Let me tell you something, I felt a real connection. I felt a real vibe between the two of us. I’m thinking, This is something that’s going well! This is somebody I’d like to hang out with outside of the show. You never know about this stuff — sometimes you meet your heroes and they end up being nightmares. Not this one. Exceeded expectations. We talked about her touring, and I asked her who she preferred playing shows to: an intimate audience or an arena. She said to me, in the sweetest way possible, “If you could fill the ocean with people, I’d like to play for them.” My heart stopped.
- Max Greenfield on Taylor Swift- this is great
Kim Kardashian and Kanye West insist that they are not asking for baby gifts, though a bunch of fake registries have recently been spotted online. Instead the couple is asking that people donate money to a children’s hospital in Chicago. Which is awfully nice of them. But really, what do they need with baby gifts? They’re just gonna dress that kid in E! merch for a while, and give it Kris Humphries’s old toys to play with. Kris has been trying to get that stuff back, sending crayon-scrawled notes to the house saying “Give me bak my firetruk and Hot Weels or ells” but it’s so far been to no avail. Thus the divorce proceedings continue. Oh the Westdashian baby! What a wondrous young life it’s going to have. What enormous diapers it will have to wear.
Richard Lawson, everybody
He felt just then the strangest of feelings. One he’d maybe not felt since he was a boy. That feeling of having done something wrong but getting away with it. The broken teacup, the gash in the lawn, the tear in the sofa. Something done with a giddy dumbness but credited elsewhere. Must have been the wind, the dog, the key sticking out of the purse. It’s a guilty feeling, the success of the lie, but it’s relief too. What a strange mix of things, to both know the truth and evade it, to escape a fact, to scrape past reality and fall, like a mattress for a stuntman, onto the cushion of something else.
The sun was bright but not mean, the newly roomy world of spring wrapping everyone in its celery winds. There on those chairs, mom and dad there, him and him and him there too. After all of that, it was just this. Folding chairs and the computer-blue of April, the hum and honk of a military choir, the flag whipping as if fighting for its place in the sky.
He thought of his paintings back home. Wondered if maybe… If maybe life could have been different, long ago. If maybe there was a quieter place, a quieter time. When all that mattered was the hush of brush on canvas. The barking of dogs. The calm cluck of Laura, rustling through the pages of a book or handing him iced tea, the ice making a song in the glass. If the girls could have maybe grown up this way, with their painter dad, and none of the other stuff, all the noise and power and pain, had to storm its way into their lives.
But then it was time for his speech, the one he’d practiced in the bedroom. Laura resting her chin on his shoulder as he murmured it into the mirror. This is how life had gone. What they’d told him to do. Was he arrogant? Was he dumb? Was he criminal? Was he all those things they’d said? He didn’t know. How could he ever know? Because he was just him. Just in the slacks, the suit, the pinched knot of a tie. And today it was a library. Tomorrow it was who knew. Back to the canvas, he guessed. To Texas blurting its way into summer. Back to life as he’d never known it. The hush of a library like the grass near the house. A hiss, a common and quiet noise, a whisper saying “Forget, forget, forget.”
And so he did.
Richard Lawson, you have my heart.