Archives 2000. Confessions of a Beauty Pageant Loser

Have you ever looked at a picture of yourself when you were a kid?... There’s one of me in a cowboy hat, pointing a gun at the camera, trying to look like a cowboy but failing, and I can hardly bring myself to look at it now. I’ve put it back in a drawer. I keep wanting to apologize to the little guy: ‘I’m sorry, I’ve let you down. I was the person who was supposed to look after you, but I made wrong decisions at bad times and turned you into me.’

—Nick Hornby

To even make the qualifying rounds for the title of Miss Navajo a girl has to be able to perform all of the traditional Navajo women’s tasks — including slaughtering, butchering, and cooking a sheep.

Of course, I didn’t grow up in the Navajo nation, and vying for the title of Miss Nibroc back in the early 80s in my hometown wasn’t nearly so arduous. Lucky for me.

on the left

The only experience I brought to the event was a brief and glorious stint as some sort of Little Miss Homecoming something-or-other when I was five years old. I wore a fluffy pink dress, itchy white lace tights, and white patent leather shoes. My then-best friend (and later, arch-nemesis) Karen Sasser and I carried the train of the queen, Marie Cima. Or it might have been her tiara.

A dozen years later, I was ready for the real deal.

All I needed was a swimsuit, a few nice dresses, a convertible I could ride in for the parade, and a driver who’d be willing to wear something other than a t-shirt.

I didn’t have a “talent,” and fortunately, one wasn’t required.

In fact, I don’t recall doing anything especially strenuous to prepare — beyond lying in the sun, basted in baby oil, with my hair coated in lemon juice. But, I was probably going to do that anyway.

I’d like to pretend to be blasé and sanguine about the whole thing now — as if the pageant and the festival were things I just happened to do a few decades ago. Ancient history. A sign of the times that I just went along with. The same way I might now be vaguely embarrassed by pictures of me with feathered hair and leg warmers.

But that’s not true.

I had that initial taste of glory at 5 on that basketball court, and I’d been dreaming about my moment ever since. Every August I would stand in front of JCPenney’s with my family and we’d watch the candidates in their shiny Corvettes, waving benevolently at the crowd and smiling.

I thought they had it made. A handsome boyfriend in the front. A spiffy car. The adulation of thousands (maybe it was just dozens) of cheering admirers lined up to see them and talk about how pretty they were. They were the closest thing we had to rock stars.

And I fantasized about how one day I’d be the one in the convertible. (Only I — plotting with the cunning that any five-year-old might exhibit— planned to throw candy, so the crowd would really love me and applaud loudly.)

I grew up and developed real goals, of course, but I never forgot that one.

Oh sure, I got good grades. I held a few class offices, including president a couple times. I made the National Honor Society and was a National Merit Semifinalist (St. C had enjoyed a brief moment in the spotlight as the school with the highest percentage of National Merit Semifinalists in the country — though it’s worth pointing out that I think my graduating class was only about 17 kids. The high school has since closed). I was even headed off to my first-choice college (thereby successfully spiting Sister Agnes Marian who’d refused to even give me an application, insisting “trust me dear, your parents can’t afford it.”)

Frankly, at 17, that was all just gravy.

I wanted a parade.

I was sure it would change my whole life.


BIOGRAPHY OF A PLACE

The theme of this year’s Festival is “linking the past with the future.”

It seems appropriate as I drive through town and am struck both by how little and how much it’s changed.

The directions that I’m given for this trip are exactly in keeping with the nature of any small southern town, “turn right where the Stuckey’s used to be.”

I remember when the first McDonald’s came to town. I remember when Burger Queen became Druther’s. And I well recall the excitement of the first Pizza Hut, and how we longed in vain for something more exotic, like a Godfather’s.

Now there’s fast food from one end of town to the other. Wendy’s. McDonald’s. Burger King. Arby’s. Domino’s. Papa John’s.

A giant Wal-Mart has nearly invaded and supplanted Black’s Barn.

Bonza and Wyrick’s IGA burned down a few years ago (Mr. Bonza unwittingly foiled my incipient life of crime when I stole a blowpop in first grade and my mother made me take it back to him and confess). By then it was E.C. Porter’s.

The Southern States I used to frequent with my Uncle Don is now Farm and Garden. The former proprietor, Arlis Fuson — who gave me my first set of little yellow chicks to raise — is retired. Don tells me Arlis is now “growin’ dogs and sellin’ ‘em.” When I ask what kind, he says, “Whatever kind you want. Big or little.” But, he adds, “I believe he’s got out of the bird business.”

The Somerset Oil up the road from the Fusons’ house is now closed down.

The downtown has now been overhauled and realigned on a grid. Kentucky is now one-way south and Main Street is now one-way north. Depot is still two-way, and will lead to the old underpass, which used to flood in every hard rain.

Hall Watson still anchors Center and Depot, but Sterchi’s is now a parking lot.

Distad’s jewelry store is gone (where I got my ears pierced the first... and second time).

Daniel’s dress store just closed this year.

A Chinese restaurant sits where the old Holiday used to be.

A True Value hardware is in place of the old Piggly Wiggly (more commonly known as The Pig), and across the street the Tastee Freez has been replaced by a pizza chain. The downtown Sonic is now a car lot, and there’s a new Sonic out on “new” 25E.

The old Hippodrome Theatre on Main was torn down long before I left.

The JCPenney I worked in all through high school also relocated to new 25E. Belk Simpson moved from Main Street to the shopping center decades ago.

The nation’s first Kentucky Fried Chicken is still on old London Highway on the way into town, and doubles as a museum (also on the National Register of Historic Places)— a museum that serves fried food. Colonel Sanders knew one of my grandfathers, and I met him on several occasions as a child — but no one I grew up with cares about chicken.

All the natives from my generation know the town cuisine is all about the chili.

The Dixie, home of “the world-famous Dixie Dog”—where I used to eat on my lunch break—is still on Main Street, but under new management.

A few doors down, the Krystal Kitchen is still standing, but appears to be hollowed out.

Next to that is the Fad Pool Hall, equally famous for their chili, but also for the fact that, as long as I was growing up, women were prohibited. The ban might have been lifted at some point, but at any rate, I’ve never been inside.

Chili loyalty was and is fierce in the tri-county area, and my family came down on the side of the root beer stand on Falls Highway (on the way to Cumberland Falls, home of the Moonbow — one of only two sites in the world with a moonbow; the other is in Africa).

The stand was torn down a few summers back, and reconstructed in a site about 50 yards west.

I’d be surprised if they changed the oil.

As an adult, I’ve had to continuously explain the concept of “chili buns” to the uninitiated — it’s a chili dog without the dog. “Oh... that’s just a sloppy joe,” is the usual response. Well, no, it isn’t. And in fact, it’s blasphemy to even mention them in the same breath. (This is usually followed by a discourse about the relative merits of bun-chili versus bowl-chili — but at some point, spaghetti enters the discussion, and I’ve found that there’s no point in even attempting to talk to anyone who’d put pasta in a bowl of chili.)

I’m not sure how world-famous any of this was. Bob Green did write an essay about the chili there years ago, but I don’t remember whose side he was on.

When I worked at Penney’s, we sold a t-shirt that named my hometown and said, "It’s not the end of the world, but you can see it from here.”

THEN AND NOW
When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, ‘what will I be? will I be pretty? will I be rich?’ Here’s what she said to me, ‘Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.’

—Jay Livingston and Ray Evans

One thing I know, when I was 17, I traveled light — a tube of strawberry Kissing Potion lip gloss, a comb, and a dime to call my mother, and I was set.

For this trip, I am weighed down with a digital camera with spare battery and charger; a cellphone with spare battery and charger; tape recorder, tapes, and notebooks; and a laptop.

I look like a sherpa...  a sherpa from The Matrix.

The first thing I notice about this year’s crop of candidates is that they have a healthy appetite. I had invited myself along to their brunch hosted by the Woman’s Club and held at a local hotel. (We ate at the mayor’s house when I was a candidate, but I decide it might seem... smug to point that out.)

The girls are encouraged to “go on and get your pictures made now, in case you spill something on yourself like Miss June over here.”

I was happy to see them come away from the buffet with their plates groaning under the weight of bacon and eggs and sausage and biscuits and gravy.

The president of the woman’s club, Lib Fore (former proprietor of Jack’s Market) is glad too, confiding conspiratorially, “one year they didn’t even eat enough to pay for it.”

I resist the maternal urge to tell them to wash their faces because they’re too pretty to need all that makeup. Because the other thing that strikes me —as I scan their applications and do the math — is that they were not even born the year I was in the pageant. And if I’d been a little more ... precocious... any one of them could be my daughter.

I feel very middle-aged.

I wonder if they’ve even heard of any of the characters who populated the national consciousness when I was 17 — names like... Madonna... Michael Jackson... Tom Cruise.... George Bush.

Sigh. It’s a different world.

They’ve filled out questionnaires — the same way we did — answering questions like, “what do you feel is the most pressing issue facing southern  women today?” To a girl almost, they’ve answered with some variation on this succinct response, “Southern women don’t have enough confidence or ambition to stay in school, to go on to college and get a life, rather than get married and start having children in their teens.”

Almost all of them mention the dearth of jobs awaiting the girls who do go on to school and then try to come home — only to find that most of the opportunities for women are vo-tech or service sector (nurses and bank tellers and fast food servers can usually get a gig, for example), but high-paying professional options are still limited. (Though most of them assure me they will be back.)

So the more things change, the more they stay the same.

The night of this year’s coronation, the emcee promises an evening that includes everything from “pop to country to ... interpretive dance.” I sense that I’m not the only adult shifting uncomfortably at that last item. The upcoming carnival is announced (Tuesday you can ride all night for 10 dollars). Wednesday is a gospel sing. Mitch Ryder will do a concert the following weekend, along with the guy who wrote “Flowers on the Wall” (a song “made popular by the Statler Brothers,” as the emcee reminds us — but I’m thinking my friends would only remember it because it’s on the Pulp Fiction soundtrack).

The 1999 queen takes the stage, and this year’s candidates are introduced, as “American Woman” plays on the sound system. The theme of the pageant is “American Beauties” (hopefully a reference to the roses, and not the movie — which would really be tragically ironic as pageant themes go). 

The “big production number” has changed considerably. The girls are in capri pants and pastel tops, and they do a spirited little set of kicks and aerobicizing to Mellencamp’s “R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A.” which (even though it’s over a decade old) was terribly contemporary compared to the number we did.

Although almost no photographic evidence from my pageant survived the fire when our house burned down my sophomore year in college, at one point, there was a Super 8 recording of my own blush-inducing role in “Waiting for the Robert E. Lee.”

First: we wore black leotards, black tights, and black bowler hats — accessorized by a neon green garter, waistband, hatband, and a tambourine.

“Way down on the levee in old Alabamy/There’s daddy and mammy, there’s Ephraim and Sammy/ While they are waitin’ the banjos are syncopatin’/ What’s that they’re sayin’?/...While they keep playin’ they’re hummin’ and swayin’./ It’s the good ship Robert E. Lee that’s come to carry the cotton away.”

Second, as we wound up to the big finale — shuffle, shuffle, step step, step-ball-change, Charleston, and HALLELUJAH HAND — they turned off all the lights and illuminated the stage with a black light, so we looked like a bunch of invisible, yet disembodied, dancers in a minstrel show.

“See them shufflin’ along./Go take your best gal, real pal, go down to the levee, I said to the levee/ And join that shufflin’ throng, hear that music and song./ It’s simply great, mate, waitin’ on the levee, waitin’ for the Robert E. Leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

This year’s program also includes an actual on-stage “swimsuit competition.”

I have to confess I feel vaguely uncomfortable watching a group of teenage girls parade around in their tankinis (they are allowed to wear two-pieces this year, a rather scandalous new development that the organizers seem a little unsure of) — as the emcee says things like, “Miss So and So plans to major in molecular biology as part of her pre-med curriculum.”

When I competed, we actually attended a “pool party”with the judges — thereby affording us a nominal pretense as to why we would be standing around on any summer afternoon in swimsuits and stiletto pumps.

Now, it should be pointed out that none of us had any intention of going in the water. And there wasn’t one girl among us who’d have dreamed of getting her carefully coiffed, Aqua-netted hair wet. But the illusion — the excuse — for the swimwear somehow provided the chimera of seemliness that the stage does not.

I am told this year’s parade route will be just like mine was — proceeding down Main and back up Kentucky. Only this year, the organizers have scheduled all the pageant events and the coronation the week prior to the festival, so the Queen’s car will be labeled, and she’ll get to —in effect — reign over the festival week, as well as the parade.

It’s a good theory, but I’m not sure I would’ve shown up for the parade if I’d already known I had zero shot at the title.

It was traumatic enough as it was.

I had managed to secure the loan of a restored El Dorado Cadillac convertible that belonged to my friend Casey’s father. The rumor was that it had been owned, at one time, by FDR. But I can’t confirm that. I do know it was the dreamiest — candy-apple red with a white leather interior and it perfectly matched my giant white ballgown with red piping.

Mr. Taylor agreed to drive it, with the proviso that his two little boys be allowed to ride in the backseat, more or less underneath my copious skirts where no one would see them. I was extremely unhappy about that last proposition, but wasn’t about to look a gift Caddy in the mouth — and their presence ended up being fortuitous anyway.

As it turned out, the car’s mint-condition appearance was pretty much confined to cosmetics, and not the engine, which stalled repeatedly while we waited for our place in the queue on Falls Highway.

By the time we had turned onto Main, and the parade route proper, Mr. Taylor had figured out a way to simultaneously pop the clutch and gun the engine so that the car would lurch forward, a few feet at a time. At which point, gravity and the car’s forward motion would propel me backwards, plastering me, face up, onto the trunk. The only thing that kept me from sliding off the back was the hearty instructions Mr. Taylor boomed to his sons, “HANG ON TO HER BOYS! WE’RE MOVIN’!” and they’d each grab a leg as we jerked and sputtered our way down Main.

I never had a legitimate shot at Miss Congeniality anyway, but I’m pretty sure the stream of obscenities this chain of events provoked on my part probably didn’t help my chances any.

My face still gets kind of warm from the memory as the girls are winding up for the final high kicks of their dance.

The production number is followed by an intermission. Then the candidates have to get through an evening gown competition, and the crowd has to get through some more “entertainment,” before the coronation can commence, and the 1999 winner can hand over her crown and title to this year’s winner.

As I’m packing up my gear, it dawns on me how tiny the high school auditorium really is. I doubt it seats more than a few hundred people, and it’s not even full.

From the stage though, I know from experience it looks as big as Madison Square Garden.

And for those of you who said I’d never amount to anything? Good call.

—Jon Stewart

Driving north on I-75 at the end of the evening, I turn off the air conditioning and roll down my windows, letting the muggy August air pour into the truck cab.

I reach into the white sack I’ve stowed in the console and pull out a neatly-wrapped, warm package. There are traces of orange around the edges of the waxed paper where the grease has soaked through.

I unwrap it carefully, and stow the paper back in the bag, relieved that the seats are leather and I won’t be able to make too much of a mess. I have rules against eating in my car, but I make this one-time exception.

I demolish about half of the (first) bun in one bite— the perfect bite of chili, sharp mustard, soft white Rainbo bun, and pungent minced white onion, followed by a long cold swallow of root beer.

I find exactly the right Alejandro Escovedo CD to keep me awake and keep me company.

In a few hours, I’ll be back in my little kitchen dicing six pounds of tomatoes for the gallon of homemade gazpacho that I’ve promised to contribute to a dinner party the next evening.

By the time I get to that party, I’ll be back among my friends — friends who probably can’t imagine me wearing four-inch stilettos with a swimsuit. I doubt they’d believe I ever danced to the ‘Robert E. Lee.’ And I probably don’t strike them as the type of girl who would’ve spent her entire childhood dreaming about riding in a parade in the back of a shiny red convertible.

But I did.

I had forgotten it all myself. Forgotten that there was another muggy August evening about 17 years ago when all this mattered, and mattered desperately.

And I miss the excitement and passion and sense of relentless, breathless anticipation I felt that summer — as if something important might happen at any minute.

Maybe something great.

--sidebar from the column--

MISS AMERICA 1995

"Accidentally leaving the pricetag on your breasts." That's one of Letterman's top ten ways to get disqualified from the Miss America pageant. Another is "when asked about hobbies, reply 'rich, elderly men.'"

As usual, Dave has the right idea here-which is not to take any of this too seriously-unlike the rest of the free world, which seems to have gotten its collective panties into quite a bunch over this whole swimsuit hoo-ha. Why, it's as if physical attractiveness actually had something to do with the pageant's outcome! Say it ain't so!

They can call it a scholarship contest all they want, that don't make it rocket science. The pageant is, after all, an evaluation of physical, feminine beauty-which is, as we know, only skin deep, so why not evaluate as much surface area as possible? I'm not saying it's right, I'm saying there's a market for it. The participants involved volunteer, they aren't drafted. And unlike more obvious forms of prostitution, it's all perfectly legal.

So I ask you, just how coy is this nation going to get? What's next? An outcry from the prize 4-H heifers at the county fair about weight requirements?

Now I can hardly hear myself think over all the meowing and hissing in the background, so let me go ahead and make a confession right now (before someone from my hometown beats me to it): I was actually in a high school beauty pageant. That's another column entirely, but let's just say I don't think it will come as a surprise to anyone that I didn't get many votes for Miss Congeniality.

Nor did I win the talent competition. The things I was good at weren't necessarily anything I could show off for the judges. Although my then-boyfriend helpfully suggested that I ought to have tried sword swallowing.

If they'd had a category for irony, I might have had a shot at some points, but they didn't, so I went home with some lovely parting gifts instead. I've since managed to piece together the crumbled shards of my ego and get on with my life-but feel free to judge my ranting as mere sour grapes.

I didn't realize just how badly the pageantry circuit had deteriorated until we tuned into this year's spectacle in anticipation of the big swimsuit vote (cast, appropriately enough, by phoning a 900 number).

Apparently, the only acceptable "talent" (and I use the term loosely) is singing and/or playing piano. We longed for the days of baton twirlers, trampoline tumblers, or even a really cheesy "dramatic monologue." If they'd had a phone-in for that, Hoss was going to cast his vote for the "interrogation scene from Basic Instinct."

Mostly we entertained ourselves (while waiting for the swimsuit votes to be calculated) by proposing alternative talents for the candidates-ones we'd actually like to see. Perhaps a thematic approach where Miss Louisiana could come out and shuck oysters, Miss Kentucky could strip tobacco, or Miss Arkansas could blow the governor.

What we really wanted to see eliminated though, much more than the swimsuits, was that big production number. Not wanting to send the audience home unsatisfied, we propose replacing it with something else. Like, oh I don't know...maybe strapping Miss Congeniality to a big rotating wheel and allowing blindfolded semifinalists to throw knives at her. Now THAT'S what I call talent.

I think for me, the most excruciating portion of the evening was Regis's interviews with the contestants in which they announce their "platforms." That's where, in anticipation of a year of important speaking engagements (at state dinners, mall openings, and the like) the show ponies get to expound on issues of importance to them-such as split ends, exfoliation, and silicone. No, just kidding...that would've been great though, wouldn't it? In reality, this year's issues du jour included snoozers like sexual abstinence (for) and juvenile crime (against).

As much as I kid the show, it really was good cheap entertainment (which probably isn't the first time that's been said about some of those contestants). And there's just nothing more romantic than a man who turns to you at the end of an evening of Miss America watching and says, "Honey, I know your platform would have been much better than those girls'." Romance that is in no way diminished by the fact that he's just trying to get you to dust off your old sword swallowing act.

Archives. May 24, 2001. Boys. Meat. Grill.

ARCHIVES. COLUMN MAY 24, 2001

BOYS. MEAT. GRILL.

It's been a long time since I've been to a dinner party where the lack of ketchup was the biggest problem to be solved.

I hate to be sexist, but sometimes this is what happens when you leave the menu to men in their late 20s.

But I was just so relieved not to be THROWING last weekend's cookout, that if they'd put an elk knuckle in front of me, I'd have eaten it, and been glad to get it.

In fact, I pretty much weep with gratitude when someone says, "HERE's what we're doing this weekend," as opposed to "WHAT are we doing this weekend?" (Of course, that means you have to live with the consequences, and not bitch about it.)

I offered to help (and included an array of items I could provide), but quickly got an email back saying, "Whoa there little filly!! Cookouts are for the menfolk!"

Hmmmm.


I was dubious.

I've relaxed my standards a lot. But I still think a good party should LOOK easy. A good hostess should be able to breeze in with a tray or two of crab puffs, drape herself across the closest male companion, sip a martini, and be prepared to gracefully greet the guests within five minutes of the party's designated commencement.

A good social gathering should be what Bird is to jazz, what Pollock is to painting. Everyone should THINK "Hey, I could do that." And they should be wrong.

It's why I haven't personally enjoyed most of the big parties we've hosted this year - because I think once you've engaged the teamsters, the ATF, the ABC, and security - and you have ordered a sorority girl intern onto her hands and knees to scrub a urinal in a Banana Republic sundress, your guests have a pretty good idea that some EFFORT has been expended on their behalf, and their expectations are UP.

It definitely comes to no surprise to anyone who's ever been to one of my parties that I am NOT the gracious hostess I aspire to be. As the guests arrive, I'm usually the one with an amp under one arm, a case of bourbon under the other, while I bark obscenities into two cellphones.

So I was justifiably excited by the idea of going to someone ELSE's house and eating food THEY had prepared.

I wasn't stupid though.

I brought my own provisions (some nice boursin herb spread and Bremner wafers), and I knew Ouisie had picked up some Parrano cheese and French bread. At least we wouldn't starve.

And there our pathetic little offerings sat....in the middle of the coffee table, surrounded by what looked to be the slaughtered carcasses of a corral full of livestock.

The first course? Big hunks of charred andouille sausage with barbecue sauce.

Pretty soon the second course was ready to come off the grill: barbecued chicken.

"How're we going to serve this honey?" was the hostess's question to the host.

His answer "uhhhhh, on buns?"

The only green in sight was the grass under the grill (which didn't stay that color for long), and the closest thing to vegetation at all was.... coleslaw. (Which reminds me of a suburban seafood restaurant I recently went to with my friends Greg and Lesli - where apparently the trend is to EMBED a bucket in the middle of the table? I was mystified. Is it for the convenience of bulimic diners? Or is it there for a demographic survey - just toss in whatever you find objectionable and they'll adjust the menu accordingly?)

Anyway.

This being a gathering run by straight men, by the time we GOT to said second course, we WOMENfolk realized that it had somehow escaped everyone's notice that we might be, at some point, in need of.... utensils.... plates even.

I offered to 1. run to the grocery for picnic products, or 2. go back to my house and pick up my service-for-16 fiestaware, but eventually we scrambled together enough to get by. I, for example, dined on the special "collectors' edition" of Hercules plates. I think the sportwriters took all the Little Mermaid series before I could get to the table. (I asked the hostess if we could register for these at McDonald's prior to her upcoming nuptials.... which she did not seem to think was funny.)

The fourth course - dessert - was brought by a late arrival, who showed up carrying two six-packs of bratwursts under his arm.

(Later on, we had cupcakes, but I can't be sure they weren't stuffed with veal.)

We're having another cookout this Sunday, and I've learned my culinary lesson here. (For one thing, eat a late lunch.)

If it ain't on a stick, they probably ain't gonna eat it.

I'm making gazpach-sicles.

Archives. May 17, 2001. The BIRDS.

COLUMN FROM MAY 17, 2001.

THE BIRDS


Last night, I was working late, standing by the copier when I look up and see a Chow-Chow  running loose (but wearing a collar, making my odds at a rescue at least 50-50).

I (naturally) go running out into traffic to try to keep him from meeting a messy fate.

I should also mention that I'm wearing a little tobacco-colored AnnTaylor shift, pearls, and three-inch heels.
(The story's OK if you DON'T know what I was wearing, but it's better if you've got an image you can work with.)

At some point, it occurs to me that this is not safe or responsible behavior.

And this is around the time I start getting a LOT of heavy commentary from 1. guys in lowriders; 2. guys listening to rap music with blacked out windows (I couldn't catch all the lyrics, but I think they went something like this: "@#$% #@$% %$!! #$%&"): 3. drunks shuffling past (because it WAS cocktail hour), and 4. rednecks with Confederate flags in their trucks.


At almost all times, I am within sight of our building - but I somehow dimly realize it would take all of 4.3 seconds for any one of these guys to drag me into a car and flee the jurisdiction. (Plus I can see my coworkers already have their hands full with the schizophrenic who's screaming into the imaginary cellphone. They're probably going to be of limited assistance. Plus, unlike me, they are pacifists.)

I wonder briefly if I really have what it takes to slip off my sandal, plunge the heel into a guy's eye socket, withdraw it, slip it back on, and continue on my canine rescue mission of mercy without breaking stride. (I decide I do.)

Then I wonder where the hooker is who usually cruises the nearby bustop? I wonder if she'll think maybe I'm crowding her corner?

Ultimately, I gave up the chase, recognizing 1. its futility, and 2. an incipient cramp in my left thigh.

I'm tired. I'm hot. I'm sweaty. I'm despondent - because I haven't even achieved my goal which was to get the dog back to his owner (who is PROBABLY a drug dealer, not that I'm stereotyping).

I dejectedly head to the back of the building to burn a little more midnight oil. As I climb the stairs, I hear a commotion from the west wing.

Of course the place is deserted. The security system is off. And the building has been unlocked the entire time I've been chasing the dog.

Naturally, I do what they do in EVERY horror movie - which is to stride forth and recklessly OPEN the door to my office.

The source of the ruckus? (Ominous music would be good here.)

A roomful of BIRDS.

STRAIGHT out of Hitchcock.

I was, as you might guess, taken aback (i.e., I slammed the door, screamed, and went running up and down the halls EXACTLY like a cartoon character).

Of course my cellphone was trapped in my office (with the birds) and I no longer know any phone numbers by heart.


So I just (very sanely) decide to go door to door, up and down our street until I could find someone who'd help me.

That didn't go too well. Probably, (and here I'm guessing), because I'm imagining people heard me screaming and banging on their doors with both fists, and quickly and logically decided they wanted NO part of whatever was on the other side of THAT. ("Sell crazy somewhere else Sister," is most likely what they were thinking.)

Luckily, our neighbor (and good Samaritan), the appropriately named Carleton Wing was A. home, and B. willing to answer the door. Not only that, he was COMPLETELY nonplussed. Almost as if Tippi Hedrin pounds his door down everyday.

He told Ginger (his dog) he'd be right back. He walked into my office (whereupon I dramatically slammed the door and braced myself against it - as if he was going to TRY to escape, like in Young Frankenstein), and within minutes, had it calmly and peacefully cleared of all wildlife. I was imagining a scene right out of Snow White.

The staff has been busy speculating all day how I COULD have otherwise resolved this scenario (if Carleton hadn't been home), the most popular being the one where I SHOT the birds.

After dispatching them, I would've paged Gary (we call him the Wolf, but he's really our cleaning guy) whose first question would've been, "what time's your staff gettin' there? 30 minutes? Be there in 7," as we cut to a shot of him squealing up out front on two tires.

The next thing I could picture is him and his crew patiently cleaning all the gore off my walls, rolling their eyes, and musing aloud, with their usual long-suffering sighs of goodnatured resignation, "I'm not EVEN gonna ask how THIS happened."

From the Archives: Aug 5 2004, Martha Stewart's paint

This is "Howard" from Ralph Lauren's "urban loft" series.

I have a long relationship with paint.  I usually select palettes that range from what some have called "ambitious" to what others have called "brave," in a tone that's clear they don't mean it as a compliment. I tend to use Ralph Lauren and MarthaStewart for color inspiration, maybe a little Farrow & Ball, but I am a diehard old-fashioned Porter girl when it comes to what goes on the walls. I am not afraid to paint, and I'm not afraid to repaint if it doesn't turn out. (See also: my current dining room. Right finish, wrong color.)

In the ongoing quest to re-populate the lost archives, I ran across this today.

FROM THE ARCHIVES: August 5, 2004

A Good Thing

 "Her kitchen is dense with Stewart touches: 48 gleaming copper pots hang above the stove, hundreds of antique dishes fill the glass-fronted cabinets, and the dishwashing liquid is decanted into a glass cruet beside the sink. Still, I said, it’s a pretty small room to produce much food. Not to worry, she replied, smiling. ‘I have 18 burners in an annex out back.’

—Jeffrey Toobin’s New Yorker interview with Martha Stewart February 3, 2003

Just because she's headed to the big house, doesn't mean Martha Stewart’s influence is really going anywhere—a rude awakening that I’ve come to in the weeks post-sentencing—a realization that I’ll never really be free of the standards she's set. She'll be back. Mark my words. And she will crush everyone who crossed her.


This first came up when I started getting my house ready for my Mom to move in as my roommate for a few months here, a few months there while she undergoes medical treatment nearby—treatment we all frequently refer to as “rehab”—which has had the unforeseen effect of lots of people thinking my mother has substance abuse issues (which she obviously doesn’t, because God knows if she did, I’d have written about them long before now).

So when the facelift at the house started, it was pretty easy to attribute all this renewed zeal for home and hearth to the impending arrival of my mother—whose standards for keeping an impeccable house far exceed my own.

But while there’s no denying she is the very epitome of the charming, southern, Episcopalian hostess (at least that’s the Mom everybody knows NOW, refusing to sympathize even remotely with the incredibly CRUEL version of her that I remember from childhood—the one who repeatedly sent me to bed without Chico and the Man for the most MINOR infractions)—I must finally acknowledge that it was the spectre of something far more insidious that has long since permeated my house.


I came to this conclusion when I recently painted my kitchen (after having my new upstairs bedroom painted…three times, along with the dining room).

After the bedroom and dining room, I discovered that the kitchen (formerly a charming periwinkle) now clashed with the ENTIRE house.

I had screwed up the first two color selections so badly that I realized it was time to just admit the obvious and go to theMartha Stewartcolor palette. C’mon. It’s a kitchen.

It isn’t as easy as it sounds because there were roughly 8172 colors to choose from (color number 8172 is, by the way, “buttercup” if you’re interested.

I narrowed the field to Lawn Frost, Fen, and Rubbed Sage.

I toyed with Gull, Sourdough, and Otter Point—but honestly, they were just out of my league.
I am not the kinda woman who can pull off “Gull…” It’s the sort of subtle (yet slightly breathtaking) shade that—upon one look—would have visitors muttering under their breath, “Who the hell does she think she’s kidding?”

Overcome with an uncharacteristic insecurity, I solicited reams of advice—making it very clear that I wanted “discernibly green, but subtle.” I was adamant after the first version of the bedroom turned out to be “Vietnam,” despite its pleasant sounding label of “hearth.”

A committee of close friends and advisors agreed on Lawn Frost.


Next up, I had to find a painter—because frankly, I was too embarrassed to call the first crew back.

After asking around, there was a consensus that “Jimmy” worked fast and cheap (I think that’s his real name, but if he has a last one, I don’t know it). He’s not in the phone book or anything. You just have to leave a message with his brother-in-law. Hey, I was desperate (what with the clashing periwinkle and all).

So Jimmy arrived at the appointed time and I headed out to Farmers’ Market to give him some time and space.

I interrupted him briefly, later on, to put away some produce—whereupon he asked, appropos of nothing in particular (or so I thought), “you don’t care if I’m a beer drinker do you?”

I responded with a generous "No, of course not," thinking it a largely rhetorical/theoretical question.
To be honest, I detest it, and while I don’t personally drink it, if I developed any real moral objection to beer, my social circle would dwindle to even smaller ranks.

And then I went about the rest of my Saturday chores—without a single debate on the merits of say, foreign vs. domestic (or even cans vs. bottles), because this is just one area of taste where I really couldn’t care less.

It was only when I went to empty the trash and noticed an inordinate amount of clanking aluminum that I realized his question had been logistical, rather than theoretical, as I sorted an astonishing surfeit of empty Keystone cans into the recycler.

And so here’s the thing—something I really should’ve learned after multiple, painful, expensive, heart-wrenching lessons—contractors don’t really deal in the “hypothetical.” They tend to require excruciating degrees of specificity.

Instead of saying I had no objection to beer, it would’ve been prudent to follow that up with a disclaimer about how I think it’s an ill-advised beverage to consume when trying to complete most ANY task. (And here I’m trying not to be rigid. I’m trying to give folks the benefit of the doubt… but …. No, I can’t think of any job performance that would be improved by the consumption of beer. Particularly none that are scheduled for TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING.)

In the end, it didn’t matter.

Aside from paint all over the flooring (which needs to be replaced anyway—at least that’s the philosophical, zen-like response I’m going for), the quality of the work turned out to be irrelevant.

Because “lawn frost” is actually “off-white” once you get it on the walls.

True, it’s not as bad as periwinkle, but it’s sure as hell no “Gull” either.

I’m now debating Fen versus Rubbed Sage, and in the meantime, just trying to stay out of the kitchen.

It’s just as well, after I completely WRECKED the last meal I made.

After spending an ungodly amount of time picking a selection of the 13 varieties of basil I grow in my kitchen garden to make the perfect pesto (a passé 80s trend that’s happily making a culinary comeback—it’s the new black), the entire dish was RUINED when I couldn’t find handmade fresh pasta and settled for some equally over-priced, annoyingly precocious brand that was supposed to be just as good.

Well. It wasn’t. It had all the taste and consistency of library paste (not that I was a kid who ate that stuff, but I heard the reviews).

Not content to suffer alone, I complained endlessly, ensuring that my Insignificant Other couldn’t enjoy his meal either —despite the fact that he generally has the palate of a 13-year-old and would likely eat anything I put in front of him, in peace, up to and including the aforementioned paste. (Since he lives out of town—where NO one cooks—and travels constantly for work, anything above truckstop fare gets a rave review from him.)

And the thing is, neither of us even really LIKES pasta, but based on the handful of occasions a year that I serve it, I still impetuously concluded that a pasta-maker would have to be purchased and lessons taken.

Then I spent the rest of the evening banging around in the kitchen, taking out my rage on cleanup and the dishes (which are most definitely HIS jobs).

Nobody’s gettin’ leftovers either.
Reviewing the debacle, it’s clear that there’s only one person to blame and that’s Martha Stewart—because while I was raised by two great cooks with perfectionistic tendencies, NEITHER of them taught me that there’s any dish that would necessitate 13 varieties of basil. We certainly didn’t have a “kitchen garden,” we had a FIELD. It definitely wasn’t “staffed”—it was a weed-infested, chigger-ridden corner of hell that served as the bane of mine and my brother’s existence.

And if you asked any of the actual farmers in my lineage to distinguish between lawn frost and rubbed sage, their response would most certainly include some unenlightened aspersions about homosexuality.

--August 5, 2004. Archive.

Archives. October 18, 2001. Tight Ends

I posted a blog during the last basketball season called The Agony of Defeat not remembering that I'd written a column with the same headline (subtitled "Now That's what I call a Tight End") about a decade ago. This was one in a long series of columns about Mr. Impressive, most of which weren't recoverable in the  wreckage. It was this particular game -- and heartbreaking loss -- that became the inspiration for the Lucky Halftime Ritual.

October 2001

Tight Ends

"...life's just a game of inches. And so is football."

-Any Given Sunday

It's the rare week that our sports columnist calls in sick but I told him I had it covered.
I could sense him cringing on the other end of the line, but I assured him I had actually attended this weekend's football game and had, in fact, already planned to write about it. He remains dubious. (As well he should.)

I have had many heated exchanges since then, relating to the absolute state of fury I've been experiencing, ever since the fourth quarter.

As my friend Lee noted, somebody, "audibled a pass play on the line because he thought there were eight in the box when in reality they were just in their standard 4-3," but he insists that it was good to be IN the game.
And in response to my complaint that we should never have tried to run the clock out (and shut down our offense) with eight ETERNAL minutes to go, I received this insightful response: "the 3rd down you are referring to came with about 3:45 in the final quarter, when we needed one yard for a first down (which likely would have sealed the game - or come close). We passed, instead of running the ball."

But really, who am I kidding?

Acknowledging the fact that I'm not qualified to cover last weekend's activities from an athletic perspective - I can really only judge it on its merits as a date.

First off, there's "tailgating." (OK...Turns out he had something entirely different in mind than I thought he did, but don't get me wrong, his menu was superb.)

Wardrobe was the next challenge. I do have excellent running shoes, but since I was not planning to A. run, or B. wear sweats (though I've since discovered that "track suits" are the outfit of choice at many stadiums), I thought (misguidedly) that they'd be out of place.

The hike to the stadium in my inappropriate shoes was blessedly brief, followed by a moderate climb to our seats. Most of the time, I had my fellow sports fan's hand in a death grip, because I knew if we got separated and my cellphone died, I would still be there. Irreparably lost.

The problem is, he's roughly twice my size (and in perfect shape), so this was no romantic stroll in the moonlight that I'm describing.

I'd say it's more like hopping onto a skateboard and grabbing the back of a semi until you're dragged to your inevitable, yet merciful, death.

At the top of the stairs, he solicitously stopped to ask, "can I get you anything?"

To which, I could barely gasp out, "fast-acting inhaler."

I was trying to catch my breath and walk off a charley horse, but other than that, I was fine.

Then we get to our seats. If you could call them that.

They are actually numeric decals glued to an aluminum bench.

They are glued there with absolutely ZERO regard for this country's national epidemic of obesity, so thanks to our oversize neighbors, I had to spend most of the game practically in his lap (not a hardship... for me).
The first half was, by anybody's standards, a yawn - affording me some much needed spare time to text.

It also gave me time to contemplate a phenomenon I vaguely remember from psych class about "identification" and how impotency goes up (so to speak - because nothing else does) in towns with losing sports teams.

Apparently, when the team wilts, so does the citizenry.

It was around this point that I became suddenly interested in a victory.

By the beginning of the second quarter, I was in abject fear that nobody was gonna be dialin' zero on the pink telephone that night.

By halftime, I was all but sobbing openly.

Against all odds, we stayed.

I prayed... I grew increasingly impatient with the flaccid offense.

Then, miraculously, we rallied.

I grew hopeful. I was on my feet, screaming at the officials, like the rest of the real fans (with admittedly more selfish motivation).

Then we choked.

I was despondent.

Fortunately, Mr. Impressive remained remarkably... sanguine about our defeat. And I do mean remarkably. Over and over.

I'm not getting cocky though. I never thought I'd say this, but, Thank GOD for basketball season, where we have a better shot.

I just have to see if Prada makes a blue track suit (to match the paw I plan to paint on my face).

Archives. August 2002. Scrubbing Bubbles

After this came out in print, I got a lot of helpful reader-emails identifying the mutant of this August 2002 column as the "Humpback" or "Urban Camel" cricket. Consider this one of the many, many "prequels" to Chekhov's Spider


Scrubbing Bubbles
(August 2002)

“Am I intolerant, Gabe?!! Am I?”
"Oh.
Am I supposed to answer that?"
—Andie McDowell and Dennis Quaid in Dinner with Friends


I hate it when guys use feminism as an excuse not to kill bugs for you. (I’ll accept pacifism, as long as they peaceably remove the bug to a suitable distance.)

It’s not that I can’t kill a bug. I don’t even bear them any real animosity as long as they stay outside, but once they come in the house, all bets are off. And if there’s anyone else around (male or female, I don't discriminate) it’s a job I’d just as soon delegate.

It’s not bugs per se, it’s spiders that I can’t take.

More specifically than that though, there is this particular mutant species of insect-arachnid that I’ve been seeing around my house for about the last two years… ever since I quit drinkin’ (ohhhh just kidding).

I don’t know what they are, but they look and act like a cross between a cricket and a spider.

The way I used to handle them -- if I was alone, was to throw phone books on them (from as far away as possible), and then have whomever I was dating at the time remove all remains whenever they got home.

The thing is, the bugs seem to be catching on to this (hiding out on the weekends, when menfolk in size 12 shoes [minimum] can be found sunning themselves on the veranda, sipping iced tea with mint and lemon balm…and skittering out during the week to terrorize me…the bugs, that is, not the menfolk).

Keeping to my usual insomniac’s schedule, I was up late last night reading, and wandered into the bathroom around 3 a.m.and flipped on the light.

That’s when I was confronted by one of these creatures,only this one was of the scope and variety not normally seen outside a Night Gallery rerun (specifically, the one where Patrick O’Neal is a phobic food critic who gets trapped by an ex-girlfriend in a room with a spider the size of a German Shepherd).

There was no one I could call at that hour.  I had to stay and fight it out.

I’m not proud to say this, but I do have a can of highly toxic insecticide. I keep it on hand for two emergencies: spiders and bees (only because I’m phobic, and allergic, respectively).

I’d like to say I eliminated this possibility because my ecological conscience would prohibit me from releasing a toxic mushroom cloud into the air—probably mutating my own chromosomes and those of the neighbors in the process—just to dispatch one stupid bug.
But that wasn’t it at all.
I’d have cheerfully detonated a nuclear missile if I’d had one.
The problem was, the can lives in one of the bathroom cabinets, and I’d have had to pass by my opponent to get to it.

Blunt force trauma was the only way to go.

I picked up a book on shade gardening from the hall table, and advanced into the room a few inches. I then heaved it as hard as I could, and retreated for a survey of the damage. A glancing blow at best. And that’s being charitable.

The thing nimbly leaped a little closer (drawing on his cricket genes I guess, which gave me a moment’s pause, because it IS bad luck to kill crickets, but a cricket that looks like it has EIGHT legs is clearly askin’ for it… the wily bastard).
Time to regroup.
The shade garden book seemed suitably heavy (very thick),  but it was also narrow. What I needed was something with more surface area.

I’m out of phone books (used ‘em all up in the last invasion).

And this month’s Vogue and InStyle had already gone on to new homes (as I responsibly recycle them among my friends).
I was back to my chemical weapons arsenal.

Of course, like most homeowners, I keep the vast majority of my small array of toxic poisons under the kitchen sink (where they can seep into both the water and food supply). I ruled out both Windex and Glass Plus as inadequate to the task, along with Pledge (I didn’t care if he was clean, or lemon-fresh, with or without waxy buildup).
Ultimately, it was a two-pronged attack that did the job.
From across the room, I was able to safely launch a steady spray of Dow Scrubbing Bubbles. And, as expected, the foam incapacitated him -- giving me just enough time to scamper in and drop the new issue of GQ on him (loaned to me earlier by my pal Anthony, because of this month’s coverage of Chris Rock, wilderness avenger Doug Peacock [one-time running mate of Ed Abbey], and Tom Waits).

This was NOT a willing sacrifice … but I got another one the next day... only to read, on the last page, the “top 56 signs that your new girlfriend may be trouble,” and realize that I’m guilty of six of these traits, including, but not limited to: “owns a mastiff” and “calls all guys by their last name.” The others are more incriminating, and best left for another time.

Archives. October 2008. Strangers with Candy

This week, I'm fishing old columns out of the tech wreckage and posting them here. This column, Strangers with Candy, October 2008, was slated for the Ambien Walrus Chapter.

Strangers With Candy
So all I’ve been doing is I cook and I clean, and I entertain at my house a lot.

—Amy Sedaris

I woke up to a trail of Snicker wrappers leading from my bedroom to my kitchen this morning, and a vague sense ofcuriosity surrounding the realization, “Heyyyy, I don’t eat Snickers.”

But apparently, I do.I eat them after I take Ambien (half ofone, to be precise).
If a gentleman caller drops a bag off for me. As ordered.
Ambien is famous for inducing shortterm memory loss (mine in particular is well documented), so it will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that the entire evening can only be reconstructed via a series of text messages.

I do remember I had company for dinner (a different story entirely), and after that I hopped into the shower, and then into my pajamas. I didn’t dry my hair. I didn’t comb myhair. I was in for the night. Shiny and pink and happy and ready for bed.

Then, if you believe the blackberry log, a text came in at 10:24 from a very, very newguy (a couple sweet dates; no funny business; we barely know each other). It said, “I’m in your neighborhood.”

Now, I should point out, how very very nice he is, because otherwise, that might sound like stalker-text. He’s a fine upstanding corporate attorney (maybe I should reiterate the nice part). He’s a smart guy, not a bad boy. Before our first date, he gave me homework, sending me a NYT Michael Pollan article (48 screens on the blackberry, but it was excellent).

He wasn’t dangerous. He’d had dinner at my place the weekend before (nothing was damaged or taken, and he’d brought along bread, booze, homemade cookies, andpretty pink flowers—making me entirely rethink whatever BRIEF infatuation I’d had for the LAST guy who never brought me so much as a rind of moldy Velveeta; I suspect he thought he was so hot, nice manners were beneath him—something we less-attractive mortals have to fall back on.)
Anyway, all I’m saying is: this wasn’t a booty call.

Probably, he was just checking in and making idle text conversation.

But the message I (inexplicably) sent back was: “What are you doing here? Do you have candy?”

I have no idea know WHY I said that. It doesn’t even make any sense when I read it. I definitely was not inviting a booty call. Though it could’ve been misconstrued as such. And probably would’ve held up in court. And I should probably pay more attention when dating lawyers.

I suspect my pharmaceutically-induced reasoning was: Candy sure sounded good.And if he was in the neighborhood already, he probably wouldn’t mind dropping some by.

Sure enough, he msg’d back that he was at the Starbucks around the corner and asked what kind of candy I’d like. I said he could surprise me.
Then I typed in: “approximately 11 minutes before the coma hits. I will go turn on the porch light for you.”

I can’t remember if he knew at that point that 10pm is Ambien-time, because it’s possible he thought the coma reference was just plain odd.

Within the required 11 minutes, I did manage to turn the porch light on and collapse on the sofa.
I also remember thinking Pajamas are not appropriate third or fourth date attire.
So.... I draped a sofa-throw over my head.
The important thing is: He definitely came through with the candy. It’s Halloween season, so he brought a couple bags, just for variety. (Turned out, he’d already left the Starbucks by the time I msg’d back, so I felt kinda bad I’d made him stop what he was doing and go shopping. That is, I would’ve felt bad. If I’d been conscious.)
From there, things only get blurrier.
Though I can report that no remuneration of any sort was exchanged for the candy. And that my pajamas definitely stayed on.
Another complication of Ambien is that it makes me compulsively, nonsensically chatty (yes, moreso than usual—and yes, I talk EVEN faster). I just don’t remember what I chat about. I have a vague stream-of-consciousness memory that involved FreeLevi.org, Johnny Cash, vasectomies(pro), high-fructose corn syrup (against), the new Keira Knightley movie, and Haagen Dazs’ new fleur de sel ice cream. (I was really hungry.

I also reminisced fondly about how one of my old colleagues (a drummer) had worked at our favorite neighborhood pub for years and how I would sometimes call him up at 11 at night and tell him I’d give him a hundred bucks if he’d bring me a BLT.(He would never take a hundred bucks; my house was right on his way home.

And that was before (as far as I know), before they even DISCOVERED Ambien.
Apparently, if you have bacon and an iPhone, you have a standing invitation at my house.

Surveying the Wreckage

Can you spare a few seconds to minimize my problems?

--Bruce Eric Kaplan

I heard from two of my favorite long-distance friends this week, Walter in Austin, and Elle in NYC, both of whom asked me what I'd been up to this summer -- and the only real answer I could give was Computer Crashes. It's extremely boring to write about, and to hear about, but starting in April, there's been nothing but one tech system collapse after another.

Since April, my entire life has been largely given over to an endless series of hardware, software, and web disasters -- some of it routine aging, and some of it old-school viruses. It's consumed more or less every minute of every day -- when I haven't been actively engaged in trying to find someone to fix it (an experience I liken to climbing a stairway that's falling out from under you as you grasp for the next step  -- I think that's an actual scene in The Money Pit) -- I've just been barely keeping the lid on a chronic low-grade fury. On the rare occasions I haven't been actively engaged in obsessive and failed problem-solving, I've still had this nagging pain at the back of my mind -- the feeling you get when you're sure you left a burner on, or lost your keys. I feel like that every minute of every day, and I have since April.

Somewhere in between all that, I moved, and I went to my day job everyday, and I got my parents to all their doctors' appointments, took in some stray dogs and kept them fed, had a couple mini-relationships, ate wonderful meals with my friends, and the usual routine daily stuff.

I read about a dozen books -- mostly in denial about the one I had planned to spend the summer writing  -- there's a line in one of them (I think it's All Over the Map), where the author reminds herself that she shouldn't be confusing consuming art (movies, books, etc) with making art.

I didn't need a reminder. Writing is the one creative thing I do, and the impulse to do it just dried up without a reliable means to preserve it. And nothing feels reliable. What I hate most in the world is A. being beholden to someone, and B. being forced to count on somebody else to fix something I can't. The physical realities of moving (no, I can't, in fact carry a sofa) was already enough to send my rainman into a spin, and the tech collapse just happened to coincide with it.

Every time I sit down at a keyboard, I become more or less reliant on the kindness of strangers. I know nothing about computers outside of the on/off button. When they die, they're dead until I can find someone to revive them. The same is true of websites. I can't code. I'm not a designer. I can barely take a picture and load it. I miss the days of IT departments and IT-guys at the other end of the line, 24/7. I am always at someone else's mercy. I am a dinosaur. The kids just a few years behind me grew up living online -- they can code and design and lay out in their sleep -- I grew up writing actual letters. On paper. Like an animal.

Today, I finally managed to cobble together what few resurrected files there are from the last ten years, and inventory them, to see where I stand. These are just the file names. Sometimes they correspond to that week's headline, sometimes they're just what I wrote to be able to find them later.

Here's what's left:
2002 May 2 In Style
2002 May 23 Adult Swim
2002 June6 Hot Property
2002 June 20 Waterloo
2002 July 18 My New Boyfriend
2002 Aug1.GoToTheMattresses
2002 Aug8. Pret a Porter
2002 Aug22 Guerilla Gardening
2002 Sep 12 Everything Must Go 
2002 Oct 17 An Awkward Age
2002 Holidays. The Gift of Porn.

2003 thru 2006 are blanks. Unrecoverable. I did write during those four years, but there's not much evidence of it.

The electronic trail picks back up slightly in 2007.
2007 Aug 8 Blackberry Adam
2007 Nov8 Travis Dies

That's it for 2007.

There's a slightly better record of 2008:
2008 March 20 craigslist
2008 Oct 30 RingToss
2008 Nov 13 Strangers with Candy
2008 Nov WuTang
2008 Dec 11 Sorority BreakIn
2008 Dec 18 Mom's Santas

2009 Feb 12 FosterRob
2009 March 26 The Bubble
2009 Apr 9 Colonoscopy
2009 Aug20 Funnelcake

2010 Feb 11 The Ghost of 94
2010 March 4 Mr. Edwards
2010 March 11 My First Car.

That's it.
That's all there is.
26 columns. In ten years. For 2009 and 2010 at least there's a blog version of a lot of what I've written, but those are not what I'd commit to print -- which comes an endless series of revisions later. The best line I remember from a college English class was Dr. Lucas quoting (I think) Hemingway, "It flows from no one's head in perfect form." Something like that. In the facebook/twitter/blog era, everyone "fancies themselves" a Writer, but hardly anybody fancies themselves an Editor. That's my day job though. I spend far more of my life editing than I do writing, and most of the blogs barely constitute a rough draft.

Somewhere in there is maybe a head start on a book, but there's definitely not a book. The last one was 14 chapters, comprised of 64 columns. In truth, it does NOT stand the test of time. And I had put a lot of work towards this one (originally due out in October 2010) being better -- or at least, better organized and less dated.

Most of that work is gone. Nobody's going to come in and push a few buttons and restore those archives or even the software that would read it, if it could be restored. What little could be saved has been saved. There are a few extra paper copies the Intern unearthed last Spring, but he barely made a dent. They're just ashes now, electronic rubble. Detritus.

Another book I read this summer is Meghan Daum's Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House. The title gives you the general gist (and I'll probably write more about it later). Miraculously, I still have a beat-up copy of her first novel, The Quality of Life Report -- and I say miraculously, not because it isn't good (it is) -- but because I probably read and reviewed a 100 books that year (2003), and of those, I kept maybe a half dozen. I've kept up with her work sporadically ever since, but started paying attention again when the new book came out, which is when I found  her site -- which mostly filled me with the white-hot rage of envy. Her work is neatly categorized -- there are her articles, her books, her blog. It's the site I'm angry I do not have. I don't know who I'm angry at, exactly, and that just makes me madder. Granted, she has the asset of having contributed to the meticulously-archived LA Times, but I worked for Village fucking Voice, so the truth is, I have no real excuse as to why my organizational and web skills never kept up with those of other writers working at roughly my age and volume. I had good mentors and trainers. Now I think, Life Would Be Perfect if I had that Site.

So I have spent a lot of this summer angry and frustrated. (That isn't new, by the way. I can see from those few 2002 columns it happened a lot more often then than now.) It's an endless game of whack-a-mole. One machine gets replaced, and then it's time for new software, which doesn't work with the old printer, which then has to be pitched because now they can't communicate on the new server anyway. Round and round.

Most of the time, this Spring notwithstanding, I'm a happy person -- occasionally undone, like everybody is, by too much work and not enough time to do it -- but generally content. I have a great life, populated by wonderful people, and even in a rare phase of misery like this one, I always know how lucky that makes me, and I always try to reserve a small corner of my shriveled, pissed-off little heart to be grateful for that. I am pretty sure this week's ulcer flare-up has more to do with barely-suppressed hate than it does with anything I ate. My BFF asked today if I'd noticed that my ankles are swelling -- I hadn't, but I imagine all those pools of rage had to go somewhere. I have noticed my face looks exactly like it did the summer I had to take steroids for an injury, only I'm not taking any. (It's so awful you get that sense that even good friends don't know what to say, because what they're thinking is, "I wonder if...she knows she looks like that...Should I maybe say something?" Or would the messenger just get killed.)  I know I haven't felt good, physically, since I moved, and I don't think it was the move that did it -- it was The Crash.

There will be a new book. Hopefully. It won't be this year though, and it'll probably be a lot different than the one I started out to write, and that may be a good or bad thing. By the time I finish it, it might be the sort of thing you buy on a microchip and plug into your left temple for all I know. We've established I'm not exactly at the tech vanguard.

I'll probably spend some time loading those 26 relics that do exist into a format people can see. I'll back them up a little more carefully, since they're all I have to show for the last ten years.

Over time -- with a new computer and some new software equal to the task -- I'll probably become more sanguine. My family home burned to the ground halfway through college, and while it was heartbreaking at the time, I don't really miss the access to all that overwrought adolescent poetry and would-be novels. 

This time out, I'm not rebuilding my house, or my life -- there's no real flood or fire -- I'm just missing the stories, the chronicles, the records. I'm sure they're around here somewhere.

On Page 13

I am still figuring out the difference between blogs and columns.

Do I write a blog, and turn it into a column? After I've heavily edited and rewritten a column, do I then kill the first-draft blog version posted here (which more or less happens in real time), and replace it with the print version? And don't EVEN get me started on micro-blogging (most of which appears to the left here and can be followed on twitter).

I don't know.

I suspect I'll find out all the answers when I get around to reading the Huffington Post Guide to Blogging -- but I can't see braving the Joseph Beth crowds this time of year... and I hate to order it from Amazon because I prefer to buy locally.

It's a dilemma.

This week, I took the Big Raccoon blog, and worked it into a column.

For now, the blog is where the more or less real-time postings go... Bear with me. There's another book waitin' for you (and me) a year or so down the road.