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Who told?

Did you see the March 8 New Yorker?

Hurt Locker marches to victory

Clearly there was a leak. Don’t tell me the illustrator, Mark Ulriksen is psychic, because there’s no such thing. Culturally America is bi-coastal, with a vast wasteland in the middle. Stage actors from New York are no longer considered a sell-out when they do a Hollywood blockbuster, Cathy Bates cleared that all up after Misery and Fried Green Tomatoes.  So the cross-continental pollination continues, and a decade later, The New Yorker splashes a less-than-subtle spoiler on the front page. And then we here in Hollywood are supposed to act like we care when John Updike buys the farm? When great writers, like Pinter for example, used to go to Hollywood, it was with a fedora hat pulled over their forehead, sunglasses and a trench coat. They were ashamed to be associated with Hollywood and were considered sell-outs. Well, this is the last straw. When our subscription runs out, I’m going to see if we can get the Hollywood Reporter, or Variety. If we must stick to Condé-Nast, then I want Vanity Fair. If the New Yorker wishes to remain relevant, then why are they still publishing that gadawful poetry? I open to The Thundershower by Derek Mahon. It has nine stanzas. Oh, look! It’s trying to rhyme. Why should I give a damn about this thundershower? After 54 lines of ponderous mush, there should at least be an earthquake. Usually I read the cartoons while I’m on the throne. Talk of the Town? Who gives a damn? Ain’t my town! Okay, I’m going to stop deconstructing the New Yorker now, but it really pisses me off that someone at Borse-Porterhouse leaked the results to someone who gives good head, so good that it got him/her a position or friend at the New Yorker. Well, they say Nancy Reagan gave head like she was sucking for oxygen. Guess that’s what makes the world go round.

How long, oh Lord, how long?

I want my sidewalk back!

The bizzarely named Jefferson Project continues to ruin the lives of local residents. The eastern sidewalk from on Highland from Hollywood to Yucca is closed. When I first asked the site manager, Buba, how long this inconvenience would last, he assured me that it would only last “three weeks.” Three months later, I’m being told that it might be a couple more months. With  unemployment for construction workers in Los Angeles running at a mind-boggling twenty percent, these kind of boondoggles will keep the most incompetant, lazy and drug addled among you, busy as bees pollinating opium plants. Nice work, Bubba.

Most annoying commercial ever

With a spokesmodel named Flo, who looks and acts like she’s taking Provigil by the bottle, Progressive Insurance has won the hearts, if not the pocketbooks, of America. While I was cutting through the Hollywood and Highland complex to get to the CVS at Sycamore and Hollywood, I was assaulted by a Progressive-Insurance-a-thon. Here they are filming one of those commercials again. Where’s that tampon I can use to gauge out my eyes? Take a look and see if you can find Flo!


About Russell Smith

I was born at the American Hospital in Neuilly-sur-Seine, France. I find inspiration in the lives of so many people from Joan of Arc to Oscar Wilde. While my primary avocation is photography, I also enjoy philosophy, theology and most of all, history. My beloved wife, Robin Anne Smith, who passed away in 2013 is also an inspiration to me. My beloved partner, Dana is also a great support and inspiration to me. I'd be remiss if I did not mention my cats: Natasha, Maxwell, Tigger and Nigel.

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