Alright, animals do make a difference on this planet, I admit that as readily as the next dame. And, I know if you put a million monkeys in a room with a million typewriters, not one of them will produce anything near the quality of Hamlet. I am not that idealistic; I was not born yesterday nor, more to the point, this minute; but, well, here's news for those whose nose for news is stuffed, right now, with turkey and pumpkin pie (er, scratch that, since that's sounding like someone I might know):
Anne Billson delights in the name-dropping memoir of Hollywood's oldest — and hairiest — A-Lister (what's an A-Lister, BTW, someone who lists at an Angle? That must make moi a V-Lister since I generally list my lists while vertical [although, occasionally, I have been known to H-List]).
Anyway, just so you know, there's more on this score:
At 76, having outlasted his Tarzan co-stars and kicked his booze and cigar habit, Cheeta the chimpanzee is living out his retirement in California, playing the piano, painting 'apestract' art — and dishing the dirt on his Hollywood rivals in a scurrilous autobiography. Richard Grant just had to meet him.
Okay. Whatever makes your day, I say. (No vines were destroyed in the making of this post.)
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