After reading all of the gushing articles about how Meghan Markle made America feel good again, time to return to reality. Despite the beautiful choir rendition of Stand By Me and the rousing sermon by the Chicago bishop, invoking MLK. Gotta say. Meghan wore a veil over her face. When Harry lifted it she gave herself over to his royal family structure. She had to leave her career as an actress and her country to become a British subject. Okay a Duchess. But still. She curtsied to her new boss, the Queen.
Meghan is no longer an independent American woman.
To Meghan Markle. Fascinators aside, hats off to a class act. Timeless wedding gown designed by the first woman to head the French House Givenchy. Simple chic. A veil adorned by flowers from the Commonwealth. Strategic chic. And. She wasn’t worried about children stealing her spotlight. Confident chic. A woman of substance it seems. Here’s to Harry’s partner in life. Here’s to a happily ever-after.
Then. At Pimlico soggy hats at a murky track. Justify pulls off another win. By a feather.
Bachelorette Meghan got the rose. An American actress divorcée (not that there’s anything wrong with that) finds love again with Harry. The exceedingly eligible cute redheaded Bachelor. An English guy. They survive the destination date to Africa. Hot tubs may have been involved. Yet. He is a prince and a Prince.
They eschew the hometown parents visit. Her family may be a little too colorful for the BBC and his dysfunctionally royal clan. But. In the finale he does present her with a ring. She says yes. The engagement is of course a very public affair with lots of rules. And photo shoots.
The wedding production is certainly worthy of weeks-long wall-to-wall media coverage on every outlet. Gaggles of anchors crossing the pond to narrate the anointed nuptials. It’ll be a ratings extravaganza! Life has become a never-ending reality show. This more than fits the bill.
I hear Cilantro. One person’s soap is another’s parsley. Seriously. Never once heard Laurel on any frequency. Always Yanny. Son heard Laurel. Husband and others hear both. A metaphor for miscommunication. Everyone hears and tastes and reads the same thing yet interprets it differently. If only we all heard Yanny. World peace!
Author Tom Wolfe. His books stand the test of time. No one ever coined cultures better. Social x-rays. Limousine liberals. Radical chic. The ME generation. University athletics as centers of corruption. Astronauts as heroes of a generation. Wolfe’s white suits and literary legacy live on.
I Am Charlotte Simmons. Bonfire of the Vanities. The Right Stuff. Back to Blood. All-time favorites on the Book-Treks shelf.
It seems that Tom’s first job in journalism was as a reporter at The Springfield Union, in Springfield, Massachusetts.
This week in NYC the up-fronts come to town. Traditional old television networks present advertisers with their lineup for the new season. Tough times with all of the alternatives for watching shows now. Can hardly name more than a handful that are worth tuning in to NBC, ABC, CBS. Or Fox. Maybe the competition will make them better. So far not so much.
However, there does seem to be a tide turning. ABC’s Jimmy Kimmel and NBC’s SNL are starting to admit that Trump-bashing comedy, low-hanging jokes are falling flat with general audiences. Hope Democrats will take the hint and realize that a positive message and charismatic candidate will gain more voters than a constant TTSD rant.
A Tiger woke this morning. Lots of circles on his card. 6 under through 9. And he barely made the cut. Still. The island green always looms large. Phippy did not. His tighty white dress shirt strangled the swing. J-Rod jinxed the Bronx Bombers by showing up at Thursday’s game against the BoSox. But. They are pretty. Mother’s Day lobster shopping between squalls. Yay.