Dear A.,

Can you send me Uncle Steve’e number? It’s his birthday. And also where’s the big broom, I can’t find it. (I know, ha ha, like I’d know what to do with it anyway.)

Dear the rest of you,

Be careful with vacuum cleaners, and watching television nude. And ask my father-in-law about the cheese story if you see him.

Man’s really good slightly more than best friend.

You know what they say … behind every good goat .. heh, heh.

… Mickey Rooney has a special place in my heart, because at 86 he’s probably the hardest-working guy in “the business” and because he played the Elgin theater and stayed at the Buffalo Motel, and because Janis got (hit link and scroll down) this great snapshot of him when he was cranky and yelling at his younger/bigger/taller wife to “stop talking to these people so we can get out of here!”

Also because he still makes Page Six.

Loves the Mick. [Wedded Bliss]

Susan Sontag said “great writers are either husbands or lovers,” which means I’m either a lover, or less than great. So for tonight’s dinner party, I’d like her over to clarify. I’ll hand her a draft of The Good Wife to help her along.

I’ll have Nancy Cunard, because she was “beaten, arrested, disinherited and declared insane” (according to the brilliant man behind the capsule summaries at Arts & Letters Daily) — how do you top that?

Then Bud Selig, because I like to have a sports figure for A., and what with drugs and broken records on his watch, he might have a good yarn.

And I think Cary Grant. Because Nancy would be all over him and Susan fascinated but aloof. Grant for his part would consider it a personal goal to score the seemingly unbeddable Sontag, all while Cunard across the table shoots daggars.

For that matter then, Virginia Woolf. I’ll have her come late, after sparks are showered. She famously tolerated but disliked Nancy and yet was too cool, I’m sure, to cause a row at an elegant party. (To overcome that, there’ll be gin and whisky and lots of crushed ice.)

One more, a boy. Let’s say Porfirio Rubirosa, “Rubi”, the last playboy. Rubi can smooth over any troubles that arise with the girls — Ginny, Susie and Nan.

Here’s the seating, starting at A.’s left: Susan Sontag, Bud Selig, Virginia Woolf, Rubi at the other end. Then me, Cary Grant, Nancy Cunard. A. is flanked by Sontag and Cunard, Cunard will be all over him. I’ll serve an oyster course first with crisp white wine. Followed by pitchers of martinis while we await duck confit in Jean-Jacque’s pinot noir sauce. Parsnip mashed potatoes and baby artichokes to go with that. For dessert, something we set fire to.

Yummy. Until then I’ve got strawberry yogurt. More at eleven.

The girl mice are screwing like bunnies.

Turns out when you mess with a girl mouse’s voremonasal organ, thrilling results occur. According to a very scientific report from Reuters:

” … the females pursued cage mates aggressively, sniffing their rears and mounting them. They turned to other male mating behaviors, such as pelvic thrusts, while eschewing typically female roles like nesting and nursing.

‘You feel sorry for the males, you imagine they’re confused,’ said one particularly dense scientist in a telephone interview.”

In other groundbreaking news, our White Oak floors are almost in, and A. remembered to pick up coffee.

Because I can’t remember anything, and the house is still torn up like A.’s knee, and I can’t even find a piece of paper, I’ll put it here. I want to pick up this, and this, they’re at the library. (Note to self: don’t forget.)

Saw on old friend Saturday, then went to a party, then went to cub scout camp on Monday. In that order. Friend, party, scouts. Hmm, I have little to say.

On Friday I watched The Graduate (second time, but it’s been years), and was delighted with the ambivalent look Mike Nichols allowed Katherine Ross from her back seat of the bus in the last scene.  A. and I argued over that, he wanted smiles.

That’s seriously all I have. Just checking in.

A., pick up coffee.

A. tore his knee up sliding into second, breaking up the double-play. Cheers, A. I had fun in the emergency room.

Besides that, August brings ants, tomatoes, raccoons eating sweet little goldfish in the pond. Me working like hell. All good. (Except the ants and that bastard raccoon.)

If you haven’t already, you really must catch up on the Bob Olen Butler / Liz Dewberry split. Gawker’s a good place to start, I hear Slate has something, too. Literally (pun intended) speaking it’s beautiful, the stuff of novels. Ted Turner thrown in for sitcom potential.

Me, I’m taking two of A.’s vicadin. I’ll call you in the morning.