Every morning, I sit down with my steaming cup of Sumatra and fire up my big baby to read the e-mail, cyberlurk on my kids on Facebook (new status symbol, I found out, how many friends do you have), and noodle around with one of my little games as my mind settles into place for the day. And, every morning, the Real Message Center pops up with news of the day. News about pulchritudinous bimbettes, inebriated celebrities, and multi-racial studmuffins. Does it seem to anyone else that we are inundated with tripe? Everyone wants to be beautiful, and there are so many of them, it is like God has opened a Barbie and Ken factory of his own, so it no longer feels special and certainly, not unique. I can't keep track of the current crop at all. In my day, celebrities had to have talent. And they were remarkable, meaning, you could tell them apart. No on mistook Kirk Douglas for Tyrone Power. Errol Flynn could outdrink Paris Hilton, for sure. Humphrey Bogart was plain homely, but absolutely endearing, and mega-gifted, too. Time for a re-think. And another cuppa.
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