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WHO AM I?
Here are the rules. Here is the excerpt of the week:
It’s gotten to the point where dudes who are not rock stars, athletes, actors, millionaire playboys, agents, managers, or Brody Jenner assume that these A-list babes are unavailable, even if they are, in fact, very much on the market. The ESPN writer Bill Simmons reported that a glaringly dateless Anne Hathaway attended a Los Angeles wedding recently, and none of the single guys in attendance had the stones to hit on her.
What’s a girl to do?
It seems to me that these young actress types who find themselves on the path to Anistonian spinsterhood—I’m talking to you, Anne Hathaway!—would do well to look for more fertile fishing grounds.
If you want to find a quality man, ladies, what you need to do is date a writer. A real writer, I might add, not Ethan Hawke or James Franco…
[Who am I? Read more and find out!]
Last week: Harlem Renaissance poet Langston Hughes.
In the picture is Carson McCullers
I guessed Olear right off the bat. I remember this post.
And I don’t know who the picture is. I’m really bad at that game. Writers aren’t like other celebrities who are posted around the internet and TV and whatnot. I love Yann Martel, but I couldn’t pick him out of a line up if I had to.
This one’s too easy. Olear all the way.