The edge of wetness: It’s his party and I’ll cry if I want to!
On Monday, it rained sausage in Thal Bei Graz, Austria, where 60 years ago Arnold Schwarzenegger, the glorious, glamorous governor of California, popped out of his mutter’s womb like a mighty redwood from a log flume. But while the tube steak was flying just south of Vienna, things were decidedly more sedate in the Golden State, where the final location of handsome’s birthday bash was a closely guarded secret, at least from this diva.
Could it be the loosely knit macramé halter top I wore to Twitchell Island earlier this month, where the governor launched his plan to build a peripheral canal and simultaneously save the endangered Delta smelt? Excluded as usual from the mainstream media flotilla, I was forced to swim out to the press conference with a wizened American Indian activist, who informed me that, “Building more dams and a peripheral canal to save the Delta is like putting a tourniquet on your arm and leaving it there.”
“What the heck does that mean?!” I asked in disbelief.
“If you don’t take it off, you will die.”
As Mr. Indian was staring directly into my ample cleavage, I mistakenly assumed he meant take off my top, which I was more than happy to fling in the 90-plus degree heat. I instantly was wrestled to the ground by Arnie’s security detail, who let me up and wrestled me down three more times in succession. Not that a girl’s complaining, mind you.
Anyway, as a recent Department of Water Resources report indicated, the water in the Delta is polluted with all kinds of nasty pesticides and stuff; I’m still scrubbing out the inflammation that’s blotted my creamy complexion like burgundy on a white tablecloth. Nothing, nothing at all, comes between me and the governor. Except maybe a rash. So perhaps it’s just as well nobody invited me to the party.