My therapist says it might help to share this with readers. So here goes nothing: Saturday night, for one horrible moment, I looked into the eyes of Ann Coulter.
I'm not sure why she was roaming the streets of West Palm Beach around midnight, but it was a full moon.
I was walking back to my car, parked in the CityPlace garage. She had just stepped out of a car and was crossing South Rosemary Avenue, near the Bang & Olufsen store, with a male companion. She took a step onto the sidewalk. Our eyes met. I must have betrayed a flicker of recognition -- that face was familiar. But it took a moment to place it and by the time my jaw dropped in horror she had already cast her eyes furtively down and her high heels click away into the night.
I turned on my heel, but that gave me a view of Coulter's much, much too mini skirt -- a white, all-too-translucent number that belonged in the closet of a Playboy Playmate, not a mummified pundit. It's that image that haunts me to this moment. I managed to keep from vomiting, but that night I had the most ghoulish nightmares...
I can report that there's truth to the urban legend: The air that surrounds Ann Coulter is indeed 10 degrees cooler than the prevailing temperature. You can actually see your breath -- like in The Sixth Sense.