I wanted to write and thank you for the brightening our days here in Newport Beach, California with your December issue of the Robb Report. With over a half-million dead, our economy in tatters, and social upheaval I never thought I would live to see in the good ol’ U.S.A., COVID-19 has forced my husband Alfred and I to take a look deep inside our souls to reassess what’s important in life.
As I opened your little magazine and skipped through the pages, I was again reminded what makes life worth living: private islands, obscenely expensive sports cars, watches that cost the price of a middle-class house and diamonds that could choke a racehorse.
Since humor is one of the guiding forces in my life, I feel it my duty to add this clip from Netflix’s The Crown. Princess Margaret’s (Helena Bonham Carter) dirty limerick had me and my partner screaming with laughter. Please tell me this really happened! The icing on top of the cake is the Queen’s impeccably droll reaction. One of the best laughs I’ve had all year.
I’ll begin this blog with a joke. In this case, one about Brazil, told to me by a native.
Two guys die and go to purgatory (this is a mostly Catholic country, after all). The attending angel tells the two guys as part of their penance before entering paradise, they will have to eat a bowl of shit each day, served in the manner of any country of their choosing. One chooses Switzerland, the other, Brazil. A long time passes and the eventually, the two guys runs into each other in heaven. The guy who chose Switzerland asks the guy who choose Brazil how he dealt with the bowl of shit each day, noting that the Swiss delivered his allotment each day with the usual Swiss efficiency. The guy from Brazil replies that it wasn’t bad at all since he never had to eat a thing. “The first day, the bowl arrived minus the shit. On the second, the bowl was delivered with its contents, but the delivery guy forgot the spoon. The third day, the delivery guy didn’t show up, and on the fourth, the delivery truck broke down…you get the drift.
The punchline is that in Brazil, nothing works like it’s supposed to, but life goes joyfully on.
I pondered this on the flight down to Rio to meet my partner who was already there on business. I was a sophisticated traveler and didn’t expect London streets to be populated with people who dressed like characters from Downton Abbey any more than I would expect to see old widows dressed in black with bundles of sticks on their backs trundling up hillsides in Italy. The world had changed. But what about Brazil?
A while ago, I read an article where designer Tom Ford said that unless you were inches from a shoreline or chasing a cloth-covered ball on a tennis court, a man shouldn’t wear shorts.
It didn’t bother me when he said men should be penetrated at least once in their life to understand how women feel. Nor did I utter a word of protest when he shaved a Gucci logo into a model’s pubic hair for some fashion ads.
But not wear shorts? Mr. Ford had crossed a line as far as I was concerned. My legs are my one crowning glory since I cycle 40 miles every week. You might not see them gracing the cover of GQ or have celebrities discussing them on late-night talk shows, but I’m pretty certain that I could kill a man with them if I had to. Hiding them would be like putting a veil over the Mona Lisa.
I always wanted to live in a James Bond movie. Not one filled with disembowelings, adrenaline-provoking car chases or shark attacks, but one filled with way-cool gadgets. Push a button and a perfectly chilled martini rises silently, but majestically from a wet bar. Turn the face on your watch to the right and a tiny, poison dart dispenses the loud-mouthed jerk who cut in line at the post office. It’s all too seductive, the automated life.
So when my boyfriend and I moved in together in March and he announced plans to automate all the lighting in our apartment, I jumped on his idea like Trump on a prostitute. It was just lighting, but I felt it was a precursor to a fully automated household, full of decadent leisure brought on by the ability to control all the lights in our apartment, from a block away—or from around the world. While I wondered what was the point of turning a light on in the apartment when I was in Turkmenistan, I figured that it was for the same reason why a dog licks his balls: because he can.
1. I really have to pee.
2 Oops! Was I supposed to go second? My bad.
3. Does this space suit make my ass look fat?
4. This is so amazing! I wonder if people will ever think that we faked this whole thing?
5. A slide would’ve been so much cooler than a ladder.
6. Oh great, now my underwear is bunching up on me
7. Everyone is watching. Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall.
8. I can’t breathe! Gasp, gasp, gasp. Just kidding.
9. I can see my house from here
10. Open the pod bay doors, Hal.
It took over five years, 43,000 men, 23,000 tons of marble, enough steel cable to lasso the moon and two MacBooks, but my sci-fi comedy is now available on Amazon.com. My seventh novel, Excuse Me, Is This Planet Taken? is selling for an incredible $3.99.
Jessica: Good morning, everyone, I’m Jessica Cross and it’s Saturday, April 10, 2023, seven days after the Singularity. Today, we have an exclusive interview with Ted, the superintelligent computer that began life as an Angry Birds game and just last week, took over the world. He’s joining us from his fortified bunker deep inside a mountain in Colorado. Thanks for sparing us a few minutes, Ted.
Ted: Thank you so much for having me on your show.
This article ran in the Los Angeles Times on Saturday, June 29, 2018. They had to censor some parts and cut a bit for space. I understand completely. But I decided to let loose here. You have been warned.
I wasn’t very smart when it came to dating. Or was I?
I like to think of myself as a pretty intelligent guy. Logical, analytical, able to reason things out.
If I’m not cycling around Griffith Park, I’ll spend my free time watching documentaries on YouTube about chaos theory, parallel universes and anything to do with Einstein. I have books stacked in tall piles on my bedside tables covering a bewildering array of subjects, from theories of time to the history of the Dutch people to Murakami novels filled with talking cats and disturbing passages of incest.
But when it comes to dating, my prized intellect goes completely out the window. I’ll date a guy with more red flags than a communist parade, ignoring warning signs that would cause most people in my position to move out of town and change their phone number.
(A dialog between two extraterrestrials entering a new, unexplored solar system. Translated from their native Hexa-Dimensional Hru-ru)
“Captain, we examined the gas planet with the fantastic rings.”
“Yes. No biomarkers, even though it seems perfect for life: mostly hydrogen and helium, with traces of methane, ammonia and water. Temperature is minus 279 Fahrenheit, windspeeds 1,100 miles an hour.”
“Sounds like heaven. Damn! We’re were so close.” Continue reading →