Top Thoughts About the Balloon Boy

* How long before we have a new song: Where Were You When The World Stopped Spinning And Started Watching What Looked Like A Tin Foil Chef's Hat Floating Through the Air?

* By the way, how big is Colorado? Shouldn't that thing have been in Mexico after three hours of floating?

* Thank you, Falcon's parents for making me feel like a fantastic mom. Because my kids have never hidden in the attic while there was a nationwide hunt for them. Although admittedly, we don't have an attic.

* If you name your kid FALCON, don't be shocked if at some point he's airborne. That's why my kids have practical names like Playing Wii and Couch Potato.

* I live in an apartment building, so are garage attics a common phenomenon? I suspect that the authorities didn't find him because they didn't know that this space existed.

* To win over public support, Falcon should be Anne Frank for Halloween. He already has the whole hiding in the attic thing down.

* Although the mother did say that they checked small drawers for Falcon. Yes, the silverware tray was my first thought too.

* Is anyone investigating the father's bowl haircut?

* I watched this family on Wife Swap so I'm like a total expert on them.

* Husbandrinka doesn't give a shit about this whole story and wasn't aware that I watch stuff like Wife Swap.

* I spent way too long explaining the concept of Wife Swap to my kids last night.

* And helping them download an application.

* When Falcon was still Not Found, I was interviewed by abcnews.com and quoted as saying that if I had one of those balloon things in my backyard, I'd have either it or my children tethered to the ground at all times, possibly both. Just as I was enjoying my new fame and fortune, Falcon was found and the story was no longer relevant and was replaced. In other word, Falcon ruined my life.

* I love all the Falcon neighbor interviews where they say that they're a great family. You can tell that all the neighbors are terrified of the freaky family and don't want to be killed by them when they inevitably snap.

* And to everyone on Twitter who thought it was inappropriate and insensitive to laugh at this situation before the boy was found alive and well: next time, trust me. I'm very intuitive.

Most of the Real Housewives of New York and Me

Guess what I did tonight?

I went to a Kodak-sponsored event that was hosted by RHONY's own Jill Zarin, one of my top five favorite Real Housewives of New York. As soon as I got to the hotel, I was asked to sign a nondisclosure manifesto. So let me reassure you that I will not be disclosing anything, and not just because I was too busy sampling all the signature cocktails.

I signed my life away and then the check in lady told me that Bravo was filming and OMG, can you guess what they were filming? It wasn't Shear Genius, but it certainly would have been my lucky day if they were styling hair. Yes, it was RHONY.

All the fabulous ladies were there. Kelly, The Countess, Jill, of course, and Ramona. Also Bobby! And Allie!

Here are my somewhat catty observations:

* Is LuAnn's ex husband blind or something? Because he may be a Count, but she's a fucking goddess.



* Kelly is beautiful too. And both she and LuAnn are so tall. And thin. Fuck.



* Kelly is also smiley.



and toothy.

* Jill is adorable. There was a woman who was doing her make up that looked so superglamorous it was almost too much for me. The make up woman reminded me of Anna Nicole Smith. Except, you know, alive.

* Ramona has a cute new haircut. She is shorter than the others. Also, she was kind of off to the side.

* Except when Jill was making a presentation, there was a Raising of the Voices and everyone looked over and Ramona and Kelly were having a heated exchange. I can't remember what was said, I think it was along the lines of "Do you read The Mouthy Housewives? That's where I get all my advice!" and then Ramona said, "Yes, I love it!" or maybe something else that ended with Ramona STORMING OUT and Kelly saying "Bye! Hope you enjoyed that" or SOMETHING. Shit, I'd be the worst spy. But it was totally dramatic and JUST LIKE ON TV!

* The only RHONY that I saw eating anything was Jill. So I took a picture.



* I am a very bad photographer with a piece of shit for a camera.



As you can see, there were people there with bigger and better cameras. Also, they seemed to be following the concept of FACING the subject that they were photographing. Show offs.
* It wasn't until I got home that I realized that Bethenny wasn't there. I didn't miss her.

* I stood right next to Bobby a few times. Yes, you all may touch me.




* I did miss Alex and Simon, though.

* I am now having a huge anxiety attack that I was secretly filmed by Bravo. Probably talking to myself. And putting hors d'ovaries into my purse.

It was so much fun! I didn't talk to anyone except like the head of Kodak or something and the barkeep, but I'm pretty sure that the Real Housewives of New York and I are totally best friends now. God, I hope they want to borrow my clothes. Or lend me theirs.

How To Make Your Husband Insane

So Husbandrinka, the kids and I are driving home after a lovely three day weekend at my parents' dacha and because it has been 12 minutes since my last meal, I ask Husbandrinka what he thinks we should have for dinner.

And he says, "Well, we ate a lot all weekend, so why don't we just go to Gray's Papaya and get a couple of hot dogs?"

And I'm all, "If you want to gorge on hot dogs, just say so, don't act like it's some new diet food or something."

And he says, "How long is this menopause going to last?"

And I say, "As long as you keep saying inane things, so I estimate approximately forever."

And we drove in silence for the next three minutes, which I suspect he kind of enjoyed.

And then a Kinks song came on, which he loves. And I remembered my passive aggressive trick which I haven't used in like ages. This is advanced shit, people, so don't try it at home.

When someone is listening to the song that they love, sing along with the lyrics, but translate them into Spanish. For some strange reason, it makes people absolutely insane. And if you're not that great in Spanish, try Spanglish. It's fun and easy.

Like I did.

Here are the lyrics:

Come dancing,
Come on sister, have yourself a ball.
Don't be afraid to come dancing,
It's only natural.

This is what I sang:

Come-o bailando!
Hermana, tengo yourself un pellota!
No teine meiedo para bailando!
Solamente natural!


See? It totally keeps you on your feet by exercising your brain, so I'm pretty sure that it fights Alzheimer's too!

After that the rest of the ride was spent in silence to the Nth power, interrupted only by my thanking Husbandrinka, profusely, for taking the scenic route, because I certainly didn't want to get home early after being away for three days and kids being cooped up in the car forever only enhanced everyone's mood.

___________
Don't forget to enter the Big Apple Circus giveaway!

Best Things About Obama Getting the Nobel Peace Prize

1. It didn't go to Roman Polanski.

2. This can't be good for Rush Limbaugh's health.

3. Or Dick Cheney's.

4. Hillary gets to say things like "It's better to be thrown accolades than shoes."

5. The Barack Obama action figure is the first one ever to come with Nobel accessories included.

6. Surely Michelle's is just around the corner.

7. Eyes on the Prize has a new, award-winning meaning.

8. The empty spaces left when Bush moved out his Nobel Peaces are starting to get filled.

9. Hmm. I'll think of something else soon. I'm sure of it.

10.Yes, this space is available too. Hurry! Rates are reasonable!

If you are in NYC, please enter my Big Apple Circus Giveaway here. Fun for the whole family! (The circus, not the giveaway!)

John & The Crockpot Plus Eight ( to Ten Hours on Low)

I owe you one.

The weekend before last, I'd promised a week of posts about the crock pot and then two days into it, I realized that if I wrote one more word about it, I would not be responsible for my actions. So I tyook a crock pot break.

But I am true to my word, sort of, and I will tell you how the crock pot almost ruined John's life.

I'm sorry to have to tell you that John has never been supportive of my cooking endeavors. If I make meatballs, for example, he will say, "have you considered making something for the children not in a shape of a sphere?" If I heat some ravioli, he will comment, "I hope that you did not go to too much trouble" and if I order take out, he'll sneer, "you're lucky Husbandrinka doesn't give you one across the face". In other words, hurtful. Painful. But anyway.

So when I got the crock pot, he was similarly unsupportive.

"The problem with crock pots," he opined, "is that everything that you make in them tastes exactly the same."
"Fuck you, asshole," I said. Which I've always found to be an excellent way to win an argument.

A few, well, eight, hours later I called him.
"My lamb stew is delicious and I can taste each spinach leaf distinctly," I lied. "I've never been happier,"
"You know," he said, "I've been making some calls."
And he told me how he called friend after friend.
"Hey, Marta," He would say, "do you have a slow cooka?" (John explained that he had to pronounce it like that for maximum effect.)
"Of course," Marta told him. "And I make my chicken wings in it. And also apple pie."
"Huh," said John.
Then he called Gene.
"Gene?" he said. "Do you have a slow cooka?"
"I sure do!" said Gene. "How else would I make the best barbecue pork in the world?"
"I see," said John.
Then he called Ross.
"I have a question for you, Ross," John said, "Do you have a slow cooka?"
"I've had a slow cooker as long as I can remember,"Ross said. "It makes the perfect beans."
"You see," John told me, "not only does everyone have a slow cooker, but they all have a signature dish that they make with it."
"I told you!" I said. Although I'd said nothing of the kind.
"It's like a cult. And you know we were just saying that I'm looking to join some kind of an easy cult."
I nodded in sympathy, which John didn't know because we were on the phoen and it wasn't a video phone.
"So I was thinking," John said. "How big is your slow cooka?"
"Four quarts."
"FOUR QUARTS? That's nowhere big enough for your family of six."
"I do not have a family of six," I said.
"Oh, I'm sorry," John said. "I was counting both of your thighs. Anyway. You have growing children and they need more food. A four quart is nowhere near big enough."
"Maybe you're right," I thought-said. "But where would I get a bigger one?"
"At Bed Bath & Beyond," John suggested. "I even have a 20 percent off coupon for you,"
"That's so nice of you," I said.
"And then you will want to donate that four quart misery to your favorite gay," John said.
"What?"
"Yes, charity begins with me."

It's almost as though he has an ulterior motive.

An Excellent Start to the Weekend

This morning I called papa to wish him a happy birthday and he said "I cannot thank you enough. Also you woke me up, but I was having nightmare, so I owe you a separate thank you for that." We chatted and he said, "how are your interpersonal relations?" and I said "fantastic!" because apparently I had a pound of Ecstasy before I called him. And then I asked him if he's like some balloons for his birthday and if you follow me on Twitter, you know the answer to that. (Yes. Attached to testicles).

So then I talked to mama and told her that I may be going through menopause. We chatted for a while, she shared some wisdom and then I said, "please don't tell papa. Or at least if you do tell him, tell him not to tell me that you told him." Because I don't want to have conversations about THAT with papa.

And mama said, "well.." and then she said "Maybe if you don't want papa to know about it, you shouldn't put it on internet so he reads it before you tell me about it."

Gulparoonie!

It's true. I blogged about it. But what kind of a father reads his daughter's blog?!

So I called papa again. And yes, they're in the same house. But they each have their own cell phone.

And I said, "I didn't know that you read my blog."
And he said, "I don't always read it, but I did yesterday."
And I said, "Well, you should know that I take creative license with my posts." (An example of creative sentence is that last sentence. Because I take no creative license.)
And he said, "Yes, the minister in France who wrote about having sex with boys in their poophole also said that he took creative license, but people are calling for his resignation."
So I had to explain to papa why writing that I am going through menopause is different from s0d0mizing children, which is an excellent way to start the weekend.

Finally papa says, "You may or may not be going through menopause. But even if you are not, you will soon. So if you want more children, this is the time to think about it."

And I said, "I do not want any more children."
And he said, "Well, think about it."
And I said, "I have. I definitely don't want any more children."
And then he said, "Well, if you are certain, then the fact of menopause isn't very interesting. It's just a fact of life. Like death."

Remember this post? It may soon become the new reality around here.

Pause

I don't want to alarm you, but I think I'm menopausing. Or at least I skipped my period. I doubt that I'm pregnant and I really hope I'm not because if I am, this blog is quickly going to turn into Motherhood of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome Baby in NYC and to be quite frank with you, I don't have the energy to get a new header.

So, not pregnant.

Which means, menopause.

I tweeted about it earlier in the week, because I'm one of those people who believes that the experience is not complete unless it's been tweeted and a friend of mine replied that I was lucky and that she couldn't wait until she stops getting her period. Which reminded me of my son saying that he couldn't wait to turn 65 so that he can retire.

But back to me. And my menopause.

I have not been getting hot flashes yet, so of course I'm panicked about why not. And then yesterday I thought I had an anticipatory hot flash, but then I realized that it was 70 degrees outside and I was wearing a cashmere sweater. Husbandrinka assures me that I am in "constant full-bitch mode" but I think that he is just trying out some new pick up lines.

And then last night, I was thinking about how for the past few years, whenever I had my gynecological check ups, my doctor would ask, "do you have dryness? Frequent urination? Burning while urinating? Painful intercourse?" and I'd be all bubble gum popping and "no, no, no, no" and for some reason I assumed that he was asking those questions because he was trying to make casual conversation while caressing my fallopian tubes, rather than because he was working off of a list of shit that I'm going to have to deal with at some point.

So now I'm worried that I have all that to look forward to.

But at least I'm not pregnant.

Conspiracy Theorist (or There is No "wine" In Swine Flu Vaccine)

Last night, I had a discussion with Husbandrinka. This is basically a transcript. Because I multi-task, and while we were talking, I was also taking notes.

Husb: Marinka, I want to get your opinion on the swine flu vaccine, because I value your wisdom.

Mar: I do not believe that we should get the swine flu vaccine.

Why, Marinka? I would like you to share your knowledge with me.

Well, for one, they rushed this vaccine through and we cannot be assured of its safety.

Who rushed the vaccine through?

The government. And maybe the vaccine company.

Now you're sounding like one of those conspiracy theory nutcases.

I'm not. But the government is trying to kill us. Especially me. While the vaccine company gets rich. It's a perfect trifecta, minus one.

That is nonsense. I think that the vaccine is perfectly safe.

Ok. But they developed it in like two months. They couldn't have possibly tested it.

They were working on it for longer than that.

Really?

Sure, researchers are always working.

Hmm..

They are interested in getting this right, you know.

Well..

I think it's perfectly safe.

So are you getting it?

No. But I think that you should.

Issues

I have to interrupt my week of crock pot posts that would have launched me into the world of food blogging stardom to report on several important issues that have been driving me fucking crazy and keeping me awake at night.

Issue 1: David Letterman.

I've been upset about it all week, because although I think Dave is super funny, I don't like my entertainers to be huge cheater pants. So, I mention my dilemma to Husbandrinka and he says, "the weirdest part of this whole thing is that the woman he had an affair with is not good looking." Yes, that's the weird part. I pointed out to Husbandrinka that not everyone gets to live with a Heidi Klum Klone, so people's mileage varies, but whatever.

Issue 2: What Happens to Roosters?

So, I've been making a lot of chicken in the crock pot and it made me think--what do the roosters do? They wake everyone up, they inseminate and then what? Retire? While the females are slaughtered for their breasts.

Again, I turned to Husbandrinka and he told me that in some countries roosters are eaten. I was sure that he was totally making it up, so I asked which countries and he said "France". Which now that I think about it, totally makes sense since they have cock au vin.

But what about in America? What do we do with our roosters? This is why I can't sleep at night. Fowl discrimination.

Issue 3: When A Friend Says Something and You Agree, But She Still Tries to Persuade You With Disturbing Examples.

A week ago, I had dinner with some friends and we were discussing what a disgusting piece of shit Roman Polanski was.

So Melissa says, "What a shit. She was a teenager!"

Marinka, "I know! Totally repulsive."

Melissa, "That's like if my husband had sex with your daughter."

The hell? Didn't I just agree that Polanski was gross? Why does she have to take it up a notch to win me over? Answer: Because she wants to make sure that I never sleep again.

Issue 4: Is There Room for One More?

My beloved John has a friend David, who he nicknamed The Lady Ashfield because David is from England, although for the first few years that I knew him I thought that he was from Canada because that's what John told me. Anyway, The Lady Ashfield talks normal, not Englandish and she reads this blog and when I don't post, calls John to complain and John is always like "get a life, I don't read that shit".

So The Lady Ashfield hinted that she wants a more prominent role on this blog. I'm torn. On one hand, I like fodder. On the other, I already have John as my stock gay. Can this blog handle one more? I don't want this to become like The Castro District around here. On the third hand, The Lady Ashfield is mildly foreign, and in this age of Obama, we should be embracing our neighbors. Anyway, I'm putting up a poll in the sidebar for you to vote on whether I should incorporate The Lady Ashfield into the blog or not.

Who can sleep?

The Crock Pot Cometh

What you missed yesterday: Due to Husbandrinka's cruelty, I was unable to purchase a crock pot naturally in the store, and instead had to adopt one online. Every day I monitored its shipping progress, dreaming of the day that it would be in my arms. Finally that day arrived.

The crock pot arrived and I was totally ready. I had all the ingredients purchased in advance so as soon as the box was opened and the introductions were out of the way, I got right to work. The recipe (below!) was super easy, although by the time I finished opening all the cans I was totally drained and deprived of the will to live. So, I put it all in, set the slow cooker to "low" and sat back. I was cooking without gas. Perfect.

Husbandrinka got home an hour later and as I fetched him his pipe and slippers he glanced at the slow cooker, lifted the lid and said, "that looks pretty good! Is it ready?" and I said, "Almost! In six to seven hours."
Which for some reason confused him. "In 7 hours, it'll be 3 am," he told me. Okay. And in eight hours, it will be 4 am, what are we learning to tell time or something?

"Yes, it will be ready at 3 am. Dinner will be late tonight. But we have lots of fresh water."
Husbandrinka looks at me like I am deranged, but I don't see what the big deal is. It's a slow cooker. And it's not my fault that I started dinner at 8 pm.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that you're supposed to load it up in the morning so that the dinner is ready in the evening. Which is an excellent point, except UPS delivered the slow cooker in the evening and since I am not adept in time travel, how was I supposed to go back to the morning and prepare it?

So after that, Husbandrinka ate an egg sandwich and everything went smoothly. Except for the part where I had to set my alarm for 3 am in order to turn off the slow cooker. And then I had to taste the chicken taco soup, because it was just sitting there, looking all ready and lonely. And then after I tasted it, I had to drink eight bladdersfull of water because it was pretty salty. And then I spent the rest of the night peeing. And worrying if it was so salty that I developed instant hypertension. And asking everyone in my family to try it in the morning to see if they thought it was salty or it was just me.

But other than that, a great success! Really, I don't know why everyone doesn't get a crock pot.
____________________________

Secret Crock pot recipe for Chicken Taco Soup, that I got from an online friend:

Chicken Taco Soup

3 FROZEN boneless, skinless chicken breasts (they have to be frozen, doesn't work if they are thawed. So be sure to take them out of the Styrofoam tray and bag them three to a bag before freezing)
1 Packet ranch dressing mix
1 Packet taco seasoning mix
2 Cups jarred salsa
1-15 oz. can black beans
1-15 oz. can canelli beans
1-15 oz. can kidney beans
1-15 oz. can pinto beans
1-15 oz. can vegetarian baked beans
1-15 oz. can corn

Put everything in the crock pot IN THE ORDER listed.

Next: The crock pot is ruining John's life.

Welcome to a Week of Posts About How My Life Changed

Why a week? Because I recently read a long-ass post by someone else and in the middle of it I had to take some ADD medication just to get through it. I don't want that to happen to you, because I care about you. So, I'm splitting a long-ass post into bite size pieces. And you're welcome for that image of bite size ass, by the way!

Last weekend, on a flight to North Carolina, I read a great article about slow cookers in Oprah Magazine. It made me want to rush the cockpit and demand that the pilot land immediately at a kitchenware store so that I can get one. Because that is Oprah's genius. She makes people want stuff.

For the uninitiated, a slow cooker, also known as a crock pot, is a ceramic cooking pot. You put in all the ingredients, plug it into an electrical outlet, go to work, and when you get home in the evening, dinner is ready and the house smells fantastic. I don't know if people who are unemployed can use it. Going to work seems to be an essential step.

When we landed in North Carolina, I tweeted for crock pot advice, and Meghan linked me to a fantastic looking one from Target. I instantly became elated and pregnant with possibility. I shared the wonderful news with Husbandrinka and instead of sweeping me off my feet and hurrying to Target to get a crock pot of our own, he insisted that I abort the crock pot possibility.

See, according to Husbandrinka, getting a crock pot in North Carolina and bringing it on a plane to NYC wasn't practical. Destroying my dreams and ruining my life, on the other hand, was extremely practical.

He suggested that I get it in New York instead, which shows that he knows absolutely nothing, since there are no Targets near us at all. Obviously, God put a Target near my inlaws' house in North Carolina so that I could get a crock pot, but this kind of divine intervention is totally lost on him.

But whatever, I have better things to argue with Husbandrinka about. I placed an order on line. And then I waited for the crock pot to arrive.

Coming soon: The Crock Pot Arrives. But Will It Ruin My Marriage?

Prepare Yourself Emotionally

On Monday, I am doing a week-long series about a recent development in my life. I don't want to say too much, but it's something that's very exciting. No, it's not a book deal. No, not a modeling contract, although I totally get why you'd think that. Of course I'm not pregnant, and I totally don't understand why you'd ask that. Idiot.

But it's wonderful nonetheless, and I'm really enjoying writing about it. (You can't tell that I haven't started writing about it yet, right?)

It's not about Nicki. But it features some of your blog favorites--mama and Husbandrinka and John.

Oh, stop guessing. Just wait until Monday. Patience is a virtue, you know. Well, it's also the name of one of the New York Public Library Lions, but still.

Hi! I'm Patience! One of the lions that is outside of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue. Roar. ROAR. Haha, I learned that from my uncle, the MGM Lion. Bye! Come back on Monday to check out Marinka's post. It'll be fun, I'm not lion to you! ROAR.

Please Help Cure JM.

Kevin of Always Home and Uncool has asked me to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease that his daughter was diagnosed with on on this day, October 2nd, seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife's birthday. I adore Kevin and hope that you will join me in fighting juvenile myositis. Please read and keep Kevin's family in your thoughts. Oh, and cough up some cash, too! Just kidding. Feel free to use your credit card.


Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, please go here or here.

Thanks, everyone!

When in Rome, Do Like Roman

Last night I had dinner with my fellow Mouthy Housewives, Kelcey and Jessica and as usual, whenever we get together, the conversation turned to sodomy.

Specifically, what the fuck are some members of Hollywood doing in signing this petition to free Roman Polanski. In case you haven't been following along, Roman Polanski raped and sodomized a 13 year old like 30 years ago and then pled guilty and then fled. Because living in France is better than being in prison.

He hasn't been to the United States since then, either because he didn't want to be prosecuted or because the flights are outrageously expensive. I'm not sure. But over the weekend, he was arrested in Switzerland. Probably while eating a Toblerone. Harvey Weinstein, Woody Allen, Whoopi Goldberg, Debra Winger, Natalie Portman and others are outraged and are signing a petition, as though he were some sort of a seal that needed saving.

In the case of Woody Allen, I get it. I mean, he had a sexual relationship with his stepdaughter, to the extend that you can have a "sexual relationship" with a minor and not be indicted. And now they're married. Every Valentine's Day, I comb the incestuous romance section of Hallmark, but have yet to come up with an appropriate card. But anyway. Woody Allen, got it.

Harvey Weinstein? Ok. He's got his own Torch Song Trilogy going there. What? Oh, not Harvey Fierstein? Seriously, am I the only one who gets them confused?

Whoopi Goldberg with her "not rape RAPE." Yes, Whoopi, that makes sense. It was rape light, or fun rape. Because Roman didn't jump out of the bushes before he raped her and because he is Caucasian that makes it all better.

I know the reasons for not prosecuting him--he's old, the case is old, there are worse crimes out there, he's super talented. I'm pretty sure that's an affirmative defense.

I'm not persuaded. Over the last decade, whenever an elderly Nazi had been captured, living some place bucolic and stealing oxygen from farm animals, there were always some who went along with the "oh, but he's old and feeble and has cancer and skin tags". I never understood that. Because I thought that a trial and prison would let them relive their youth. Be invigorating, even.

Hopefully Roman will get the same opportunity. Don't think of it as a prosecution, Roman. I mean it's not going to be a prosecution prosecution. For one, I bet you don't even have a white Bronco.