Carmen Electra sat at a corner table at The Grill Restaurant in Los Angeles, far from the window where the afternoon sun washed the front tables with its hot smog-tinted light. The agents and power brokers from Century City and Wilshire Boulevard sat in the conspicuous tables chatting, playing with their Blackberries and Treos, while glancing over their shoulders to see who might be watching or not watching. Carmen at this moment preferred to stay out of the light because this is what she was instructed to do. She nursed a green tea and played with a bread stick, sucking its end but not taking a bite. (more…)
Two female Miami-Dade County police officers struggled to control May Andersen who was kicking with her long legs and screaming obscenities. The officers were shorter than May, so it was difficult to hoist her down the hallway. They straddled May on either side, holding her by the upper arms, with May’s bare forearms held behind her back. May turned her head toward one of the female officers and spit on her face as the officer pushed her into the lime green holding cell. May was thrown forward, but immediately turned and jumped like a rabid dog at the cell bars as they slid closed on wheeled tracks, making the loud sound of metal on metal. May grabbed the steel bars and shook them without success. The bared door was firmly set closed, and her skinny muscle-free arms were useless. The two officers stood at the closed door, both sweating and relieved to have successfully caged May Andersen without succumbing to the temptation of slugging her in the face. They were trained to use restraint. In other circumstances, the officers would have smiled and possibly said something to May as she was screeching from her jail cell. But the officers were confused by the behavior of this tall lanky world famous super model with bruises to her face and arms. May had been brought from the Miami International Airport where she had hit a flight attendant in the face twice, nearly knocking her unconscious. This all happened in flight on a jet that had departed from Europe. (more…)
Harrison Ford sat in the leather love seat next to Calista Flockhart. Harrison’s personal doctor sat behind the desk facing the two lovebirds.
“So you want another one?” asked the doctor.
“Yes. On the left side. The symmetry now bothers me,” said Harrison.
“Like me. See,” said Calista as she gently tapped her left ear lobe which contained two small gold hoop earrings.
“One on the right, two on the left, is that it?” asked the doctor.
“Yes,” said Harrison. (more…)
Continued From Yesterday.
“Me. I’m over here, next to you. Underground,” said Harold.
“Oh. You dead?” asked Billy.
“Yeah. You too, huh. I take it from the little ceremony that you died in Iraq,” said Harold.
“Nope. I died at Walter Read Hospital in Washington. But I got my injuries in Iraq. My jeep was hit with a bomb. It caught on fire. I lost both my legs. But that ain’t the worst. It was the burns. My entire body was burned through. No skin. My right eye melted. The pain was real bad. The morphine didn’t help. They kept me alive for a week at the hospital. I was glad to die,” said Billy. (more…)
Harold Hoey returned from Iraq with no face. It was the noon heat that made his head sweat under the heavy helmet. An itch developed over his right ear. He stopped walking, turned to the right and noticed Iraqi children in casual dress kicking a red soccer ball on the opposite side of the chest high makeshift metal fence that was erected along much of the perimeter of the highway that connected the airport with downtown Baghdad. As he watched the children, the head itch got worse. Harold took his helmet off as one Iraqi child kicked the red soccer ball over the fence in his direction. The red ball came to rest about five feet from Harold on the brown grassy patch between Harold and the fence. Harold was scratching his head and looked at the red ball. He bent down to place his helmet on the grass with the intent to retrieve the red ball for the children. As the helmet hit the grass, Harold heard a click. He looked down and in that quarter second between the click and the explosive blast from the road side bomb, Harold realized what the meaning of the click was. A quarter second is plenty of time to grasp the nature of what is about to happen, but no time to contemplate it. The blast hit Harold in the face and threw his body several feet back onto the pavement. The red ball was blasted in the opposite direction toward the fence and came to rest near a ditch that gullied under the bottom of the metal grating of the fence. An Iraqi child retrieved the red ball and the kids continued to play soccer. Harold died instantly, and now three months later he lied peacefully in an oak casket in a grave in a cemetery in northern Vermont. (more…)
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