Robert Iger loves Mitch Albom, in that way that Tacoma men love their pitbulls.

Mark sent me some thoughts on the Starbuck’s article in the Times (sorry about registration), and also a horrible confession — he likes Starbucks, too! Dammit, we all do. Yeah, I know, the bathrooms are nice, and I like the dumb music. I was pretty okay with everything, actually, I really was. Plus Christmas just isn’t Christmas without their Gingerbread Lattes, but Mitch Albom? Don’t do it Mark, not Mitch Albom! Buy out the rest of the whole darn store, but not Mitch! They’re not the boss of you!

… I also like the music they play at Starbucks. More than I like the coffee, actually. I take breaks at the Starbucks near the library because the coffee, though overpriced and mediocre, is at least fresh. They have about two dozen exotic-sounding roasts, all of which taste pretty much the same. At most other places around town you have to wait 20 minutes for the coffee to cool down to a tolerable temperature. only to find that it tastes like burned sludge, which in fact it is. Also, the bathroom at Starbucks is clean, and the one at the library is disgusting, which is a bit of a shock because the rest of the “Science, Industry, and Business Library” is high-tech, sleek, clean, and modern. Kind of like having to use the restroom aboard the Starship Enterprise, only to discover it hadn’t been cleaned since the days of Project Mercury.

I have never actually read anything by Mitch Albom, and now I’m really afraid that if I ever do, I might like it. Now there’s a thought for Halloween.

Here are two particularly disturbing excerpts: … Thomas Hay, a 48-year-old contractor from Hartsdale, N.Y., said Starbucks helped him by editing down his cultural choices.  and … Even the keyboardist Herbie Hancock, whose recent album “Possibilities” has been a strong seller at Starbucks, buys the idea. “Going to Starbucks,” he said, “you feel kind of hip. I feel kind of hip when I go to Starbucks; that’s how I know!”

Did I actually read that? HERBIE HANCOCK needs Starbucks in order to feel hip??

Sigh. Yes, you did Mark. Wait. Is it, “Yes you did, Mark.” or, “Yes, you did, Mark.” or my first one, “Yes, you did Mark.”? Who cares, last one to Starbuck’s a rotten egg!

(My HTML editor is wigging out, can’t quite get this to look right. Will Fix Later …)

Robert Iger has a growth on his toe. 

Janet Maslin reviews Lisey’s Story today.  “This sentence is about to do the unthinkable:  connect James Joyce and Stephen King.”  She leavens it, don’t worry. 

And you know what I think of this, and of course it was going to happen: millions of mindless coffee suckers lulled into buying crappy books with their polka dotted travel mugs and mix CDs.  (Note:  Expect me to totally ‘ho out when Starbuck’s knocks on my door!)

[Both bits lifted from Brockman at Powells.]

Oh yeah, and will someone please buy this and tell me if I’m in it?   Thanks.

Julie Nipp’s car rhymes with “Woo-kon”.

 … that a single man in posession of a good dog, must be in want of (heh, heh) … you know.  Ah, sweet animal love.  Some dare to speak its name. 

A. is disturbed by these sorts of stories, I find them funny which probably means I’m disturbed.  Okay, it’s not funny when someone dies, but there is a certain humor in the police department viewing hours of animal — ahem — love tapes, and worrying that the “smaller, weaker animals” were taken advantage of.  (The horses can handle themselves, but hey, go easy on those chickens, pal!)

I’m racing through On Beauty.  I put it down a year ago, bored I thought, but sometimes it’s just timing.  Now I can’t get enough.  Zadie Smith has a sculptor’s talent for detail.  A husband’s long-ago affair with a family friend, for instance, is revealed to his wife through an accidental slip of a finger, placed too casually and pulled away too fast, at a party.  The husband, but not the woman, knows instantly he’s been exposed. 

“Too quickly, Claire removed her hand from Howard’s body.  But Kiki wasn’t looking at Claire; she was looking at Howard.  You’re married to someone for thirty years:  you know their face like you know your own name.  It was so quick and yet so absolute — the deception was over.  Howard realized it at once, but how could Claire pick up on that tiny piece of tight skin on the left side of his wife’s mouth, or know what it meant?” 

I’m anxious to peek at Stephen King’s new book (out tomorrow) and Heidi Julavits’ new one looks good, too. 

No one has bought our house yet.  Or Nicholas Cage’s, for that matter.  Three people viewed it this weekend and one left Republican propaganda on the counter.  I thought this interesting.  Perhaps the Tom Hartman book A. had on the dresser set someone off. 

Okay, go on, get back to work. Be good to your animals. 

(PS:  Jerry, Ben’s white thing is still on my counter in its old envelope with the mean Post Office stamp on the front.  All my supplies are packed up and I need a new envelope.  G. and I will take care of it today.  My condolences to Ben.  He’ll probably never come over again.  Tell him it’s Uncle Sam’s fault!)

No time today.  I have my second-graders reading group in like 10 minutes (Henry and Mudge today), plus have to run around and clean up all the things we messed up this morning because we’re showing the house tonight.  It’s murder to keep a house clean and ordered every stupid day!  Like this was my great big dream!

What do you want to do when you grow up, little girl? 

Oh, I want to put away the cereal bowls!  And find a place to hide the shoes in the living room!  And take the bottles and plastic things downstairs and wash the pots that don’t fit in the dishwasher!

Anyway, it’s Philip Pullman‘s birthday.  He’s a children’s book author, who said: “There are some themes, some subjects, too large for adult fiction; they can only be dealt with adequately in a children’s book.”  (Writer’s Almanac)

And then Claire’s funny again today.

That’s all I’ve got. 

… A. has been watching a lot of the debates: Lieberman / Shlesinger / Lamont; Casey / Santorum … our Gubernatorial race here. I forget who else. I can’t watch them for long — I’m decluttering for crying out loud, but I do see a familiar trend. Republicans working themselves all up about sex. Good lord boys, get a grip.

… I have to miss Italian tomorrow so I tried to send Betty an email, in Italian of course.  Then I translated it to see what I said to her:

Okay, slow down, Poncho.  It’s not as bad as it looks.  I should have said “sono spiacente” for “I apologize,” so that was pretty close.  And, also, the literal translations of languages are not always what you are really saying.  I.e, my groovy Italian-speaking friend, I’m sure, had no problem understanding that I was sorry for cancelling on her, was writing email because her phone number was at my office, I’ll see her next week, etc.

Not sure how “wing” got in there …

In the midst of throwing out my piles of magazines for our big “decluttering”, I flipped through the Settembre Venticinque (heh, heh) issue of The New Yorker and opened right up to Erich Salomon’s stunning photo: “Diplomats, 1945.” The text below is from a Hasted Hunt Gallery press release.

We do not have enough information about the picture to know who these four men are, or where they are gathered, but they are intent on something of high import. The four are wearing tuxedos, with starched shirtfronts, wing collars, and formal bowties. Three of them have cigars and the fourth a cocktail glass. They sit around a small table in a room whose elegance is suggested by the lace over the window and the decorative painting on the wall behind them. The white-haired gentleman with his back to us is evidently the one talking while the others lean forward, listening and reacting to what he is saying.

I, of course, don’t have permission to use the photo, so will likely turn up dead tomorrow but it literally took my breath away as did his story, which ended – I gave a hint in my heading – on a heartbreaking note.

There was an exhibition of Solamon’s work at Hasted Hunt Gallery in Chelsea recently; it ended October 7th.

You can send me a tube of writhing mealworms if you’re mad that I only told you about it just now.

… But try this: Life your right leg up off the floor and make clockwise circles with it. Now draw a “6″ in the air with your right hand. Heh, heh.

Okay, a couple more things. I generally loathe Vanity Fair because I think Graydon Carter’s an oversmug, overrated, unimpressive boob, and the magazine in general (except for the pretty pictures!) is sort of a snore. But Laila Lalami pointed to this piece, “Under Egypt’s Volcano,” by Scott Anderson and it looks intriguing. I haven’t read it, because i’m very busy, but you should! Why not? Unless, of course, it takes away from reading anything by me!

Also, yesterday I pointed you to the trailer for Stuart: A Life Backwards. Now here’s a nice capsule from The Week. Smell ya later.

Thank you for all your compassionate letters and support. Not! It was in my red sweatshirt-vest thing, the one I was wearing Saturday when we went to the library and then ciocolatta calda.

Which reminds me … Sunday we went for ciocolatta, too, and we went to the chain store because the local joints were closed. Sappy Bappy Mitch Albom’s piece of fructose-coated backwash was there. Ugh!

Plus, you can barely make your way to the counter in that place through all the crap they sell, stacked up on tacky little tables — Wal-Mart with fancier words. Krike, I wish I hadn’t remembered all that. Safe place, safe place.

… I just saw this, on Claire Zulkey‘s fun and always clever site and just laughed right out loud, I really did. And I know I’ve Susie Swished her before — I know that’s me Claire, I know what you’re doing!

“Bulldog, are you devoid of any real feeling?”
– Frasier Crane