Quote de jour
"Outside of a dog, a book is your best friend, inside of a dog, it's too dark to read."
                                                                                                        ~Groucho Marx

 I'm reading two books by David Foster Wallace, the 46-year-old writer who committed suicide last week. I'm ashamed to say, I've never read any of his books. I'm glad to have found his brilliant writing and I hope he's found some peace at last. Books live on after authors die but damn, I'm pissed, there won't be more written by him.


This month's Vanity Fair is choc-a-block with riveting reads including a poignant article on Paul Newman. The prescient article served as a tribute. The day after I read it, Paul Newman died. We'd heard the rumors of his illness but for once the paparazzi didn't behave like jackals and left him alone. Paul Newman he died as he lived his life, privately and with a quiet dignity.

My husband had the good fortune to meet Mr. Newman years ago. He had agreed to do the narration on one of my husband's documentary films. Everyone knows that Hollywood is full assholes and egos but Paul Newman was one of the few who stayed immune to the underbelly of stardom. So, on the appointed day, Paul Newman breezes in(on time) to do the narration like a regular Joe. No entourage, No agent. No attitude. He simply did the job like a pro, treated everyone with kindness and left without fanfare. A real star and mensch of a man.




This batch appears smaller than my usual but don't kid yourself, the Vogue alone is fat enough to double as a doorstop. Am I the only one who is sick of seeing Sarah Palin on every cover?