Last month, 3 days after the election, I was watching Craig Ferguson's Late Late Show on CBS.
He does a great opening monologue and the big topic of that week was "What dog will the Obamas choose?"
So Craig weighed in with:
The Obamas say they won't buy a puppy, they will rescue one. Now, when Barack Obama says he will rescue a puppy he doesn't mean he will just take it from the pound, he means he will take it from a burning building using his superpower of Hope. I don't know why Barack Obama is going to rescue a puppy. Many people think he could just make a puppy out of moonbeams and angel farts.Here is a sample of the usual:
THE POET, or the East Village flaneur
No more than 16, he was so typical of the more artsy parts of this city. A skinny kid with the clear skin, angular features and long legs that so often foreshadow a career in modeling. Lounging against the subway doors in his skinny jeans, retro sneakers, floppy sandy hair. The cream pages of his leather journal filled with delicate handwriting. After a couple of stops created seats, he sat beside me counting his couplets and I glimpsed two lines:
Oh my love, my love, my love
Why do I (something something something) at your feet (etc.)
A delay on the N train held us at the platform and I could sense him watching people, taking in the details, noticing the world around him, and fidgeting because he was too cramped to express his creativity. For a moment, he reminded me of me. When the empty R train arrived, we both ran for it and he sat opposite me, scribbling away in his journal and flipping his hair until his stop came and he loped off.