Robert Iger doesn’t floss. 

*Warning:  This post contains few, if any, links.

 … A few months ago I read this dumb article in a sappy middle-aged chick magazine about reviving your marriage (ha!) and one suggestion was to have a ”Gift Friday”.  So I jokingly said to A. — and I believe we were at odds when I said it — “if you buy me a present every week, we’ll be great.”

True to A., he came home two days later with earrings, hand-wrapped by him.  I never learn.  (I joked about getting married after we’d gone out a few times, and he proposed.)

“I’ll crack the f***ing jokes” is one of my favorite lines of our courtship. We were in my apartment in Phoenixville, PA, and I was in danger of upstaging him (I’m funny, but we’ve silently agreed to let him be funnier).

I said something very funny, and A., suddenly deadpan suddenly towering, suddenly tall and powerful looming over me, said:  “I’ll crack the fucking jokes.”   Brilliant.  His comic timing is perfect. 

But that’s neither here nor there.  What IS here and there is that I’ve been slack on gift Friday. It’s supposed to be mutual – an inexpensive thoughtful gift every week.  A., as in all things, has been winning.  This Friday I win. 

Are you out there, A.?  Are you listening?  February 16th (if we find a babysitter) you and me are “rocking” with Lukas and Tommy Lee.  And hopefully Dave Navarro.  On the floor, 8th row, somewhere in Portland.

I’ve never been to a rock concert in my life, holy cow.  I will not cut off parts of my clothes, I will not get a tattoo, I will not hold up a lighter or stand on a chair.  I may be persuaded to smoke pot. 

I remember an early date with A., he took me into the city (NY) and we went first to Bradley’s to see Kenny Barron, and were moved after the first set to make room for Max Roach (!!!)  We followed that with the Village Vanguard and Jackie McLean.  At the Vanguard it was the second show and we were with Fr. Gary, a friend/ex-professor of mine from the Jesuit days, and the bass player told us afterward he thought we were cute making out (me and A., not Fr. Gary).  If I remember right, we made out frantically whenever Gary went to the bathroom because I was too embarrassed to kiss in front of him.  Whatever.  You were young once, too.

In case you didn’t get it, A., I bought tickets.  They’ll be mailed to the house. 

Be good and thrive.  And take home a surprise for someone; it makes the world go round. 

Robert Iger doesn’t recycle. 

This is a horrible post, I’m not at my best. 

Helen and Tony got on a big old jet airliner today.  Rome, Cinque Terre, Venice.  Mark says he’s noticed a recent Italian obsession with me.  It’s deep-rooted, actually; I married one for crying out loud that was no accident.  Plus why does he think I hang out with him?  Io-co-lano.  Duh.  Italian, Schmilalian. 

I’m trying to write and A. won’t stop talking.  He’s trying to read G.’s homework and he just said “Habito a Antonio”.  Which means he lives in Anthony.    

I don’t know where I was going with any of this because then A. insisted on knowing what kind of locker I had in high school and followed my stop-bugging-me glare with a long discourse about his own lockers, and now I’m shot.

Maybe it was Mark.  Mark’s suggestions for The Good Wife.  Put in my contract, he says, that it must be sold to an Italian publisher immediately so I can do the Italian talk shows.  Rename the characters “Anthony” and “Teresa” … Bertolucci, and set the story in “Oregano”.  I’m doing that right now. 

Something smells rotten in the refrigerator.  Revolting.  Ugh, horrifying.  I’m sitting 30 feet from the fridge and A. opened it and now the whole room is sour.  Outside it smells like skunk.  A metaphor for the suburbs.  Behind chartreuse-colored doors, within sponge-painted walls lie piles of hidden stinking rot.  Outside, the foul discharge of skunk booty pervades.  

Remember The Mystery Guest?  The book I can’t shut up about?  Maud Newton has an interview with the translator.

More later when A. stops talking.  Someone took the Yankee sticker off his car.  Isn’t that weird?

Robert Iger contains high fructose corn syrup. 

 … This is from a copywriter, about the sad state of book ads.  I totally agree but also wonder why not one of the commenters brought up The Mystery Guest trailer.  Creative, original, intriguing … exactly the sort of thing the houses should be doing to compete.  To catch our eye.  I know the purists won’t have it, but imagine walking into Barnes and Noble and big TV screens are on all the walls playing trailers for the books!  Or author clips … or interviews.  How about headphone stations set up to listen to excerpts?  Then you punch in the books you want, a little machine prints them up and you go home.  Imagine.

James Frey gives first interview since Oprah furrowed her fat little brows at him from the lofty perch of her couch. 

And my stupid space bar’s sticking so that’s all I have to say.  For today. 

Robert Iger is Britney’s baby’s Daddy.

 … Mark is in the Times today, kids!  Read it and weep!  (Second letter.  Subscription required, I think, but free.  Takes two seconds, just do it.)

And in much, much less significant news, but not to be totally outdone, I have a comment on Powell’s blog.  Whoa, Nellie!

Robert Iger tampered with spinach. 

… get over it Oklahoma.  It’s a game.  Seriously.  And you are 19-year-old kids, still in school by the way.  And you’re not the first guys to get bad calls.  Jeesh.

Second, Powell’s guest blogger is Michael Wex and I love how he outs his bad friends today!  To paraphrase Jimmy Conway, ”that’s the way Michael, don’t take s*** from nobody.”

Third, A.’s outside right now getting a quote for our bocce court.  Wheeee!  You bring the wine, we’ll have the balls, come over! 

Fourth, I stole this from Zulkey.  Shape up, people.  He looks very disappointed.     

Now go on, I have work to do. 

Robert Iger thinks Islam is evil and inhuman.

…Just finished The Phantom Tollbooth (Norton Juster, 1961) with junior, which is a perfect guide on how to live in the Bush regime … one where Rhyme and Reason are held captive and the hero must climb through the Mountains of Ignorance to rescue them. Junior loved it; I thought it too close to home. Where are Milo and Tock and the Humbug when you need them?

I started The Mystery Guest, the book with the brilliant trailer — every book should have a trailer! — and the cute little size and pretty cover … bravo FSG! A book by a Frenchman few Americans know, might have gone unheard of if not for the clever marketing. Seems to be selling, judging by sales ranks on B&N and Amazon.

My mother-in-law flies to Rome this week and I’m crazy with envy, though she promises I can come stay at the villa she plans to buy when she retires. Retire, retire! Her friend Peter called today and said, “see you at the St. Mark’s clock at 7 on the 28th!” So if you’re in Venice and want to meet Helen, my simpatico mother-in-law, stop by. Tell her I sent you.

More later … my friend Mark is sending me lots of great stuff without permission to reprint, but I fully intend to.

[P.S. G.'s Bible line this week is "By God all things were created." Colossians 1:16. Didn't the Colossians know about active tense?  Good lord.]

Robert Iger makes sweet love to chickens (range-fed).

I watched a baseball game Saturday night, on the internet.  Not video stream; they have that but it’s $100 and never works.  This is the free, more reliable version and it’s more like power point. 

So, Yankees – Red Sox, second game of a double-header.  We don’t get much on tv (“tee-voo” in Italian), so this is the way A. watches most of the Yankee games. 

Here’s how it works:  you go to the MLB web site, find your game in the list of game scores on the right and if it’s in progress, there’s a little baseball diamond you can click which brings up a screen of graphics — text boxes, player stats, colored dots, sketch of the field with names on positions, a batter. 

There’s some stuff on the left, some stats on the right, but the middle is where the action is — a headshot of the pitcher and hitter and a little drawing of a batter that shows the count.  Pitches show up as little circles:  Red circles for strikes, Green for balls, Blue for a ball in play.  The screen refreshes automatically, whenever anything happens, but you have to watch close to catch the dots.  You want to see them the second they pop up to stay as close to the real-time play as possible. 

I watched one hitter.  Randy Johnson was pitching to Coco Crisp; top of the 6th, two outs, bases loaded.  Coco was 0 for 3 for the game, all strike-outs.  A. observed somberly, “as my mother used to say, “he’s due.”  So we stared at the little picture of Coco, and the sketch of a batter, and waited. 

more »

Robert Iger has two left feet.
Robert Iger hasn’t replaced any of the light bulbs in his house with Compact Fluorescents.
Robert Iger waxes his back hair.

Nothing today, really.  See you Monday.

Robert Iger has an embarrasing rash on his … um, yeah. 

 Maybe after George wraps up at the U.N., he can help with the desperate plight of the poor women trying to park near the Future No. 1 Beauty School.  For crying out loud.  

From Letters to the Editor in my hometown local paper:

“I am very disappointed in downtown parking.  I went into the Future No. 1 Beauty School to get a permanent  and to save money.  I had requested a senior student but received a new student who had not done a permanent before.  It took three hours and 45 minutes to complete the perm. 

When I went to my car I had received a $12 to $18 parking ticket.  It’s almost impossible to go out and move one’s car in the middle of a perm.  Wal-Mart and the outlying businesses make it much easier to shop without the worry of a parking ticket.  My $22 perm is now costing me $34 to $40. 

There needs to be some changes made in parking around the Future No. 1  Beauty School. … The two-hour parking is limiting people to two hours of shopping.  Something definitely needs to be done.” 

Robert Iger picks his nose.

 … I haven’t read one single one of the Booker finalists.  Every year it’s the case and every year I kick myself over it, but the truth is I don’t like to read things the same time other people are reading them.  I like to read on the sly, come to things on my own.  I don’t like someone to tell me what to like, I like to pretend I liked it all by myself; I’m five. 

A few months ago I finally read last year’s winner, The Sea – in the red chair by the fireplace in the library, while no one was looking.  I didn’t even check it out (not Banville flying off the shelves here, but Michael Connelly … three week wait!).  I just grabbed it on the days G. had preschool, always stopping right at 2:00, at the points most intense, three days a week; it was heady.     

I also read The Accidental (crazy about it!) and half of On Beauty (tried three times to get through it), but this year nothing.  Not even sure whether to start.  Bored. 

Got my New Yorker today, three weeks later than everyone else.  Was listlessly flicking through it – listlessly because I’d given up on life:  stupid legos all over the room; stupid dinner to make; Miranda July writing brilliant screenplays and fiction in The New Yorker (bitch!).  Also I hate the carpet and my hair and the ugly 70s couch we bought because we thought it was kitschy and the fact that I’ve never been to Italy … 

So anyway, listlessly flipping through with the lowest of expectations, and then there he was, The President.  Like a knight on a white horse, Mr. Clinton. 

That’s all.  I haven’t read it yet, but I was instantly cheered.  His face is a lovely reminder of a better time, a better place, a better world, a dinner in Texas.  I love him, I think he’s Jesus, I do.  I came to that conclusion after sitting across the table from him for three hours, taking it all in.  Jesus, remember?  His whole plan was to come back? … then Ken Starr / Judas ruined it for everyone?  Hello?

I have to go, we’re watching Doogal.  This horrible little cartoon movie that tries too hard to be cool to parents.  Zebedee, for instance, the little coil guy with fire powers, died and the bunny said, “Zeb’s dead, baby. Zeb’s dead.” 

In other news … I missed the second half of Matt Lauer’s hard news piece (get it?): Sex With Teacher.  I hope he didn’t forget to ask her if they did it on the skateboard. 

Go out and do well.