Here’s my favorite line from Manohla Dargis’s New York Times review of Woody Allen’s Vicky Christina Barcelona. In regards to Scarlett Johansson’s performance, she writes:

She isn’t much of an actress, but it doesn’t terribly matter in his films: She gives him succulent youth, and he cushions her with enough laughs to distract you from her lack of skill.

Meeeyowww! Women do NOT like Scarlett Johansson! I had a friend who once told me she and her girlfriends use to sit around and take turns saying terrible things about poor Miss J. Call me crazy, but I think she has tremendous appeal. She is the antithesis of Nicole Kidman. Ms. Kidman is a classic beauty who doesn’t project an ounce of sexuality. The Ice Princess. That’s not a good thing if you’re an actress. My Scarlett, on the other hand, has an ordinary look about her but radiates animal magnetism. Yum! Do you know who else use to be like that? Susan Sarandon. Not a great beauty but I’m pretty sure she could rip me limb from limb. In the good way.

Are you following this Olympic nonsense? Adorable 9-year old Lin Miaoke was chosen to sing the Chinese national anthem at the opening ceremony last Friday. Just look at that face!

The trouble is, her father knew right away that it wasn’t her voice everyone was hearing. It turns out that although 7-year old Yang Peiyi was a fine enough singer, the Communist Party didn’t think she was “cute” enough to represent China, so they used her voice but not her face.

“The reason,” they claimed, “was for the national interest.” Holy shit! Wait until poor Yang is in her awkward teenage years and is constantly being reminded by mean girls that billions of people all over the planet were told she wasn’t cute enough and had bad teeth. Apparently, the body-self image dilemma isn’t a purely Western notion. (See previous post.)

Several months ago I noticed a new member at the gym. She was as cute as can be and to my eye she was already in tip-top condition. She had some nice, feminine curves and a softness about her. As far as I could tell she was in perfect health and was there just to maintain her wellbeing.

After about a month, I noticed one of the trainers, a hulking XXL mound of muscle, go up and talk to her every time she was on an elliptical machine. I think it was a combination of flirting and fishing for a new client. Apparently, he must have had a pretty good rap because soon thereafter, she was exercising under his tutelage each morning. The regime looked brutal—far more extensive than what I subject myself to—but that’s what you get when you hire a trainer.

As the months peeled away, I could see a noticeable change in her physiology. The results were dramatic and, to me, tragic. She is now solid and cut—pure muscle—but not in a good way. She lost all of her femininity and the aura that made her so beautiful has vanished. I believe it even changed her face. She’s not—and I know this sounds awful—as pretty as she use to be. Her face now has some angles and a tautness that do not flatter.

There’s a cautionary tale in there somewhere

Every year for my birthday I blow off work for a day and drive down to Atlantic City alone to shoot craps. I always pick a weekday for this blessed annual event because on the weekend the city fills up with fancypants people who are only interested in drinking, going to clubs to chase tail, eating in the better restaurants and make a show of themselves with their expensive, tacky wardrobes. If you go during the weekday, you are more likely to rub elbows with degenerates, professional gamblers, the broken and the destitute. In other words, my people. There is also a heaping helping of senior citizens. The corridors are choked with wheelchairs, walkers, canes and oxygen tanks being towed on little hand carts.

I arrived early yesterday morning and had my customary 10:00 a.m. bloody mary to get my groove on. I had to spend a little time on the boardwalk airing out because my customary bloody mary was unusually powerful and I got a little loopier than I like to be when I’m bellied up to a crap table.

I. Love. Craps. Shooting craps seems like a terrible waste of time until the money starts to pour in. Then, I can assure you, it’s a brilliant way to spend an afternoon. I give it my highest recommendation. Blackjack is boring. Roulette is dignified but a bit too quiet. Slots are for old ladies and lazy people. Bill Bennett, conservative author of The Book of Virtues was found to have a gambling problem. At the same time he was telling everyone how to live a moral and virtuous life, he lost an estimated $8 million in casinos. Do you want to know how he lost that money? Slots! What a little girl! I could almost forgive him if he had done the hard work and lost it at the racetrack or a crap table or a baccarat table, but he poured all that money into slot machines. I’ll bet he was wearing a frilly dress and a bow in his hair at the time.

For lunch I ate at the coffee shop. Casino coffee + casino eggs and sausage = nature’s laxative. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.