We Always Had Paris
Somehow I missed out on this deal.
You wouldn't kick her out of the cabin in the woods on a rainy summer evening, living room equipped with Fox News on a stool above bear rug.
Complete with pink permission slip and handcuffs, Stephen King runs screaming into the night.
Paris, you are the Eiffel Tower of publicity, stainless steel values reflecting America's self-doubt brick by brick, girder by girder, truss by truss, in spandex suspension of remorse.
Paris, ignore critics like that annoying guard protecting you from the general inmate population and broomsticks.
Cling unto cantilevers of humility, cable-stayed good intentions once dreamed of for five seconds, now frayed and twisting in the wind.
Paris, harsh gullies beneath your bridge host winding rivers of Lethe.
Let not Greek references of memory lost disturb your padded cell. Mythology repeats itself generation after generation. Consider moving to France.
Paris, your left bank curves round the Pont Neuf of my incredulity, night after night, fostering scorn from Leno with every pouting breath.
Get your life together and agree to read for that "Walton's" remake script, part of Erin penciled in by some hasty Hollywood huckster.
I remember clearly the look of dismay on the face of reporter from "Entertainment Tonight."
But enough about France.
If your six year-old daughter is bored already with summer vacation, force feed her "The Wizard of Ox" fifty times, then throw her into this mix where we discover Simon truly has a heart after all.