Fine, then.


Wow. Write about boobs and everyone’s got something to say, but just mention the Aztecs—try it on your blog, mention the Aztecs, I’ll be here waiting--and listen to the crickets chirp. Was that an embarrassed cough I heard, way back in the wings?

Life is conspiring to deprive me of writing material—the child is healthy and clever; no new waterbugs have scuttled across my bare feet; my husband hasn’t emitted any farts that sounded like the first few bars of “Inna Gadda Da Vida.” So, fine, then. I’ll just talk about famous people.

A few years back, I was working in Soho in a building that housed a theatre company. Which meant that I often shared the small, cramped elevator with Sandy Duncan. Sandy Duncan is probably not a celebrity on anyone’s can’t-wait-to-meet list, but when I was seven, I worshipped Sandy Duncan. I can’t imagine why. Did I respect her work in the Wheat Thins commercials? What else did she do? I even wrote a song about her. (I would share with you the lyrics, except they’re only “Sandy Duncan” over and over—it was the melody, people, the melody that counted).

I was also in that same elevator with David Bowie and three German models. I should have been thrilled about my proximity to David Bowie (he was right there, I could have touched him), but the German models were crushing any joy left in my soul with their iron fists of perfection. I am 5’7” and weighed (emphasis on the –ed) 120 pounds and I felt like a shrub next to these leggy, tobacco-reeking, dead-eyed Frauleins. And David Bowie was chatting Germanically with them, and I could have reached out and grabbed his ANYTHING! Take your pick of anatomical parts! but he never glanced my way. I didn’t expect a soul-kiss, but a nod would have been nice.

At a wedding, I had a conversation with Marvin Hamlisch, during which I realized that Marvin Hamlisch is in behavior and appearance identical to my parents’ friend Roy, and yes, I know this means nothing to you. Also he has a hot wife. Marvin Hamlisch, that is.

At a bar, John Cusack approached my friend Audra and me. We had noticed him staggering around with a yellow bandanna perched at a jaunty angle on his head, and I had been making fun of him from a distance. (All the while hoping that he might approach us and then we'd fall in love and make babies.) So when he actually began wobbling our way, my adrenaline started pumping and something bad happened to my mouth and the following words came out of it: “That’s so cute. Did your mommy dress you up like a pirate?” And with that he turned right around, headed back to the dark recesses of the bar and began to make out with some blonde girl. Audra has never forgiven me. She thinks he was going to marry her, but you and I, John—you and I know the truth.