So I wake up this morning and learn Paul McCartney is married again. Since I really didn’t have a dog in that race, I didn’t think much beyond, hmmm.  But I couldn’t resist clicking to the Huffpost pop culture cache for the details.

r-PAUL-MCCARTNEY-NANCY-SHEVELL-MARRIED-large570Along with a requisite photo of the beaming couple in a shower of confetti, the article introduces the bride, an American heiress of 51, and chatters about the wedding details. Here’s the part that kills me.

The former mop-top wore his tinted hair longish for the occasion, bringing back memories of the days when girls swooned as he sang “All My Loving” and other boy-meets-girl hits.

Tinted hair?  Did this follow with … and the bride attached a flower in her artificially darkened for the occasion coiffure to remind herself that 50 is the new 40? Nope, not a single word.

I felt the same way when I first read that Mama Cass died when she choked on a ham sandwich; it was in 1974. (A giant myth, as it turns out. She died of heart failure but it was too tempting to leave out the leftover ham sandwich on her night stand.)

I think of things like this when I remember I’m not a celebrity. Have a  Happy Monday, Monday.

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