I was quoted in a story in The Politico last week about the MC Rove skit at the Radio and TV Correspondents’ Dinner. I was happy the reporter asked me to contribute, but I wish they’d chosen some of my other quotes — like how NBC’s Ken Strickland – the only Black person in the skit – sold his soul to the devil… or how old white men making a fool of themselves is ALWAYS funny… or what Karl Rove must have been thinking when he woke up the next morning… 
I’ve been running around like crazy lately, haven’t had a lot of time to write here, I’m backlogged on LOST episodes, but I’m hoping to change that within the next few weeks. Got a road trip coming up to Florida next week, which should be nice. I don’t know what there is to do in Ocala, but the weather should certainly be nice.
I’ve received a lot of well wishes and oh-don’t-sweat-it’s regarding my last post and I really appreciate it y’all. I was stressed beyond measure about what an idiot I may have made of myself, but really I’m over it. If/when it happens, I will deal with it then (turns over new leaf). 
I just realized how every paragraph in this entry begins with the word “I”. That’s pretty self-centered, I know. But since it’s my blog, I guess it’s ok. My friend Lauren just got a new puppy – a french bulldog. Her name is Nora. She’s 10 weeks old and she’s so amazing. I’ve never had a pet, because I’m allergic to everything with fur — yes that means you, Tony ;) — and my dad was not a fan of pets. “I had pets growing up, and it wasn’t all that.” But Daddy, your parents were sharecroppers. You worked on a farm. Those mules were not your pets. When one of them died, you weren’t sad because you missed it. You were upset because it meant you and your brothers would have to try and pull the plow… Not the same thing at all… I took some allergy medicine and then played with Nora all morning. And now I’m in love. I’m thinking I might be willing to endure the endless itching and throat and eye-swelling for something that loves me that much… Issues anyone? I want a puppy.

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