Reality,
Allow me to preface the following by making you aware that someone located this website by Googling FAMOUS BABY BLOG. I think we can both agree this must be immediately entered into the running for Most Fascinating Search In An Attempt To Find This Blog Running Office Pool. Although FAMOUS CARMEN PICTURES BLOG still has a firm hold on my ticker, this new entry is an undeniable contender. The Poll is forthcoming.
With that said, I have to rescind a few of the statements I made w/r/t the HBO Original Series Boardwalk Empire. I’m going to extend a caveat before I continue and say that this letter and its contained opinions are not coming from an objective viewpoint, because I have fallen in love with the character of Margaret Schroeder.
During the previous episode, Margaret, while housesitting for Nucky, answers a late night phone call. “Heloo,” says Margaret. On the other line offers up only portentous breathing. “Heloo, repeats Margaret, “this is Margaret Schroeder.” It’s a quietly menacing scene. Margaret alone in Nucky’s office, finally privy to the financial magnitude of his underhanded dealings and the inherent, oncoming dangers. Her children are asleep in the next room. Calamity breaths directly into her ear and she speaks her name in the uncertain, inquisitive manner of a person announcing himself to a dark room, of vacationers returning to their house to find the door unlocked. Margaret is scared. I want to protect her.
But I can’t. She’s a fictional character. I’m a real boy. Where I can’t safeguard Margaret, The Nuck can. While I still find his character pointedly dull (I acknowledge that my slight disdain for Nucky could stem from my own jealousy, how he can provide for Margaret where I cannot, mouth woo Margaret whereas she is deaf to the loving pleas I hurl at the television), Nucky can either save Margaret or destroy her. If he does the former I may not mind him. If he does the latter I will build a time machine, travel back to Prohibition Era Atlantic City, realize that neither of the characters as I know them actually existed, travel back to the present, build a reality-transcending-mechanical-bull, use said device to enter my television, put sulfuric acid in Nucky’s fanciful tea set, marry Margaret and destroy the bull, living out my meager days with the only person that ever understood me, a made-up person.
O’s and X’s,
Carmen
P.S. The Miami Heat lost to the Utah Jazz in overtime tonight 116-114. While I was only able to watch up to the third quarter, when I was driving home from work, speakers ablare, crisp night whirling in through the slimmest crack of window, I felt a pang against the surface of my heart, a gentle knocking, a barely perceptible aberration between the measured, intrepid beats of churning life and, somehow, I knew they had lost, and on the flimsiest, deepest level of awareness, I felt the world’s wildly skewed equilibrium shift one millimeter away from evil towards the side of whatever little good we have left.
baby pictures of famous dictators 