Journalism in the 21st Century

I woke up this morning -- yes, I am 141, which apparently I accomplished through mosturizer and my new vegan lifestyle -- to find that my boyfriend (a spry 92) had broken his Kindlette. For those of you still reading this in the 21st century, that's Kindle gone all Jetsons on ya, so small that I can only see it when my fake eyeballs are lasered up with biojuice. Sometimes it's hard to pick the right pair in the dark, but I do my best. Anyway, the news story we read today is about Britney Spears III inheriting a fortune from her best friend, Lindsay Lohan XI, and then blowing it all on, well, blow. I wasn't too happy when coke made a comeback, but at least it woke up the 200-year-olds at my mom's convalescent home. I seem to recall vaguely that the US, all but California that is (which seceded from the Union in 2071, and shame on you for forgetting that), was going to war with Canada. I know you 21st century readers won't believe that, but gosh darn it's t

Saturday Girl Why I will miss the six-day-a-week postal service Today's news that the U.S. Postal Service is cutting back to five-day delivery hit me kind of hard, even though it was not surprising. I have to support it. I knew they were in the red, after all. I just worry that this portends something a little bigger -- like no service. For all the kids out there who don't care about this, let me explain why this hurts: bigger than the transition from albums to CDs to iTunes, bigger than landlines to mobiles and real-life pals to Facebook friends, the postal service transition could be dark, really dark. Letters from my past My grandmother Mimi used to send me letters (see photo). When she passed, I had access to her thoughts, how she wanted me to find a nice Jewish boy , keep reading, keep doing well in school, and when I had a moment read her latest proverb.  Mimi took proverbs and with her calligraphy, turned them into art for the J ewish Heritage of Los A

I don't know if he is or he isn't.  A journalist. I know he's got his own show on CNN, but some nights he's like the ongoing Ridiculist of Anderson Cooper's. Some days I like Piers, and other times I just bristle at his mere existence on the telly. I'm not one of those Anglos who get all hot and bothered hearing a British man speak my name. I've been to London many times, and plan to return in a few months. I am fully aware that they aren't so taken by our accent, so I do my best to keep my fascination with theirs under wraps. My latest issue with Mr. Morgan is his treatment of my girl Chelsea Handler. I call her "my girl" because were it not for her book "Hello Vodka, it's Me Chelsea" I might have stopped drinking vodka altogether. I was beginning to worry that it wasn't natural to enjoy Greyhounds (the drink) alone anymore. It's one thing to call oneself a slutty alcoholic -- which, to my recollection, Handler