Lacie Harmon, better half of the Lacie Harmon/Robin Greenspan partnership of whom I have written so often on these pages. Sunday being Easter, I posted one of my delightful Facebook illustrations depicting some of the more annoying individuals in my life with the Easter Bunny. Ms. Harmon expressed some surprise that she and Ms. Greenspan were dressed as Playboy Bunnies, which forced me to explain that this was the costume that they were inevitably wearing whenever they popped up in my head. I hastened to add that this was not merely some creepy erotic indulgence on my imagination's part when Labin (as they are known in the tabloids) appear in my mind's eye (although I must confess that it's a perk), it is merely how my brain visually represents the various flotsam and jetsam which whom I'm force to associate. As an example, when I think of my frequent adversary Tom Ashworth, he is invariably attired in a floor-length evening gown. I don't know why, I merely accept it as a chilling requirement of having him in my mind's Rolodex. Annoying yenta Lisa Glass is always pictured as a giant, flapping mouth. My longtime nemesis Jesse Merlin is shown as Brünnhilde from Wagner's Ring cycle. Hall of Fame Enemies Lister Dan E. Campbell is Mr. Potato Head. And President Donald J. Trump is eternally as presented as a giant douchebag. So you see, there are worse things in life than knowing that whenever I think of you, it's as half of a sexy pair of Playboy Bunnies. At least for me, I mean. I imagine Labin would rather have me think of them as Brünnhilde.
For the second time Lacie Harmon, now paired with her spouse Robin Greenspan. I was proud to march alongside Labin at the Los Angeles rally to protest Mr. Trump refusing to make his tax returns public. Mrs. Greenspan-Harmon and Mrs. Harmon-Greenspan were suitably outraged at the commander in chief's lack of transparency, but for some reason they were both convinced that South Korea was going to drop a nuclear bomb on the protest, which they sadly deduced the president would take as a sign that he was right all along. As we marched, Labin had a serious conversation with each other as to whether or not they were content that marching against Mr. Trump the best thing they could be doing as they lived out the final moments of their lives. They determined that it was, and the more I listened to their yammering, the more I hoped that they were right and Kim Jong-Un would just drop the freaking bomb and put me out of my misery. Those of you who read the news already know that a nuclear bomb was not dropped on the protest and the three of us disbursed when it was over to continue living our lives. But I learned the valuable lesson that if you're forced into a conversation with Lacie Harmon and Robin Greenspan, the possibility of a nuclear bomb being dropped on your head at any moment is a soothing thought.
Southern rube Eddie Frierson, who was supposed to join me for dinner with some mutual friends from the east coast on Friday night. I went to great lengths to arrange for Mr. Frierson's attendance, even changing the venue to accommodate his hectic schedule of making moonshine and skinning possums, and he seemed sufficiently excited to e-mail me several times to confirm the date. Yet when it came time for the actual dinner, Mr. Frierson failed to show up. I texted him and received a shame-faced reply that he had "plum forgot" about my carefully organized dinner party. And since he resides out in the boondocks where John Law won't molest him for his bootlegged firewater, it was too late for him to join us. I wasn't upset at his standing us up because there are few things I find more relaxing than a dinner without Eddie Frierson. And while I'm somewhat concerned by Mr. Frierson's sudden lapse in memory, I have to admit to being a little envious of it as well. If I could somehow forget that I know Eddie Frierson, my life would be a lot better.
My beloved pug Winston, who gets the cone removed from around his neck today. My little guy had his surgery over two weeks ago and while he's gotten remarkably better every day since, the most aggravating reminder of his ordeal has been the plastic funnel which has protected his sutured underbelly from his explorative tongue and pernicious fangs. This is all well and good, but it's had a similar effect to Mr. Bean trying to navigate around a room with a raw turkey crammed onto his head. Winston can't see a goddamned thing and he has to put up with the added indignity of my laughing my ass off as he crashes around the house. I'm just glad things will be back to normal this afternoon when the cone is sitting plaintively atop the trash. Winston will be able to see where he's going and I'll need to get my chuckles by watching old episodes of Mr. Bean. Everybody wins.
Actor David Pinion, who I have the misfortune to occasionally have brunch with. Mr. Pinion recently reminded me of a meeting we had some time ago where he showed up with electrical tape wrapped around each of his fingers, ostensibly for his role as a drug dealer in a web series that he had to return to the shooting of later that day (encasing one's fingers with electrical tape is supposedly a little known detail of the drug culture). I chose to omit any mention of the brunch from my Enemies List at the time because some things are so annoying that I try to blot them out of my memory. But when Mr. Pinion reminded me of the event and called me a "dick" in the process, I felt compelled to point it out to you people as a demonstration that you're only getting the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the Everest of aggravation that makes up my life. As far as Mr. Pinion is concerned, I wish him continued success with his acting career and hope he gets more job in which he plays drug dealers. I feel that I would benefit from his research into the underworld of narcotics trafficking so that I am as familiar with it as possible. When it comes to dealing with Mr. Pinion, I find that it's best to do it while high.