Can We Get Fries With That Name?

Friday night. The Very Pregnant Mrs. High Commissioner is jonesing for junk food. So we—just the High C, that is; Mrs. C stayed home with Kid One and Kid Two—swallow Cocktail One and drive the minivan to White Castle.

We're on line, staring numbly at the menu, trying to decide whether it's six jalapeno cheeseburgers tonight or just five. Our eyes drift to the New Manager sign. And a smile slowly emerges, Grinch-like, as we discover that the food our 37-week-old fetus-baby will soon receive through mommy’s blood is in the sure hands of MONEY MOORE.

``Is Money in tonight?’’ we ask, craving one of the rarest NOTY experiences, meeting a nominee in person.

``Left at five. Why?’’

``Business card?’’

``Uh uh."

``Never mind.’’