I’ve met some famous people and some semi-famous people in my life. I would say this makes me lucky, but seeing as I have yet to get the hookup from one of these famous people I think I’m still in the same boat I was before meeting them. What good are famous people if they don’t hook you up?

Nonetheless, the thing I realized after meeting Murray Waas the other day is that NICE semi-famous people talk about YOU not them! They ask you about your thoughts on stuff instead of going on and on about their fabulous careers. N.T. Wright didn’t do that so much. Not that he was mean, he just wasn’t as nice as Murray Waas. Isn’t that quite a statement about the Bishop of Durham? Maybe it was just an off-day.

And that’s just it. We were talking to Murray about Obama and McCain, and I told him that I don’t really cut politicians slack for the communication flubs they make while behind the podium. After all, they ARE going for the President of the United States, they gotta work for it. Sure, they’re always under the public eye, constantly being scrutinized, but this is the price to pay for being a household name. Is that such a tough price to pay?

My suggestion to mean famous and semi-famous people? Talk about them, not you. And go hire a good PR firm.

From Daily Daguerreotype

On Sunday we took a drive down to the Cape to visit our friends Ron and Bobbi who were up from Philly vacationing for the week. We had a delightful time with them and their adorable dogs, Dolce & Gabbana, and before heading home we stopped by our beach in Harwichport.

For one week in August every year, my whole family descends upon a house in Harwichport that my parents have been renting for the past 5 years or so. We have our own little private beach at the end of the road and generally don’t venture too far from there. So Matty and I automatically drove down the road to our beach yesterday, as we really can’t imagine going anywhere else while on the Cape.

The foreboding sign does little to keep people away, although today I feel as sick as a death bag, which is probably my karmic punishment for trespassing.

We met political gangster, Murray Waas last night. Pretty wild experience for this budding blogger. I have a new journalistic hero… and a GW attendee at that.

Another gift from my grandmother, this little white ass is carved out of quartz or some other rocklike substance that I’m unfamiliar with. She got it on a trip to Africa where she and my grandfather went on safari, one of my lifelong dreams. I love it not only because it feels like something that has always been around since my earliest memories, but also because every time I look at it, I’m reminded of my grandfather. I acquired my height, my moodiness, my love of animals, and my disdain for high taxes from him. When I was a little kid, I’d go over to their house and swoon over their pet goats, Cedric and Audrey. Goats were just about as big as he ever went in pets, but he always talked about wanting to have a pet ass. I think mostly so he could say the word over and over again.

We were off to a rough morning. I say we, but it was really Matt. Berlin was up at 5 needing to go out, and as soon as Matt had climbed back in bed after her morning trip to the park, she vomited and did something else (that must have come out of her rear end) all over the bedroom floor. It wasn’t really a surprise because she was hacking all last night as if she had swallowed something that was irritating her. I told him in my half-asleep manvoice to just leave the mess and I’d clean it up. But he must have been unable to sleep, so there he was, first thing in the morning spraying the carpet and scrubbing away. See what I mean about having a nice equal balance of housework? I’m such a braggart.

But tonight we’re going to head up to my parent’s house to flop outside by their pool which has just opened for the season. The water’s still pretty cold, but that never stops us Bands from diving in. We’re a family of veritable sperm whales. I’ll be sure to bring the D40 and annoy everyone by poking my head out of the bushes camera to eye. Everybody really loves it when I photograph them in their bathing suits. I’m really starting to build a positive reputation around this photography thing.

If we can get organized and clean the place, we’re hoping to get over to the zoo this weekend. It’s supposed to rain, which will actually be good since I generally wind up wetting myself with excitement every time we walk through the front gates of a zoo. Then I go into my tour guide voice explaining the mating patterns of western lowland gorillas, and Matt calls me Steve Irwin, and then I start bawling because his death was SO TRAGIC! Seriously, I cried everytime those commercials would come on TV the week after his death advertising Crocodile Hunter commemorative DVDs. And you thought my response to Winthrop’s death was pathetic!

So I hope you have a great weekend, enjoy your friends and family and may your bedroom carpet stay free of dog vomit.

My grandmother gave me these rice bowls which she bought on a trip to Chinatown in San Francisco years ago. I had always admired them sitting on her hutch, and when it was time for her to move, she insisted that I wrap them up in newspaper and take them home with me. Every time we order Chinese takeout, I want to pull them out of the china cabinet to dress up dinner in front of the TV, but I can never bring myself to do it. I think they’re only worthy of Egg Drop Soup a la Iron Chef.