A. took the kids today.  Thank you, A.!  I forgive you, then, for not bringing my coffee.

I also forgive you, M. for your snide tone.  Your penance will be exacted in martinis, given to me. 

While I’m at it, I forgive you, Lisa Austin, for not making me lunch today, and you Julie Nipp for not bringing me flowers.  You, too, Eric Slater for not making me muffins and Miranda July, I forgive you for not mentioning me in your book or naming a character after me in your movie. 

You’re all forgiven, all of you, live free.  Go trespass against others. 

A. forgot to take the kids this morning. Don’t worry, don’t worry, I remembered. They’re okay. Everyone’s a little rattled but we’ll all be fine.

Today is Anthony Trollope’s birthday and if I were having a dinner party, you know a “who I’d have to dinner” party, the kind where no one in the world is dead so I can invite anyone? I’d invite him.

I’d pour him a drink, put him in a big cushy chair, listen to him prattle on because he seems the type. I’d light his pipe, get his slippers, nod and agree and smile. Then when conversation lapsed a bit and he was leaned back and puffing I’d ask him how the hell he put out 3,000 words a day, every day. I’d fill up his drink, lean in with wink and nudge and say, “Tony. Come on buddy, come clean. You had a ghostwriter, didn’t ya?” Then I’d ask him what he thought of the Yankees this year.

Hey, Mambo. Mambo Italiano. Hey Mambo, don’t want to tarantella.

Be good. Do less work. Stop cutting people off in the left lane.

Buon Venerdi.

Please, please, please … just shut up. You’re embarrassing the whole world, stop! Mommys don’t read “mommy books” because they’re boring, we don’t care. We make our choices and don’t care to read yours or anyone else’s $24.95 (hardcover) book to find out whether they’re right. That is why they don’t sell. Sex sells, comedy sells, long dull condescending yawns about what we should or should not do with our lives/kids/husbands/jobs don’t sell.

And by the way, your book at “number 26 on the extended bestseller list” is not selling. Number 26 on the extended bestseller list, after all the coverage you’ve gotten, is almost technically zilch.

(For those who entertain the quaint notion that writers make money, the #26 spot can be nabbed by selling about 2,000 books. Whee. My dog could move more books. And he’s working on one right now about the merits of pooping at home vs. the park.)

Some Go-to-Work Daddy’s wish you’d save your breath, too.

I may never work again now, out of spite.

(You were so much more interesting asking Teri Hatcher why George Clooney dumped her.  There’s a book we’ll buy.)

Just curious …

The one-line entries, they’re hard on the eyes. So I will write. I will write more. I’ll write cute things that take up half a page — enough to divert you, not enough to bring on sleep. Take a big, deep breath and read this all out loud without stopping. Ready?  Go!

Lisa Austin never calls. Julie Nipp plays Fridays at Nottinghams. Helen’s answering machine doesn’t work. Six Toes jumps over our fence. A. is watching Sopranos. Anne Snow is eating candy. Eric Slater is still too cool. His brother Paul owes me five bucks! Mrs. McManus made me practice an hour a day. Kelly McDonald better write. Anita Kay turns 40 soon. Anna Rodgers is really Russian.  C. gets younger every day.  M. better meet me at Blue Note. Andy Duncan stole my license. Lisa and Adam live in my old house. Someone’s alarm keeps beeping. Rich DiFalco hates A Fan’s Notes. I’m going to bed.

Buona notte.

Finally. 

Dennis Kucinich introduces articles of impeachment against Dick.

Rich DiFalco correctly guessed Julie Nipp’s age and will be receiving his special edition *Dynasty* KISS t-shirt very soon.

Mary Shelley might not have written Frankenstein!

I’m moving to the new planet!

Food stamps in Oregon don’t get you much!

Also,

The Atlantic reposted two archived essays on Ornette Coleman (jazz saxophonist/composer and recent Pulitzer Prize winner for “Sound Grammar”).

And,

Michael Pollan wrote a piece about the farm bill in Sunday’s Times which helps explain, in case you’re wondering, why an apple costs more than a twinkie.

The ants came back, A. They’re on the floor and I’ve had it. I can’t run around shooting up Anthony and his friends all morning at laser tag (nice timing) and be expected to trot home at night to mop up ants.

I’m going on the treadmill right now then we’re off to Night at the Museum at 3rd Street Pizza. I simply don’t have time for the ants. Or the mop. Or any sort of cleaning tool, or even dinner, while we’re at it. Your best bet is drive-through on the way home. I’m taking time off.  I’m taking a sabbatical.

Meanwhile, Hey, everyone else!  Julie Nipp starts playing Fridays at Nottingham’s Bistro tomorrow. In Sherwood. Don’t miss!

I love Miranda July. Not like that, jeez. I love her work, her creativity, I loved her feature film, Me, You and Everyone We Know. She’s smart and original and it takes guts to be both. Now she’s got a collection of short stories from Scribner, No One Belongs Here More Than You, and a clever little web site to promote it. Go ahead, check it out it’s fun.

Now that I think about it, I don’t really like her. I don’t like her at all. I think she has nerve doing things I wish I’d thought of first and if her stories are good, I might beat her up. Miranda July, Miranda July … ooh, you’re so cool because you write on your stove.

Life is elsewhere.

A. just called and said, “I’m getting the tickets.”

Then I said, “okay.”

Then he said, “okay, I’ll call you back when I get the tickets.”

Then we hung up.