He Was Walking Along the Road

Hello. You haven’t heard much from me lately. I am a shadow in the night, a quiet shadow, not one of those Woooo! girl shadows that cause so much hubbub. How are you? Today is my anniversary, and I’m spending it with the man who made the nuptial journey with me to New Paltz, New York three years ago. I refer, of course, to my dear friend Faustus, as my actual husband is missing in action. Musical theater action. That is the worst kind.

Here’s what is new in my neck of the woods: We are having the floors of our house refinished. I went to a political fundraiser where I spent the whole time listening to the candidate’s mother discuss how she was an extra in a movie since no one else wanted to talk to me. My elbows hurt. The level of insane people I have to deal with is slightly down from its all-time high. My little bald-headed niece turned one year old.

I sort of wish my elbows didn’t hurt, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.


Friday Chupacabra Blogging

Night terrors!



Yes, that is Mama Cass with a plastic rat on her head, and Martha Raye, too. That is, Martha Raye is also in the scene, not on Mama Cass’s head. Because that would be silly.


Update: I hate to speak ill of the dead, but don’t miss the five-second clip just past the middle where Mama Cass is the spitting image of Sarah Jessica Parker.



I like iced coffee, but I dislike hot coffee.

I like hot tea, but I dislike iced tea.

I like peanut butter, but I dislike peanuts.

I like lettuce in my salad, but I dislike lettuce in my sandwich.

Today, my gym boyfriend took me aside and said I was warm, open, and nonjudgmental. Then he sort of cried and went and hid in the personal trainers’ office. I feel as if his assessment was misapplied, as if he had somehow been looking through a window to my past. As I do not feel especially beneficent these days, perhaps a scan for chroniton particles will shed some light on the situation.

The mythologies of warmth and consistency and positioning are fluid and should not produce divisions that are absolute, even though they often do. Coffee, tea, and me can be both hot and cold at various points in our trajectory through space-time, and perhaps both simultaneously. To an Eskimo, iced coffee may still be sorta hot. Perhaps the coffee is struggling with issues of its own and appreciates this vote of confidence.


Late Thursday Night Chupacabra Blogging

This is pretty much the story of my life.


Grumpty Dumpty

Good evening, Las Vegas! It’s time for my daily bit of advice. Don’t worry, it’s free. Consider it a comp.

Other people exist.

I know some part of your primitive animal brain must realize this. You are on a narrow sidewalk, you have eyes, or you are with someone who has eyes: you must see the million people surrounding you. And yet, you shuffle along like molasses, stop to organize your group of ten in middle of the walkway, hold up traffic in both directions so you can take the absolutely perfect photo in front of that fountain, which will keep the absolutely perfect photo you took in front of that other fountain company on your flash card for all time.

Other people exist. And we hate you.


What Happens in Vegas…

The reason for the recent radio silence is that I am in Las Vegas. Surprise! Why am I here? That is for me to know and you to find out. OK, it’s time for you to find out: I am here for a trade show. It has lasted all this week, and then Rob is coming out this weekend for a couple of days. I would like to say this has been a rejuvenating experience, but the combination of the crowds, the constant jangling noise, walking around all day for work, the mercenary pricing on food and water, and the airplane does not do wonders for my battered nerves. The airplane was the worst. “Just so you know, you have an orange percent chance of dying today,” said the loudspeakers at the airport.

Before the trade show began, a friend and I spent the afternoon at Quark’s Bar in the Las Vegas Hilton. We drank a big fishbowl full of rum with puffs of smoke coming out of it, then staggered back to our hotel burning sun, like drunken Lawrences of Arabia except on a parking lot instead of sand dunes. The next night, I was naked in a hot tub with a guy who looked and sounded like Dr. Phil and described this experience. Then, perhaps thinking he had found a live one, he tried to sell me some statues of Santa Claus for my store.

If you have ever had a naked Dr. Phil try to sell you statues of Santa Claus the day after drinking a fishbowl full of rum with puffs of smoke coming out of it, you know precisely what I’m talking about.


Generation Slap

Given my time between posts, Jeffrey in Tennessee kindly writes to ask if I am ill, and the truth is, I am. Yesterday, I passed a sunglasses stand and, remembering a request from one of my employees, stopped to inquire of the very young woman running the place if she had any styles that resembled those recently worn by Bono of U2.

“Who of what?”

“Bono? You know . . . of U2? The band? ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’?”

To say she looked at me blankly would be an understatement. She gazed at my coordinates in space-time as if they were occupied by air that was even less interesting than the air surrounding it.

I tried again, this time experimenting with volume. “You know, Bono?”

Blink. “Hold on a second.” She opened her cell phone and dialed someone. “Hey, I have a question. Do you know, um, Bon? Bono? From Yoohoo?”

“U2!” I shrieked.

“Yes: You, too. Do you know him? What kind of sunglasses does he wear? Uh huh. Uh huh. OK, great. Thanks, Dad. Bye.”


I am ill.