Reason

For no reason, here is a picture of Pen and me at Doris Day's favorite French restaurant. Photo by Megan Abbott! Well, I thought of a reason: I quit social media, but maybe part of my brain doesn't understand that. Because this is the sort of thing that would wind up on social media. Speaking of which! Remember when I quit "blogging"? Well, I think there was a time when I really did. And I'll tell you what I mean. I poked around to see whether I had ever mentioned this restaurant before, and to my shock, it turns out that I didn't report my November 2019 trip to Los Angeles (when the above photo was taken) AT ALL! Usually, I will give you a little something from my wee little jotting book in the way of travel notes that no one reads. But nope! This trip was almost lost to history. Which would have been fine, honestly. But we're snowed in and I have nothing to do.

It Only Hurts When I Cry

Well, I happened to scroll past TCM last night, where the film BEACH BLANKET BINGO was playing... there was this woman (pictured) singing "It Only Hurts When I Cry" while she was roasting some wienies in the fireplace, and I stood there and counted the wienies (lying on a napkin on the bricks, bottom right). I am pretty sure there were at least 20 wienies in the scene, including a couple you can't see because I grabbed this screenshot from a faded pan-and-scan version on youtube this morning, giving you little idea of the garish vitality of the original wienies as presented in Technicolor, or whatever process they used on BEACH BLANKET BINGO. It really did look like an awful lot of wienies, but it was a big party and, honestly, there may not have been enough wienies to go around.

Encounter

I don't "blog" anymore. You may think I do but I assure you that I do not. Sometimes you need an update, though, don't you? I know how you worry! So the other evening I was at Ace Atkins's office and I thought I'd see if he had a copy of THE GREEN RIPPER. He said he probably had several. THE GREEN RIPPER is a novel by John D. MacDonald. You will recall that I gave up on John D. MacDonald. I don't get the appeal of John D. MacDonald. If you "click" here you can read some of the reasons why. But I know you won't. What is wrong with you? You beg me to "blog" but you can't take the time to "click" on the "links." Well! It is really none of my business. But John Hodgman was saying all these nice things about John D. MacDonald in the New York Times some weeks ago, and in particular THE GREEN RIPPER, and although this did not change my feelings about John D. MacDonald I was made sufficiently curious for the actions related above to be the result. Anyhow, Ace contacted me yesterday to say he had located THE GREEN RIPPER and I could come by to fetch it. So I did. Now I took Ace's copy of THE GREEN RIPPER with me across the street from his office to Square Books. As I made a purchase there, I remarked to the cashier that this was Ace's copy of THE GREEN RIPPER and not part of my haul. We got into a little discussion (Bill C. wondered whether it might be a first edition of THE GREEN RIPPER) and it was at this time that I opened the book and discovered it to be, if not a first edition, at least an edition signed by the author. I couldn't imagine that Ace wanted me to drag this copy around town with me! You may recall, though I doubt you will "click" on it to refresh your memory, the time I spilled rye all over Ace's copy of LA BRAVA. So I went back over to Ace's office and returned the signed copy of THE GREEN RIPPER. He was surprised! He had no idea it had been signed, but he looked at the signature and confirmed it - thanks to his expertise - as John D. MacDonald's very own. Ace quickly produced yet another copy of THE GREEN RIPPER to replace the one I had brought back. Copies of THE GREEN RIPPER are just scattered around Ace's office like so many throw pillows in a film by Nancy Meyers. Okay! Now it was time for me to go back to Square Books and meet my pal McKay McFadden, whom I had not seen in the flesh in some years. Before McKay arrived I had time to note that Travis McGee (hero of the John D. MacDonald novels) refers to fat people as "fatties" on the second page of THE GREEN RIPPER, not raising my hopes. (A few pages later, though I did not make it this far at the time, McGee's girlfriend boards his famous houseboat and announces, "Today I jogged with four sets of fatties." There are shady goings-on at her place of employment, which makes me think she will be dead shortly. As Ace once revealed the key to the Travis McGee novels: "The woman always dies." [Further along: "Last week I had a batch of fatties down by the barns" - ed.]) I also read (in another book entirely) about the time U. S. Grant wanted to give his coach driver a Christmas present, so he hurried back down the steps and fell and experienced the debilitating leg injury that was just the start of all the troubles and misfortunes shortly to snowball on him, culminating in his death. Then McKay appeared on the stairs! We greeted one another warmly and McKay said, "I'm sorry I'm late. I just had an encounter with a pig in the woods." I can quote her accurately because I immediately leapt up to borrow a napkin and a pen from the Square Books coffee counter, as seen here:

She went on to describe the "encounter," which was much more horrific, grisly, tragic, and bloody than anything I would call an "encounter," and I shan't disturb you with it on this festive occasion. Conversation moved on to pleasanter subjects and we found before we knew it that we had spent some number of hours catching up, a sufficient number of hours for me to happily inform McKay that it was just about time for John T. Edge's yearly ritualistic dispersal of sausage balls at the City Grocery Bar on the occasion of his birthday. McKay and I, having arrived perhaps five minutes before the party officially began, were, I believe, the first to retrieve sausage balls from the traditional brown paper bag, pellucid as it was with delicious grease. (It occurs to me that I have used the phrase "pellucid with grease" in my "professional" writing at some point - perhaps on more than one occasion; I know it has assaulted my brain repeatedly, in any case - and I apologize for the lazy repetition. I must think it's quite the literary turn of phrase! How I sicken myself.) "I miss my Oxford life," said McKay. I replied with some observation about the many charms of San Francisco, where McKay now finds herself most days. "Oh, it's DAZZLING," she replied, employing a theatrical hand gesture to indicate bedazzlement. And yet her tone belied her adjective! I have never heard the word "dazzling" to drip with such venom, nor seen it accompanied by such bitterly flashing eyes! Not long thereafter, Dr. Theresa arrived, arrayed in silver.

We were able to boast to Tom Franklin (another recent arrival) that we had taken his picture off the TV screen. You see, he was once an extra in DEADWOOD, a show that Dr. Theresa and I are currently watching for the very first time. We proudly described the scene in which Dr. Theresa spotted Tom with her eagle eye and the pains we took to catch his fleeting image, and it was his sad duty to inform us that - although he indeed appears as an extra on the show - the person we thought was him was not him. Later at home we realized that the extra we thought was Tom had long hair and a graying beard, both of which Tom has at the present moment, but neither of which he would have had during the physical production of DEADWOOD. This is not Tom Franklin.

Famous Novelty Pencil

You've heard about famous writers jotting things on bar napkins! Well, her features are obscured but trust me: this is famed author Mary Miller writing on a bar napkin with a giant novelty pencil belonging to Chris Offutt (his torso looming in the background). Yes, it is a giant pencil, but it really works. I saw the whole thing go down.

Photo by Bill Boyle.

Fact Checkering

Oh! This is probably very important. I was hesitant, as you may recall, to describe the tablecloths at The Crawdad Hole as "checkered." But I have just received compelling photographic evidence confirming my memory of the setting. In addition, Bill Boyle has confirmed that he did indeed express his willingness to lick his grandmother's armpit in the manner indicated, though I had run out of room on the cocktail napkin and was unable to accurately record in print that part of his quotation. I therefore stand by my original account.

Melted Fezzes

Well! Megan and Dan came to town and we went out and had a ball. Bill Boyle appeared on the scene and we drove out to Water Valley to a place called the Crawdad Hole. Somehow Megan knew about it. Dr. Theresa and I had never heard of it. As Dan pointed out, a restaurant has to have a well-placed sense of confidence to put "Hole" in its name. It was great! Great enough for "hole." I'm kind of sorry to tell you about it, because they only serve food until they run out of whatever is fresh that day, and I don't want you to eat it before I get there next time. We had so much stuff spread over the checkered oilcloth (was it checkered? It should have been!) - crab legs and sausages and corn on the cob and Mississippi tamales - that's a famous thing, if you didn't know! - and oysters, both sweetly raw and succulently grilled, all superb, and all washed down with a pitcher of ice-cold beer that went perfectly with the food. No crawfish because they were out. Megan said they told her it wasn't crawfish season. But we didn't even miss the crawfish. Then we were supposed to meet Ace at a "secret bar" but we went to the "secret bar" and it wasn't a "secret bar," it was the shabby back room you have to walk through to use the toilet at a local pizza restaurant of small repute. So we were like, "THIS IS ACE'S SECRET BAR?" But the story hasn't ended. MORE LATER. Because we had made a basic mistake about the "secret bar" and it wasn't Ace's fault! Now I'm going to start looking at whatever I jotted down last night on scraps of paper in my wallet and on bar napkins. As I recall, some of it might be bawdy and shocking! You know I don't like to "go there." Blame the liquor and high spirits of rekindled camaraderie. The first note I see just says, "Remember the Night." I'm like, hmm, this isn't as scintillating as I recalled. Was I just telling myself to remember the night? Then it occurred to me. It's the name of a Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck movie that Megan thinks Dr. Theresa and I would like. A nice sentiment, but a disappointment in the realm of fevered inspirations scrawled on tattered scraps from bars. Muttering, we left the (temporary) debacle of "secret bar" and went up to City Grocery. There we encountered Randy Yates, owner of Ajax, who was talking about his former fez collection. That seemed bar-napkin worthy. I wrote down what happened to Randy's fez collection: "I lived in such a [crappy] house all my fezzes melted." That didn't seem like a sentence I had heard before. Oh yes, I have noted here on the back of a postal receipt that Bill Boyle claimed, "If you were stranded on a desert island, all you'd need was Guinness and breast milk." I told you you'd be scandalized! Ace came to CG and took us back to the secret bar. We had lost Megan and Dan by now, but Angela had appeared, a delightful and special treat! And the bar really was different all of a sudden. It was darker and there was a fancy man to make Bill Boyle take off his baseball cap! When we sat down, the server asked if we'd like a complimentary shot, and unless I am crazy, the shots were being offered in empty shotgun shell casings. You know, the way they do in a secret bar. Bill was the only one who drank one and - still miffed about his forcefully doffed baseball cap - said, "That was terrible!" But he said it in a gruffly charming way that made even the server laugh. And when they brought out ice water, they offered to put drops of rosewater in it. Which we accepted! Now, rosewater was popular in Cairo, Egypt, when Dr. Theresa was growing up there, but I believe in the U.S. I have witnessed only her little brother Hesham (he's a full grown man, not a "little brother"!) spiking anything with it. Bill had gotten himself into a rare mood I enjoy seeing him in on those spare occasions when it happens - a touch of lovable surliness that comes over him with just the right amount of fluid help. Surliness isn't the right word. Sweet irascibility? Acting the wiseacre? I don't know any good words. Anyway, he didn't seem to care much for the rosewater. He said - and I was afraid this didn't even show up on the napkin! It was so dark and the server gave me a pen that wrote in PALE ORANGE INK, and I couldn't tell whether words were falling upon the napkin at all - "They're serving us old lady sweat and we're drinking it like we got nothing better to do." Then he said, "It's like you're licking your grandmother's armpit." And then I THINK he said (I didn't write it down) "Don't get me wrong, I'd lick my grandmother's armpit, she's a great lady!" But I may have made that part up. I'm afraid I haven't done justice to the secret bar, which was very pleasant and conducive to much convivial talk and served excellent grilled cheese sandwiches.

Shirley MacLaine Yells at the TV

Well, Bob Hope's hawkish attitude toward Vietnam is spicing up this bio a little. People are getting sick and tired of Bob Hope! Shirley MacLaine yells "Oh, shut up, Bob Hope!" at the TV screen. That's an actual event that is actually recounted in this biography. A critic writes that Bob "seems to be living a cruel fantasy that he's Dean Martin." Ouch! Speaking of Dean Martin, Bob takes some of Dean's dancers - "The Golddiggers" - to the White House to do a little performance. At dinner, one of the Golddiggers unfurls a napkin that says "STOP THE WAR." A kerfuffle ensues.

All-Star Entertainment Wrap-Up: Dunkel Edition!

Hello, friends, and welcome once again to All-Star Entertainment Wrap-Up, the only place on the "internet" that combines entertainment with the entertainment all-stars! Let's get things started with our first juicy tidbit! Okay! Halfway through that newish movie of ON THE ROAD, up pops Peggy from MAD MEN in the thankless role (in the movie, the book, and life itself perhaps) of Galetea Dunkel. When we first see her she's on the phone to Sal Paradise, complaining, "These people are mad! They're mad!" And I wanted Sal to reply, "Would you describe them as... MAD MEN?" But he didn't. (See also.) Bewilderingly, the movie did not include the scene from the novel in which Sal looks through the window of a Buick dealership and sees Jerry Colonna (pictured). Buddy Ebsen is in THE LOVE OF THE LAST TYCOON, by the way. I wonder if he ever sat around on the set of THE BEVERLY HILLBILLIES bragging about how he was in Fitzgerald's final, unfinished masterpiece. Probably not. He seemed too nice to brag. But hey let's talk about something else. That movie I don't like (though it's rude to say as much) keeps coming on TV all the time. Now I have seen the part where the younger woman gives the older man (who wrote and directed the movie) a "mix tape" of "classical music" and he walks around listening to it and looking at buildings and then writes her letters about it which are quoted from at length in his voice-over narration while she sprawls out dreamily in a moony daze, grinning in a helpless rictus of joy as her shining eyes caress his profound and touching words, such as, "When I listened to the overture you sent, I suddenly realized I had hands... AND LEGS!" And in defiance of Billy Wilder's famous rule, we see exactly what he is narrating as he narrates it: the man who wrote and directed the movie staring at his own hands in childlike wonder as he listens to his "classical music." He also says, "I echo your sentiment about the Beethoven: Whoa." I know what he's doing there. With false modesty he is undercutting his sense of grandeur to seem real cool or something. I do it on this "blog" ALL THE TIME. Wait, this movie I claim to hate just made me realize it's myself I hate most of all. So let's talk about something else! McNeil sent me a 25-minute youtube clip (see also) because Johnny Carson's name appears on a marquee at 5:08, and I understand that! And McNeil understands that I understand that. The marquee is for one of Carson's early hosting gigs, a game show called "Do You Trust Your Wife?" That may bring us back to the oppression under which women like Galetea Dunkel labored, I don't know, sure, let's say it does. It's a MIKE HAMMER TV show, and I was surprised at the opening when Mike Hammer turned toward the camera to reveal that he is played by Darren McGavin, who is far too zany and lovable to play Mike Hammer. In an email, McNeil agreed. "They try to play the whole thing like a comedy it seems to me," he said, making a few more observations on various subjects before concluding, "what a fairy land goes on in my head." Mike Hammer drops his napkin on the floor of a restaurant to get a surreptitious look at a suspect, which is just about broad and cornball enough for the real Mike Hammer to do, but not in the vaudeville style McGavin does it. The suspect closely resembles Wimpy from the Popeye comic strip. He fiddles with his derby and makes funny faces. In conclusion, I guess nothing is good enough for me. That's it for today's All-Star Entertainment Wrap-Up! Until next time, keep "reaching" for the "stars"! And go to hell.

Eating Chicken in the USA

Hey I should tell you about some chicken I ate this weekend when I was on a road trip - I felt like a regular Kent Osborne, ha ha! He loves chicken! I stopped at a buffet restaurant in or around a town called D'Lo, Mississippi. Isn't that an odd name? According to a section of wikipedia with zero footnotes, there are a few theories about the origin of the name, including this one: "old maps from 16th-century French explorers show that they labeled the D'Lo area around the Strong River with the words 'De l'eau sans potable.' This translates as 'bad drinking water.'" That's what it says on wikipedia! So I chose chicken and green beans and macaroni and cheese with peach cobbler for dessert, and I also threw in some fried chicken livers at some point, or so I thought, in honor of Dr. Theresa, who loves chicken livers but was not there, but I am not sure after all that those things I put in my mouth were chicken livers. I just don't know what they were. The consistency was mysterious. Everything else was great, though! Every table had a napkin holder on it, and to every napkin holder was affixed a homemade ad for stun guns you could buy out of somebody's house! All right, let us move on to this photo that McNeil sent me. Look, it is me being young in that dumb hat I told you about, of which I was so proud. And there's McNeil, proving his existence once again. "I'm actually rosy-cheeked here," McNeil notes wistfully.

Our Cat Is Famous in Japan

Look, Pendleton Ward drew one of our cats on a cocktail napkin, from memory. He drew this picture for a Japanese director. Now our cat will be famous in Japan! (See also.)

The Eye Dropper of Destiny

Caroline is in town! We took her to Snackbar. And our server brought to the table an eye dropper, delicately displayed on a a linen napkin resting on a little china plate. "Drew [the manager] wanted you to have this," she said to me. What was it? Two precious drops of vintage Woodhue, Dean Martin's cologne! I happily dabbed it on my neck and an excellent dinner commenced - a dinner during which I smelled like Dean Martin! Now that's what I call service. I do not hesitate to declare that there is no other restaurant in the world where such a thing happened tonight.

A Piece of Glass, a Redwood Tree

So Kelly Hogan put the funky theme song to the kids show VEGETABLE SOUP on her twitter the other day ("click" here to hear it). And that made me think of this other show I used to watch as a kid. It was called MAKE A WISH, and as you can discover by "clicking" here, the host, constantly checking his guitar frets, advises in the opening theme, "a piece of glass, a redwood tree, anything you wanna be, that's what you're gonna be!" That's really the way we thought then. And just to prove his point, he flies away! (See also.) And now I am remembering how another calm, psychedelic kids show theme ("click" here) freaked me out a little bit with its insistence that "the world's a big blue marble when you see it from out there." OUT WHERE? WHERE AM I? THE ENDLESS ABYSS? And then kids are knocking a marble around. Hey, that's the EARTH! It's NOTHING! It could just disappear at any moment! Or some smaller planet could crash into it and knock it out of the solar system! Like a marble! Which was not the point at all. Speaking of no point, I know you are not "clicking" on these "links" and I forgive you. "Blogspot" has now given me the capability to see how many times people have "clicked" on any particular "link" and NO ONE HAS EVER LOOKED AT THIS "POST" about how President William McKinley used to throw a napkin over his wife's face whenever she had a seizure at a state dinner! For shame!

Brain Power

Ha ha I fooled you! I was not in town nor near my computer yesterday, yet somehow yesterday's "blog" advent calendar entry mysteriously appeared. I figured out with my little brain how to prepare it a day in advance and have it "post" at the proper time, using the powers of technology available to us in our modern times we have these days. I did not want you to go without your daily seasonal treat. NOR did I want you to know I was gone so you could rob my house! Not that you would. There's nothing you would like here. What's that? Where was I? NEVER YOU MIND! But I can report that the cocktail napkins at the French 75 Bar have a quotation from Joe E. Lewis on them, a fact I had never noticed before.

Carefully Note the Fleck

Here is some photographic evidence (by Sonia Weinberg Thompson) that Tom Franklin and I indeed shucked oysters at Snackbar on Thursday night, as advertised. Look closely and you will see a telltale fleck of shell on the oyster knife that I am hoisting aloft. In fact, I shucked a full dozen for noted sportswriter Wright Thompson, who was extremely patient with the pace. How out of shape am I? At one point, Wright had to lean across the oyster bar and dab at my brow with a napkin, like the nurses used to do for Hawkeye on M*A*S*H.

Could Come In Handy

... so if David Strathairn is ever giving me his contact information and I'm writing it down on a napkin and he goes, "That's S-T-...," I'll be able to stop him with a casual wave of the hand and say, "That's okay, David Strathairn, I've got it!"

What I Was Like Inside My Head

How did I spend my weekend, you ask? Oh, I don't know. Just hanging out with Laura Lippman and David Simon, that's all! I do not believe it would be too unseemly or gossipy to report that I dined with them at City Grocery and Taylor Grocery (not to be confused with City Grocery) and the Ajax Diner, at the latter of which I had the privilege of hearing a disagreement between them over the meaning of a specific line of dialogue from THE WIRE. And in my head, I was like, "Wow! I'm having the privilege of hearing a disagreement between Laura Lippman and David Simon over the meaning of a specific line of dialogue on THE WIRE! I have never been happier and also I am freaking out!" But on the outside, I was all, "Hmm. Interesting point." But I didn't say it with words! I used the method of concerned and thoughtful nodding. (I will also mention that at the City Grocery bar, David Simon wrote down something John Currence said on a napkin!) We went to Rowan Oak as well, where we were allowed to manhandle Faulkner's personal possessions with obscene abandon. For example, I found a copy of the Italian literary magazine BOTTEGHE OSCURE, which at one time was edited by my friend Eugene Walter. I opened it up and sure enough there was Eugene's name on the masthead. I showed it to Tom Franklin (who also knew Eugene, and who was hosting Lippman and Simon for the weekend) and we stood there and marveled for a minute and thought about deep stuff. I can't speak for Tom but he was probably thinking something like, "Isn't life interesting!" (though he is not inclined to use exclamation points). Hey, do you know someone else with whom I went to Ajax and Rowan Oak? Neko Case, that's who! Remember, she took a picture of me sitting at Faulkner's typewriter? Read all about that, and more, in the brand new Oxford American 10th Anniversary Music Issue, which should be at your local newsstand right now. I could not possibly list all the fine writers and musicians paired up in this extraordinary package of wholesome goodness, which has a great cover photo of Jerry Lee Lewis (not to be confused with Jerry Lewis) looking as if he's on the set of the final episode of TWIN PEAKS. So what I will do is just list any musician or writer in the issue who has been mentioned on the "blog" before. There are lots of musicians and writers in there that I SHOULD HAVE mentioned here before, but to list them now would be cheating, and anyway I do not want to spoil the fun of discovery. But here, let me whet your appetite for the brand new Oxford American 10th Anniversary Music Issue by tossing out these names: Roy Blount Jr. -- William Gay -- Elvis Presley -- Greil Marcus --Peter Guralnick -- Kevin Brockmeier (wait until you read his piece!) -- Michael Martone. Well, I don't know what to say. That's not too many, and nearly all writers. May I cheat and mention just three perennial "blog" "faves" that have never been mentioned here before? Mose Allison, Little Walter, and Love....With Arthur Lee. And there are so, so many more. So many you won't believe it! Many you and I will hear for the very first time and with whom we shall fall in love. And I believe I forgot to mention that a double CD comes with the magazine so you can hear all the music you've been reading about. Down below, Jerry Lee. Up above, Love. (But not the same Love. It's complicated! Read the magazine.)

A Profound Methodology

I have just returned from the City Grocery Bar, where I witnessed a bartender as she turned some uncrushed ice into crushed ice before my very eyes. What she did was wrap the ice in a linen napkin and smash it against the bar of beaten copper in a violent and exhilarating way. A profound methodology! It served to remind me that I was right about ice. If I were to write a slogan for the American Ice Council it would be, "Nothing beats the great taste of ice!"

The Long Moment

This morning while I was sleeping (another excellent technique for putting things off), Theresa was out in the yard, picking up an assortment of the napkins and white paper bags, pellucid with grease from the fried treats served up at the Chevron station on the corner (actually quite delicious; I'll "blog" about that some day), damp with dew, trash with which happy-go-lucky college students tend to liberally deface our lawn every night as they bellow and rant and shriek along their merry way down the sidewalk in front of our house after the closing of the bars while we are tucked up shivering with fear in our bed for all the world like an elderly couple upon whom a strange new world is encroaching... where was I? Oh yes. This morning, Theresa was in the yard, muttering under her breath about environmentalism and such, perhaps cursing, she admits, and picking up litter, when she glanced up and saw a deer standing by our front window, ten feet or less away. Theresa moved closer. The deer did not seem frightened. In fact, it appeared oblivious. It took a second for Theresa to register that she was looking at a deer. The first image that popped into her head, she said, was the Hound of the Baskervilles. The general gloom of the cloudy, windy morning contributed to this impression, she reported. The deer remained unconcerned. It slowly walked across the road. Theresa walked behind it, still picking up paper. The deer vanished. The street was quiet. "It was a long moment," Theresa said. (Pictured, Peter Cushing as Sherlock Holmes in a publicity still from the Hammer films production THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES.)

Mr. Ward's Presidential Korner 4

Yes, I know I have sworn off "blogging" for the "rest of June." But something unusual has happened: the transmission of a new edition of Mr. Ward's Presidential Korner IN PERSON! And I have to write it down before I forget. Okay. First, on Wednesday evening in NYC, I was happy to participate in Amanda Stern's reading series down on Broome St. There is always a musician involved - in this case, a Mr. Jamie Barnes, hailing from Kentucky, who introduced one of his songs by announcing that it was "about the assassination of William McKinley." I had lunch with Mr. Ward the next day (he works in the city) and told him about the song. You know how he loves his presidents! So Mr. Ward said, "I bet it had this line in it: 'Be careful how you tell her.'" I was astonished! I said, "Yes, I believe that was the first line of the song. How did you know?" And Mr. Ward explained that President McKinley said as much after he was shot, referring to his wife, who was prone to seizures. Then Mr. Ward went on to tell me that sometimes, in the middle of a state dinner, Mrs. McKinley would have a seizure and the President would reach over and place a napkin over her head! The purpose was to keep people from being distracted by her contorted features! But it seems to me that a napkin over her head would be something else to notice. Then again, I am not the President of the United States!

Unannounced Napkin Adjustment

Hey, over at Esquire magazine they changed the "link" at which you can gaze at something I wrote on a napkin. I'm guessing that the old "link" probably doesn't work anymore, so I thought I would provide the new one in case you want to see something I wrote on a napkin but why would you, really?