jennsylvania

Hi, Honey, I'm Home

The house reeks of bourbon, there's no food in the fridge, and all my plants are dead.

I'm not going to hit him with a frying pan, but I did just change my password.

Viva la Jennsylvania!

A Tale Of Two Dogs

For years we wondered exactly what kind of dogs we have.  Because they're from a shelter, they didn't come with any breed information other than what was guessed by volunteers.  I mean, sure, we could tell a lot about Maisy and Loki's heritage from their looks and their proclivities, but we didn't really have any concrete proof of their ancestry.

We always wanted to do a doggie DNA test but wondered how to go about this - would we find a testing facility on the internet?  Bring them to our vet?  Go on the Maury Povich show? 

We planned to do the test years ago but we were broke and even spending a dime on something so silly was out of the question.  The good news is that the prices have come down since we initially looked and now kits are available in many pet stores.  All the owner needs to do is take two samples from the back of the dog's mouth and send them in to the lab for analysis in a handy pre-paid envelope.

Naturally, this chore proved easier on Loki than Maisy.  While Loki stood there and panted obediently as we swabbed his gums, Maisy reacted as though we were trying to stuff a live snake in her maw. 

I'd expect nothing less from her.

Maisy's results came in first.  I always knew she was mostly pit bull, probably American Pit Bull Terrier specifically, but I figured she had to have something else mixed in, maybe some English Bulldog or possibly even a touch of Beagle or Jack Russel.  She's a little on the small side and she's got a wicked underbite, so didn't quite conform to some of the APBT breed's standards.

Turns out Maisy is 100% American bulldog, which is a type of pit bull that's directly descended from the English bulldog.  This neatly explains why Maisy's stockier (read: fatter) than the garden variety APBT or American Staffordshire Terrier and why she has all those kissable face wrinkles.  It also accounts for why she's so strong, so sweet, and so damn stubborn.

Loki's results took a bit longer because there was some confusion on my email address.  While we waited in anticipation, we couldn't help but speculate on his parentage.  Would the tests show exactly how much wolf we believed he had in him?  Or could his lupine tendencies be better explained by traces of Husky or Akita?  Naturally he'd have tons of Shepherd in him because he's a dead ringer for their body type.  I mean, just google images of "black German Shepherd" and every single one of them looks exactly like Loki.

Finally I received the email telling us our results were ready.

"Fletch, Fletch!  Get in here!  We got his results!" I shouted down the hallway.  Fletch dashed into my office and hovered over my shoulder.  "Okay, I've got to put in our last name here and plug in his sample number here... and... here we go!"

The test form displays what breeds are associated with the dog from minor (meaning 12.5%) to significant (meaning more than 50%.)  The more a dog has of a specific breed, the larger and lower-down the label is displayed on the heritage grid.  As the test found nothing but American Bulldog in Maisy's ancestry, her parentage was displayed as a big button on the bottom of the screen.

The first thing we noticed once our grid was populated was that Loki didn't have any significant heritage, which was kind of a shock as we figured him for at least 50% Shepherd.

Actually, the bigger shock was that the test found no traces of Shepherd whatsoever.

We weren't prepared for what it did find.

"No.  NO.  That can't be right," Fletch exclaimed, glowering at the screen.

"Okay, now you really do sound like one of those guys on Maury Povich's show.  DNA doesn't lie, honey," I replied.  "That's why it's such a popular daytime television topic."

"But it's impossible," he gasped, staring at the screen.  "Seriously, it is NOT POSSIBLE."

"Fletch, he's still the same dog regardless of what this test says.  This changes nothing.  He's still funny and sweet and will bark his head off protecting us from every squirrel in the neighborhood."

Fletch was steadfast.  "I want another test."

"Oh, please.  Paying for one test is fine.  Paying for a second test is ridiculous," I countered.

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair.  "Fine," he conceded.  "Maybe I could see a little Labrador in him, even though he hates the water and refuses to retrieve anything." 

True enough.  Just try to toss something to Loki and see what happens.  Loki will simply stand there and be all, "Hey, look at you, throwing that thing in which I have no interest."  For a while we wondered if he had bad depth perception and started tossing toys right to his face.  Tennis balls would bounce off his snout and then he'd get upset because he thought we were mad at him.  (We don't try to play fetch any more.)

"What I refuse to accept," Fletch continued, "is that he's a quarter POODLE.  Poodle!  This dog is not a poodle!"

"Look on the bright side.  Maybe he's not a Lab and a Poodle.  Maybe he's a Labradoodle like the people next door own.  Perhaps that means we should buy him some sweatshirts with his name embroidered on them, too."  Then I collapsed into a fit of giggles.

Fletch eventually stalked off, spending the rest of the night researching how DNA tests can be inconclusive. 

The thing is, at least 50% of Loki's parentage is unknown.  The test people say that some of this could be attributed to his last three generations being mixed breeds and some might be because the test doesn't cover every breed, particularly if that breed happens to be a wolf.  And there was some confusion about my email address, so it's entirely possible that some poor purebred owner is demanding a refund based on Loki's results.  But if that's the case, I don't want to know because the notion of him being a Labradoodle is too hilarious.

Seriously, I've been laughing about our "new" Labradoodle for weeks.  Actually, I love that Loki had a completely unexpected DNA test.  I swear to you that this dog has a sense of humor and were he capable of pulling a prank, this is exactly the kind of thing he'd do.

A couple of nights ago I was looking at Cute Overload and they had video of dogs howling.  I pressed PLAY and cranked the volume on my speakers to see what Loki would do.  Then I started to google different dog howls to see how Loki might react to each of them.  Off and on, Loki would bay and bark.  Fletch heard all the noise in my office and up to investigate. 

"Look up 'wolf howl' and see what he does," Fletch demanded.

So I googled 'Labradoodle howl' and played it. 

Loki completely lost his shit.

"See?  See how he reacted to the wolves?"  Fletch said.

"Yeah," I agreed.  "Except those were Labradoodles."

"Don't be cute.  Try it again and do a wolf this time," he demanded.

So I googled 'Labradoodle' again.

Same reaction.

Fletch got (adorably) righteously indignant.  "I'm serious!  Pull up 'wolf cub howling.'"

So I pulled up 'Labradoodle puppies howling' and Loki went crazy.  I couldn't suppress my laughter and that's when Fletch stepped behind my computer and did his own google-searching. 

He played 'wolf howling' and... nothing.

He tried again.  No reaction. 

He tried a third time, evoking nothing but a few staccato bursts of farts from Maisy.  (American Bulldogs are a particularly farty breed.)

Fletch said Loki was probably just too tired to react, so I played the Labradoodles again and Loki - with his impeccable comedic timing - completely mimicked the video dog's cry, causing Fletch to skulk off, grumbling about shopping for embroidered sweatshirts.

Then Loki stretched and yawned on the bed across from where I sat at the computer.

And I swear that bastard winked at me.

 
  
"I am not a frigging Labradoodle.  But I would take a sweatshirt."

Fletcher's Choice: Like Sophie's Choice But Without All The Nazis - UPDATED

Setting:  My kitchen, twenty minutes ago.

Fletch:  Do these new gym shorts shorts look okay?

Me: (not looking because I'm busy making coffee) They're fine.

Fletch:  How about the shirt?  It's new, too.

Me: (pouring, not looking) S'fine. (adding cream and Splenda, then glancing at clock) Hey, it's already 8:30.  How are you going to work out and then have enough time to get to your 10:15 facial? 

Fletch:  Shit, is that this morning?  And I thought I didn't have to go until 11:15.  Are you sure?

Me:  Yep.  I wrote it in my calendar when I booked it for you.

Fletch:  Damn. (sighing deeply and glancing down at his snappy new ensemble) I guess I have to skip the gym.

Me:  Okay, then.  I'm going to go back upstairs to write my column.

* * *

I'd now like to break this scene down for you.  Please note the following:

I am not the one dressed in a snappy new gym outfit.

I am making and serving my own coffee.

I am not only booking his appointments but also apparently managing his calendar.

I will be busy working while he has a spa treatment.

Now you all know how much I adore him, but let's be honest... this man is not a good assistant.

But with a little effort, he could be an excellent trophy wife.

UPDATE:  He just called to see what I'd like him to buy for lunch.  Now that's more like it.

UPDATE, PART II:  He came home empty-handed because the line at Jimmy John's was too long.  I swear to you that some day these posts just write themselves.

In Case There Was Any Doubt...

... this is why we're jerks.

jen @ home:  Just read on the crime blotter that two guys in the neighborhood were arguing and a third guy came up and stabbed one of them in the thigh.  And I couldn't help but wonder, 'Hey, what's Agent Jack Bauer doing in Logan Square?'

fletch @ work:  What about this part?  'One man is in critical condition after being stabbed in the chest at Illinois Masonic.'  I knew it wasn't a great hospital, but now they stab people there?

jen @ home:  Sometimes stabbing is funny.

fletch @ work:  Yeah.

I suspect the bad karma we generate is exactly why we haven't found house to buy outside of this stabby neighborhood.

(But it's still a little bit funny.)

Watch This Space

Tomorrow I'll be posting an exciting announcement, one that's:

A) been years in the making

and

B) could win you an early autographed copy of My Fair Lazy.

(Some of you have emailed me to speculate on if I might be pregnant.  So let me just ask this - is it raining toads where you live?  Have the rivers turned to blood?  Are you suddenly infested with boils and covered in flies?  Then no, I'm not expecting.)

Anyway, I can't just demand you watch this space and give you nothing in return, so here's a photo of some of the famous people who attended my '80s party this weekend.

"That's right, Thomas Magnum... I am dangerous."

So, please sit tight until tomorrow.

Now I'm off to explain to Fletch why he can't work the flight jacket and cowboy boots into his everyday rotation.

The Evolution Of A Bad Idea

10:15 PM - Hmm, getting late.  I should get ready for bed.

10:30 PM - Hmm, getting even later.  I should get ready for bed.

10:45 PM - Someone on the internet is mistaken and I must express my displeasure with many upper-case letters and exclamation points.

11:00 PM - It's really not getting any earlier, is it?

11:10 PM - Nightly skin inspection in bathroom mirror.  Not perfect, but not bad for my age/lifestyle/aversion to sunscreen.

11:11 PM - Hey, what would happen if I used a magnifying mirror during my inspection?

11:12 PM - SWEET JESUS, MAKE IT STOP!

11:13 PM - Re-inspect by light of bedside lamp.  Ah, all better.

11:14 PM - But what if I put in a brighter bulb?

11:15 PM - IS FURRY BEAST!  KILL IT!  KIIIIIIIIL IT!

11:16 PM - "What do you think I'm doing?  I'm looking at my skin in this mirror.  And I've either got to wax this mustache or start giving rides on it, ha ha!"

11:16 PM - "What do you mean, 'I don't think that expression means what you think it means'?"

11:17 PM -  Oh.  Then that man at Target with the "Free Mustache Rides" logo was wearing a very dirty shirt.

11:18 PM - "Then I would like to amend my previous statement.  I need to wax this mustache or learn to twirl it, ha ha!"

11:19 PM - I should tweeze this thing.

11:20 PM - I should find my tweezers.

11:21 PM - Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

11:22 PM - Screw this.  I need a professional waxing.  Must make an appointment.

11:25 PM - Can't.  Stop.  Fondling.  Mustache.

11:30  PM - Fine, I'll do the goddamned thing myself.

11:40 PM - Can't find new tub of wax I purchased for just this very occasion, so locate old container.  Is very old.  Is possibly the exact same tub that Moses's wife used to remove her unwanted facial hair.  (Desert light is unforgiving.)

11:41 PM - But it's wax.  It's not like it could go bad, right?

11:42 PM - "I'm not 'banging around and keeping you awake.'  I'm doing something important."

11:43 PM - Microwaving.

11:44 PM - Microwaving.

11:45 PM - Microwaving.

11:46 PM - Microwaving.

11:47 PM - I think my microwave may be broken.

11:48 PM - Ah, there we go.

11:49 PM - I don't have a stick, so I'll just use my finger to stir this hot, molten lava.

11:50 PM - "Well, what do you expect?  I just seared off my own fingerprint!"

11:51 PM - Blow and cool.  Use damaged digit to spread wax liberally on my Tom Selleck.

11:52 PM - Wait for wax to harden so can pull off unsightly hairs in one (briefly painful) fell swoop.

11:53 PM - Is not hardening.

11:54 PM - Is not hardening.

11:55 PM - Is not hardening.  Is sitting on upper lip in a big, sticky blob.

11:56 PM - Begin to tentatively peel off wax millimeter by millimeter.  (Hate metric system.)

11:57 PM - Is like removing chewing gum from underneath cafeteria table, only ouchy.

11:57 PM - Hurty.

11:58 PM - Hurty.

11:59 PM - So very hurty.

12:00 AM - Use sticky bits of already-peeled wax to slowly pry off other gummy bits. 

12:01 AM - Oh, yeah, this is WAY better than waiting nine hours to pay a professional ten dollars to handle this in five seconds.

12:02 AM - The good news is the hair is coming off. 

12:03 AM -  The bad news is, so is my skin.

12:04 AM -  How mad will he be if I wake him up to help me?

12:05 AM -  On second thought, he'd be mad for a second, but the mocking would last a lifetime.  Must cowboy-up and finish job myself.

12:06 AM - ...And it's finally off! 

12:07 AM - Except for those small, tacky bits with the Kleenex stuck to them.

12:08 AM - I know, I'll use baby oil.  That gets rid of sticky stuff.

12:09 AM - Hmm, I don't have a baby oil.  Instead opt for canola oil.  (Is hearty-healthy.)

12:10 AM - Wax is off, now to remove oil.  Need toner.

12:11 AM - But tossed out toner after that whole "who thought it was a good idea to make this stuff the exact same shade of blue as the nail polish remover?" incident.

12:12 AM - Will use Fletch's toner.  Quietly.

12:13 AM -  !!!

12:14 AM - "WELL MAYBE THEY SHOULD HAVE WRITTEN 'GLYCOLIC ACID' IN BIGGER PRINT ON THE BOTTLE!"

12:15 AM - Probably should plan to make an "I'm sorry I got shouty after midnight mousse" tomorrow.

12:16 AM - Inspect skin in magnifying mirror by light of new bulb.  Hair is gone, but lip is swollen in manner of Simpson's character.

12:17 AM - So this is what I'd look like if I had the capability of growing a big, red fu-manchu mustache.  Noted.

12:18 AM - In retrospect, perhaps "learn to twirl it" wasn't such a bad idea.

12:19 AM - Is really late.  Must get ready for bed.

12:20 AM - I wonder if anyone else on the internet is wrong?

Crisis Averted

My office is on the second floor and that's where I tend to spend most of the workday.  Because it's located an entire flight of stairs from the filtered water on the fridge door, I find myself going thirsty rather than taking the trek to the kitchen.

Yes, I understand exactly how lazy this is. 

(Do I need to remind anyone of how I once considered hiding a bucket in the first floor pantry in the old house rather than climbing twelve stairs to the bathroom?) 

(Fletch wouldn't let me, by the way.)

Anyway, I came up with a rather elegant solution.  I would buy a case of water and store it upstairs, thus I would never get thirsty to the point of dizziness again!  Genius! 

(Granted, a little bit pathetic, but mostly genius!)

I bought the water, brought it upstairs, and deposited it on the counter in the guest bathroom, where it remained in the way for the next few days.  Because this bath is right next to my office, I tend to favor it over the master bath which is a good twenty paces down the hall. 

(Y'all are noticing a theme here, aren't you?)

I kept having to work around the bulky case when I brushed my teeth, washed my face, etc. so I needed to find a place to store it.  I could bring it down to the laundry room off the master bedroom, but then I'd have to do all that rearranging to make it fit in the cabinet.

Turns out the solution to my problem was right next to me.  I drew back the shower curtain in front of the unused guest tub and placed the case in there, spic, span, and out of the way.  Plus, I figured, if anything happened to one of the bottles, leaking water would go directly down the drain.  Again, genius!

When Fletch got home, I proudly whipped open the curtain to show him where I'd stashed the water. 

He slowly looked from the case to me.  After a long pause, he finally said, "So... you've decided to store stuff in an empty tub.  Congratulations, you've just taken the first step to seeing yourself on Hoarders in twenty years."

Yeah.  I moved the bottles.

Never Bring A (Carving) Knife To A Gun Fight

Because I'm busy finishing edits, Fletch has totally picked up the slack in regard to Thanksgiving planning.  With help from our friend Stacey, he's got all the recipes organized, he's already ordered groceries, he's purchased all the additional dinnerware, and he's in the midst of tweaking the time/action plan for the day of the festivities. 

I'm really grateful at how detail-oriented he is.

He even made a list of all the tasks he's going to take care of on his own.

Dinner's at 6:00 sharp. 

(No need to bring your own ammo.)

A LOL In The Editing Process

Busy editing, so few words to spare.  But maybe you'll enjoy some photos?

 

 
 

Have a safe and happy Caturday!
 

That Seemed To Take A While, Didn't It?

Every year when November rolls around, I think, "I should participate in NaNoWriMo!"

Then I remember that I'll have just rolled off book deadline season and pretty much already did write 50,000 words in a month - twice - because I'm both a procrastinator and an idiot, and not necessarily in that order.  Also for the past few years - and always right before deadline - I've been thrown a monkeywrench. 

(Is this expression right?  Now that I've typed it, it seems all foreign and wrong.  And is the monkeywrench thrown at me?  Or into the works?  Because throwing a monkeywrench at me seems like it would be rather useful, e.g. "Here is a wrench; please catch it so you can fix all that needs a good wrenching.")

Regardless, last year's monkeywrench was my house sinking and filling with mold.  This year, my dog got sick and my editor left.  I don't recommend any of the above in terms of increasing productivity, although I'm really happy for my old editor and Maisy's treatment is going well.  (According to the canine oncologist, anorexia is a common side effect when going through chemotherapy.  Yet Maisy has gained nearly ten percent of her body weight and looks like a four-legged zeppelin, or a large, friendly tick.)

Point?

I've had to ask Fletch for some extra help around here in the past month.  Mind you, Fletch is particularly gifted when it comes to killing arachnids and keeping me amused, but less so in terms of common household tasks.  For example, we recently got a new five-way printer.  When I say recently, I mean back in June, where upon arrival, it hung out behind my living room couch for three months, waiting for someone to connect it to a power source.

(Procrastination is contagious in this house.)

Anyway, last month Fletch finally put the printer together and hooked up the fax machine.  Right around this time, our phone started acting oddly.  Instead of the standard five rings, it would only ring twice and our voice mail would never engage.  I spent three weeks sprinting away from my desk to answer the phone, and one week simply using my cell phone, as our line had gone completely dead.  (If you called me last month... sorry!) 

What's funny is at no point did my husband - a telecom engineer- wonder if these two events might be related.  He had a number of theories on what might be going wrong, e.g. a bad switch, a glitch in the voicemail system, faulty wiring somewhere between the POP and our house, etc.  We finally had a technician out who diagnosed the problem within fifteen seconds, leading to a great deal of smirking on my account, considering my first question also had been, "Is it possible anything is hooked up wrong?" 

Which brings us to the rug.  In our bedroom, we have a 10 X 12 sisal rug.  In our city, we've had six weeks of perpetual rain.  One might not think these factors are related, but one would be wrong.  Because we've had so much rain, our backyard is completely squishy and Maisy hates to put her paws on wet grass, preferring to relieve herself on the dry grass of oh, say, a sisal rug.

So, four weeks ago when I was knee-deep in manuscript, I asked Fletch to please remedy the situation.  I guess my assumption was that he'd take the rug off the hardwood, haul it down to the basement, and steam the section in question.

A while later, I heard my dog barking in the front yard.  "Odd," I thought to myself.  "Why would Loki be out front?"  So I peeked out the window and saw that Fletch had taken the rug out of the bedroom, laid it out across our front lawn and sidewalk, and was spraying it down with a garden hose. 

And I realized that in the history of every crappy neighborhood we lived in, with all the drug dealing and street fights and domestic violence and public intoxication and garbage-bag covered windows and dirty children running around in pajamas at 11:00 PM on a school night, this was in fact the most white-trash act I've ever witnessed.

Upon soaking the already hundred-pound sisal rug, Fletch discovered that it now weighed something like three hundred pounds and could not be moved until dry.  For four days we had a carpeted front yard. 

Eventually enough water leeched out for Fletch to roll the rug into an enormous, rotting, sisal burrito, and that sat in front of our house for another week, whereupon it got re-soaked by Chicago's torrential rains and Loki's uncanny aim.

We finally got a day of sun, and working together, we manged to haul it to the backyard where it sat in a sodden lump for another week and a half, until again, it dried just enough for us to hang it over a porch railing.  And this is where it remains right now, getting drenched repeatedly by our daily deluge because if you weren't aware, Chicago is totally the new Forks, Washington.

I had lunch with my friend Stacey last week and I recounted the whole tale-of-rug-woe to her, whereupon she said, "You know you can't get sisal wet, right?"  Now we're waiting for a break in the unmitigating rain so the rug can dry enough for us to roll it up and toss it in the trash. 

The great irony here is that the damp sisal is a perfect breeding ground for spiders and the whole situation has been an endless source of amusement. 

But the good news is I finally have the time to shop for a new rug.  So there's that.

(Coming later this week - feral kittens in pumpkin costumes!)

This Doesn't Count Towards Today's 2000 Word Total

I'm getting down to the wire here on the new book, both in terms of writing and also finishing up having the experiences about which I need to write. 

The latter's going better than the former, as, obviously, it's way more tempting to have an adventure than to catalog it. 

This weekend was chock-full of documentable occurrences, like trying foods from previously untasted countries in the company of good friends, attending a benefit and meeting new people, reading classic literature (am finding Faulkner un-put-downable, whereas last week's Welty made me want to kill self/others), hitting a book signing, watching a fascinating documentary, drinking great wine with my husband, and otherwise enjoying the gorgeous - albeit premature - fall weather.

And yet, as collectively lovey as the above happenings were, none of these events entailed best moment of the weekend, which was...

Setting:  The car, in the parking lot at Grand and Ogden, Saturday afternoon.

Me:  I don't want any coffee, but, hey!  There's a Jimmy John's right next to Starbucks!  You get coffee and I'm going to get a sandwich.

Fletch:  Don't get a sandwich. 

Me:  But if I eat before we go to the grocery store, we won't come back with six kinds of bread like last time.

Fletch:  Don't get a sandwich. 

Me:  Why not?

Fletch:  It'll make a huge mess.

Me:  Oh.  Well, okay...

(pause)

Me:  Hey!  Wait a minute.  This is my car.  I picked it out, I paid for it, and my name's on the title.  Remember we had this conversation at the dealership?  I specifically laid out the rule, which was if I want to eat in MY car, you're not allowed to forbid it.

Fletch:  I'm not forbidding anything; I'm just saying it's a bad idea.  You're going to get shredded lettuce everywhere.

Me:  And I think it's the best idea I ever had.  I'll meet you back here in five minutes.

Thus, as we cruised up to the nice Fresh Market up in Wilmette, he sipped his coffee and I enjoyed the best goddamned sandwich of my life.

Of course, Fletch drove my car today so he could drop it off at the hand-wash detailing place. 

Apparently it's in need of a thorough vacuuming.

My Husband, Ansel Adams

Setting:  Late May, 2009, The Webster Place Barnes & Noble, immediately following the question and answer session of my book reading.

Me:  Honey, there's a million people in line and I only have one person up here helping me and she's putting name post-it notes in the books.  Do me a favor and use people's cameras for them if they want pictures with me. 

Fletch:  Nah.

Me:  Excuse me?  "Nah" is not an option.  Please take their pictures, this line is really, really long and it would help move things along.

Fletch:  Nah, I don't want to break their cameras because I don't know how to use them.

Me:  You won't break them. 

Fletch:  Nah.  I'd probably break 'em.  Besides, a lot of them want my autograph so I'm busy. 

Me:  Okay, A) you didn't write shit, ergo you have nothing to sign and B) they're just cameras; how hard could it be?

Fletch:  Nah, I don't feel comfortable doing it.

Me:  (through gritted teeth) Take. The. Fucking. Pictures. Please. Now. Before. I. Kill. You.

Fletch:  Trust me, it's better if I don't.  (turns to greet fans and signs their books while tiny blood vessels begin to pop in my brain.)

* * *

Setting:  Early August, 2009, The East Hampton Library Authors Night fund raiser, right after the doors open.

Me:  I still haven't forgiven you for the last signing debacle, so you WILL take photos tonight and you WILL NOT bitch about it.

Fletch:  I don't think I'm very good at it, but I'll try.

Me:  Thank you.  Effort is all that I ask.

* * *

Setting:  Last night, in my home office, sitting in front of the computer.

Me:  So... yeah.  I uploaded the photos that you took.  Maybe you'd like to, oh, I don't know, give me your perspective on what you shot. 

Me:  A little on the blurry side.

Fletch:  I didn't know how to focus.

Me:  It has auto-focus.

Fletch:  Oh, then I guess I was trying to balance my wine glass while I was holding the camera and I got wobbly.

Me:  Okay... then how about this one?

Fletch:  That's Barbara Walter's handler's coat.

Me:  Awesome.  And how about this?

Fletch:  That asshole jumped right in front of me while I was taking Barbara Walter's picture.

Me:  Yeah, that's because was INTERVIEWING her. 

Fletch:  Don't worry - I got a great one of her.

 

Me:  That's her BUTT.  I can see her UNDERPANTS, not her face.

Fletch:  Won't you sleep better tonight having seen her panty lines and knowing she doesn't wear a thong?  Besides, I got that cool picture of you, Anne Heche, and Alec Baldwin.

Me:  That's another winner.  I like it almost as much as this one, which is... ?

Fletch:  Baldwin wasn't wearing a belt.

Me:  Of course.  Going with the whole celebrity buttocks theme.  I get it.  Excellent.  The self-portraits are nice, too.  Glad you were able to get the focus to work.

Fletch:  I set my wine down for those.

Me:  And here I thought you didn't get any real celebrity shots, but look!  It's Kenny Powers!

Fletch:  But what about Evil James Lipton?  That's kind of bad ass.

Me:  Yeah, or just bad.  I particularly like this one where I asked you to get a shot of me meeting Jay McInerney while the Countess and Candace Bushnell were right there in conversation.  It could have been my ultimate pop culture moment.  And intstead, it's... this. 

Me:  Ah, and here I am arm-wrestling Candace, or perhaps luring her into my gingerbread house.  Again, AWESOME.

Fletch:  Wait, look at that one - it's great!  You can't get mad at me for that one.
 

Me:  You do realize we'd handed the camera to a stranger at that point, don't you?

Fletch:  Oh.  How about that?

Me:  On the bright side, you're officially relieved of camera duties ever again.

Some Wives

Some wives send naked photos of themselves to their husbands at work.

Some wives send shots of their kids.

And some wives send pictures of their artfully crafted lunch.

Can you guess which way I lean?

 

Team Sandwich rules!

Why I Owe Fletch A Really Big TV

First, New Business:

You guys want me to do more local events?  Well, I'm doing a local event. 

What:  The Interview Show with Mark Bazer

When:  Friday, December 5th at 6:30 PM

Where:  The Hideout, 1354 West Wabansia, Chicago, IL  (773) 227-4433

Wait, Where?:  It's kind of hidden (hence the name) so check out their website for specific instructions.

What Else Do I Need to Know?:  Admission is $5 and other guests include alt-country musician Robbie Fulks, author and Sun Timescolumnist Neil Steinberg, and stand up comedian Robert Buscemi.

Will You Be Drunk?:  Probably

Will It Be Like That One Interview When Your Temporary Radio Publicist Accidentally Booked You on That Ex-Black Panther's Show and You Spent an Hour Getting Yelled at for the State of Race Relations in the United States Because You Wrote a Book Called Bitter Is the New Black?:  If so, then see answer above.

Will Fletch Be There?:  Yes, if he's speaking to me... which brings us to Old Business.

So, Jolene - one of my favorite people in the world - was in town last night to do a reading with some other authors at my favorite indie book store.  The night had a rock and roll theme and featured Jolene plus Joe Meno, Stephanie Kuehnert, and Chris Connelly. 

I was looking forward to the event because I always dig hearing Jolene read bits of her book.  What I didn't expect was to be so enamored with the other authors' work.  Seriously, you guys?  I had to buy all their stuff and now I'm conflicted over which to read first. 

Joe Meno read from his short story collection called Demons in the Spring and his description of art-school-poser Audrey was so vivid that I swear I've run into her at Kinko's before.  (I hate to advocate stalking, but you should keep checking his website for upcoming events because he doesn't read so much as he performs.)

Stephanie Kuenert excerpted part of her first chapter of I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone.  The book is YA but it's YA like Twilight is YA - sure young adults will read it, but when adults-proper read it, they'll enjoy it on a whole new level.  Again, fabulous and edgy.  

The last author up was Chris Connelly.  Those of you who don't have the musical sensibilities of a strip club DJ (e.g. myself) will recognize this name instantly from his groundbreaking work with Ministry, RevCo, and Pigface.  His book is Concrete, Bulletproof, Invisible and Fried: My Life as a Revolting Cock. 

I decided to get Chris to sign a book for Fletch because these are Fletch's all time FAVORITE bands and he loves Chris Connelly so much.  So when it was my turn to get the book signed, I recognized the gravity of the situation and I kind of got this nervous talking thing and I sort of babbled about how Fletch spends every morning with Chris at the gym and how he's kind of Fletch's idol and how his music is a big reason why Fletch has gotten so healthy lately. 

But again, I was babbling - possibly spitting - and at some point in my super-speedy diatribe I gave Chris the idea that Fletch was not listening to his music while huffing away all punk-rock by lifting heavy hunks of metal and instead that Fletch was listening to him on his iPod IN SPIN CLASS. 

Chris signed Fletch's book wishing him the best of luck and to KEEP SPINNING.   And Chris is a rock star so I didn't want to correct him and tell him, "No, no, I think I said that wrong," so now Fletch's rock idol thinks he takes SPIN CLASS and most likely walked away from our encounter wondering how the fuck one might spin to Pigface.

And then - then! - I asked to get a picture together and he sweetly obliged each of the fifteen times I demanded because the shots never actually saved because I'd filled up my BlackBerry's memory by taking too damn many photos of my new dining room table which I then inadvertently admitted out loud and then Jolene had to take the photo with her camera because I was really starting to make him nervous.  

To recap, Fletch's idol thinks:

A) He spins.

and

B) He's married to an idiot with a predilection for fast-talking and table porn.

Yeah, pretty sure I'm obligated to get Fletch the new flat-screen TV he really wants for the media room now.  Fortunately, I had the wherewithal not to mention Fletch couldn't come in the first place because of a run-in with Thanksgiving leftovers that had turned.

The good news is I don't have to buy him a surround-sound system, too.

 

Pfft.  Pearls are plenty punk rock. 

24

Twenty-four hours ago:

"Pfft.  We don't need no stinking professional!  We can install the chandelier ourselves!"

Now:

"What time is the electrician coming to restore power to the front of the house?"