Monday, March 26, 2012

"Fifty Shades of Grey!" he raised an eyebrow phlegmatically

The fans^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  "I want to eat the birdseed!!"

Fifty Shades of Grey

A hamburger helper story written by a 5- year old boy with four characters, Anastasia, Christian, The inner goddess, The subconscious and Bella and Edward and Thor and Hercules and long fingers and fan fiction and hot cakes and Masters of the Universe and Legos and The Hunger Games, I mean Twilight and is that five? I meant five.

--------------------------------------*_*----------------------------------------------------------- *_*-------------------

My palms were sweating incredibly because I had exams I was not prepared for and forgot why I was in school. But I promised my roommate Katty, that I would help her. She was the editor of the W paper and had to interview some guy, I think on fashion. I have no idea why and didn’t ask.  She was sick and I’m such a clumsy knob there wasn’t a point, achingly.  Anyway, there were no details, but from her sick bed she blasted out a folder.

“Its all in there. Just go,” she whined fleetingly.

The inner goddess in me was struggling with my unconscious because on one hand I wanted to help my bff and number three, I had to study, so it was a real mud pit of Tarzan soil.  But friends are for life so I went.

I sped to his office, a giant, tall, really big, huge, tall skyscraper that was gray. I feel so intimated I thought sheepishly.  Oh, pull yourself together I thought slapping myself pointedly.

I parked then gasped at the parking fees. I hope they validate I thought hopefully.

I went up the very detailed elevator for 45 flights and entered a mirrored giant hallway of mirrors, then was met by a towered blond secretary who was curt. She scared me but I will act not scared I thought reassuringly.  Oh come on inner goddess. We can do this. For Katty.  She’s my parapet.

The office was so big, spacious and gray and spacious.

“Would you like some water?” she said nicely. I took the glass then dropped it and watched it spill, well, it broke first, then it spilled on the spacious gray carpet. Oh clumsy Anastasia, I thought angrily banging my thigh with an open fist.

I finally reached his office, a huge spacious steel door. I think the company was also called Steele! Get it?  How coincidental I thought coincidentally.  After it opened, I flailed around like some kind of swirling idiot and fell flat on my face.

Then I was on all fours, like a dog. A sad-eye submissive dog. Oh stupid me!!! I thought stupidly. Aren’t they all submissive? Get a grip of yourself you whacko!

I felt his two warm hands like hot bread wrap around my waist and he helped me up. He wasn’t some old man, but I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, he was probably 27 and a billionaire.  I started to sweat. Water was forming in goblets around my neck like a water necklace from Arizona.

His long pointy finger excited me when he held out his hand. I shook it. The finger was so erotic I got wet on my ankles. Damn why did you wear panty hose, you stupid clod. I hope I don’t look like a klutz even though I just fell to the floor completely for no reason, I thought ironically, then pulled my scarf to my face and the sluice gates opened.

“Hello. I’m Christian Grey,” he blurted droolingly.  Steele, Grey? The tower of coincidences made me want to pull my face off.

I described his boring office for pages and pages like a real writer might, except real writers don’t actually do that and then suddenly, his gray gray eyes were boring into me, then burrowing, or some part of me, making my heart flutter like a butterfly or a hummingbird or a jack rabbit, or "things that flutter for 200 Bob!"

More sweating and gasping for no reason and then when working at Home Depot, he shows up like a Greek god passing through like he forgot his wings.

I was suddenly lost in a quagmire of sensation.  How can that be? I go on and on trying to wrap my brain around another coincidence. He wants ME to help him. He likes ME!!!!! And possibly Sally Field. Can it be so?

I’m 22, about to graduate college, have no cell phone, or Facebook and don’t know what Google is. And I’m a plain Jane. And stupid. And a half-wit and I tell myself these things constantly to the point of wanting to hurl. Hurl the emotional lust that I revel in.

He’s got me right under my skin, literally.

“I want some thick rope, electrical cord, cable rods, masking tape, steel plates, a ball gag,  latex, handcuffs, electrical wire, fishnets, masks and, oh, do you carry 4- foot dildoes?" 

I caught myself staring into his piercing gray eyes. Be clever dumbass be clever.

“You’re so cocky.” OMG did I just say that. OMG. “It sounds like quite a DYI project you are working on.”
“Why would it be DYI, I have 22 billion dollars.”

I scratched my arm until it bled.

“Oh, silly me. I totally forgot you were rich. So is this a hobby?"
“Yes, I’m a birdman. I build nifty cages, attract the naivest birds in the whole county, bind their feet together, tape their beaks shut, truss them into a 4 square knot, handcuff their little heads to a steel, gray post, and use a dildo well, you know, for monkey sex.. I’m shy so…”

"Oh, please I didn’t mean to pry," I stuttered haltingly.  Oh brainless me! That’s what I get for trying to be clever, now he’ll never want to see me again and I love birds.   I was afraid my subconscious was wearing her Edvard Munch face again while my inner goddess was whistling with her hands behind her back.

He wrapped the cords around his man shaped arms.

“But before anything, I make sure the bird signs a contract so it’s legal. There is a whole list of rules they have to follow,"he murmured. Then his mouth quirked up.
I was so impressed.
“Wow,” I murmured back.

Of course he knows the law. He has 170,000 employees, runs all these companies and is a birdwatcher. Is there anything he can’t do?

My inner goddess wanted to reach out and squeeze his private area, but my subconscious was hiding behind the house paint, so I was in a dill pickle.

“My rope?” he questioned phlegmatically.
“Oh, you have a cold?” I purred sympathetically.
“Constipated,” he coughed gruntingly.

I handed him 30 feet of yellow course rope.

“What is the electrical wire for?”

“Obvious. If the birds try to get away they get a nice little shock. But in fairness, if they stay they get a nice little reward.”
“Cool. Like birdseed?”
“Yeah, they like to lick it off my dick.”

His voice and gray eyes were giving me spaghetti legs.

Eventually I signed the contract and joined the birds.  I also lost a lot of weight cause he made me so fluttery and love struck I couldn’t eat.  I couldn’t eat when I was aroused either, or nervous, or scared, or happy or sad or feeling spacious or bloaty.  

But that’s good cause he never fed me anyway. Except oysters.  He sure loved oysters and I don’t know why but whenever I felt adventurous, like I wanted to try the seed lick, I craved oysters.

Rhonda Talbot  weighing in on Fifty Shades of Grey.

Friday, March 23, 2012

But he's magic mama...

I have these twin girls, the Things, darling as they are, they are nearly 10 and giggle at words like sexy, hot and boys and Ann and Nancy Wilson.

They say things like, that is so random, Mom you are totally OT, clue....less.... Barracuda! and so on.

here they are...

Well, okay, how I like to see them.  But take these cuties, add multi-colored nail polish, knit caps, scarves, arm bangles, necklaces bunched together, head wraps, lots of color,  hand sewn t-shirts, flitty skirts, cowboy boots, well, you get the idea. Post modern google hippies.

Their tast in music has changed dramatically this year. They love this song about some guy saying he has moves like Jagger.

"Do you guys know who Mick Jagger is, what he is saying?"

They roll their eyes.

"Duh. We have all the Stones songs on Spotify, Mom. I mean, could you be more random?"

I don't know how that question makes me "random."

They have these secret crushes on boys, hide under their covers with their ipads looking at music videos by Bruno Mars, write very dramatic stories with shocking surprises, bucolic settings and decent outcomes, but also love movies like Lorax, play with a giant Victorian doll-house and have an obsession with Littlest Pet Shops.

I've heard girls "turn" at 10. That is, become their own people,  things get a little dicey.  I trust in how they were raised, they will make good decisions, but I can't believe I am already concerned. Here is why. They love this song! It came on the radio, and in fact, they knew all the Heart songs.  I didn't know if I should be impressed or terrified.

When this refrain comes on, they shout in the car, "he's the magic man!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I remember running off to meet "magic men" when I was 14; if they had a guitar, a car and were "hot" they were all magic.  This album played a big role in my old early teen years. I find it amazing my kids are following suit. What happened to the Taylor Swift lovefest?

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

The Basic Instinct Effect: RUN MEN RUN

After MONTHS of research, wait, YEARS, the New York Times cobbled together a list of attributes a man might want to keep handy; the absolutely- no- doubt- about- it, she has narcissistic personality disorder or NPD. Sharon Stone was a shining example in Basic Instinct, Nicole Kidman another, in Two Die For. (Totally OT, I could have put this list together in a day. I digress...)

Many men chase, pursue, must have and want to marry the NPD's, because these women are so alluring, but alas, sadly once you put a ring on it, the facade quickly falls away, men have fallen into the endless and painful black hole.  

Nonetheless, despite the many warning signs, men often times are aghast that the Mrs. strays, is certifiable insane or stole all his money. Maybe even plotted some crazy death scheme. 

Sometimes these women are just plain desperate and the men surely pay.

 I am here to help.

I will provide you with all the traits, many you will recognize, especially if you live in Los Angeles, because women suffering from NPD seem to congregate here, in showbiz or not. 
Men love these women. Who wouldn't?  Typically sexy, funny, outgoing, confident, alluring, challenging, complex, endless in possibility.  Many a movie role is based on this type of woman... what I call the Basic Instinct Syndrome.
Sometimes the role are tricky because the women in question doesn't seem to suffer from NPD.  Merly Streep playing Miranda Priestly being a great example. I can assure you. NARCISSIST.   She commands the room, makes puppy dogs out of men, feeling quite superior to everyone and uses her sex to up her power ante. 
But that black hole runs deep and needs to be filled. One man can never do it. Instead she will make your life a living hell.  Glenn Close did an outstanding job in Fatal Attraction.

 Here is a list to keep handy.
·           Arrogant behavior
·          Dishonest. Lies trip off her tongue easier than truth.
·          Blames others for her problems
·          Engages in risky, thrill seeking behavior, giving the “Holly Golightly” impression
·          Self of entitlement for no reason
·          Lack of sympathy for others
·          Need for admiration
·         Highly unpredictable
·         Grandiosity and wishful thinking
·         Impulsive
·         Often manipulative and demanding
·         Dresses very provocatively and knows how to blind men with her assets making them feel "special"
·         Easy to get in the sack
·         Typically has plastic surgery and brand clothes, couture, very important
·         Underneath the façade is a girl with extremely low self-worth
·         Because of lacking self-worth, she often reaches out to the man to sustain her and it always fails.

         Here is the rub. A women only needs six of the above to qualify. 

I've known a number of women like this, hard not to when you live in Los Angeles. They are never friends for long because they don't want female companionship, just men, and usually see all women as a threat. Plus, I just don't care for this type of self-involved/centered/selfish person  If anything I feel empathy for them but it's not my job to help/fix/warn. I have enough on my plate.

I saw this today on a Rolls Royce, driven by a 48? 50? year old woman, huge lips, giant breasts, tell-tale sign of a facelift or two, skin as smooth as my 9-year olds.  Her license plate:

 NPD's typically expect their potential partners to have the intellect of Albert Einstein, the psychique of Hugh Jackman, the fortune of Bill Gates, the CIA capacity and protection abilities of Liam Neeson, the hairline of James Franco, and the soft eyes and sexy swagger of Ryan Gosling.

We can throw around names of famous women that exude NPD qualities but that is not the point of the piece. It's for men to recognize faster what they may be getting lured into. Once in the sticky web, this song comes to mind. I will leave you with that.

Friday, March 9, 2012

I Miss My Son's Fedora

(reprinted from More 2010)

It was that time of year again, when kids go off to college. I was witnessing hysterical mothers all around me, crying at Starbucks, breaking down on the treadmill at my gym. I know that particular meltdown. It’s different from “I can’t pay the bills” or “We are about to lose our house” or “I can no longer fit into my fat pants!”

My son left last year. I was surprised and quietly proud of keeping it all together. I was more focused on the preparation of it all. I had seen the college, loved the college, felt quite cozy by then in the low-rent Marriott where I stayed near his college. I bought him some clothes I thought he might need that go beyond his typical wardrobe of boxers and T-shirts. His father went all out and bought him the most high tech computer I’d ever seen, a computer so sleek I thought it might have transporting powers. No one had given much thought to the actual packing; so his step dad--maybe it was the Boy Scouts, or his year-long stint in the army--somehow managed to pack everything this kid owned and 80 lbs worth of books into 2 suitcases.

I had attended a “workshop” at his high school just to be sure I was emotional prepared for my firstborn to move out, move on and start his life. The small windowless room above the school library was filled with red-faced women. Sobbing. A few hysterical. I felt nothing, well, but embarrassment for them. We went around the room to discuss our feelings. One woman couldn’t get any words out, the monitor kept telling her to take her time. By now I just wanted to flee. Her kid was going to a college four miles from her house and not even leaving his room!

When it got to me, I was handed a wand (which was really a fat oak branch); some ritual the monitor felt necessary for us women. I tapped the branch on my knee. “Frankly, it’s about time. When I went off to college, my mother didn’t even notice. She realized I was gone about 2 years later when she was looking for one of my favorite jackets.”

I passed the wand. They all stared at me, a stare I was so familiar with by now “who is the freak and who let her in and who the hell is her kid?”

Here is the thing. I have what is called DRR. Delayed Reaction Response. For example, when I had my 2nd wedding, a big weekend affair, followed by an elaborate honeymoon, I didn’t really realize I was married until this man I married referred to me as his wife at a work function. I looked around, then behind me for this wife, until realizing that was me.

Then, when the twins came along, I just thought they were the cutest little things, all dolled up in Ralph Lauren dresses friends had sent. I would glance over at them in between bites of chocolate bricks; while my mother cared for them. Though she was meant to come for the weekend she stayed 10 months. Until finally she lost it and hit the Nyquil: “These are your children!! Stop with the chocolate, your work and pretending you don’t have two more kids. I already did this.” When she left, I had to accept they were mine, but I didn’t give up the chocolate. You would think I weighed 500 lbs, but weirdly I’m considered underweight. I call this stress thinning.

Back to my son. When he left this year, now a seasoned veteran as a sophomore, there wasn’t much for him to do but have his step dad pack for him again. He was so excited to be returning, and now apparently to a much better dorm, which can only mean one thing, its coed.

Somewhere in the summer, since I saw very little of him as he has friends and wanted to spend more time with his bio-dad, my DDR kicked in. I was a sobbing fool. He wasn’t even around. But I would look at his empty bedroom, or the gift cards his sisters would carefully construct out of macaroni shells and stick in the mail box like they would actually be sent somewhere, and break down. “MY BABY!” I would wail from my bed, eating bags of chocolate chips, in my pajamas with no intention of ever getting out of them. No one was home so no one heard me. And frankly no one could comfort me anyway.

Two days later, I pulled myself together long enough to take him to dinner the night before his departure. We talked and laughed about movies, books and bad TV shows and politics. He was so optimistic, poised, excited about where life was taking him and how he could better the world. He was a grown-up. He wasn’t my baby. For all those years I could detect his pain or sadness before he could, and comfort him; now he could see it in me.

He leaned over the booth and hugged me.

“I’ll be alright mom. You don’t have to worry.”

I could feel tears welling up; and we got back home so he could plan a party in six minutes, which he somehow pulled off. He left, and I never know when he leaves because it’s always past 10 p.m. after I fall asleep.

A few things I miss about him:
-- His uncanny ability to text 50 people in 10 seconds, grab a bag of nachos and have a party somewhere.
-- His smile and spirit that were surely were god-given because they certainly didn’t come from me.
-- His utter lack of caring about clothes; yet he loves to look good and somehow manages to pull together outfits from his closet I really only give cursory glances to.
-- His fedora.
--How he always seems to know the right moment when to hug me.
--All of his buddies hanging around the house. How we would sit around the kitchen table and talk endlessly about how weird girls were.
--His penchant for drinking orange juice by the gallon then putting the empty container back in the fridge.
--His ability to fix my computer in two minutes whenever I thought it had crashed for good. (I'd wail, "My life is over!!" He'd waltz in, roll his eyes and fix it.)
--Our hours spent in line at In and Out, arguing the merits of animal style (his choice) versus what is actually on the damn menu (mine).
--How he would lecture me on issues like girl trafficking and black holes and how Star Trek: The Motion Picture had it all wrong and was completely lame.
--His lanky way of moving, and despite his being tall and thin, his ability to knock anything over without noticing. (We share a kind of head-in-the-clouds grace.)
--How he hated team sports--almost anything involving the outdoors--and refused to learn to ride a bike. I think he drove a car before he finally got on a bike.

Though there are so many memories, perhaps the one that stands out most is when he was 7. His future stepdad (I will refer to him as FH, future husband) and I took him on a cross-country trip. Despite the fact we had no reservations anywhere, we kept ending up in suites practically for free. My husband says I have good hotel karma. Maybe in a former life I lived in a grass hut. At the Grand Canyon, I worked my magic, or karma, and we had a two-bedroom suite on the rim of the canyon. My son loves the hotel life and was just beside himself. This would be one of many hotel experiences but for him it was magical to look out his very own window and see inside that crazy canyon.

That night at dinner in a kind of cowboy diner with animal heads on the wall, there was a fly that kept buzzing around our heads when we were trying to eat our Ox burgers, so my FH grabbed the fly and ate it. My son’s jaw dropped. He wasn’t sure how to react; as in, did he really just do that? Can you do that? Is this person mad? My boy ran off and onto the patio to a group of complete strangers and told them what happened, pointing to FH as though he were a child abductor. I went out and collected him, explaining to the perplexed family, “I’m sorry; my fiancé eats insects all the time. Something he learned in Korea while in the army.”

“Mom! The larvae! Won’t the fly lay eggs in his stomach and then they’ll all come buzzing out of his mouth??”

“No honey. I once ate a moth in my soup. Nothing happened, but I didn’t have to pay the bill. FH was just trying to give us a little peace and not make a scene while we ate our Ox. Plus where would he have put the dead thing? It’s ecologically perfect.”

“Are you still going to marry him?”

“Yes. He will really come in handy during ant season.”

My little guy hugged me; then sat on FH’s lap with a new kind of respect.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Kayne West, uh, no. Angelina Jolie, yes.

Women don't need to wear socks. Why? Because they're beautiful and so are their feet. Check Angelina Jolie's perfect feet.  Here is a another example in case you are questioning my logic.

You may not see Gisele's Bundchen feet but do you really need to?

A man's foot just shouldn't be seen in public. Keep them covered!

Yet, the sock-less dude trend persists to a maddening degree.  After some investigation I learned this will be getting bigger, badder, weirder.

Look for sock less Brogues, Wedges, Espadrilles, Loafers, Slip- ons, Slip-offs and lots of color.

Even the Wellies are getting in on this. Men are being encouraged to toss the socks and put their sweaty feet right up in their galoshes!

Because trends, well spread, I can safely say, pretty much any shoe has fallen under it's spell.

These are suede $4000 shoes Kayne West was rockin, with a $14,000 suit. To me, it screams,

"Hey, I'm Kayne West, I  fantasized about this back in Chicago, walking around the Apple aint got not socks on, yeah, yeah,  I don't look like a fat booty Celine Dion, yeah, I'm an Urkel, not a Winslow, Can we get much higher, can I get a lift in this shoe, Yeezy?"

I never know what Kayne is talking about, but apparently a lot of people do and love him cause his new album has millions of hits, comments and flame wars.

I'm a fan of socks, for lots of reasons, but how about just plain old cleanliness? Why would a man want to stink up and ruin a perfectly good $1000 shoe for the sake of a trend?

Imagine my shock and horror when I saw this:

    Now, I love Zac Efron   Emoticonsand here is what is going on. He is one of those perfect men that is not only faultless but if he has a fault, I missed it, who cares and it's charming anyway.  Here is the inside scoop: Zac was filming, his character didn't wear socks, despite the conflict this caused with his movie girlfriend, but she had amnesia in the film so couldn't recall if this was okay. During the filming, one of the A.D.s really wanted a mocha, a real one, and when Zac was on break, what did he do? Retreat to his trailer and relax and text friends? No! He walked up Beverly and got his buddy a mocha. That is the kind of guy he is.

    Then This:

    Ryan Gosling is another actor that can do no wrong. He embodies perfection as we all know. Emoticons I believe there is already a required reading history chapter about him in elementary school. So, here is the story. He was about to board a plane to NYC to build a solar powered house for a friend of his, but the security people, who care not your level of celebrity or status, made him remove his silk black socks. Why? Because they thought, given Ryan was dressed in black and sporting glasses (read must be a genius,) he might have sewn in some kind of dangerous device into the sock lining.

    But the rest of these clowns men, have no excuse.

    This screams: I am too cool for school, so even though I'm 30, I ain't going to class. Instead I'm gonna smoke and pretend to be reading Gunter Grass.

    This dude is full blown ADD, he is on the run and just get out of his way.  He is far too important to take the time to put on socks. Starbucks is waiting and he needs to start his biography on Gunter Grass.

    I'm starting to feel sorry for lonely boy below:

    This boy has been standing in front of this closed warehouse for weeks pretending to talk to someone because surely his battery has died. He is so misguided on so many levels. But since that last time we saw him, he has mysteriously shaved his legs.

     Check this out ^^^  this dude abandoned his socks, but clearly checked the weather because he is wearing possibly five layers.  This khaki pant look might work with a wife beater at the beach, but he appears to be on his way to a business meeting. The silk-woven tie, nicely buttoned vest, tailored suit coat, color-dotted ascot, and a pea coat! Is that a pocket square? Then to throw on some rolled-up clam diggers? No.

    Best for last:

    Now, here we have an assortment of mad confusion.  In addition to the Beatles 60's era haircut, this dud dude appears to be wearing one of Kim Jon Il's suits, with his sister's leggings, his grandmother's support hose, hid dad's shoes and his mom's purse. And where exactly is he?

    "Kindly photograph me where it smells like urine, please."

    Now, you may all think I'm somewhat cynical, but that is purely fiction.  Anything and I mean anything is better than this:

    Thanks to for providing me with the latest trends.

    Friday, March 2, 2012

    Sock Up Guys!

    I have noticed the latest trend in high fashion for men, wearing their $2000.00 Italian made shoes without socks.   This is from the wonderful fashion blog owned by photographer Scott Schuman. I adore him and his blog and photos, but this sock trend is simply twisted.

    The gym dude:

    The traveling man from Scotland:

    The busy dude waiting for the train:

    He may have pedi's on, but nonetheless, ankles are not men's best feature.

    The confused dude in serious need of a leg wax:

    The embarrassed dude trying to look busy, but heard showing lots of ankle was the latest trend. His mom made him wear the knee-highs.

    An assortment of looks, in search of a wardrobe:

    These are "Rons" shoes: I should note  he was extremely exited upon hearing about this sock less trend.

    Now, if a man wants to go sock less, I suggest these options: bedroom slippers, deck shoes, as in we are on the boat, or flippers. Anything else does not work. I don't care if the ensemble was put together by Lagerfeld and cost 10 grand.  Here you go:

    Big shout out to Scott Schulman, his elagent blog, great photographers, fabulous wife, also great blog.

    Scott Schuman

    The Lorax plus Zac Efron plus your kids

    "I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.” Dr. Seuss.
    Today is Read Across America Day, (if you are reading this, you have participated, just fyi,) inspired by much- loved children’s author Theodor Seuss Geisel and initiated by the National Education Association.

    Better known as Dr. Seuss, Geisel wrote 46 children’s books. He did other things too, like create motor lubricants for all kinds of boats, plus he drew stacks of political cartoons denouncing Hitler, but clearly he found his calling in children's books. 
    His clever way of using other-worldly characters, whimsical adventures and rat-a-tat rhymes to teach kids about global warming, war, famine, family crises, chaos, individualism, self-acceptance, love, life and hate, well, kind of amazing. 
    No wonder they hold a parade in his home town in Massachusetts.  One of their better exports. His dad was famous too, a bootlegger, well, that is alleged, but he ran the brewery out of Springfield, until Prohibition, then worked for parks and recreation. Yeah, sure. Talk about a demotion!

    And what better way to celebrate this great author than with the opening of The Lorax, a book that has sold over 222 million copies.  The film is about the endangerment of our environment and stars Danny DeVito, Zac Efron and Taylor Swift.

    I'm struggling to find a resemblance here, (I mean Taylor is a blond, hello!) but my kids and I are huge fans of both the book and the actors, so we are pretty excited.  Plant it! Plant it!                                                                
    Despite the controversy about the book dating back to the 70’s, where many parents felt the subject matter too “heavy” for children to understand, yet beating them with yard sticks was A-okay, Geisel’s well-crafted examination of the world, concerning over-population, global warming and the end of civilization, in fact appeals to young children.  Especially when kids are the ones to save the planet.  thhugnkissethumb.gif
    Another wonderful service the NEA offers is a “create your own” event, be it your school or the public library or your backyard.  I had no problem dressing up like the Cat In The Hat, wandering into math class during the state exam and trashing the classroom. 
    Well, I made do with what I had^^^^. It's amazing what kids will believe after a shot of Tequila.

    "You don't look like the Cat in the Hat."
    "Well you don't look like you're going to held back 3 times."

    Also, what could be more entertaining that watching some of your favorite actors read books you love? This website does exactly that.  Kids can go online and have just about any book read to them.  From Betty White reading Harry the Dirty Dog to Caitlin Wachs reading Sebastian’s Roller Skates, or Liam Neeson reading Everybody Poops.

    You can also become a bookpal.  Actors, or anyone that can read with a little spice, can sign up and offer their services to schools, libraries, and under privileged communities.  It’s a great organization and always in need of support.

    Recently Kayne West volunteered to read I Got A Wocket In My Pocket at the Salvation Army.

    He was met with thundering applause.

     I will leave you will this, because why not. Zac is just awesome. Taylor and Danny and Betty too!