We'll Meet Again

Well I just went to Los Angeles on my final ADVENTURE TIME trip. And though my jottings in my precious book of jottings in which I jot whenever I go on a trip have decreased as my "blog" dwindles into the oblivion it so richly deserves, I feel one last round of thorough jotting transcription is in order on such a melancholy occasion. So let's see what I jotted. The plane landed! I made it to Cartoon Network in Burbank just in time for a meeting. I leapt out of the cab, tripped over my own suitcase and landed brutally upon my knees. "This trip is starting out well!" I probably mused sardonically with my famed sardonicism. I had to use the Cartoon Network first aid kit, which was top notch. Now! I always like to buy a big bottle of seltzer at the grocery store across the street to have in my hotel room, as future biographers will be interested to note. So, once safely in my room, or so I thought, I opened my seltzer bottle to have my ceremonial first sip and seltzer went everywhere! It went on important stuff that shouldn't get seltzer on it. I was beginning to think the trip was cursed, and I was already bummed out because of its elegiac nature. Also, Adam Muto had STIRRED HIS COFFEE WITH A KNIFE during lunch that day! I had a roommate from Wisconsin a long time ago, and once when I stirred with a knife he said, "Stir with a knife, stir up strife!" I had never heard such a thing. But I immediately added it to my catalog of superstitions. So I was inclined to blame Adam for the ill-augured nature of the trip, though Kent reminded me that I fell down and scraped my knees BEFORE Adam stirred his coffee with a knife. I'm not sure that matters! The next morning I woke up with a piece of grit or something in my eye. My eye was swollen and red and the lid was drooping down and the corner of that eye emitted a constant stream of ugly tears. "Well, I can't go anywhere. I guess I will sit in the hotel room and clean out my wallet." Such was the content of my thoughts. "I guess this is how I am spending my last ADVENTURE TIME trip." I threw away a big pile of scrap paper from my wallet, keeping just three things: 1. My ticket stub from when Kent and I went to see 50 SHADES OF GREY. 2. Something funny I wrote down that Bill Boyle said when he was drunk. 3. My visitor's pass from when Julia and I secretly skulked around the GILMORE GIRLS set while they were shooting. Then came a knock at the door. It was Steve Wolfhard bringing me eyedrops! What a pal. Steve's thoughtful gesture allowed me to leave for a meeting I had in Beverly Hills with some degree of confidence. My eye was still bothering me a little when I sat down to a fancy lunch in fancy Beverly Hills. (This was not a lunch meeting; the meeting came later. I was alone.) I ordered a bitters and soda and when I squeezed a lime wedge into it, the lime juice squirted into my "good" eye, for I was wearing my glasses atop my head as I am prone to do. The curse had not yet lifted, I felt, despite Steve's kind gesture. (Oh yes, that reminds me, Steve and I were staying at the same hotel, the one where the guy who plays Squidward always hangs out in the lobby. One evening I came down to the lobby to find Steve sitting right next to Squidward on a banquette, entirely unawares! So I wrote Steve this important note in my ever-present jotting book.)

For my Beverly Hills lunch I had a salad of poached shrimp. There were some hearts of palm in there and some special, hairy radishes. The couple at the end of the bar ordered the same. What a piece of work these two were! First the salad didn't have the kind of hearts of palm they like. Then there weren't enough. They decided they wanted a whole bowl of hearts of palm so they could distribute them throughout the salad in their own inimitable way. But not that kind. They wanted them chopped into a different shape. Then the dressing was too sweet and there wasn't enough of it. And so on. They sent their plates back like six times. Beverly Hills! Well, I liked my salad so much I decided I was going to come back to this place for dinner after my meeting. There would be a whole different dinner menu upstairs! And so I did. That night, the guy seated at the table next to me, very close, asked if he were disturbing me by using a little light to look at the menu. I said not at all! I told him that I had used my candle for the same purpose and had burned my hand, in keeping with my cursed journey. Then I said, "Pardon me, are you an actor?" And he said yes. And I said - and I said it in exactly this peculiar and formal way - "Are you, in fact, Timothy Dalton?" And he said yes. So in a minute I got up and went to the spacious and lavishly appointed Beverly Hills men's room and called Ace Atkins (rudely forgetting the time difference) and told him I was sitting next to a James Bond, because I knew he'd want to know at once. Ace is a James Bond expert! Oh! I forgot to tell you. Flashback to an hour earlier! While I was waiting downstairs for the restaurant upstairs to open for dinner, I sat at the bar where I had enjoyed my luncheon of poached shrimp and watched a 70-year-old French woman (she herself mentioned her age) being - I am almost certain - flattered and cozened by a down-at-the-heels gigolo! Beverly Hills USA! Well, I felt heartened after my encounter with Timothy Dalton. I felt that he had lifted the curse! And so he had.

Why, the very next night I met Lyle Partridge and Steve and Pen and Sam Alden and Ryan Pequin (of THE REGULAR SHOW) at the Club Tee Gee, a dive with glitter on the ceiling, where I played a bunch of Kelly Hogan songs on the jukebox and Ryan took this picture of Lyle and me!

Lyle drew a lot of great pictures on Post-It notes so now I have those in my wallet with that other stuff I mentioned earlier. At one point I told the story of the time I got lost in the North Georgia woods and

Lyle drew this depiction, the accuracy of which you will appreciate if you go back and read the story. Sam was describing what he called the "hubristic death" of one of his eccentric ancestors and I ask idly if he also happened to be related to John Alden. And he is! He is the direct descendent of John and Priscilla Alden, one of the greatest love stories in American history! Boy was my mom excited when I called her from the airport the next day and told her. "Speak for yourself, John," Mom said, quoting Priscilla, and then demanded a picture of Sam so she could look at him. Okay! "It's no big deal, they had thirteen children," Sam said, implying that half the people in the room were probably the descendants of John and Priscilla Alden, I guess. We all loaded up and went to a party that Kent was throwing for all your favorite ADVENTURE TIME writers and artists, past and present. I sat on the floor next to Ako Castuera and we sang a bunch of songs associated with David Lynch movies.

We sang "Blue Velvet" and "I Told Every Little Star" and "In Dreams." We sang these songs at the top of our lungs half-recumbent on the floor on some sort of shaggy pillow in the middle of the room while people were trying to do other stuff and get on with their lives. On Kent's balcony, we sang "We'll Meet Again" not once but twice at widely separated key moments. Not a David Lynch song but a sentimental choice for the occasion. You know what? I'm leaving a lot of stuff out. A LOT! I feel rushed and weird in my gut because I have my last ADVENTURE TIME meeting in a couple of hours. And I'm not "blogging" anymore, anyway, as you can see. No, but really, I have twice as many pages of jottings that I didn't even get to. But everything has to end, even ADVENTURE TIME, even jottings, even parties. The day after the party Pen brought Kent a bag of fried chicken to cure his headache and I rode along. You know how Kent loves his chicken, ha ha ha! What a life. It had been raining and the sign on Kent's gate was smeared and wistful.

Pen and I had been eating at a shawarma place and noticed a tray of unexpected fried chicken glowing in a golden, almost holy light in the kitchen. It seemed like a sign! A sign for Kent. You don't believe me about this glowing chicken but I'll show you if Pen will send the photo he was compelled to take by the majesty of this glowing chicken of which I speak. [And he just did! - ed.]

Over Cristina's Shoulder

I "skyped" with my pal Cristina, who is in the land of Italy, the land of her birth! I saw this (pictured) over her shoulder. It's part of the view from her parents' balcony. And I said it reminded me of something from 8 1/2, because my knowledge of Italy is limited to 8 1/2. Cristina said it's the "final piece" by the architect Zaha Hadid, who passed away just recently.

Bakery Heiress

Remember in Feb. 2007 when Dr. Theresa took a hammer and a nail and made me a new notch in my belt? Well I am about to lay on you a story just as captivating! First, let us go back (forward?) to 2008. Our fascinating prologue commences when I was staying in a motel in Los Angeles. I walked up several blocks to see THE APARTMENT on the big screen. And I saw Shirley MacLaine's face in this very scene (above) race through dozens of emotional transmutations in mere seconds. Every emotion, she had! But subtly. It was different on film, and at its intended size and scope, though I had seen THE APARTMENT many, many times before, on a tiny television screen with a tiny televised picture. The difference was like... when I used to see Rothko paintings in a library book and think, bleh! But then in the 1980s my ex (?) girlfriend (?) and I flew to Washington, D.C. together and I don't know where she went... but I met, by some obscure prearrangement, a bakery heiress on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Her roommate, possessing the magical name Cornelia, was a Roosevelt. Like... A ROOSEVELT. We drank concoctions of rum and orange juice on the balcony of a hotel across from the White House. An upstairs light was on over there! As dusk descended! The bedroom, we reckoned. George and Barbara, en déshabillé! After we parted, though, the kind-hearted bakery heiress and I (it was on plain white sliced bread that her cunning people founded their considerable fortune!), I was forced to stay with a different, less hospitable bunch, some [redacted] who - however noble their purposes, and I think them quite noble in intent! - were unpracticed as hosts. They lectured me vitriolically on the subject of cheese for hours at a time, for example, and hung gory, unavoidable posters of vivisection in every cranny, and fed me on naught but that which made my stomach hurt, and always made me pay for the cab. EXCEPT for that one glorious evening when [redacted] a raging fire in a big fireplace though it was June and boiling hot outside, and then [redacted]! [redacted]. The Indigo Girls were climbing the charts for an eager young nation with their hit [redacted], which, coming through the radio, burrowed into my mind as the theme song for that [redacted]. But I mean, I saw some Rothko paintings in person at the National Gallery back then, in the aforementioned 1980s, in Washington, D.C., and their majesty was all-consuming, like Shirley MacLaine's. Even though, prior to the screening (keep up! we've moved forward to 2008 again), I had considered her movie "my favorite," it was like I had never seen it before. So that seems like a shame. It seems, in fact, like I have wasted my life! But the point is that in 2008 I forgot to turn in my motel key when I checked out. Nothing else I just mentioned had anything to do with anything. I just wanted to explain why I still have this motel key.

It's an old fashioned key. A key key. Like, a metal key. A key. The kind of key Norman Bates would give you, or possibly Dennis Weaver from TOUCH OF EVIL. A motel key dangling from a flat blue slab of plastic, Room 109. So! Now we are coming closer to the point. Dr. Theresa and I have this spare house key we like. It just stays by itself. It's not entangled or associated with a bunch of car keys and office keys and random keys that open we don't know what. It's just on a ring all alone. Or used to be. Very light and convenient! Like, to have in our pocket if we want to take a casual stroll. But its key ring just fell apart! Suddenly there was nothing to anchor that favored key, to give it heft, to shield it from loss. So I thought maybe we could put it on this old motel key ring I have. Ha ha! These kinds of stories are my favorites. The motel key was designed diabolically. Bulky and twisted and nigh impossible to pull apart. Probably for some motel owner's good reason. So Dr. Theresa got some pliers out of the kitchen drawer and went to town on that implacable key ring like a champ. Finally she was able to separate the parts of the ring just enough so that we could slide the vital house key into place. Then I took a hammer and banged the whole thing back together like Thor himself descended from the heavens. That key ain't slipping off now! I'd like to see it try. It was real teamwork, though Dr. Theresa had already restored everything more than adequately with her pliers by the time I managed to dig out the hammer, and my hammering, while it made me feel like a great big man, was likely just for show.

Eyebrows For Days

My new ADVENTURE TIME coworker Julia Pott mentioned today that she was an extra in a Burt Reynolds movie. Look! There she is. Back there behind Charles Durning, on a balcony or terrace, I suppose, studying a menu. I asked whether she had any good Burt Reynolds stories and she said, "He just told me to get out of his seat. He said, 'Little lady! Get out of my chair!' Then he laughed and I laughed." They were on a break from shooting and Julia had accidentally alighted in the spot reserved for Burt in the scene. I asked her for more details. "He had eyebrows for days," she said.

We Break In Bob Hope's Coasters

Last night Dr. Theresa cooked chicken in Kent's honor. I showed Kent some of Bob Hope's coasters that I bought at an auction. In an impulsive and correct gesture, Kent used one of Bob Hope's coasters for his beer. Soon we were all using Bob Hope's coasters! We had never used them before, although Dr. Theresa has used one of Bob Hope's ashtrays and, as I am sure you will recall, one of Bob Hope's cocktail forks to check the consistency of her figgy pudding last Christmas.

Don't worry, Bob Hope! We are putting your stuff to good use. When Kent opened a couple of beers he humorously placed the bottle caps on Burt Reynolds's eyes, as seen here. Later, Kent and I walked up to the City Grocery Bar, where we happily ran into Lee Durkee and talked politics on the balcony.

Rice Droppin'

So Dr. Theresa and her coworker Kevin and her whole department (which is, like, one other person) and all their partners and helpers and students and affiliates did an amazing thing pulling off this 10-day musical event, culminating in last night's joyous Neko Case show. The "green room" was the balcony of the Lyric Theater, and I crept up there and stole a plate of Neko Case's food. So I was leaning on the balcony railing watching the show and two grains of rice fell off the plate! And they hit some guy on the head. And he looked up, right at me! And I just slowly stepped backward and disappeared into the shadows like the Phantom of the Opera! I did not take responsibility for my actions. But the point is that things have been busy around here and also I went out of town and my reading of THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY and THE FAERIE QUEENE has been temporarily stalled. These are nice editions I can't take out of the house! And I just haven't been in the house. But don't worry, I'm gonna get back to them eventually. I don't want you to worry! Promise me you won't worry. Because I'm also doing a presentation for the upcoming Southern Foodways Symposium and I have to get some research done for that! My topic: TV cook and "humorist" Justin Wilson. So I have to read a lot of his "humor." AND! I was sitting at Square Books looking through the new William Gay book, which is a short manuscript found in his papers after he passed away, and I read the compelling introduction by Tom Franklin and I started reading the book and I suddenly realized I had read a certain quantifiable PERCENTAGE of the book and it no longer seemed right to just sit there and read the whole book, maybe, so I bought it, so that's something else.

He Makes Coffins

Look, it's Mary Miller and me at Tom Franklin's big annual birthday party. Mary kept saying how nice my hair looked so Lizzie took this picture. I don't know. Does my hair look that nice here? I am doubtful. Doesn't it look like a hairpiece? I kept explaining to Mary that whatever had happened to my hair that she was so taken with was just because I was sweating so much. It was hot! We live in Mississippi. Moments after this photo was taken, Tom Franklin shaved my head entirely... AGAIN. That's becoming a birthday tradition too, I guess. I was just complaining to Dr. Theresa that Tom left too much hair on my neck. "He did a better job than last time," she said. I don't think she cares! As my friend Brian pointed out on twitter, I now look "like the lifer in the yard [he'd] go to for advice as a new inmate." But I deleted my bald "selfie"

because I wanted to pretend not to be a vainglorious fool. I was just reading about vainglory in THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY. He's against it. Okay, here. HERE'S A TRUE HISTORY FACT. Last time Tom shaved my head, JFK's granddaughter was present! I saw her the next day in the town square and she tried to engage me in conversation but I couldn't recall who she was. I thought maybe she was a former student who wanted to talk about grades or something! Gross! So I dismissed her curtly! Later I realized my mistake but nothing could be done. Well that's what I get for being a huge jerk all the time. I tweeted that last night and deleted it too. I also tweeted about the guy who, right after Tom shaved my head, handed me his business card and yelled, "I MAKE COFFINS!" Well, let's see, I saw Semmes at the party and he said he was recently sitting with Bob Rafelson (!) on Rafelson's balcony and telling him about how I forced Dr. Theresa to watch the movie HEAD while we were dating and it didn't go over too well and then they tried to call me, but the number Semmes had for me was out of service. So that's the story about the time I didn't get a phone call from Bob Rafelson.

And I had a funny talk with Cynthia Joyce about how movie sex scenes were edited in the 70s. She said she was watching Robert Redford and Faye Dunaway going at it in THREE DAYS OF THE CONDOR and couldn't figure out what anything was. "Is that a hairy knee?" she found herself asking during one shot.

The Victorian Match Industry

I was so antsy about hosting the Square Books Q&A with Patton Oswalt that I left the house three hours early! I paced around the square. I went to Square Books and saw a new hardcover called THE MATCH GIRL AND THE HEIRESS or maybe it was THE HEIRESS AND THE MATCH GIRL and I thought, "Oh no, am I going to buy this for 'research'?" I looked through it and there was a lot about "the match industry" in the nineteenth century and the hellish (I assume) condition of Victorian match factories (I didn't let myself read about that) and the plight of the little match girls on the street, oh no! But my book is about cigarette lighters (though - spoiler alert! - matches make an appearance). Anyway, I decided to pretend I never saw that book, let's never speak of it again. (I feel like I've mentioned this before, but I remember when I was in eighth grade with McNeil and he read a report he had written about matches in front of the class! A report about matches! I thought that was hilarious for some reason. I should see if he still has it, maybe I could put it in my bibliography.) But back to the fascinating story of how I killed time. I looked through a biography of Marilyn Monroe. I found out she had some therapy sessions with Anna Freud, which places her at two degrees of separation from Mark Twain... AGAIN. I was like, "When I get home I need to tweet Megan Abbott about this!" The Freud part I mean. But guess what? She already knew. She knows all. You can't stump Megan on Freud stuff. Or much of anything else. Then Kaitlyn of Square Books showed me a good trick for making my pocket square look nice. Talk about a full-service bookstore! And yes, I wore a jaunty polka-dotted pocket square of the finest silk for Patton Oswalt! Soon enough it was "Megan Abbott time," speaking of Megan Abbott, so I went up to City Grocery Bar and had a slug of rye to soothe the old nerves. Just enough time before meeting Patton Oswalt. At one point, I put my wallet on the bar, which made me remember TWO THINGS SIMULTANEOUSLY. 1) Once I put my wallet on a bar in New York City and when I looked down it had vanished! Famed mischief-maker Amanda Stern handed it to me and said, "You don't do that in New York." She had taught me a lesson! 2) On one of our first visits to Oxford - maybe the very first; it may have been 2003, I don't know - I was up on the balcony of City Grocery Bar having a good time. But when we got back to the hotel, my wallet was gone. I ranted to Dr. Theresa, "We're getting out of here. THIS IS A CITY OF THIEVES!" Ha ha, I remember saying that. I was sure my pocket had been picked by an expert. When I got back to the bar, my wallet was just lying there on the balcony where I had dropped it, its contents untouched. What a rube. I met Patton Oswalt and he was very nice. I knew I would bring up Jerry Lewis - I can't help myself! - so I tried to get all of that out of the way "backstage" (in the back of Off Square Books, before the Q&A). I don't think Mr. Oswalt entirely shares my deep feelings about Jerry Lewis! He compared Jerry to Bono of U2 in a way that was unflattering to both gentlemen! Anyway, I got the Jerry out of my system. There are a couple of good stories about Jerry Lewis in Mr. Oswalt's highly engaging new book SILVER SCREEN FIEND. Then we talked about THE TAKING OF PELHAM ONE TWO THREE, among other things, and then, just when we were about to go out to face the packed bookstore and start the "show," Patton said, "Jack!" And I said, "What!" And in reply he played the rousing theme from THE TAKING OF PELHAM ONE TWO THREE on his phone. Maybe it was to "pump me up" so I wouldn't be nervous! Whatever the intent, it was a fine gesture.

Not Good Eating

Why am I already reading ANOTHER Stephen King novel? That's a great question! Kaitlyn at Square Books recommended DOCTOR SLEEP and then Tom Franklin and I had one of our infamous luncheons and was there wine involved? YOU TELL ME. But Tom also recommended DOCTOR SLEEP. Which is about an alcoholic. So I stumbled back to Square Books and got a copy of DOCTOR SLEEP. Later I wound up on the balcony at Ace Atkins's office, as you can see. Somehow, with the patient guidance of Dr. Theresa, I made it home still clutching my copy of DOCTOR SLEEP, which, so far, has had two figurative owls in it: a "night owl" and a "boiled owl." This "boiled oil" was neither drunk nor sore, however, unlike earlier boiled owls of our acquaintance. Someone was described, in fact, as being "tougher'n a boiled owl." WHAT! I looked it up in my GREEN'S DICTIONARY OF SLANG and this measure of toughness goes back at least as far as 1909. And I guess it makes the most sense of any of the boiled owl comparisons. I imagine if you boiled an owl (DON'T!) it would be tough and just not very good eating. I'm sorry I doubted you, Stephen King! I guess a boiled owl can be whatever we want it to be. The versatile boiled owl, ladies and gentlemen.

Armadillos of the Mind

I was up at Ace Atkins's office the other eve and we were sitting in some rocking chairs on his balcony overlooking the town square when he told me he had watched only the first 10 minutes of THREE ON A COUCH (pictured) before turning it off, which naturally distressed me, but I stayed and drank some whiskey anyway. And Ace did say that I should ask THREE ON A COUCH costar Mary Ann Mobley about Jerry Lewis next time she was in town. And I said, "She comes here?"... "She's FROM here!" Ace replied. Later I got up and acted out one of Adam Muto's "Tall Penguin" comics, perfect for acting out on a balcony. ("Click" here to see why. And "click" here to see another one that I once tweeted at Neko Case and she favorited it or retweeted it or something, who can remember, those were heady times.) Ace and I talked about the Robert B. Parker novel SMALL VICES which Laura Lippman recommended the last time I saw her, and Ace had a copy in his office and he loaned it to me so I've been reading it and in the very first paragraph our narrator Spenser compares a woman to an armadillo and on page 109 another woman looks "like she swallowed an armadillo" and I don't know what to say about that, I guess Robert B. Parker had armadillos on his mind when he was writing that book.

Chat Box

I thought of a couple of neat things about the origins of tonight's ADVENTURE TIME episode. One is the title! "Thanks For the Crabapples, Giuseppe." We slapped that on the outline as a placeholder, never dreaming it would make it so far. Or maybe we did dream it would make it so far. I can't remember. We write these outlines so far in advance! And we start talking about them even earlier... I really can't remember whether this is true, but I think the first small inklings of "Thanks For the Crabapples, Giuseppe" came from a real face-to-face in-person chat Adam and I were having about ON THE ROAD and related literature in May of last year, probably not work-related at all, or so we thought, and then Pen and Kent came into the conference room and you know how it goes! Everybody starts talking and suddenly something clicks into place and there's the beginning of a story, maybe. Yet, several months later, when it came time to get the actual outline done - this raw material to be handed off to Seo Kim and Somvilay Xayaphone (who took it and exquisitely realized it and made it into something and elevated it with their writing and storyboarding) - I recall it as one of those rare times when we were right up against a deadline, and there were still some holes to fill. It was getting near the end of the business day (and week) out there in Los Angeles and both Kent and Adam had pressing meetings to attend... I remember that Pen was online from some remote location but we could not see or hear him via our video-conference apparatus for some reason... I thought we were wrapping up, and so did Adam and Kent... so the meeting ended with Pen and I a couple of stragglers, kind of texting each other in some kind of chat box... is that a thing? A chat box? Well, there was a box and we were both typing into it. I am going to call it a chat box. And as the clock was ticking down, and I was thinking about the people waiting for me just up the street at City Grocery Bar, Pen typed something like, "The poem needs to be written out." There's a poem in the episode, and Pen wanted us to decide exactly what was in it. It was supposed to make the Ice King cry, potentially. And up until that last possible moment it had only been indicated in the outline by something like, "Ice King reads a sad poem." So I just started typing iambic pentameter into the "chat box" - a simple ABAB rhyme scheme - while Pen typed things back like "Ha ha!" and "Yea!" Egging me on in the most pleasant way. I am not saying it was GOOD iambic pentameter, and the words don't even make sense if you think about it, and it's just a few quick lines, less than half a sonnet (closer to a quarter of a sonnet in the final episode, because two lines got cut), but it was quite a rush, I mean, this iambic pentameter pumped me full of adrenaline, I felt like an old-timey newspaper reporter, like Hildy Johnson (pictured) in HIS GIRL FRIDAY, for example. Like, we're getting this in under the wire! Like, "Get me the city desk!" So afterward I raced up to the Grocery and there were Dr. Theresa and Megan Abbott and Ace Atkins, as I recall it, hanging out on the balcony, and when I arrived they could tell I was pretty elated! Just from the mental experience of having to hurry up and write a poem. And then I recall it was a very pleasant evening and all sorts of nice strangers came out on the balcony and everybody was having a great time and I was thinking about what a fun job I have.

"Blog"trospective 13: When Megan Lived Here

Well, it really happened. Megan Abbott moved back to New York. Now what are we supposed to do? Besides vomit and weep I mean. I guess we will attempt to cope by constructing a "blog"trospective of everything Megan did while she lived here (this is not everything Megan did while she lived here): almost made John Currence break his neck---appeared on Anthony Bourdain's television program---appreciated Marlene Dietrich's talent for playing the musical saw---arrived at the record store just as David was putting up the new sign---attended a party where a little girl did that thing where you rapidly stab a knife between your splayed fingers---brought up Sigmund Freud a lot---by example, had me drinking negronis for a spell---called BUFFALO '66 "a child's fantasy" (not in a bad way!)---compared me to Cathy in WUTHERING HEIGHTS---considered a dance called "the mumbly peg"---contemplated the travails of Lucille Ball as a woman in Hollywood---declared intent to be meaningless---defined wildness---discussed Philip Roth a lot---displayed a cheery and tasteful novelty item---drank moonshine (twice... that I know of!)---during a visit by Kent Osborne she witnessed Kent eating chicken wings, which failed to be noted at the time---emailed me about Hank Worden---emailed me about orgone boxes---endured rude scoffing at a ghost story she repeated---expressed a correct opinion about THE GLASS KEY that I undermined with ignorant hyperbole---found a lone pom-pom (this happened more than once)---got scared by a creepy tree---guaranteed weeping---had her first belt of rye---heard Ace's master spoiler for the entire Travis McGee series---helped Dr. Theresa and me avoid trick-or-treaters---hosted a Jerry Lewis double feature---likened something to Poe---loaned me a pen---looked up "querulous" in her dictionary---meeting time at the bar was 4:02---met me at a bar after I improvised some iambic pentameter---participated in an ecstatic roar---pined for some oysters---planned to watch an Elizabeth Taylor movie---pointed a gun at me---professed a generalized affection for wax museums---read Claudia Roth Pierpont's book about Philip Roth---read my tarot cards via cell phone---received a visit from her parents---reminded me of an anecdote about Billy Wilder---researched "friendship clubs"---said something about Mary Steenburgen's accordion---sent me a picture of Bob Hope and Doris Day and Santa---sent me Dick Shawn's obituary---shared her knowledge about an illustrator who drew women with "impossibly long feet"---spent the last warm evening of the year on the balcony of the City Grocery Bar---spoiled a bat attack---started reading the new John Wayne bio---strolled past Robert Mitchum's house from HOME FROM THE HILL---studied the racy cover of UNCLE GOOD'S WEEK-END PARTY, a novel by Faulkner's brother---told a story I misheard about a Depression-era Shirley Temple cream pitcher (and she actually gave us a Depression-era Shirley Temple cream pitcher last night as a goodbye present)---took a picture of a bubble house---took a walk with me while I was wearing a hat (and bedroom slippers, not pictured)---used the old-fashioned term "smoker" to refer to a gathering of rowdy males (she was talking about Bill and Jimmy and me)---visited Elvis's birthplace---visited Faulkner's house with Laraine Newman---was followed on twitter by the manufacturers of a gross-sounding vodka---was harassed by an inflated Batman---was supposed to be on a panel with Adrienne Barbeau (the panel happened but Barbeau canceled)---watched a Norman Mailer movie---watched BARRY LYNDON with Kent Osborne---we possibly left some dvds at her apartment---went to a hobo festival---wondered about tight pants---wowed 'em at "Noir at the Bar."

Doomy Rich Girl Hauteur

Went over to Megan Abbott's to watch a Truffaut movie and something reminded us of Wes Anderson and Megan referred to Gwyneth Paltrow's "doomy rich girl hauteur," which I wrote down on a card in my wallet with a borrowed pen. Then we looked out the window and saw something weird and went out on Megan's balcony and someone had floated at least a dozen paper lanterns in the sky, propelled by candles (Wes Anderson style!) glowing from within. Some of them landed on the roof of the neighboring building, which I thought was going to burn down (Wes Anderson style! It never did, so far) and some kept going, up, up into the sky, forever. (Not forever.)

Multiple Gravies

I am going to tell you something gross. As you know from reading this "blog," (ha ha, you don't read this "blog"!) Norman Mailer is obsessed with poop (look who's talking). I guess last time I started reading ANCIENT EVENINGS I accidentally skipped the prologue, because right away in the prologue here is what we get (I warned you it is gross): "My bowels quaked with oceanic disruption, ready to jettison whole fats, sweetmeats and gravies of the old pleasure-soaked flesh." I ran into Jimmy at Square Books today and tried to quote that to him. "Multiple gravies!" replied Jimmy. "That shall be the title of the 'post'!" I announced. Before, I was going to call it "Gross, Norman Mailer." When Jimmy came in off the balcony into the bookstore and I spotted him, I was sitting there in the little coffee section leafing through some essays by William S. Burroughs. I read about a time that Burroughs met up with Beckett. Burroughs was advised to bring his own whiskey "as [Beckett] would proffer none." Burroughs told Beckett about some flying foxes he had seen at a zoo and Beckett didn't seem to care much. Burroughs goes on, in the essay, to express a preference for Proust over Beckett, which surprised me. I think he put it this way: "That Proust is a snob humanizes him." I thought that was a gracious and interesting way to read Proust. I started thinking about that interview I did for Jimmy's magazine, late in the evening when I began to claim that Proust was mean to cats, and that was why I had stopped reading the second volume of his big book halfway through. As soon as I got home, it occurred to me that I had only ever heard of Proust being mean to cats from one person: my friend Jim Whorton. I didn't wish to besmirch Proust posthumously! So I emailed Jim for more details and told Jimmy to hold off on quoting me. Jim Whorton wrote back, "I think I did tell you that, because someone told me that once. But I have since tried (even since telling you that) to verify it and have not been able to. I hope it isn't true, but this friend (her name is Melanie) was emphatic about it. Oh, I hope it isn't true. Starting today I am never again going to repeat gossip." It is kind of like how unreasonably sure I used to be that Nixon enjoyed Campari and soda above all other drinks. Anyhow, I told Jimmy he could still quote me in the interview as long as he used Whorton's email as a footnote. But he didn't - a wise decision as I am very transparent and of course would have kept reading the second volume had I really been digging it, putting terrible accusations about cats out of my mind. Which reminded me: I had JUNKY by William S. Burroughs on my recommendation shelf at Square Books, and his narrator (who is William S. Burroughs, pretty apparently) is REALLY mean to a cat in that book! Spurred on by my discovery that he preferred Proust to Beckett, I snatched JUNKY off the shelf and replaced it with Lynda Barry. Then Jimmy and I walked among the books and talked about which books we had read and which ones we hadn't. He told me about a sentence in A PASSAGE TO INDIA that had really helped him when he decided to quit the football team in high school. "I'm going to tell my dad this!" he thought. And he did. He told his dad, "There are many ways of being a man; mine is to express what is deepest in my heart." His dad, rather like Beckett hearing about the flying foxes at the zoo, was not impressed.

Bettie Page Monkey Christmas

Christmas dinner at Larry's tonight. Monkeys riding on dogs came up! Lee Durkee had seen them (monkeys riding dogs) during the half-time show of a Cincinnati Bengals game, I think. (PS Do you live in Cincinnati? I'm giving a reading there in the new year! I wanted to stay at the hotel where Kelly Hogan and Bill Taft and I stayed together in 1992, and I played piano in the bar all night, but that hotel doesn't exist anymore. So I guess it is okay to mention that Bill peed off the balcony.) Melissa Ginsburg perked up at the mention of monkeys riding dogs! So I mentioned my serious misgivings about monkeys riding dogs. Chris Offutt, to soothe my mind, said that maybe monkeys were the photographers of monkeys riding dogs, and I said "Then those were Bettie Page monkeys, being exploited by monkey photographers." So Chris looked on his phone and found this photo of Bettie Page with a chimp (not a monkey, mind you!). Then we ate dinner and somebody made a big deal about how Robert Johnson couldn't possibly have sold his soul to the devil and I was like, what, Robert Johnson TOTALLY sold his soul to the devil! So that was dinner. Yeah, I was a jerk all night, I kept taking the other side of everything, like a jerk.

Tropical Piano Tuner

I am going to tell you the ending of a movie. Sometimes I have to! So if you do not enjoy spoilers, please stop reading here. (Ha ha, you never started. You don't exist! That remains my theory.) We watched a John Wayne movie last night. It also starred a man to whom Dr. Theresa referred throughout as "Mr. Sexy" (pictured). A poor man's Errol Flynn if you ask me! No, not even that: a poor man's Tyrone Power. (Later in this "post" I will realize he was Gig Young.) The movie was called WAKE OF THE RED WITCH and John Wayne fights a giant octopus, something you hardly ever see him do, as I remarked at the time. He gets away from the giant rubber octopus just fine, as we know he will, because it's a flashback. But later he gets tangled up in some more underwater shenanigans and he doesn't make it. He dies. AND THE MOVIE ENDS WITH JOHN WAYNE SAILING A BOAT TO HEAVEN. He's with the love of his life, who is also dead. Yes, this is a John Wayne movie with a pinch of WUTHERING HEIGHTS. I think that's how the old movie of WUTHERING HEIGHTS ended, "happily," with Heathcliff and Cathy sort of reunited as half-dissolved ghosts holding hands and all smiles unless I am making that up. Am I making that up? I don't know. When we turned off the dvd, a P!nk concert was starting on the television. I think it was starting. There was an air of prelude. You remember P!nk. That's how she spells her name! And here is one of the two INCREDIBLE COINCIDENCES of the night: as a pale clown (?) descended - a real Pierrot Lunaire type - (or was he a rascally, grimacing angel?) over a darkened stage, a piano tinkled: the VERY SAME MELODY (I think; Chopin, I think) that John Wayne's dead girlfriend played on the night they met in WAKE OF THE RED WITCH! (And here I include a parenthetical digression. One New Year's Eve I got lost in the woods. At first I found it amusing, but as it began to get dark and cold I started to think, oh, gee, this could be how I die, hmm, help, help. Later, after I was reunited with the rest of the gang, back at the cabin [police had been called!], we watched Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve. This was the year that P!nk had the big hit about getting "the party started," and she came out and sang it, and I danced, friends, oh how I danced, I danced because I had not frozen to death in the woods.) Oh yes, I forgot to tell you that there is a piano in the house on the tropical island where John Wayne and Mr. Sexy are stranded. There always is! Ha ha, "always." But two examples leap right to the top of my head: THE ISLAND OF DR. MOREAU (Brando version) and THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME. In movies with a tropical island, there is always a mysterious white man already living there, and he always has a piano, representing, I suppose, Western "culture"? As if to underscore the point, John Wayne retires to a balcony and the piano is drowned out by the distant drums of the islanders, get it? Think how hard it must be to keep your piano tuned on an uncharted tropical island, what with all the humidity and the scarcity (I assume) of professional piano-tuners. Maybe I'll write a movie about a Jerry Lewis type who travels from island to island, tuning the pianos of the various isolated madmen. But wait! There is another coincidence! Oh, about three hours later I happened to "channel surf" past TCM, where I saw a man engaged in a battle with a giant red rubber octopus! (It is occurring to me that in both cases the animal was probably a squid, as great billowing quantities of ink were expelled at each of our heroes, but the difference between an octopus and a squid is one of the many things I don't care about.) They dragged this guy to the surface and removed his cumbersome diving helmet and he was Ray Milland, not John Wayne. BUT WHEN I CHECKED THE CAPSULE DESCRIPTION OF THE MOVIE, IT TURNED OUT TO CO-STAR JOHN WAYNE. In other words, friends, after remarking upon the very unlikeliness of it EVER happening, I saw TWO man vs. octopus battles in two separate John Wayne movies last night. The "post" should end here. So, I detected a tang of desperation in the DHARMA & GREG reruns I watched at 3 AM when I couldn't sleep. First of all, they had comically stoic dogs. It felt like an executive decision, like, "People love Frasier, and Frasier has a dog! We'll get TWO dogs and people will love us twice as much as Frasier!" Only maybe the impulse was unconscious, like what they actually said aloud and forced themselves to believe was, "This will be a wry, knowing commentary on Frasier." I found "Greg's" performance in the opening credit sequence very upsetting. His expressions range from bemused to pained. Now, he is SUPPOSED to be bemused at first, when Dharma blows bubbles in his face, signaling the arrival of her free spirit into his uptight life. But even when he is picking her up and twirling her with what it surely meant to represent "a rhapsody of intoxicated glee," he displays an unfortunate look, as if asking his Creator, "WHY? WHY AM I HERE? AFTER ALL MY TRAINING IS THIS WHAT IS TO BECOME OF ME?" (See also.) Wait! Mr. Sexy was Gig Young. I didn't recognize him the whole time. ("I meant it ironically," claimed Dr. Theresa this morning.) Looking for illustrations for this "post," I was reminded of something else I meant to tell you about in WAKE OF THE RED WITCH: John Wayne literally gets crucified. "The Passion of the Duke," said Dr. Theresa, remarkably blasé at this surprising turn of events. So, yes, I just want to remind you before I go: John Wayne grappled with an octopus and got crucified in the same movie and nobody cared.

Warm Last Night

It was strangely warm last night. Here we are on the balcony of the City Grocery Bar: Dr. Theresa, Bill Boyle, Megan Abbott, me (creeping around in the background as usual), and Ace Atkins. We were there to mark various milestones. One of the happiest is Bill's debut novel GRAVESEND, which is finally out in physical form. We all got one. You should get one too! GRAVESEND by William Boyle. Look for it wherever fine books are sold, and tell 'em "Bloggy" the "Blog" Mascot sent you! Ace and Bill rightly smoked big fat cigars to celebrate. It took us a while to nab a spot on the balcony: at first it was occupied completely by an Elaine Stritch convention! Ha ha, they didn't really look exactly like Elaine Stritch circa Stephen Sondheim's COMPANY, but a distinct "Ladies Who Lunch" vibe was coming off the balcony. The first time Dr. Theresa and Ace went to scope out the situation, one of the Elaine Stritches grabbed the lone empty chair on the balcony and pulled it slowly toward herself with forbidding proprietary certitude. Much in the spirit of the feisty Elaine Stritch! Before stepping over to the bar I bought so many books at Square Books I don't even want to tell you. (Look: you can see the overstuffed, wrinkled brown paper bag of books right there on the table.) My eye fell upon George Singleton's recent story collection STRAY DECORUM, for example, and what could I do but get it, especially after the one-two punch of that great interview with George in LENT MAGAZINE? But what sealed the deal was opening it at random and seeing my new favorite short-story title. George also came up with my former favorite short-story title, "This Itches, Y'all." And here is the new winner: "I Think I Have What Sharon's Got."

Human Magazine Strips For Art

"This is for poetry all over the world!" he shouted from the balcony of City Grocery Bar. With that, SKIN MAG, the human literary magazine, ripped off his shirt and tossed it to the clamoring throng on the sidewalk below. The discarded garment landed in a trash can, from whence it was plucked by courageous young Bill Boyle, an avowed SKIN MAG fan. SKIN MAG - the contents of its first issue printed on its back in lipstick - sprinted through the bar, down the stairs, and out into the streets, off for a life of adventure and fun. Throughout the day, if I am not too tired, I will recount more tidbits from the first issue "publication" of SKIN MAG... its triumphs, its disasters, its legendary feats of derring-do. The "blog" has not seen this kind of continuing narrative since my brother went to Michael Jackson's memorial service! Now I am getting tired just thinking about it. SKIN MAG! (Above, SKIN MAG prepares for publication.)

Baby Bird Time

Remember when the baby birds were nesting on the balcony at Square Books? They're back! Well, they are probably different baby birds this time. Photo by Michael Bible.

World of Birds

Caught a glimpse of one of the baby robins today. And rushed to tell you about it! So they do exist. Meanwhile, David (one of the Kitty Snacks editors) reports that the baby birds on the balcony at Square Books are doing fine. They're flying, he thinks.