From Saturday, that's Isaiah's The World Today Just Nuts "The Gentlemen's Club for Journalism."
Am I going to review Fiona Apple's new CD? It came out today. I've been listening to it for two weeks now. I am probably going to take a pass. It's just not speaking to me, sorry.
(I thought I would review it. That's why I seized C.I.'s copy two weeks ago.)
The Los Angeles Times reports that Johnny Depp and Vanessa Paradis have split up. Hope both will be well.
I do not blog about that sort of thing normally. Why am I now?
To note that for a lot of people who made it through the 90s, Johnny Depp belonged to one woman and only one woman.
No, not me!
They made a stunning couple whether they were all dressed up or grunged out.
And that's the only breakup that's really shocked me in the last years. Now grasp that as a child, I heard daily -- hourly? -- updates from my grandmother who lived with us about the status of Elizabeth Taylor's marriage to Eddie Fisher. Elizabeth was making Cleopatra and having a torrid affair with Richard Burton.
It was a huge scandal. I'm Catholic and I can remember references to Liz in the Church.
This was beyond huge.
And my grandmother was convinced that Taylor was going to rot in hell for her actions. (When Taylor and Burton married, my grandmother felt they had been forgiven. Don't ask me to explain that.)
And it wasn't just my grandmother and the Catholic Church, it was the whole country. Older kids talked about it at school, if you looked at a magazine rack, they were on the cover of everything, etc. Comedians did jokes about them.
So with that as 'normal' when I was a little girl, I may have grown immune to divorces and love scandals.
But the Ryder and Depp thing just seemed to be the perfect fit.
And, being my grandmother's granddaughter, my first thought when I heard the news was, yes, "Maybe he and Winona will get back together!"
I'm sure they won't.
But I was surprised by how much the news hit me and figured I'd blog about that.
There's a postcard of Winona and Johnny kissing. I got it in 2000 and didn't know it was them. Maggie saw it on my wall and told me who it was. (One wall of my bedroom is nothing but framed postcards.) And that postcard, is just the perfect kiss (not a peck), a real kiss.
Closing with C.I.'s "Iraq snapshot:"