The Amber Alert was on full tilt tonight during my drive home. The emergency bulletin signs above the freeway described in lights the kidnapping suspect’s car make, model, and license plate number. I hope someone spotted the guy and reported him, and I hope they eventually get the kid back to the parents. If not, I’ll have a faint feeling of survivor’s guilt. That seems like a strange notion, but I can’t count how many times I could have been…
I had the misfortune of seeing ABC’s The Bachelor the first time around. Seeing the many women fawn over the one man sickened me, but it was like watching an accident; I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t even like the bachelor. I didn’t like his whiny voice, his sappy blank smile, or his seeming lack in personality or humor. I especially didn’t like that he was on this kind of TV show, thinking that he could find his ideal wife…
At 13 years old, Rochelle was the best built out of my group of friends in the 8th grade. Unlike Maila, Mary, Meredith, and myself, she’d ripened enough to have gazongas that more than impressed the boys. A couple of said boys were Rob and Rod, ninth graders with a bad reputation; and thanks to middle-of-the-hood geography and the lure of teen pheromones, those bad boys somehow ended up at my house. I’ll admit that I never liked Rod—not before…