From: http://www.myspace.com/
With monthly periodicals folding by the dozen on a near-daily basis, we should be falling over ourselves to support the likes of Esquire, GQ, Vanity Fair, Maxim and something called Ralph.
Photo credit: MR. BINGO Donning the fedora
1. Adorning your head with an old-fashioned hat. 2. Stepping out of your fashion comfort zone, at great risk to your image.
Wrapping khakis
1. The act of a retail-store cashier wrapping your clothing purchases with tissue paper and then adhering a sticker to the resulting parcel and then placing it carefully in a gigantic shopping bag so that you can then go home and rip off all the unnecessary accoutrement.
2. Engaging in any time-consuming and meaningless preparation.
(Like a) fat guy with a goatee
1. A large gentleman with a small beard. 2. Applying any modest adornment meant not to hide something large and unwieldy but simply to interrupt the landscape.
Cloning the mammoth
1. Attempting to replicate the woolly mammoth through DNA manipulation.
2. Taking action that, though technically feasible, is ultimately ill-advised for reasons ethical or otherwise.
Town-halling
1. Attending a public meeting between a politician and his constituents.
2. Politely asking for a forum and then rolling out the crazy. Happens frequently on second dates.
Peering over the cube
1. To look over your cube partition at work.
2. To meekly seek out the reason for a disturbance.
Gnawing the wing
1. To denude a chicken wing with your teeth.
2. To enthusiastically engage in a mundane activity to a point just beyond normal involvement.
Hiring a Russian
1. Employing a Russian national.
2. Looking to someone else to immediately and mysteriously solve a problem.
Sharing a blintz
1. Consuming a crepelike pastry filled with cheese or fruit with a companion.
2. Sharing a mutually meaningful and enjoyable activity.
Stimulus package
1. Any large-scale attempt to revive an economy.
2. Any attempt to kick-start a stagnant process, relationship, or mechanism.
Tugging the buttons
1. Pulling on shirt buttons to test for solid construction.
2. Testing the quality of anything — another person, maybe.
CHLOE folder
See here.
E-mailing the goumad
1. To communicate with your mistress via e-mail.
2. To stupidly undermine an elaborate surreptitiousness by leaving behind obvious evidence.
Skate to the box
1. In hockey, to commit a penalty and immediately and without protest move across the ice to the penalty box.
2. In life, to immediately take full responsibility for an offensive action. Useful when accidentally insulting your boss. Or not noticing your girlfriend's new haircut. Or overcooking a steak. Etc.
Stayin' on the tractor
1. Remaining seated on farm equipment.
2. When a man stays put (retired, for instance), even though he has an inclination to get back in there and see how he can mix it up one more time.
Conjugal visit
1. Means of rewarding a well-behaved prisoner by which he or she is granted privacy to engage in romantic activity.
2. Sex granted by a wife or girlfriend to a man who at the moment is undeserving of such charity.
Hand over the coals
1. Determining the readiness of a grill by holding your palm near the surface and counting the seconds before discomfort forces you to retract your hand.
2. To wait until you feel pain before deciding to act. As seen in instances of hunger, infection, love.
Splashing the vessel
1. Cocktail-making technique whereby a small amount of liquor is swirled around the inside of a cocktail glass and then removed. Also referred to as "rinsing."
2. The first stage of any romantic preparation.
Joining the Vikings
1. Signing with the Minnesota Vikings football team.
2. Making one last push in your career. One. Last. Push.
Planting roses
1. Affixing in soil any species of the genus Rosa.
2. Engaging in any home improvement that involves the installation of something specifically appealing to women, such as a painting or curtains. Or roses.
Throning
1. Sitting on a throne.
2. Hanging out in the bathroom stall a little longer than is necessary (and often with a handheld communication device) simply because you've finally found a little peace and quiet.
Wetting the sugar
1. Engaging in an exotic cocktail preparation whereby a sugar cube is dissolved in a drink.
2. Laying any kind of exotic groundwork.
A squirrel in the tomatoes
1. An otherwise adorable rodent that helps himself to the bounty of your garden.
2. Anyone whom you allow to quietly rob you of something that means more to them than it does to you.
In the wheat
Pullin' up steelheadsWhen the nipples hit the floor
Crap on the refrigerator
Getting weather from the weathergirl
The full Otis
Tryin' on pajamas
The largest puppy
Sniffing the maple
Spreading the mulch
Down among the badgers
By John H. Richardson
C. David Freitag
We've heard a lot about the terrible death toll Mexico has suffered during the drug war — over 11,000 souls so far. This helps to account for the startling lack of controversy that greeted last week's news that Mexico had suddenly decriminalized drugs — not just marijuana but also cocaine, LSD, and heroin. In place of the outrage and threats that U.S. officials expressed when Mexico tried to decriminalize in 2006 was a mild statement, from our new drug czar, that we are going to take a "wait and see" approach.
Still, we've heard nothing about the American death toll. Isn't that strange? So far as I can tell, nobody has even tried to come up with a number.
Until now. I've done some rough math, and this is what I found:
6,487.
To repeat, that's 6,487 dead Americans. Throw in overdoses and the cost of this country's paralyzing drug laws is closer to 15,000 lives.
I'm basing these numbers on an interview with a high-ranking former narcotics officer named Neill Franklin. A member of the Maryland State Police for 32 years, Franklin eventually rose to the position of commander in Maryland's Bureau of Drug Enforcement. As he puts it, he was a classic "good soldier" in the drug war.
Franklin's turning point came in October of 2000. "I lost a very, very close friend of mine, a narcotics agent for Maryland State Police," he says. "His name was Ed Toatley. He was assassinated outside of Washington, D.C., trying to make a drug deal in a park. He had a wife, he had three kids. I had just spoken to him a couple of weeks prior to him getting assigned to this particular deal — he was finally going to bring this guy down, and lo and behold the guy kills him."
That got Franklin thinking. "I started doing the research and asking the questions: What progress are we making on this thing? And it turns out that not only are we losing kids who are in the game, but we are losing communities and fellow cops. We had lost a number of police officers in Baltimore alone."
Another turning point was 2002, when Angela Dawson and her five kids were murdered in East Baltimore by drug dealers she had been tying to keep from doing business in front of her house. "They fire-bombed the house late one night and the whole family perished," Franklin remembers.
So he started brooding on the drug war's body count. "Baltimore is a city of just a hair over 600,000 people. Our annual homicide rate was fluctuating between 240 and 300 every year for decades. Think about that: 240 to 300 homicides annually, and 75 percent to 80 percent are drug related. It's either gangs that are using drugs to support operations, or territorial disputes among drug dealers, or people just getting caught in the line of fire. And Baltimore is a small city compared to others," Franklin notes. "So we're not talking a handful of homicides; we're talking about the majority of the homicides in any city in the U.S. So if you add those cities up — just lowball it, take just 50 percent — I guarantee you, you'll find the numbers are quite similar to what they have in Mexico."
I took his advice. In 2007, the last year for which hard numbers are available, 16,425 people were murdered. Since our most recent Census said that 79 percent of the country is urban, I cut out the rural Americans — although there's plenty of drug use there, too — and came up with 12,975 urban homicides. Low-balling that number at 50 percent, I arrived at a rough estimate of 6,487 drug deaths. Using 75 percent, the toll rises to 9,731.
"And now we've got the cartel gangs coming up from Mexico," Franklin reminds me. "They're in over 130 cities in the U.S. already, and it's not going to get better."
Neill Franklin's solution is radical: "You have to take the money out of it. Many people talk about legalization and decriminalize — it's still illegal, but you're just not sending as many people to jail, especially for the nonviolent offenses. However, the money is still being made in the illegal sales, so you still have the drug wars. It's prohibition that's killing our people. That's why people are dying."
"So," I ask, "you want to legalize everything?"
"Yes. But I like to put it like this: I want regulation of everything. Because right now, I think they're confusing prohibition with regulation. What I'm talking about is applying standards — quality control, just like alcohol. We should have learned our lesson during alcohol prohibitions — we repealed the Eighteenth Amendment and applied standards of sale and manufacture, so it has to be a certain quality and you can't sell it to just anybody, and you still go to jail if you sell it to the wrong people. So, among other things, you'll also reduce overdoses — the majority of the overdoses we have is people who don't know what they're getting or buying because the purity level fluctuates. In addition, people are afraid to get help because they don't want to go jail, so they let their friends die."
So let's add overdoses to our death toll. In 2005, recent Senate testimony shows, 22,400 Americans died of drug overdoses. Leaving aside prescription drugs and counting only the 39 percent of overdoses attributed to cocaine, heroin, and methamphetamines, I count another 8,736 deaths.
That brings us to 15,223 Americans dead from the drug war.
But what about the argument that drugs will spread like wildfire if we don't keep bringing down the hammer?
"First, there's no concrete study to support such a belief — it's all completely speculation," Franklin insists. "So in my left hand I have all this speculation about what may happen to addiction rates, and then I look at my other hand and I see all these dead bodies that are actually fact, not speculation. And you're going to ask me to weigh the two? Second, if the addiction rate does go up, I'm going to have a lot of live addicts that I can cure. The direction we're going in now, I've got a lot of dead bodies."
I told Franklin I was surprised to hear a cop express so much sympathy for drug addicts. Even pro-drug types don't do that much. "I do have sympathy," he says. "What they're dealing with is a health issue, not a criminal issue. And as long as you treat it as a criminal issue, we're treating the symptom and not the cause."
Last year, Franklin went public with his conclusions by joining a group called Law Enforcement Against Prohibition. Since then he's made it his business to talk to other cops about the subject, and he's been surprised by another discovery: "I find that 95 percent of my law-enforcement friends agree that we have to take a different direction, but they're not sure what direction that is — and probably 60 percent to 65 percent agree that we should legalize."
And why, exactly, don't we hear about a possibly overwhelming majority of police wanting to legalize — not just decriminalize, but legalize — major narcotics?
"Selfish reasons," he says. "There is a lot of money to be made in law enforcement. If we were to legalize, you could get rid of one third of every law-enforcement agency in this country."
Really? One third?
"And give back all the federal funds too. That's why very seldom will you see a police chief step forward and say, 'Yeah, we need to do this.'"
I made a stab at crunching those numbers, too. In 2003, America's local police budgets (PDF) were $43 billion dollars. A third of that: $12.9 billion. Add another $9 billion in domestic and international law enforcement (PDF) and the number rises to $21.9 billion.
Then consider America's prisons, the problems with which we've discussed here time and again. "The prison population is off the hook in this country," Franklin says. "In 1993, at the height of apartheid in South Africa, the incarceration of black males was 870 per 100,000. In 2004 in the U.S., for every 100,000 people we are sending 4,919 black males to prison. And the majority of those are for nonviolent drug offenses. But we'd rather send people to prison than give them information and treatment."
So... our federal prison budget in 2007 was $6.3 billion, and 55 percent of the prisoners were there for drug offenses. The total state-prison budget for the U.S. in 2007 was $49 billion, according to this study from the Pew Foundation, which found that "at least" 44 states had gone into the red to incarcerate their citizens. Using the same 55 percent number — which is probably low — we arrive at a rough total of the prison expenses associated with the drug war: $30.4 billion.
"I know jails are a big business and keep lot of people employed," Franklin says, "but it doesn't make it right."
To review, using what seem to be very conservative numbers, our first unofficial tally of the drug war in the United States is staggering:
15,223 dead and $52.3 billion spent each year — which is, incidentally, almost enough to pay for universal health care.
"We've got serious constitutional issues involved, too," Franklin adds. "Improper search and seizure is occurring every day..."
But I'll save that for another column.
Correction appended: An earlier version of this column estimated an incorrect fraction of America's local police budgets.
Sound off on the drug war! Click here to e-mail John H. Richardson about his weekly political column at Esquire.com.
Chris Walter/WireImage.com
It's not technique -- it's what you have to say.
I got the mumps. They threw me in a crib so I wouldn't roll out onto the floor. And there's a big bay window in my house, and that window stayed perfectly still until that train started to chug. At a certain speed, I could reach up and feel the pane, and that glass pane would vibrate. I said, Doggone, there's got to be a reason for this. So I go to the kindergarten teacher, and she takes me to the science teacher, and the science teacher takes me to the library and reads it off to me -- "This is called resonance." That was the beginning.
The audience, they're not professionals. They just love music. It isn't necessary to play over their heads to be admired.
You can't go to the store and buy a good ear and rhythm.
I got out of the car and there was a knife in my neck. The guy says, "Don't move." And the drummer got out of the car, and he got a gun in his head. This was my entrance to the South Side of Chicago. But it was necessary, because I wanted to play jazz.
When rock came in, people didn't know what to do. Even Sinatra, he didn't know what to do. The music was changing. And it's changing now.
Last time I saw Count Basie, he was in a wheelchair. They wheeled him up onto the stage, he sits down at the piano, and he gives the downbeat, and that band played like they were in heaven. And right in the middle, the band cuts. He had to take one hand and put the other on it, and he comes down with one note. And it was the greatest note I ever heard in my life.
I gave up the guitar in 1965. Didn't want to see a guitar. I'd go out and get drunk. When I came out of the heart surgery, the doc said, "Promise me you'll work hard." I said, "I thought working hard is what got me here." He said, "No, working is what will keep you alive."
There are times when you want to go where you used to go and you can't go there. So I'm back to Count Basie lifting his hand. And I find you can stop that show with one note just like you can with a hundred.
I better go play now.
Interviewed by John H. Richardson, September 1, 2008
By David Katz
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Megan Fox won't kick her horse.
She's just sort of tapping it, using her Ugg-booted right foot to give it a nudge with her heel. But to Bandit (that's the horse), this is more of a suggestion, and what this horse needs right now is a command, a firm whack on the undercarriage with both heels that says "Stop screwing off!" — and this Fox is either unwilling or unable to give.
So we're gonna pause here for a minute or two, just a few hundred feet up the Topanga Canyon horse trail we're ascending, until Bandit can behave.
It's sunny but still mild for L. A., so Fox is wearing an open yellow cardigan over her black tank top. Her jeans, waist-baring low-riders, were rolled up just beyond her calves until Michael (our serene and tan guide for the day) mentioned she might want to roll them back down to avoid "chafing" — the kind of advice you don't ignore.
She's got a self-professed weakness for eye makeup, but she's not wearing much now, just a little mascara. Today's look is all-natural — though liberal cleavage and the "Brian" hip tattoo that occasionally peeks out above the waistband of her black underwear prevent it from being remotely wholesome.
"If you're a real wimp with him," Michael is explaining, "he's gonna keep taking advantage of you." Dominance over horses is established in the first ten minutes of the ride, which means Fox has about one minute left to show Bandit who's boss. "Don't worry, there's no way you're gonna hurt him," Michael says. Definitely not with the little love kicks she keeps delivering.
It's hard to hold this unwillingness to kick Bandit against her, because it is, after all, kicking an animal, but also because she's clearly freaked out — "terrified" is how she puts it — being in the saddle for the first time. "I have a healthy fear of horses," she said when she was introduced to Bandit, and considering he's a thousand-pound brown beast and she's a five-four, hundred-pound twenty-two-year-old actress, this was odd only because the riding lesson was her idea. She wanted to learn, she said, but really she just wanted an escape.
"You are catching me at a really vulnerable point in my life," she says, alluding to the recent breakup with her boyfriend of four and a half years. She's moving out of their home and being chased by an ever-growing pack of camera-wielding bruisers as she tries to get her personal life under control. "I've never really lived as an adult by myself. Like, I've never even bought my own dishes." That's all about to change. So yeah, Fox is spooked, and Bandit isn't really helping.
(Click here for Esquire's exclusive sexy Megan Fox video!)
The Smoke House, an old-school barbecue restaurant in Burbank, is dim, quiet, and pretty much empty except for Megan Fox tucked into a red vinyl booth in a corner. It's the day after the ride, and she's wearing the same kind of snug, low-cut tank top, this time in white, framed by a gray cardigan, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the Marilyn Monroe tattoo on her right arm. (She plans on sleeving the whole limb in the next year.)
She's sipping hot tea and picking at a basket of bright-orange garlic bread as she finishes an entry in her journal, which she calls her "book of feelings," fully aware of how corny that sounds. "Whenever I'm just sitting and thinking and feeling, I write it out," she says. "Sometimes it's an angry anti-man poem, and sometimes I'm just being funny and cute. Some of it is really disturbing, some really insightful, and some just bullshit. Sometimes I'll just rant about something someone does on a plane. Or about an interview on a horse."
She's joking — hopefully. It's hard to tell. She's more relaxed than yesterday but not exactly at ease, occasionally bringing her intertwined hands over her head in a stretch or rubbing her own neck, working out some kinks. It's been one of those weeks. "I don't know how I feel or think about anything right now, and I feel like I'm under a microscope. Normally I love playing the game, but that's when I'm in an assertive place. I'm not there right now." All the attention on her love life has got her rattled, wondering if it's time to start watching her words more carefully, to start "acting like an adult" in interviews.
"Because of some things I've said, some jokes I've made, I've got this wild, crazy reputation. Like I'm into sex with knives," she says, laughing at the thought. "People assume that I'm really promiscuous. There's a difference between being very sexual and being promiscuous. I'm not promiscuous. I'm extraordinarily sexual within a monogamous relationship. Nothing's off-limits. But that has nothing to do with experiencing a lot of people. I've only had two boyfriends my whole life."
The recent breakup with actor Brian Austin Green, whom she'd been dating since she was eighteen, helps explain the twenty or so paparazzi who now wait outside (and will continue to wait for the next few hours) to see whom she leaves with. She has no problem with attention — "mass validation" is how she jokingly refers to it — but this is too much too soon and in danger of overshadowing a career that's just getting started.
Fox moved out to L. A. five years ago, when she was seventeen. She was born in Tennessee, but after her parents divorced, her mom and new stepdad relocated the family to Port St. Lucie, Florida, where she was enrolled in a strict Christian high school. "They had right-wing conservative teachers teaching Bible class," she says. "They'd tell us how abortion was wrong, how evolution was wrong, how sex was wrong. I hated school." She wanted to act — has for as long as she can remember — so she left school (she later got her degree) and moved out to L. A. with her mom. Three months later, she landed a part in Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen with Lindsay Lohan, then a guest spot on Two and a Half Men spent mostly in a bikini, followed by the short-lived Kelly Ripa sitcom Hope & Faith.
But odds are you'd never heard of Megan Fox until last summer, when she starred as tan-and-toned high school gearhead Mikaela Banes in Transformers, a role she reprises this month in Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen and that mostly entails, as she puts it, "a lot of running and screaming — you sort of have to let the acting aspect go, because it's just not there. People come to see the effects and the robots and the explosions." Which is not entirely fair. They also come to see Megan Fox in a half shirt bending over a '76 Camaro, an image your fourteen-year-old cousin has as his screensaver, and not because of the car. "I know I'm seen as a sex object," she says. "I'm just really confident sexually, and I think that sort of oozes out of my pores. It's just there. It's something I don't have to turn on."
Which is obvious when you're watching her eat the barbecue-chicken platter at the Smoke House. She's not licking her fork seductively, or smearing barbecue sauce all over her face, or dripping mashed potatoes down her chest, or doing any of the things she's asked to do time and time again in photo shoots. She's not even using her bare hands. She's simply a twenty-two-year-old girl eating some chicken, so it's really not her fault if watching this makes you feel as if you should be paying for the privilege. "I don't get it," she says. "I don't find food sexy, and I don't see the connection between food and sex." Obviously she hasn't been watching the right people eat.
"If you know how to take control of it, then it can be powerful," she says of being a sex symbol. "But I have no idea how to handle it yet, how to deal with it. I don't want to have to be like a Scarlett Johansson — who I have nothing against — but I don't want to have to go on talk shows and pull out every single SAT word I've ever learned to prove, like, 'Take me seriously, I am intelligent, I can speak.' I don't want to have to do that. I resent having to prove that I'm not a retard — but I do. And part of it is my own fault."
If that's true, it's because of a few tantalizing stories she's told the press, or maybe those seven artfully placed tattoos, not because she prances around L. A. like Kim Kardashian. In fact, Fox is a homebody who prefers to watch hours of Animal Planet rather than go to bars or clubs, and she tries to avoid the Hollywood scene as much as she can. "When I go to a party, I always feel like I'm chum. Like my agent is just chumming the waters until I'm circled by all these dudes."
Awards shows, after parties, any kind of large social gathering — they all make her anxious. Before she walks a red carpet, she gets a nice buzz going (even though she's not much of a drinker), smokes a few cigarettes (even though she quit two years ago), and tries to get quickly in and out as she parries the inevitable come-ons from colleagues hopped up on their own egos. "Actors aren't necessarily the most intelligent guys you're ever gonna come across," she says. "They're so easily manipulated that if you have any sort of control over your own sexuality, they're just fucked."
Such was the fate of one up-and-coming Irish actor who hit on her as she was smoking a cigarette alone after an awards show. "He was like, 'Cigarettes? Do you have an addictive personality? Well, what else are you addicted to?' " she says. "Like, I'm unaware that he wants me to say, 'Sex. I'm addicted to sex, I just can't get enough. I just really want a daddy, can you be my daddy?' " She played with him for a bit, gave him a little string — then "cut him off at the knees."
Maybe it's the third herbal tea, but Fox is starting to relax, and with this comes a glimmer of her more unfiltered self, the one she was so worried would get her into trouble: not some cliché wild child but someone more engaging than that. When she lets her guard down, Fox is gossipy and outspoken. And funny.
Of course, beautiful women always think they're funny, because men laugh at everything they say. Fox could tell a knock-knock joke and every man within earshot would keel over with laughter. But Fox is actually funny. Get her going and she'll deliver a blue monologue that sounds as if it were lifted out of a Judd Apatow stoner flick. Confess you've never seen High School Musical, for example: "Wait, what?" she says, raising her voice. "Okay, well, let me tell you what it's really about. High School Musical is about this group of boys who are all being molested by the basketball coach, who is Zac Efron's dad. It's about them struggling to cope with this molestation. And they have these little girlfriends, who are their beards. Oh, and somehow there's music involved. You have to get stoned and watch it." Fox is funny like your fat friend Phil is funny: dry, dirty, sarcastic — a little bit mean. "People are not used to seeing starlets have a sense of humor, especially an off-center, foul sense of humor," she says. "I think it would be different if I were a guy. Seth Rogen can say whatever he wants and people know it's a joke."
Fox is obsessed with how she's perceived. She won't look at her own press — not because she doesn't care but because she cares too much. Looking at a sexy photo spread she's in or a critical blog post will make her physically ill. "Because I'm young and female, people want me to be like some Disney Channel, supersafe, sex-before-marriage-is-bad, Taylor Swift, I-date-someone-with-a-promise-ring, bullshit girl." Which would mean watering down the Megan Fox now in full swing at the Smoke House, the unrestrained woman who seems to have a polemicist's position on everything from Superman ("I just think he's a lame superhero. He's not interesting. He's not dark. He's just kind of a douchebag.") to sex: "I think people are born bisexual and then make subconscious choices based on the pressures of society. I have no question in my mind about being bisexual. But I'm also a hypocrite: I would never date a girl who was bisexual, because that means they also sleep with men, and men are so dirty that I'd never want to sleep with a girl who had slept with a man."
She makes this last statement, one she knows will get bolded and underlined and hyperlinked into oblivion, near the end of lunch, after the plates are cleared and the family-dinner crowd is starting to pour in. It's as if she's reached her own internal conclusion about whether she's going to self-censor for them and for all of us. Then she sums it up easily enough: "Fuck it."
(Click here for Esquire's exclusive sexy Megan Fox video!)
It’s the choice she must have made at some point yesterday, too.
There were those initial rough spots when Bandit was taking advantage of her — so much so that Michael the guide had to hop off his horse, grab a six-foot length of heavy rope out of his saddlebag, and tether Fox's animal to his own. (At least, he said it was because Bandit was misbehaving.) But that setup wasn't needed for long.
Halfway up, she got the hang of it, comfortable enough to make small talk, about horses, naturally, but this afforded some surprising information, like the fact that Fox knows the name of Gandalf's horse in The Lord of the Rings, a trilogy she's seen "a billion times" because Fox isn't just a fanboy's wet dream but a fanboy herself. "If I were to get typecast in comic-book movies for the rest of my life, that would be okay." The pervasive rumors that she'll be playing Wonder Woman or inherit Lara Croft's bodysuit from Angelina Jolie are "complete Internet bullshit," but she is currently shooting Jonah Hex, a bloody western comic-book adaptation with Josh Brolin. In September, she stars in Jennifer's Body, a horror parody by Diablo Cody, as the man-devouring zombie captain of a high school flag team.
After Transformers came out, Fox passed on a bunch of challenging scripts because she was scared she wasn't good enough or the roles seemed laughably implausible for her. ("Seriously, I'm gonna be playing a mom on a rampage, looking for her lost kid? What a joke. I look like a little kid.") So it's possible Fox actually will spend her career as the Hot Chick, running and screaming in strategically ripped cheerleading outfits as she battles talking cars and evil cowboys — but that's not likely. After all, she said she was "terrified" of horses, and within an hour into her first ride she was relaxed in the saddle, smiling, talking about coming back and seeing Bandit again.
By the return trek, Fox was confident enough with her horse that Michael agreed to let her trot. She gave Bandit a kick — commanding, with both feet — then she let out an excited little scream and off she went.
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