The man boobs, arm flab, back fat, spare tire, bald spot, eye bags, neck waddle and random skin discolorations that I thought I’d thrown off my trail have found me. “Traffic was a bitch,” they’re saying, “but we made it! Mind if we use your bathroom?”
Do I mind? Of course I mind. Those ruts they’re cutting in the fine-leaf fescue are tragedy beyond all comprehension, but the tailgate party is in progress.
Back when I was ready for my closeup, twenty or thirty years ago, I almost never saw the inside of a soundstage. This month, I’ll see two.
And they’ll see me.