First thing this morning, I’m walking past my TV and I see something I don’t understand and I am surprised because video on the news is not usually weirder than the movies playing in my head. Then I go to work and forget about it. Mid-morning, I get up from my desk, go to the ladies’ room, do lady things and return in less than two minutes. That should have been my first clue. When I return, there’s a small gift wrapped in tissue paper a blue usually found in tropical fish. I said what I said last time.

Tata: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Perhaps you think I’m exaggerating when I say I point at my co-workers and bark. Perhaps you think no one over the age of twelve peels off their socks in a group, slip-covers their fists and talks in falsetto. Perhaps in any other office, I’d be inches from unemploment, but believe it or not, my office is just as interesting as I am “special.” Let’s leave that in quotes. I grab the sealed package and run to the middle of the room.

Tata: FINGER PUPPETS! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Are these from IKEA?
Lupe: I thought you needed those.
Tata: You went to IKEA? Did you feel like you were gone for a week and inexplicably smell of lingonberries later?
Lupe: Yeah…and I went in for a couch.
Tata: Look! There’s a court jester and a dragon and a king and a really bald queen so maybe it’s a king and a king, and there’s a prince and a pretty, pretty pink princess and an unarmed knight and a magician and a – what the hell?
Helen: It’s an owl. You’re an idiot!
Tata: I am an idiot! It is obviously an owl! And this guy wants the throne for himself! A usurper puppet!

It’s a good thing I have ten fingers and four friends. For the next few hours, a puppet or two conduct work-related conversations with my co-workers. Then I remember the thing I saw on the news and didn’t understand. Googling doesn’t seem to help. My friend at NPR comes up with this. I try explaining to DBK.

Tata: I’m telling you, firemen were running from a burning building, waving very hairy goats that looked mostly perturbed. It’s the kind of thing that usually happens INSIDE my head, not in West New York, NJ.
DBK: Oh! Oh! Firemen were running from a burning building in West New York, NJ, waving hairy goats. Now I get it. Seriously, not only did I not see this amazing video footage, but it was only sounding a little crazy before and now it sounds truly insane. Not that I don’t believe you. I believe that you saw video of firemen running from a burning building in West New York, NJ waving hairy goats. I now wish that I had seen it too so that we could compare notes instead of having this increasingly inane email exchange. Why were the goats hairy? When is Weehauken?
Tata: Some goats have that short hair. These were angora goats. Hippie goats. Hair flying in every direction. And yet you could clearly see indignant looks on the faces of those goats!
DBK: This missive gives rise to so many questions. Why were goats in the building? Were they on the lease? Did they start the fire? The image of goats smoking in bed comes to mind.

While I was still pondering goat-wielding firemen, I got an email that reminded me that I’m not the only one watching the charming moving pictures.

Just a quick email to let you know about our exciting new contest!

YODEL YOUR WAY TO FAME, MONEY AND CHICKENS!
Do you yodel? Maybe it’s just in the shower or when you’re talking to your cat, but if you have the rare talent, we need you. We are looking for a yodel to possibly use in a future McPhee product. The best yodel will win 100 slightly stiff Rubber Chickens, a $200 online Gift Certificate and the chance to be used in a future product! Click below for details and remember, NO COUNTRY YODELING!
http://www.mcphee.com/goodies/contest.html

I immediately emailed Johnny, who howls every night with his many mutts. The artistic relation between howling and yodeling eludes a civilian like myself, and while we were in high school, Johnny brandished a notorious rubber chicken named Claude. Who knows, he might feel nostalgic. Or maybe not.

I’ll watch anything with Val Kilmer in it, and The Salton Sea looked like my kind of cinema. It even said modern noir on the box. A double personality/speed freak/jazz trumpeter/narcotics informant/recently bereaved husband tries to figure out who/which he is and what happened, with the help of large-caliber firearms. I just couldn’t get past the first twenty minutes. Val Kilmer is no Laurence Olivier, but as a fellow Santa Fean and as a human being, I feel for a guy who has to read lines like they gave him in that movie. Oh my God.

One of my postings for gigs got a bite. I may be playing a festival gig in Albuquerque with an Australian blues/rock guy. Most important, I have the shoes. It’ll be good to be out there again. I’m just glad I don’t play jazz trumpet. I’m not sure if I’d have to yodel.

Is it crazy that I still love Val?

A series of events caught my surprised attention because I didn’t expect to, you know, remember a series of events. There were other minor things here and there. Here is a list compiled by a person both small, and covered with fur.

The amusingly misnamed Bankruptcy Abuse Prevention and Consumer Protection Act of 2005.

Katrina survivors are left high and dry.

The Senate upped our debt ceiling.

Rising gas prices.

The capper:

Oprah put the Oprah People on “America’s Debt Diet.”

The first four items suggest Andrew Carnegie’s spirit has repented in the afterlife of his repentance on earth. Woo hoo! Congress has turned our democracy into a strictly feudal society and we can report to our new corporate owners for ID chips and stylish burlap sacks. I don’t know much about economics but none of this can be good for ordinary, tax-paying American people.

The fifth suggests that Oprah has observed the same events and added a healthy dose of consternation over families and individuals bankrupting themselves to give the appearance of prosperity. When Oprah announced that Americans were drowning in debt and she was laying down rules and a challenge, I took notice. It meant there was blood in the water. The credit card companies’ secret was out, and what’s left of the middle class had one more chance to save itself.

In my office, there is a woman who’s worked for the university for 43 years, and by rights she should be able to retire. She can’t. Some years ago, Helen took in her granddaughter and paid for the upbringing of the girl while Helen’s daughter re-married and had more children. Helen took out loans for her granddaughter’s college education and was left with them when the girl dropped out. In fact, Helen buys groceries for the families of all three of her grown children and is paying for a substantial portion of her granddaughter’s wedding. The more I hear about $400 veils and tiaras, the angrier I get about the happy couple that goes on vacations and saves not a penny. Helen is in poor health in her seventies. If something happens to Helen, her whole family will go down the crapper. This kind of dependency takes decades to foster, and though Helen’s exploitation angers me, it’s the life she’s chosen. And it’s not my life to fix.

But there are wrongs I can right, if I pay attention. About six weeks ago, I was going to write a post about how switching to the New Jersey Clean Energy program seemed to cost next to nothing when careful examination of my energy bill cast some doubt about who was supplying what to whom. I called PSE&G. They said I wasn’t signed up. So I did. New Jersey Clean Energy is very friendly. Today I received an invitation to an Earth Day picnic in Egg Harbor on the 23rd. I…haven’t got a thing to wear. Driving four hours by my lonesome to and from an energy conservation party seems a trifle outre.

So, for empirical evidence of what NJCE does to a gas and electric bill, Poor Impulsives will have to wait until I actually get one. The management apologizes for any inconvenience.

This afternoon, I received a bill from Kohl’s, where I have a credit card for the sole purpose of improving my credit rating. The APR was 21%, so I called them up to see if they could do better. Last month, I forgot what day it was and magically incurred a late fee on an already paid bill but that’s my fault and not the issue.

Tata: I have no need of a credit card with a rate of 21%.
Customer Service Rep: Everyone’s got the same rate on the East Coast. That’s what they’re getting.
Tata: That’s like saying you’re only a little bit on fire, so why complain?
CSR: That’s the standard but it doesn’t matter because that’s an annual rate and you pay off your card every time you use it.
Tata: It’s the principle of the thing. Can you reduce the rate or no?
CSR: We can’t but it doesn’t matter to you.
Tata: It does matter how a person lets herself br used. I’ll pay that late fee, and in a couple of days I’ll call back and close the account.
CSR: Why would you do that?
Tata: Because we can do business on my terms or Kohl’s makes no money from me whatever.
CSR: That’s…different.
Tata: I sincerely hope this call has been recorded for quality assurance. You’ve been very helpful, thank you.

I sincerely hope you will do the same – not just because it feels good to get out of debt and feels great to not need your creditors. You don’t need them! Pay ’em off and kiss ’em goodbye. At this point, the thing Oprah doesn’t say but Congress clearly has is this: the only way to survive the current economic shakedown is to completely gut your current life, pare down your expenses and pay off your creditors. I’m doing it too. Not because Oprah said so but because when Oprah’s talking about money, maybe it wouldn’t hurt me to listen.

The blogger known as DBK of Blanton’s and Ashton’s has informed the editorial board that he and Mrs. DBK will adjourn next month to France. Sensing an opportunity for my own personal gain, I demanded a postcard, to go with the one he brought me from Barcelona. I was about to issue less reasonable demands when he asked me if I’d be the junior varsity admin in his absence.

I KNOW! My first thought was, ‘For the safe return of the prestigious blog you will give me…one MILLION dollars!’ It wasn’t my first taste of corruption but it sure was caramel-coated. Negotiations ensued. My partner in this blog-crime will be Tami, the One True. We consulted.

Tata: Jealousy will cause us to spackle your blog with internet cheese. But you knew that.
DBK: Jealousy is such an ugly emotion, except on you, it looks good. No seriously, not a lot of people can pull of that look, but you have something special. As for cheese, cheese is such an ugly emotion, but so tasty. Almost as good as salty, salty ham. Ummmmmm. Salty ham. In a few weeks I will forego the pleasure of cheese in favor of fromage. Et un baguette. Et vin. Mucho vin.
T,tOT: Cheese blogging it is.
Tata: Sure. Use logic. I should’ve seen THAT coming.
T,tOT: BAM! You never see logic coming! It’s like lightning, but without the teeth!
Tata: You’re inviting guest posters? OOOOOH! GIVE THEM WRESTLING NAMES! The Masked Poster! The Killer Blockquote! Sgt. Slaughterhousefive!
DBK: I like that. Or I could give them wrestling names with a twist of lemon: Randy Savage Skewering! Chief Jay Strongbowlemia! Haystacks Calhooyoucallingfat?!
Tata: Hey, co-defendants! May I use this on the blog?
DBK: Blog is such an ugly emotion. But yes, yes you can. I am flattered. I love being flattered. And I love ham. Salty, salty ham.
T,tOT: And unto you, I say, in my flawless French, “Faites le bruit du cochon”.
Tata: “Brown the bacon”?
T,tOT: “Make the pig noise.”
DBK: Oink!
Tata: Whenever possible, yes.

To quote Top Secret: “LATRINE!”

What do you think?

Update: Kevin, Trout’s younger brother and my Parsons of Paris-educated high school dance partner, offers:

http://hirshhorn.si.edu/education/modern/modern3.html

Kind of feel like I did about Estes’ work. It has a certain “Isn’t that amazing?” factor, but is it art? People do pay a lot of money for it.

What I really worry about is the point at which “seeing is believing” won’t work, and we wind up with faked images and videos of all types of situations that could have been concocted on someone’s computer. Then everything will become “take it on faith”, and who knows where we will wind up. Kind of where we are now with arguments on the “authenticity” of the gospels according to Judas, as if we ever had any guarantee of the “authenticity” of the other gospels, the Koran, the old testament, the Kama Sutra. Well, at least that one is empirically verifiable…

I love him to pieces.

This face! What a face!

I’d do what he says, man.

A friend sent along this email, which asks to be passed around.

GAS WAR – an idea that WILL work

This was originally sent by a retired Coca Cola executive it came from one of his engineer buddies who retired from Halliburton. It’s worth your consideration.

Join the resistance! I hear we are going to hit close to $4.00 a gallon by next summer and it might go higher! Want gasoline prices to come down? We need to take some intelligent, united action.

Phillip Hollsworth offered this good idea. This makes MUCH MORE SENSE than the “don’t buy gas on a certain day” campaign that was going around last April or May!

The oil companies just laughed at that because they knew we wouldn’t continue to “hurt” ourselves by refusing to buy gas. It was more of an inconvenience to us than it was a problem for them. BUT, whoever thought of this idea, has come up with a plan that can really work.

Please read on and join with us!

By now you’re probably thinking gasoline priced at about $1.50 is super cheap. Me too! It is currently $2.79 for regular unleaded in my town. Now that the oil companies and the OPEC nations have conditioned us to think that the cost of a gallon of gas is CHEAP at $1.50 – $1.75, we need to take aggressive action to teach them that BUYERS control the marketplace..not sellers. With the price of gasoline going up more each day, we consumers need to take action. The only way we are going to see the price of gas come down is if we hit someone in the pocketbook by not purchasing their gas! And, we can do that WITHOUT hurting ourselves.

How?

Since we all rely on our cars, we can’t just stop buying gas. But we CAN have an impact on gas prices if we all act together to force a price war.

Here’s the idea: For the rest of this year, DON’T purchase ANY gasoline from the two biggest companies (which now are one), EXXON and MOBIL. If they are not selling any gas, they will be inclined to reduce their prices. If they reduce their prices, the other companies will have to follow suit. But to have an impact, we need to reach literally millions of Exxon and Mobil gas buyers. It’s really simple to do! Now, don’t wimp out on me at this point…keep reading and I’ll explain how simple it is to reach millions of people!!

I am sending this note to 30 people. If each of us send it to at least ten more (30 x 10 = 300) … and those 300 send it to at least ten more (300 x 10 = 3,000)…and so on, by the time the message reaches the sixth group of people, we will have reached over THREE MILLION consumers.

If those three million get excited and pass this on to ten friends each, then 30 million people will have been contacted! If it goes one level further, you guessed it….. THREE HUNDRED MILLION PEOPLE!!!

Again, all you have to do is send this to 10 people.

That’s all! (If you don’t understand how we can reach 300 million and all you have to do is send this to 10 people….

Well, let’s face it, you just aren’t a mathematician.

But I am so trust me on this one.) 🙂

How long would all that take? If each of us sends this e-mail out to ten more people within one day of receipt, all 300 MILLION people could conceivably be contacted within the next 8 days! I’ll bet you didn’t think you and I had that much potential, did you! Acting together we can make a difference.

If this makes sense to you, please pass this message on. I suggest that we not buy from EXXON/MOBIL UNTIL THEY LOWER THEIR PRICES TO THE $1.30 RANGE AND KEEP THEM DOWN. THIS CAN REALLY WORK.

I have my doubts but it’s nice to see bad math and hideous punctuation have their day in the sun. For safety’s sake, I deleted a whole bunch of exclamation points. They’ll put your eye out.

In matters related to oil companies, I know nothing. I mean zero. It’s nice to watch someone formulate a plan but it seems more F Troop than A Team, if you know what I mean. I have an Exxon Mobil card in my wallet for emergencies but I haven’t used it in over a year. And yet Exxon Mobil seems strangely unaffected. I haven’t bought gas at either Exxon or Mobil in at least a year and a half. The company is recording record profits and has yet to send me a remember-me? bouquet. Other than cut up the card and tell off a hapless phone bank employee, I can’t think of way to exert influence over Exxon Mobil. If I did, I’d make them pay their Valdez, Alaska oil spill fines and thank Americans for our patience while they worked out their environmental disaster karma.

Still, it’s nice to see people scheming. I hope the scheme brings these arrogant pigfuckers to their knees. For my part, I wouldn’t buy from them unless I were truly desperate so…the schemers can count on me – sort of. While I would like to take some action in this situation, this is probably as ineffective as mass actions get. I hope someone comes up with a real plan soon.

Yesterday, the Washington Post published a profile of blogger Maryscott O’Connor, which I first saw on Skippy the Bush Kangaroo.

SHERMAN OAKS, Calif. — In the angry life of Maryscott O’Connor, the rage begins as soon as she opens her eyes and realizes that her president is still George W. Bush. The sun has yet to rise and her family is asleep, but no matter; as soon as the realization kicks in, O’Connor, 37, is out of bed and heading toward her computer.

Out there, awaiting her building fury: the Angry Left, where O’Connor’s reputation is as one of the angriest of all. “One long, sustained scream” is how she describes the writing she does for various Web logs, as she wonders what she should scream about this day.

She smokes a cigarette. Should it be about Bush, whom she considers “malevolent,” a “sociopath” and “the Antichrist”? She smokes another cigarette. Should it be about Vice President Cheney, whom she thinks of as “Satan,” or about Karl Rove, “the devil”? Should it be about the “evil” Republican Party, or the “weaselly, capitulating, self-aggrandizing, self-serving” Democrats, or the Catholic Church, for which she says “I have a special place in my heart . . . a burning, sizzling, putrescent place where the guilty suffer the tortures of the damned”?

The photograph accompanying the article is a dead-giveaway. The profile is not meant to present O’Connor in an objective or flattering light. One look at the posture and facial expression and the Post reader who’d never heard of O’Connor could be forgiven for thinking our special blogger’s gone ’round the twist. The repeated mention of cigarettes implies she is a selfish mommy who doesn’t consider her children’s health. The article suggests faintly that her husband has lost control of his wife, whatever that means, and let’s not even discuss what sounds like near-beer for breakfast.

I don’t know the woman personally. About once a week, I look in on her blog My Left Wing, and I’ve never had an email conversation with her. I have seen photographs that make Maryscott O’Connor look like a thoughtful, intelligent and rather attractive human being. Here’s one now. So the Post’s picture, surely one of several taken that day, casts O’Connor as a raving loony, and though I can’t vouch for her sanity or temperament, I can tell you something about the press.

A thousand years ago or in the early nineties, the local papers took some notice of my ahhhhtwork, and several sent reporters to interview me. I admit I was confused and flattered but I was also ambitious enough to go with the flow. In the piles of papers on my living room floor sit a stack of newspapers I can’t throw away and can’t look at for fear of seeing what an ass I looked. You see, you can’t tell what your own story seems to be from the outside or to the disinterested, and you can’t count on being quoted properly or in context. No matter what you do, how sane you are or how you doctor the circumstances of an interview, you can still sound like a candidate for the nut hatch. In one of those articles, of which I have no recollection of an interview, I sound like an Oprah guest on crack. The experience of reading this bizarre portrait later contributed to my recognition that being famous might well and truly suck, and after my inevitable three-state killing spree, I won’t be granting interviews.

Lots of people have experience creating personal images for those in need of publicity, and bloggers should take note this. I’m not saying we need to close ranks and form entourages. The press has finally turned and taken notice of political bloggers and the blogosphere. More interviews will follow, as well as invitations to appear on the news talk shows. I saw Kos on the Colbert Report and thought he carried himself pretty well but he should be careful about giving the impression he might be a weenie in person, and when I say “weenie” I doubt I’m being overly technical about it.

When people see you on TV, in the paper or on the blogs, they’re gauging a few things at the same time:
1. Do they like you?
2. Do they agree with you?
3. Do they want to be/hang with/do you?
*Some people go so far as to consider whether they respect you, but even I wouldn’t sleep with them first.

The Republicans and by extention their apologists the TV talking heads and the right-wing bloggers utterly mastered this concept some time ago – except for Jonah Goldberg. Ew. The point remains: Americans like to bet the winning pony, and and when they feel like winners because you’re a winner, you can be elected president, can’t you? No matter how you do it.

I’m not saying centrist and left bloggers have to hire publicity firms and image consultants. I am saying this: be aware that this kind of unforgiving, damaging and painful scrutiny is coming. Get your shit together. No matter how charming and apparently sympathetic the reporter, the press is not on the side of the angels.

Sharkey: Why didn’t you tell me you wrote about going to the bar last weekend?
Tata: It wasn’t my finest writing. Besides, if I called you every time I typed your name you’d get a restraining order.
Sharkey: Oh yeah? I’ll Google.

For the next hour and a half at fifteen minute intervals, Sharkey emails back Poor Impulse Control paragraphs with the same question and answer.

Sharkey: Did I really say that? I’m frigging funny!

No doubt. He can’t tell the difference between his own remarks and dialogue I wrote because Sharkey’s memory is even worse than mine. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Algonquin Round Table, where a good handful of famous writers, actors and delicious characters had lunch every day for a few years in New York? The reason you’ve heard of it is that after lunch, the writers dashed back to their desks and rewrote everything they said and heard. That had pros and cons for everyone involved. So I’m not writing history. Sometimes he said it. Sometimes he didn’t.

Daria, Anya and Corinne are back from Todd’s place in Los Angeles. Todd turned 40 and three-fifths of his sisters showed up with two nursing babies, Mom and Tom in tow. When I think about what that full house must’ve been like, I’m grateful I live alone with an exceedingly cranky pussycat who requires constant assurance that I remember how to use the can opener – the electric can opener.

And my sisters with the small children are jet-lagging and confused. Daria’s got bronchitis and plans to spend this afternoon dyeing Easter eggs with Tyler Two and Sandro. Anya’s at home, doing what she does every day: trying to take over the world – one tasteful living room at a time. I called Corinne at the store and when I found she was composing sentences in a manner unfamiliar to English speakers I forgot why I called.

Corinne: Complaining! Holiday complaining!
Tata: Are you there alone?
Corinne: Ex-husband competitive, children eggs. Mad at mommy!
Tata: Listen, I’m going to Sears to buy an air conditioner or two. I’m going and you can’t talk me out of it! Or…talk at all. Do you have a fever or something?
Corinne: See you later. Unless I do!
Tata: What?

My sisters and I ask that question a lot, like earlier this morning when I told Daria she had much too much clothing and I was going shopping in her closet, for which she thanked me for thinking only of her welfare but it sounded a lot like, “What?”

Corinne: Sears! Go!

Ten minutes later I marched into the store with a bag of food for her. It was just after noon. She was on the phone with Anya, who’d paused her iron march to accessory domination long enough to agree to everything Corinne said.

Corinne: Domenica thinks our store is Sears.
Tata: I brought you lunch.
Corinne: Good! I didn’t have any. Gotta go, Anya.
Anya: [Peas and carrots peas and carrots peas and carrots.]
Tata: Tell her your conversation is inconvenient for, you know, me.
Anya: [Peas and carrots peas and carrots peas and carrots.]
Corinne: She hopes your flan separates. ‘Bye, Anya.
Tata: This morning, I went to make breakfast and next thing I knew I was spraying Mazola Pure on sheets of phyllo dough and making golden brown savory pastry like my clothing wasn’t so tight my legs feel like they’re in sausage casings. I mean, is this rational? How many people do you know have phyllo dough within convenient, terrifying reach, I ask you? You should take that out of the box and the foil before it becomes moist. Moisture is the enemy of flaky pastry!
Corinne: You baked for no reason? And you brought me lunch? We were just complaining about the holidays but I want to declare one.
Tata: About the holidays, sweetie – all you have to do is say no. Say you’re not going, thank you.
Corinne: I can’t!
Tata: You can. I’ve opted out. For the most part they just weren’t working for, you know, me. And when I sit bolt upright in bed and shout, “OH MY GOD, NO!” I want it to be alcohol-related and not, say, blood-related.
Corinne: Well, thank you for lunch.
Tata: Now, I’m going to Sears. I’m really going this time!

At Sears, I stared at six air conditioner models on sale. I’d worked out the square footage of the apartment, the size of my windows, used an online BTU calculator and found an energy star-rated Kenmore model that would do in my bedroom window for $139. At that price, I could buy a second for the living room I might never use. I hate air conditioning! There are times when that’s the only way to get any sleep though so I decided to solve this riddle before it became a problem. While I was staring, a salesman came around a corner and decided I needed a larger model. I turned on my heel and said, “I’ll take two of the small ones, thank you.” We’ll see if I’ve made the right decision but it doesn’t really matter because they’re in my house.

On my voicemail, a message from Auntie InExcelsisDeo asking why she hasn’t received my response to Monday’s bridal shower invitation. I rang her up. She was glad to hear from me.

Auntie I.: We’ve changed it to a family picnic. The women will do Victorian women things. The men will hit golf balls, drink beer and punch each other.
Tata: Couldn’t we drink beer and punch each other?
Auntie I.: No punching! We’re Victorian ladies.
Tata: What part of the British Empire was Sicily?
Auntie I.: Now, now. I’m asking the ladies to bring only serving ware in white, pink, baby blue and lilac. I still have your bowls from Christmas.
Tata: You have my duck. He’s white. We can put marinated mushrooms into him.
Auntie I.: I was wondering why I didn’t hear from you about the invitation?
Tata: I thought when you told me I was going that kind of killed the suspense.
Auntie I.: I thought you might have forgotten.
Tata: Oh no. I try to remember death threats long enough to avoid them.
Auntie I.: Love you, sweetheart. See you soon!
Tata: Love you, too!

Yes, it all really happened. No, it’s not history. Sure, I may soon sit bolt upright in bed and shout, “OH MY GOD, NO!” for alcohol- and blood-related reasons. And you are there.

Audrey acquired a creature by accident.

Sadie is her name. She’s a runt, but she’s star material. A friend found her on his engine block…she was 3 weeks old.

Sadie has no face except for her eyes and eyebrows. So she has 3 expressions: awe, surprise and outrage. She always seems to be saying, “ARE YOU AWARE that (the food bowl is empty; there is a bird in MY garden; you are not cuddling me right NOW)?”

I am now concerned there might be unnoticed kittens on my engine block. With eyebrows. And what does one do about that?

It is my usual practice to put breakfast into the oven before I exercise, then turn off the gas before I get into the shower. After my shower this morning, I was turning the nozzle on a bottle of hair goo when I thought, ‘I forgot to turn off the oven.’ Then the contents of the bottle spilled over my head. Instead of opening the tip, I’d twisted off the top completely. So I knew I shouldn’t be trusted with the life or death struggles of kittens and engine blocks.

Senator John McCain
241 Russell Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C. 20510
202.224.2235

Dear John,

I’ve a few things I must get off my chest, darling. We used to be so close but now it’s as if we’re strangers. We don’t talk anymore. It’s a shame because you once seemed so very, very understanding, and I had such hope you might be different from all the others. Ah, the thought of you in a leather jacket and a fit of righteous pique still gives me that tingly feeling. Alas, my love, it’s over between us. It’s not you – it’s me. When I say it’s me, I really mean it’s you. You and Jerry Falwell. You and George Bush. You and Karl Rove. I’ve taken a long look at myself, and of course I’m smokin’ hot. My sweet, you and your friends have got to go. Take your things, darling. I won’t change my mind. A gal’s got to know when to cut her losses.

I wish we didn’t have to do this in writing. You know I’d prefer we didn’t, but every time I think of you my lip curls reflexively and it’s ruining my kissably fresh lipstick.

Air kiss,
Princess Tata