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The pile of dog-eared supermarket tabloids sits by my easy chair. Hours have turned into days, days into weeks, and I have not moved. This is a special time of the year. I want to be ready for Wimbledon. For the scribes of Fleet Street, London's newspaper row, the tournament is not so much the All England Lawn Tennis Club's championships as it is the site of the grass-court tabloid wars. I want to know a good story when I see one.
"Are you all right?" my children ask.
"Never better," I reply.
I have just finished reading about how Lee Harvey Oswald was murdered only a few short weeks ago. I have looked at the exclusive picture of Oswald's corpse in a morgue somewhere. This is all quite interesting. Did you know that John F Kennedy still is alive, confined to a wheelchair in a secret place? This seems to be a fact. Quite interesting, indeed.
"Why don't you take a break?" my children ask.
"No time," I reply. "Not now."
I have learned from one paper that Oprah has hit a deadly 205 and that doctors are alarmed as she refuses to diet to save her life. I have also learned that doctors are worried that silicone is leaking from Dolly's breasts into her body.
I have learned a lot of things about Julia Roberts's canceled wedding to Kiefer Sutherland. This seems to be a true American tragedy, this canceled wedding. I feel sorry for Julia. I feel sorry for Kiefer, too.
"Do you know that reading this much of this stuff in one sitting can make a person lose his sense of reality?" my children ask.
"Do you know that Woody Harrelson is worried about going bald?" I reply.