Thursday, April 10, 2003
Where Is She Now? Special
After my brief satellite phone conversation with Mohammed Saeed al-Sahaf, I wondered aloud, "What ever did happen with Winona Ryder?"
Many of you have wondered the same thing.
There was a time when you couldn't get through one post on this site with that name popping up, say, two or three times, often in a sexually suggestive context.
The short answer: she hasn't stolen anything recently (at least not that we are publicly aware of), which made her dangerous. And we all know that I am drawn to dangerous women like an angry, looting mob to an Iraqi storefront. Less danger, less Winona.
But she's been completing her 480 hours of community service with the proverbial flying colors. Was there any doubt she would?
And I, as has been well-documented in this space, have been jetting off to the war zone to bring you the finest English-language front-line reporting available on the Web.
I've been busy, she's been busy. People have lives to live. Let's not read too much into this.
Her picture is still in rotation on the front-page animated WFOoBH GIF. Things are fine, really.
You think that there's trouble in paradise, do you? Have you noticed that there's a war being fought on several 24-hour cable news channels? Did you miiss the stunning image of Saddam's great big statue being toppled this morning?
There are so many more things to be concerned about than the seemingly-declining level of Winona coverage on this site. Cyclones are tearing through Australia, scattering kangeroos like psychological warfare pamphlets. A mysterious plague with an ominous, sci-fi badguy acronymnic name is wiping out every single human life in Asia and is being spread across the globe in the Petri dish of pressurized airplane cabins.
And yet you persist in knowing what's up with everyone's favorite doe-eyed ingenue.
Doe-eyed ingenues and esteemed authors of The Greatest Blog in the World grow apart. Shit happens.
Maybe it's that I can't quite look her in the eye after 480 hours served in a hospital, passing out bedpans and testing the tensile strength of lime-green jello, pushing delighted codgers around in wheelchairs, squealing "Wheeeeeee!" and after having a phalanx of shift-nurses and candy stripers falling hopelessly in love with her the way that all of America did after "Beetlejuice" and before "Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael."
Maybe it's that I've forgotten how to talk to her, the way that we did when she'd drop by with a couple of bags from Saks or Fred Segal, brimming with casmere and security tags and without a sales slip for miles and miles.
Maybe it's that I've forgotten how to care since wading through the rubble in the 'Dad.
Maybe it's that I've moved on.
Maybe because it's really badass to drop a hot celebrity just when she's two clicks to the left of the radar screen.