I was once invited to a rich folks' party. Just like justlikeawomen, I'm scruffy, so I didn't understand why they let the riff-raff attend...and then, the drunk hostess confessed that a friend had seen me perform and heard I was larger than life and she was disappointed that I just sat and chatted. I didn't realize I was supposed to work for my grub!

That put a hitch in my hanging with rich folks. Yeah, the rich are different than us: we work for them and can't punch out!

...pitching to Larry Craig. Davy Vitter will ref, in puffy pants, bulged by his bat and his diaper.

And at end of this match made in Hell, all three will warn us about the nation-ending peril of two lesbians in Indiana, wanting to love each other.

I thought they liked me, that they really liked me. Like sweet Sally Fields, I was unguarded.

Nat Nabob, I'm glad you escaped their crystal talons.

however briefly!

I like your moniker and Iggy Pop would too!

She told me that they fattened trout in ponds, slipped them into concealed cages in rivers shortly before the elites arrive, withheld the trout food, and then said, "Cast there. That looks like a good spot."

This community reminds of that: "Live here. This looks like a good spot."

I wonder if this community won't figure a way to discharge dust into the air at dusk to increase the coloration of the sunsets.

More to my true story: this guide said that sometimes a native trout, like a cutthroat, slips through and one of the elites manages to hook it and is invariably disappointed, because it's not a big, fat, elite fish. I pity the fools.

I like old guys who've never won a title, so I'm cheering for the Celts. And I still want Barkley and Malone and Stockton to suit up, so I can cheer for them again.

were you the model for the woman going for napalm?

Soma: it's what's for dinner!

Regarding children and death:

I collect samplers, where a girl child displayed her mastering of cross stiches. In the 1700s and 1800s, a girl child would cross stitch the alahabet and figures and trees and nearly always, a verse about dying. Of course, grandpa's corpse was also cleaned on the kitchen table, but the sampler was hung on the wall and reminded the girl child every damn day that she would one day be "a-mouldering in the grave."

And whereas one might quibble about the age when we should inform children of their fate and mama's fate and the fate of all girl horses and boy horses, they should be told. Children are stronger and more resilient than most adults imagine.

I also liked the fiery posts about the atrocities within horseracing. No wonder so many love vampire stories, given our species' appetite for blood.

Boston-Josh, after Katrina, I heard many people say, "It's those stranded, abandoned, dying, and dead pets that really get to me."

As opposed to those stranded, abandoned, dying, and dead people.

"...without teaching them more than they and you may be prepared for."

This might be more about you than them. Children are always ready for some understanding. The trick is in regulating "the horror, the horror."

"Bad on me...."

Not at all. Who could anticpate two broken ankles? That's like predicting a particular lightning strike.

And, "I have such an ingrained resistance to lying to my daughter...."

You're a good mom. You should write, "Good on me!"

They would contrive conflict to extend their fame.

However, they might not be skilled in friendship, since their lives have been spent on being famous, rather than spent on developing friendship skills.

In summation, I suspect they're either fake-fighters-for-more-fame or unskilled friends or both.

Or D: if it bleeds, it leads, as Ms. Chapman noted.

Good point. Eight Belles and Barbaro are also young and lovely. Much as been written about the undue attention given to kidnapped, young blondes and how racism and classism factor into how helicopters are launched to search for them, but many of us do turn to youth and beauty. Eight Belles and Barbaro are babes. When an old plow horse breaks down, the only one who weeps might be the farmer, who's now going to have to pull the damn plow, or the farmer's kid, who fed that old hoss wormy apples. Anyone who stands next to a thoroughbred marvels at their magnificence. They're Angelinaesque, if Jolie had the moxie and muscle to run at 40 m.p.h. in a crowd. They're Laura Croft, if she were real. They're the best of us, if we recall that we're just critters too in a critter stew. They're the choice cuts. When they're culled from the stew, we're just left with taters and carrots.

Bigguns, the taterhead

All I can say is that I hope the Spurs lose. I used to love them, but that all ended when Horry blended basketball and hockey. Paul is an interesting player to watch. He doesn't look fast and he doesn't look tricky, but no one can stop him. I expect Bowen will soon go for one of Paul's ears. If Bowen does, Stern should require that Bowen get a face tattoo.