Warning: This is an ongoing blog post -- amid writerly readerly posts mostly -- where I'll just keep adding to the top and reposting. The collie wanted a bio -- something about his model-esque good looks and his distaste for kid-in-a-well jokes.
Collie, obsessed with who will play him in the film version of his life, says, I don't think I want Pacino to play me anymore. I need someone younger and with better fur.
Sometimes I think only Neil Gaiman and Noam Chomsky really understand me.
I'm getting my fur blown out today.
I asked the collie who he'd want to play him in a Kushner play and he said, sans hesitation, "Pacino." This is RIDICULOUS. He's certainly no Pacino. For weeks, he speaks so loudly he spits, and obsesses over The Godfather.
Collie's feminist streak was insulted by The Ugly Truth, but stands by Heigl in 27 Dresses.
I want to tell Neil Gaiman that his leather jacket in his book jacket photo is so raw-hide chewable. He could be my favorite chew toy.
I prefer antique-chewing to Ikea -- Ikea has that Swedish fish gumminess that's hard to get out of your molars.
Collie ate the couch -- and later confessed that this was an IRA-inspired retaliation for not bringing us with him to Ireland. He was kind of disappointed that he had to spell that out for us.
The collie ate a stuffed toy chicken, and, later, after being caught, said to me, "That really didn't taste like chicken." He regretted eating said chicken, but not for the right reason.