I'm not a math genius, but maybe there is a logarithm or formula that can compute how much jail time should be deducted from a celebrity's sentence based on how many times she has appeared in the New York Post's gossip spread, Page Six.

Such a formula would spare Paris Hilton jail time well into her next five reincarnations, no matter what her misdeeds.

Yes, the number of days...weeks...months...or years sliced off a celebrity's sentence could be directly proportional to the number of mentions on Page Six.

Other factors could be taken into account as well, like nervous disposition, weak stomach, or possible claustrophobia at being placed in small cells for punitive purposes.

On the other hand, perhaps a formula could be worked out on how much of a public, bare bottom spanking attractive female celebrities would deserve based on the weight of their crimes, balanced against the weight of their citations on Page Six.

I need more freelance work, and so I volunteer my services to be the official Spanker of Naughty Celebrities.

Actually, I think this would be a great idea for a reality series...a disgruntled 55 year old bald freelancer with a slight paunch traveling around the country, giving celebrities spankings instead of the jail time they're sentenced to.

And maybe, if the celebrities felt gratitude that they didn't have to go the slammer, they could give me a spanking in turn?

I was so tired last night from a long day commuting to and from New Jersey that I logged in, didn't blog, and then forgot to log out. Just now I spent an entire minute looking at the tool bar and wondering, where's the login button? Oh, I discovered, I was already logged in...!

The weather is so nice today, and my head is fuzzy. I slept last night but I feel sleepy. Maybe it's the warmth and the sunlight coming in through the window blinds. I got some work done in the morning so maybe I'll take a walk.

I'd like to take a walk in Central Park and strike up a conversation with a pretty Japanese girl by the small lake where they have all the ducks. We'll take a walk over the curved stone footbridge and we'll look out over the water and she'll tell me a little bit about what it was like to grow up in Japan before she came to New York. She'll tell me how she likes to dress in a kimono sometimes, and how on last New Year's Eve she sat around with some friends in Brooklyn banging on drums, just as she liked to do in Japan to celebrate the turn of the year.

I'm just daydreaming out loud here...

As the Japanese do, I find the back of a woman's neck a very erotic sight...

I want to hear the click-clack of the wooden sandals on the brick road--I forgot what they call those sandals in Japanese--and I want to see the parasol giving shade to the delicate face of the geisha in her kimono.

I knew a couple of strippers who were Japanese. I really, really liked them...

Anyway, return to reality, Sir Cee.

I talked to my writer friend Moe for awhile just before lunch, chatting about the difficulty of making a living with words these days. He sent me an interview link with a mutual acquaintance of ours, something that appeared on a Spanish website. I put it in the Google translator from Spanish to English and it came out a mix of the coherent and the bizarre. Most amusing.

My mind is just wandering...

Maybe it's time for a small cold bottle of sake.

I'd bet your definition of being "broke," like mine, varies from that of the gossipmeisters at the New York Post.

Today on Page Six, there's an item about how Peter Cook's ruined marriage to Christie Brinkley (the downfall was caused by Cook's dalliance with a younger woman) left him "broke." Nonetheless, according to Page Six, he "plunked down a relatively piddling $2 million" for a home.

Relatively piddling, hmm?

We should all be so broke, right? The item goes on to say that he tried to buy the home complete with furnishings, "because he had nothing" after the end of his marriage.

We should all have such nothing.

I've read some good books in the last two weeks.

THE WOUNDED AND THE SLAIN, by David Goodis, available in paperback from Hard Case Crime, is a mid-50s noir novel about a couple who go to Jamaica to try to repair their marriage. Goodis had one of the darkest imaginations in this genre, and the couple goes through hell to reach a moment of reconciliation at the end. The woman is sexually uptight, and her nonetheless loving husband turns to drink in order to live with the loneliness and sheer frustration. In Jamaica he makes a fool of himself and she finds herself attracted to another man, and the husband then proceeds to explore the seamier side of life outside the resort. Robbery, suicide, manslaughter, and rape are on the menu in this fast-paced, psychologically insightful, but gloomy story.

THE LISTENING WALLS, by Margaret Millar, out of print but can be found at used book outlets, is about two women who go to Mexico on vacation. Mrs. Wyatt is recently divorced, Mrs. Kellogg is married. Mrs. Wyatt is brash and outspoken, clearly the domineering member of the friendship. She buys a gift for Mrs. Kellogg's husband, which annoys the usually submissive Mrs. Kellogg. Then suddenly Mrs. Wyatt falls off the hotel balcony to her death, and it's classified as suicide due to her depression over her divorce. But later Mrs. Kellogg disappears on her way back to the States and her own husband is suspected of foul play. This is a brilliant book with twists that go all the way to the final line, with well-drawn characters whose personalities propel the plot, rather than the plot propelling them. The late Millar was a terrific writer whose work should be brought back into print!

THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER, by John Lutz, out of print but can be found via used book outlets. Lou Roebuck is a man seemingly incapable of the truth; he lies at every turn, small lies, big lies, absurd lies. He looks like John Wayne--even fibs and tells people that he was Wayne's movie double--yet he is filled with insecurities about what it means to be a man. One day, he commits a seemingly senseless killing and goes on the run. He meets Ellie, a prostitute in a bar; she realizes he's in trouble but still wants to travel with him. At an idyllic lake where they stop to fish, they make the acquaintance of the local sheriff, who's determined to get into Ellie's pants. This bizarre situation precedes the ultimate revelation about why Lou cannot tell the truth. This is a hypnotic character study of a man who cannot be honest with himself and therefore can find no peace.

Damn, I like to read grim books...but each one is so skillfully done that they are gorgeous in their sheer literary beauty. And almost uplifting because of it.

I read an interview in the Sunday supplement Parade this morning with Jessica Alba that completely turned me off to her. She has to be one of the dumbest actresses around. Her attitude reminds me of those girls who dress to raise erections on the streets of New York, but then glare at you or pointedly ignore you when you look at them with appreciation.

Here she is, promoting her new movie (I won't mention the title--why do her the favor?), and all she does is whine to journalist Robert Masello about how she wants to be "a little more anonymous" (she sure picked the right career for that) and how the paparazzi are "so lame" she can't believe they do a "real job" and actually "pay taxes."

Who would you be if you didn't get attention, Miss Thing?

It "freaks her out" when people treat her like a sex symbol. Huh? Then why pose your pornographic bod in a bikini? She accuses paparazzi of taking pix of her on the beach. I'm sure they do, but she also DELIBERATELY POSES for pictures on the beach in sessions with shooters on assignment. It's not the paparazzi shots that have made the biggest impressions on people, but images done in conjunction with movie and magazine publicity.

Alba says she gets up in the morning and looks at herself in the mirror and goes "Ugh." Well, I have to say I know a number of women who deserve her face and body more than Jessica does. The great injustice of the world is that they were stuck with something far less perfect.

Cindy Adams in the New York Post today writes (I paraphrase) about how stars like Lindsay Lohan should metaphorically get down on their knees and thank their lucky stars for the bounty of beauty, money, and talent that they were blessed with, instead of doing dumb things to dissipate and self-destruct. Absolutely.

But the worst thing in this moronic Alba interview is when she laces into the guys who run the movie business. "I'm in a business that's completely driven by white males. The majority of the writers and directors are men." She claims to want to produce movies that are "female-driven" and "empowering to women." Oh, puh-leeze. Enough! I'm covering my ears!!

So you're not going to hear anymore about Jessica Alba on THIS blog, nor will I see or rent any of her movies.