Taking the advice of a commenter who recommended The Analogia Star Estimator, I submitted my picture.  And then I submitted another one. Both pictures brought up different celebrity matches, except for one celebrity whom they both had in common: Clint Eastwood.

But not young, handsome, western-style Clint Eastwood.  Apparently, I look like old, tired, “Mystic-River-doesn’t-have-to-make-any-sense-because-I’m-revered-so-just-give-me-the-damn-Oscar” Clint Eastwood.

Just call me Dirty Hairless.

I got nearly giddy with excitement when the bride and groom marched up to the altar to the tune of a Sergio Leone western soundtrack. Afterwards I said to the bride, “I got nearly giddy with excitement when you marched up to the altar to the tune of a Sergio Leone western soundtrack.” She said, “Well, it seemed appropriate because marriage is ‘the good, the bad, and the ugly.’” And I immediately felt crestfallen; I didn’t want there to be a logical reason when it was more fun to embrace the non-sequitur.  But then the bride’s sister said “One of my friends got married to the music of the awards ceremony at the end of Star Wars” and I got giddy again and I wondered could I just have a cool wedding like that but not actually go through with the marriage?

You know what’s hot?  A girl with gunmetal-blue eyes talking about intellectual property for biotechs.  Seriously, Skinemax should start showing late-night movies about that.  Also hot: Helenjane dancing with her sister, and I wasn’t the only guy thinking that because someone else said “I was waiting for the kiss.” Also hot: Helenjane Burgers but not because it was a sister thing but because they came straight off the grill.

I was asked to participate in the renting of Love Actually and quickly discovered that writer/director Richard Curtis is a man of diminishing returns: I loved his Four Weddings and a Funeral, was okay with Notting Hill, and could barely keep my eyes open for this latest effort.  I predict his next movie will be called A Bunch of British Performers Putting on and Taking Off Their Socks.  And sadly?  It’ll still be worth renting if Kiera Knightley stars.

I have dim sum with a friend of mine nearly once a month, and I need to start paying attention to how he works the menu because he won’t be around to order for me forever.  Someday it’ll be me saying to the waiters, “Yes, we’ll have the lamb’s bladder and two helpings of the octopus eyeballs.” I’ll be all up in their face like that.

I became scared for my brethren when I read an article in the New York Times about bloggers, including some who spend half of each day working on their sites.  With that much blogging and so little living, I can just imagine their posts: “Hour 3: the fungus on my toes has indeed creeped upwards.”

I’m giving a talk in Vegas next week about doing public relations for a small company.  As I worked on the powerpoint, I felt nervousness and fear begin to fingertap on my spine: I know the material cold but I’ve never given the presentation before. I could use the trick of imagining the audience without pants, but they’ll be a bunch of middle-aged executives and business owners.  I’d be likely to snap at them: “Listen up, you bunch of Pee Wee Hermans, we’re not going one slide further until you put the mouse back into the house.”