A Hole in My Hole

Leslie Miller. Quit, you know. Q13.

I. Am. Destroyed.

Joking? I'm hardly that perverse. (Hush, you.) Alleged allegings allege that Leslie--who, having been birthed in Ontario or some crazy shit, has grown as familiar and true to us as the Fremont troll, as earless as the fugling Space Needle, and as fresh and aromatic as a zillion drizzly Starbucks mornings--has opted, as it were, the fuck out. Of her contract. Which is up. Or has scan-dalously refused to be renewed somehow. (Pam Something-Something who allegedly vice- presidents KCPQ and so forth was entirely vague on the matter when questioned, and Leslie, who is appar-ently outrageously tall, could not be reached at all.) Continuing to deny that no one cares, the network has announced that Kerri What's- Her-Booty is scheduled to take Leslie's place, pardon the expression. But who gives a walloping-poo bat about the goddamn news?

It's Leslie that we cared about. Leslie we adored.

Known for many things, such as being earless, Leslie will perhaps be remembered best for what she lacked, which was ears. Bringing us sundry newsy doings from as far away as somewhere else and sometimes even nearby--and for so long now that I'm sure few would hasten to admit that there even was a time when Leslie's dependable earlessness did not, in one way or another, possibly affect the lives of their neighbors, whom they don't know very well--it might be hard to predict what might fill the big black holes left by those big black holes. And although some would say that Leslie, like "purple" and "tapioca," has no exact rhyme in the entire language, I say, "We'll miss you, you big ear-not-having freak." Farewell.

So, then. No more Leslie. Kapoof! We have until some scary-sounding pogrom called "May sweeps," and then it's all over. Prepare. Mourn. Weep. But become strong again.

You haven't heard the last of this.

Elsewhile: Debbie Harry was spotted walking down Pike St. toward the Market late last week in the company of Jackie-O sunglasses, delicate blond locks, and those lips. "Atkins? The Zone? Sugar Busters?" wonders Debbie Harry-spotting "Ray," which might seem to contradict recent reports that skinny, skinny Debbie (who's fifty-fucking-eight, for Christ's sake) is soon to become a mother, a condition which should render her traditionally FAT. But, no, don't be silly, she's adopting. And "Scaman" asks, "Did you know that the Blues Traveler guy (John Popper) is moving to Seattle?" to which I can honestly answer, I think I do now, Scaman. I think I do now.