalla was one of them. He was 10 years old; he watched the shows from the beach where his father fished. He began by mimicking the performers.
If Abdalla started drinking, things must have been very bad, very overwhelming indeed.
"We love it here in America," Abdalla wrote me. "The people are so happy and free. There is no poverty like in Africa. We would like to stay and work here for a long time."
I felt sick all day, thinking about him.
She's been in the store several times before but hadn't previously identified herself as celebrity chattel.
And of course since I am always super-friendly to everyone who comes into the store – it's part of my temple whore mentality – I didn't have to do any extra fawning after she told me who she worked for.
Better get crackin' on that screenplay for next time though. ("Die Hard in a hot sauce store! Pretty Woman meets Colon Cleaner!")
I must say it does give me a vicarious thrill to think of Dirty Harry barbecuing by the pool with nothing between his balls and the cruel ultraviolet rays of the afternoon sun but one of my bright red People For the Eating of Tasty Animals aprons.
In other news, now the Kenyans have been fired from Cirque de Méprise. I found that out when I called Ray early Saturday to get the new performance lineup so I could write yet another cheery, uplifting press release about the must-see family entertainment everybody's talking about!"What happened?" I asked, thunderstruck.
"Well, they drank," said Ray. "And they were stealing the coloring book money. You know, they go around the aisles between acts selling coloring books? The count was off."
I have a hard time believing they drank. I'd struck up an email correspondence with one of them: Abdalla Mwahozi, nicknamed "The Professor," a good Muslim boy, the son of a fisherman growing up in the Mathare Valley district of Nairobi which is the hideous tar-paper-shack slum – beset by the worst draught in living memory and an AIDs epidemic of staggering proportions – where I hope Dick Cheney gets to live out the first twenty thousand years of his sentence when he finally goes to hell.
The Chinese government sent one of its periodic cultural missions to the Mathare Valley. Mao Tse Tung – I know he changed his name about the same time that Peking became Beijing, but I can never remember the new spelling – was just crazy for circuses. Who knows why? All throughout the eighties and the nineties, Chinese circus troupes roamed the third world, looking for native artists to develop.
Abdalla was one of them. He was 10 years old; he watched the shows from the beach where his father fished. He began by mimicking the performers.
If Abdalla started drinking, things must have been very bad, very overwhelming indeed.
"We love it here in America," Abdalla wrote me. "The people are so happy and free. There is no poverty like in Africa. We would like to stay and work here for a long time."
I felt sick all day, thinking about him.
