O! Yes.

O Magazine is my choice dessert. Cindy; forgotten. Asta la Seeyas Pam! And catch a cab Giselle. Modernity etched Centerfolds into a wireless Macintosh tombstone back when the Y2K epidemic was reincarnated as a dance move. Hola! The Cover is where the love's buried. Perhaps you've noticed while purchasing 7th Generation products in the self check out line at your local grocer's the Mama of the year, Mammoth of the hour, Mistress of the minute, Miser of the moment. Here she comes again ready to ring in the month riding a stallion in a tan suede onesie or wading through the wind wearing a crimson phantom-like robe, perhaps she's balancing atop European steeples in a neuvo self-titled yoga pose or up close (certainly not close enough) silvery and twinkling with the funk of a disco ball: Oprah is radiating childlike bliss and commending my Eco-chic spending habits in stacks of fifteen gracing the iron rack birthed to house her bounty of grace, insight, and humility.

Oprah is Andy Warhol as Oprah. Oprah is the IKEA of pop culture for stiffs. Oprah is the color salons prefer for pedicures. Oprah is the Iron Chef's favorite spice. Oprah is also the sixth Spice Girl: Oprah Spice. Oprah is a straight Mom's Rosie. Oprah knows life; she's an old school Christian who believes in reincarnation and she only wishes she had lifetimes to sit you down and school you 'bout it. Oprah is the little sister Maya Angelou locked in the closet so she could climb out on the roof and write poems in peace. Oprah is the Eiffel tower of bath towel designers. Oprah will never go to jail. Oprah has her own school in South Africa. Oprah is the shape of Dr. Scholls new gel insert. Oprah just approved J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye for her book club. Oprah will have a flame bigger than Stalin's and JFK's over her grave otherwise it will not get her graveclub seal of approval.