If you believe angels watch over you in a pink robe and curlers, hair stinking of cigarettes, then tell us. We might gather heart from your confidential trust in stardom before the unseen spirits as TV gets harder and harder to bear without our faces on it. Famous My daughter watches too much television. The hotter the medium, the flatter the image, the toneless conformity of cathodes. Televangelists have cockatoo hair and extend their vowels.
Basketball coaches wear ties no matter how they sweat.
I want her anonymous, hidden from publicity like Jesus from Herod, one in a flock of a million monarch butterflies perched on the white sycamores of Malibu Canyon. Ben Jonson and John Dryden. The rest were courtiers or divines, whose income was not ink-dependent. People more admired Milton than read him, and Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy outsold Shakespeare three to one, proving self-help books more popular than poetry. A second-generation native Californian and family physician, I live near LA in a high rise on the ocean with my wife and three daughters.