Coffee City

"Look this good at fifty-six, you will not," sayeth Yoda.

I must admit, not one episode of "Dancing with the Stars" ever danced across my living room, but who can get away from it?

Recently, I detect mean comments directed at Miss Jane.

* special treatment to claim food poisoning, if she can't dance

* a presumption of arrogance

Who knows what's in people's hearts?

I gotta tell you, I saw "Sinbad" as a teenage, and you can imagine what that did for me.

Then in college, "Somewhere in Time."

That music was played at the wedding of my best friend.

Nowadays, Jane Seymour seems to have cast away coffee book romance, emerging dicey and strong as the older woman every twenty-something yearns for.

But she'll always have the baboon prince. 

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Okay, this is admittedly of the variety one might find in "US" magazine, or "People," but not a true tabloid (because photos are fuzzier).

Simple contest. Appeal on whatever level. Photos chosen at random. You know all about their careers.

Penguins on ice cast ballots. 

Contestant number 1:

Kirsten Dunst

 Contestant number 2:

Reese Witherspoon

 Contestant number 3:

Satan

You need not actually vote.

A strange ratings process exists that presumes they know how you think, from political candidates to TV and radio, when no one has ever asked.

You are just in the math.

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When the waiter saw the dead man and the ring of staring people, he paused, started angrily, and then his rose-pink face began to flame and burn with apoplectic fury.

Either that, or he wanted to meet Maria Sharapova in the worst way.

She really hits the ball hard.

Too bad it doesn't go in all the time.

No plan "B."

Girl kept staring at the dead man on the bench with a dull, fascinated eye of horror and disbelief.

Choke. Choke. Choke.

These aren't the meager droids you're looking for.

 Let's ask Ana what she thinks.

Take it easy girl. I've hyped you already.

Stop looking so pretty, all right? Sit down for a minute.

You don't have to laser every single ball into the corner, unless that's your "thing."

Stop enjoying it so much.

Clamourous confusion, upgrading wardrobe to lavendar.

Justine Henin munched lunch today, sits quietly.

Here is what Justine is thinking.

"Holy shit."

Ana, I'm your best fan. Saw you before anyone else.

Earns me something, right? Free .....um.... lessons?

Keep your dress intact, and the world is your oyster.

Out. Peace.

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Maine begs a visit.

Always loved the idea of that snow-shrouded family of pines, straight out of something I read when I was twelve years old.

Crabapple Cove, home of Hawkeye Pierce.

Stephen King sightings. Seafood.

 Or as Julia Roberts so delicately put it in Mystic Pizza,

"There's a lotta fucking lobsters here."

Vacation spree is tempting, but look at this guy.

I can't leave him.

Happier at thirteen than I remember.

Traipsing hilly trails - not his thing.

Louis XVI in his boudoir.

EmersonCam keeps constant tabs.

Guess I'm stuck for the duration, clicking through DirecTV's 257 channels of nonsense.

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