This picture of S's grandmother with Bill Clinton (he's the tall one preparing to lick the short one's head) has nothing to do with my reunion, but it just arrived after a delay of several weeks. And no, I did not retouch this photo at all. Better still, Clinton's photo handlers chose to send it out. Crikey! What kind of shots are they holding back?
"OK," you're saying. "Uh, context?" But of course.
Thanks to his work for the Clinton AIDS Foundation, earlier this spring S received four VIP tickets to hear Clinton speak at the Ahmanson and to "meet" the big man at a VIP reception beforehand. I was glad to be invited.
No substantive discussions took place with the former Leader of the Free World between bites of ahi and eggplant canapes. Rather, the photo machinery hustled everybody through assembly-line style, gracing us regular folks with one photo, one flash, and five seconds at best in Mr. Bill's presence. Or so we thought. Then S's snowy-haired grandmother stepped into the golden circle, armed with her disarming wit and messages for BC from her mailman and her nurse, a former Little Rocker. The flashbulbs went berserk, and Clinton made much of her, holding her close and murmuring at some length into her hair. It was hilarious.
This shows what we've known all along: Bill Clinton just loves women. Don't matter about the sex. And the women, they love him right back.
No, you don't get to see my photo. Not unless you ask nicely.
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