Scruffy and I are unsettled by the machines.  They make Scruffy bark, they make me mad, they can see over the fence.  My fence!  They can watch me back and forth, between big house and small, they can see what I’m snacking on, that my hair is uncombed, that I’m not wearing shirts.  It’s discomfiting!  I don’t like it one bit. 

There’s that and still the ants.  You’re bored with the ants, I know, have I mentioned the ants?  Ellen, it’s true, has issues with ants, but have I told you about any of mine?  The ants have invaded the second floor, they’ve taken it over, I had to retreat.  I don’t know how long I can hold them off, I fear for the house.  I bet the machines in back can see the ants, why aren’t they helping me, why aren’t they calling for backup?  There are a lot of freaking ants!

After Field Day (it starts in 30 minutes) I’ll deal with the ants, I’ll call a guy. 

Saturday there was a party, I have pictures.  I probably won’t show them to you because they are all good Catholic parents, I’m too busy for scandal.  It’s rumored that one punched someone else in the jaw, another stripped off his clothes, three more lost at Blackjack and can’t make their vig. 

Ha ha.  Scruffy was the monster.  He chewed up food and peed on rugs and there was garbage, because of him, strewn all about. 

People left several things.  Some left coats, some left furniture, there was also car keys a car and a purse.  They can all be reclaimed in the lobby for a small-to-medium fee.

I have work to do now.  Send me peaches. 

I had a party.  And I didn’t invite half of you, but it wasn’t on purpose, I swear.  I had a whole troubling two days with invitations and if any of you know me at all — if you’ve seen me try to snorkel for instance, or wrap presents, or master tasks that most people think simple, then you understand what I’m saying and have no need to read further. 

I waited too long, for one, so couldn’t outsource them.  Then there were struggles with my printer, and postcard paper, and Microsoft Publisher.  There were the labels, and the finding of your address.  [Steve and Dana, by the way, yours came back.  I forgot the stamp.]

Anyway, I got some out and then had to walk away from the whole thing.  I left a big pile of unaddressed / unstamped / unsent invites in my office and went to the liquor store.  That I can master. 

But next year, please come, I’ll just post it big here, so you’ll know. 

My point?  It was fun.  We should all do it more.  There aren’t enough dinners or parties or chamber music in people’s homes, there should be more.  More more more.  I didn’t worry about space and it worked itself out.  We don’t have furniture yet and that worked itself out, too.  There’s no place to park because we currently own 4 used cars, but people found their way in.

A dinner party a month in ’08.  Tell me if you want to come.

… It’s morning, actually, and I’m thinking of cocktails. Mostly because I just finished a brilliant scene for Good Wife — on the promotional tour, it’s the one they’ll all want me to read — and then I rewarded myself with a break. Which somehow led me here, to this lovely post “Literary Cocktails”, which warmed my heart.

I love cocktails. I love the sound of the word, the whole grown-up intrigue about them, the mystery of the ingredients, the potions — stirred, shaken and twists. I love the glassware, the shakers, the slow careful slips, the mood. I love E.B. White reaching down for a bit of cheese to go with the ice cold thermos of martinis he’s brought along in the car (Roger Angell’s driving) in one of my all-time favorite essays ever. (Not online, you’ll need the Complete New Yorker on DVD to read).

I love the Petrossian in New York (is it still there?) and the night John Schmidt and I and his expense account drank the iciest martinis I’ve ever had, with caviar, at the bar.

I like cocktail hours, cocktail parties, having a cocktail with the friends who drop in. I love those little carts on wheels everyone had in the 50s, loaded with gin, ready to roll out and go at a moment’s notice, or 5:00. Whichever came first.

I love cocktails in movies in books, in old pictures.

Anyway, it’s too early for a cocktail now, plus I’m alone and cocktails should be poured in company, don’t you think? Even if “company” is just the bartender. So my craving is books, about cocktails, old books. A trip to Powell’s might be in order. Something to inspire me, along the lines of this post … and of D.’s movie night ideas.

All of you send me a cocktail image, from your favorite movie or book. Cary Grant drinking scotch, Audrey Hepburn drinking champagne. Marlon Brando pours a drink in The Godfather, doesn’t he? What does Woody Allen drink in his movies? I don’t remember. Annie Hall then, maybe, tonight.

Homework kids, chop-chop. We’ll have a cocktail party to go over your answers. Here’s to you.

… “Aphasic”. Use it in an incomplete sentence, ” … made all the more goulish by the presence of an aphasic gin-soaked Peter Lawford.” [taken from Here, third graph.]

I’ll tell you why it’s such a find. First of all, I hadn’t the slightest idea in the world what it meant, but you know any word shacked up with Peter Lawford and gin is bound to be a delight. Second, it was written down by David Rakoff, who is the sharpest wit of the whole contemporary humorist lot.

Third, well, Peter Lawford — a mild obsession of mine. I’ve a soft spot (morbid fascination?) for the troubled boozy ones — the ones with the charm, the square jaw, all the doors wide-open and still …

Seeing Peter’s name reminded me of Shawn Levy, who wrote a rollicking fun book about Peter and his friends, and also a great one on Jerry Lewis, and most recently a fabulous story about Porfirio Rubirosa, The Last Playboy.

Hmm, didn’t plan that, but I guess this is plug of the day, too.

… Crikey, it’s almost Christmas. And A. and I are fighting about Peggy Lee of all things. I was mad at him until I realized we were fighting about Peggy Lee — not me leaving the dish soap on the counter and the sponge lying crooked, but Peggy Lee! I should be so lucky.

Ms. Lee sang a lovely song circa 19-late-10s, called “Is That All There Is”. A. hears it and says, “the lyrics aren’t really that illuminating.  She sounds like the Rat Pack, when they knew they could sing any half-assed song and someone would buy it”

I don’t hear that in this song, nothing half-assed at all. I hear a beautiful girl working for scale in a dark night-club somewhere, with stiffs like me huddled around little tables making the most of our eight-dollar drinks (adjusted for inflation). I think it’s raining outside and work sucked that day and the girl’s not so sure about the guy she’s with and the place is sort of dingy until the gin kicks in … and until Peggy Lee starts singing her song.

Wow. So here we go, readers. I dare you to not be moved. Listen to the song and if you don’t feel one damn thing no matter how hard you try — about love or life or living — I’ll send you three dollars, I mean it. Just email me here, and tell me why Miss Lee didn’t turn your eyes into soft warm fur.

Is that all there is?
Is that all there is?
If that’s all there is, my friends … then let’s keep dan — cing.
Let’s break out the boooze, and have a ball …
If that’s all …
There is.

What are you doing right now? Is that all there is?

… well, not quite. More wet than bright, and I’m taking off for a day or two. Because I’m sick, packing the house up, and less clever by the minute. I just applied a fancy new spam filter to my email, btw. If it rejects you, it’s not you it’s me! Call me. I’ll be in Mac.

Meanwhile, Zachary Leader on being a biographer of Kingsley Amis:

“Among the mysteries in the … archive are several posed by Amis’ pocket diaries, some of which contain coded symbols, abbreviations and numerals. In the diary begun the day after his 50th birthday, on 17 April 1972, a time of deteriorating relations with Elizabeth Howard, increased drinking, and a related loss of libido, each entry is followed by a number, never less than 3, never more than 8.

These numbers could signify drinks, presumably spirits, with wine and beer not counted, but they might also stand for pages written or marks out of 10 for the day, though an entry like — ‘F: too hung to do anything exc abt 2 letters. 7,’ — would seem to rule out all three possibilites given the hangover.

The entry contains one other mysterious feature: ‘F’, which appears very infrequently in the diary. If it stands for what one thinks it does, what is it doing on a hangover day unless it took place in the early hours of the morning, while drunk? I spent many an afternoon in California pondering such puzzles.”

And I spent many a half hour beginning at 7:00 (PM) kicking estremita and taking names at Celebrity Jeopardy this week. Heh, heh. Bring it on Scott Turow, bring it on!

Oh, Jane Austen finally came out.

Give thanks. Thanks.

(*post head is altered first line of Orwell, 1984)