As we walk into the lobby of the gym I look over a table piled high with an assortment of magazines. I want something to look at while I'm chugging away on the elliptical trainer, something that requires no reading or thinking, something that will eat away at my brain. I'd rather concentrate on WHO WORE IT BEST? rather than how many calories I'm burning per minute because the way Natalie Portman looks in that minidress is so much more inspiring than the idea that I just sweat my guts out for what? 10 calories? What is that, a single corn flake?

I pick up the most recent copy of People magazine with Owen Wilson on the cover where I'm to find an article about how he's trying to pick up the pieces, how he's taking his life back after reports last month that he tried to commit suicide. He's smiling brightly in the photo they've chosen, and when Jon sees that I've picked it up and am thumbing through it he doubts out loud that Owen Wilson would have given People an exclusive interview. About his suicide attempt. Isn't that a story you save for Matt Lauer?

"I can guarantee you that they have assembled this entire story from 'close sources,'" I say, having thumbed through more than my fair share of these.

"What kind of close sources?"

"His dog-walker, maybe the kid who mows his lawn. People in his life who know these things."

"They'll have a quote from someone who served him a latte, and she'll be all, 'He seemed very happy when he asked for soy milk! Even said thank you and left a tip!' And we're to assume that this is significant evidence that all of his emotional wounds have healed."

And then I started thinking, you know, you just hope they never get his hairstylist to open her mouth, because then every one of his deep, dark secrets would be plastered as headlines: COLLECTION OF BELLY BUTTON LINT NOW SIZE OF SMALL WATERMELON. Or I guess I should say, I hope they never get my hairstylist to open her mouth.