Can't sleep. Somehow, after watching Pope Benedict doing his thing at St. Peter's tonight, I was reminded of my favorite apocryphal story about Tallulah Bankhead:

On one Christmas Eve, after she had been to entirely too many cocktail parties, a friend foolishly convinced her to attend midnight mass. Seated next to the aisle, Tallulah squinted through bleary eyes at the approaching procession led by a priest in a long robe, carrying the smoking censer. Leaning into the aisle Tallulah loudly proclaimed: "Darling, your gown is lovely but I’m afraid I have to tell you that your purse is on fire."

Merry Christmas, y'all.

You're a Mean One, Mister Ratzinger

Is it the Grinch? Is it Sir Anthony Hopkins on a bender? No, it's Santa Pope! "(AP) Pope Benedict XVI, sporting a fur-trimmed hat in the rich red colour of a Santa hat, waves to pilgrims upon his arrival in St. Peter's Square at the Vatican Wednesday for his weekly general audience."

I have to hand it to him, though: not many people can pull off a pumpkin cape. Merry Baby-Jesus-Birthday, Popey.

Random thoughts from the last couple of days:

1. Whether it's based in reality or not, I like to think that I make a cuter bald man than Howie Mandel. (How did he get to be a game show host, anyway?)
   
2. In the confused sleeplessness I've been enduring with my recent head cold, I found myself lying in bed last night wondering: what kind of privacy policies did Gene Roddenberry envision for Star Trek? I'm serious! Jean-Luc et al. were forever asking the computer to pinpoint the precise location of various individuals, Starfleet officers and civilians alike. I suppose I'm just wondering whether George W. bases his vision for security and lack of privacy on old TNG reruns.
   
3. The GRE? It's my bitch. Just in case you were wondering.