Just as the poodle I’m walking squats to take a dump…
along comes John Goodman, heading up Columbus with someone I didn’t recognize.
I have things planned that I would say to Joel Hodgson, or Denise Crosby, or Ben Stein (I think I’d spit in his face), or Steve Martin (I’d ask him to dance), or Bjork (I’d ask her to dance too — come to think of it, there’s a lot of celebrities I would ask to dance if I happened to see them around). But I had absolutely nothing planned to say to John Goodman. It might be that I have nothing to say. Why does it feel so strange to come to this realization?
He’s big, though.
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