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.

Steve Nipp loves Curious George. Robert Iger doesn’t.

… Ho-hum, Mondays. I’m never satisifed. First I was annoyed with the hot afternoons because it’s fall and I want to wear my sweaters. Now I’m annoyed with the rain, gloomy gus.

Today is the inspection on the new house and I was mean to Howard about it because it’s happening so fast and because I didn’t put the kids to bed on time and he does all the laundry. Sono spiacente, A.

Okay, I have to drive everyone to all their places now. If you see my wallet anywhere, write me.

Robert Iger is why the Yankees lost. 

 … I wouldn’t normally ask you to read a long piece by Joan Didion in The New York Review of Books, you’re supposed to be working, after all – nose to the grindstone!  But this one’s good.  And it’s time-saving.  Because Didion extracts Cheney from (among other things) all those books you said you were going to read:  The One Percent Doctrine, Richard Clarke’s Against All Enemies, The Halliburton Agenda, Hans Blix’s Disarming Iraq, etc. 

I’m partial to her subtle smackdowns:

His own official spoken remarks so defy syntactical analysis as to suggest that his only intention in speaking is to further obscure what he thinks.  Possibly the most well-remembered statement he ever made (after “Big-time“) was that he did not serve in the Vietnam War because he had “other priorities.” 

And this – Didion revisits a discussion between Cheney and Colin Powell (September ’02) where Powell said war might be a pain: 

Powell:  “International reaction would be so negative that we would have to close American embassies around the world if we went to war alone.” 
Cheney:  “Not the issue.” 
Powell:  “We could trigger all kinds of unanticipated and unintended consequences.”
Cheney:  “Not the issue.”

The personality that springs to mind is that of the ninth-grade bully in the junior high lunchroom, the one sprawled in the letter jacket so the seventh-graders must step over his feet.

Hmmm … where’s a copyeditor when I need one.  Anyway, something lighter, less disturbing in a minute or two.  Get up and stretch, take a bathroom break while I watch Clifford.

Robert Iger shot J.R. and Chris Wallace didn’t do more to prevent it.

… Oh, if you are interested in all the book award stuff, Maud Newton‘s got it covered.

A. is making me do laundry today. Tomorrow: barefoot and in the kitchen. Junior is coloring his ant for the wall at school and we’re listening to great jazz, so I guess it could be worse. Though if Junior were in school, we all know I’d Rather Be Writing! Right? Write.

Oh, Jerry, we finally dropped Ben’s white thing in the mail yesterday. It took us that long to come up with an envelope, stamp and pen all at the same time.

Helen, did you see what I said about White Teeth? I think you’ll like it. I got bored three-quarters through, but sometimes I just get bored for no reason. Here’s some fodder for the club.

A., did you get to work on time? Do you know where Junior’s uniform is? Should I call and set up carpet cleaning for next week? If you were a tree, would you be a Japanese Maple?

Maud’s post made me Google “Seymour Glass“, then go, “oh yeah …” then remember that my sister-in-law stole my Franny and Zoey, which I have the urge now to reread. None of which amounts to a hill of beans in this crazy world.

Thanks everybody, I’ll be here all week. Try the veal!

Possiamo guardare un film?

Robert Iger drinks whole milk. 

It’s four in the morning and I can’t sleep because A.’s moving us to McMinnville.  This is our M.O. — A. moves fast and sure, I follow. It’s a relief that he’s fast and sure (I’m neither) and I am soothed by his track record. He hasn’t had one bad impulse yet (unless you count grocery shopping), which means if he’s wrong on this one I can’t even care because one miss is still a really good record. 

Anyway, there’s not much to do at four because you have to be quiet, and I can’t find my book so I’m reading junk email.  Not the stock tips from John Cummata, or the love notes from BBWs, but all the subscription things I save and don’t read:  Writer’s Almanac, BoldType, George Clooney Google Alerts, etc. 

I started with Salon, two very different pieces.  One made me want to cancel my membership, the other one brought me back. 

The membership canceller was this piece from Jane and Michael Stern who drive around the country to write food books and, apparently, exploit the locals.  It’s the first entry in Salon’s “spicy new food series, ‘Bad Taste’.”  I can’t say it better than this letter, “Bad Taste is Right”: 

“What turns me off about most food writers is their fixation on their palates and proving their superiority, to the exclusion of humility or curiosity about the lives of the people who serve them.  Usually their attempts at context are self-absorbed and entitled.”

I enjoy food writing, it’s an escape for me, like Calgon.  But this thing by the Sterns is cruel and unnecessary and shows its authors in most unflattering light.  Shame on you, Jane and Michael.  Grow up.

But then there’s Havrilevsky with child; a pure, fine-tuned delight.  She could make a cardboard box funny.  (If you don’t believe I truly love and envy her, read this.) 

Now it’s late enough, I think, to fill my soon-to-be-someone-else’s house with the grating sounds of my espresso machine, so I’m going to do that.  In a few hours I’ll go sign papers for another house and then start my search for miracle-working cleaning supplies, and/or The Wolf. 

Chris Wallace has his panties in a bunch. Robert Iger bunched them.

… I’m reading Proust, and that’s how far I’ve gotten, the first line. A character in my book tackles Proust in a sort of nerdy angry haze, so I thought I’d give it a try. Hmph.

On another note, I had my great friend Jane here last week and she reminded me how goofy and creative we used to be when we were young and stark mad from the overarching themes of small towns. We filmed a series of videos for our communications class in 7th grade and one was a cooking show where we did everything with our feet. I was Julia Child. We made a smelly sardine meringue and broke eggs with our toes; brilliant. Let’s hope La Grande Middle School recognized genius when they saw it and the footage is still in the archives.

It’s rainy here and I listened to my favorite local radio station all day and they played a Duke Ellington tune called “Warm Valley.” The radio guy said D.E. wrote it after driving through the Columbia Gorge once on his way to Portland for a gig. Where the hell was he coming from is what I want to know. That I-84 loop is a sight, sure, but once you pass the windsurfing kids at Hood River, you see like three cars until Boise; vice versa coming the other way. Good Lord, where had they booked poor Duke? Boardman? Hey, that reminds me of when Mickey Rooney did his schtick for Elgin. (Click on the link, if only for that wonderful picture Janis Bozarth snapped!)

I just reserved Real Genius at the library because I had dinner Saturday with my cousin Jerry and his beautiful wife Judy and their charming children and they are all four of them total film geeks, I love it! We were talking about Napoleon Dynamite and Jerry is the only adult I know who can rattle off Uncle Rico’s lesser known films. Real Genius is actually a Val Kilmer flick, but Uncle Rico has a great supporting role, apparently; Jerry says it’s good, so I’m on it.

[Oh, by the way, Jerry, Junior found Ben's white little stick thing that goes to his video game. Send me your address, I'll drop it in the mail.]

Speaking of movies, A. O. Scott gave Little Children such a compelling review, that now I’m dying to see it. Since I won’t (I don’t get out) I went to Amazon and “Surprise Me!” read the book, which is not the worst way to read a book, actually. It’s sort of fun. But then I wanted it, too, really bad, so we ran out and got it tonight, dropped everything; my children are so tolerant. It’s got a lovely first paragraph, one I wish I could steal.

“The young mothers were telling each other how tired they were. This was one of their favorite topics, along with the eating, sleeping and defecating habits of their offspring, the merits of certain local nursery schools, and the difficulty of sticking to an excercise routine. Smiling politely to mask a familiar feeling of desperation, Sarah reminded herself to think like an anthropologist. I’m a researcher studying the behavior of boring suburban women. I am not a boring suburban woman myself.”

Anyway, like Junior told me tonight, “it’s okay to take ideas from books, Mom, but you can’t just copy the words,” so I’ll take some ideas. It is Saul Bellow (Herzog), though, and Richard Yates who are getting me along — My pitch-line for when the Hollywood agents come call is: “It’s Revolutionary Road with sight gags.” Ba-dum ching. Ho hum.

Okay nothing to see here, let’s wrap it up. Che traffico! C’e non male. Do good work.

Robert Iger rides sidesaddle, with Chris Wallace.

A. is in midtown right now … or on his way. He was walking out of my mother-in-law’s Stuyvesant Town apartment, dazed and confused, last we spoke — you always think a redeye’s a good idea and then somehow it never is. He’ll meet H. uptown later (now?) at her office. Hi H. and A. if you’re reading this!

I’m crazy jealous and so in honor of my jealousy, here are some New York reruns from 2003 and my old silly blog. Bear with the formatting; rehosting and such and old templates as they are:

* New Yorky ways to blow fifteen bucks.
* Someone stepped on Derek Jeter’s arm; riots ensued.
* My in-laws had a hearty debate about hot dogs which we turned over to Dear Blabby.
* New Jersey has some fun little facts.

Call me, call me everyone! I’m bored out here in the sticks!

Robert Iger can’t carry your jockstrap.

… This is actually for sale on Amazon. (Thanks Mark.) Order now!

I’m sleeping with Saul Bellow under my pillow (Herzog), like Helen Mirren did with Goya. From now until the end of my book, Amen.

That and Happy Birthday Mom! That’s all I have.

Nella vecchia fattoria … e-i-e-i-ohhh … nella vecchia fattoria, e-i-e-i-ohhh,
c’e la mucca. mucca. muu, muu, mucca.
c’e la pecora, pecora. pe, pe, pecora …

Nella vecchia fattoria, e-i-e-i-oh.

Robert Iger uses racial epithets, with Chris Wallace

Heh, heh. Oops. Howard’s been reading my blog again. Yes, it was last year, Howard! Caught –in my own web of lies! You at home with a crop in the field, the hungry children; me seducing physicists. Can this marriage survive? (Tune in tomorrow, kids.)

Meanwhile, I liked this clip today, from Gawker. Rosie slapping down the conservative girl (and former Survivor: Australia member) on The View. Don’t talk to Rosie about guns, girlfriend. And while we’re on Rosie, check out this engaging chat (edited by moi!). Don’t blink or you’ll miss the Barbara Walters / Fidel Castro revelation snuck in at the end. What? Too tired to click? Oh, okay, here:

CR: Did you ever think in your wildest dreams you’d be working with Barbara Walters?

RO: No! She’s an icon, a feminist superhero. She’s spoken to every world leader in the last 40 years.

CR: There was a rumor she had an affair with Fidel Castro!

RO: [Laughs]. Really? If it’s true, I’m gonna get it out of her this year. I’ll let you know.

That’s all, people. I have a book to write, Jeesh. For crying out loud.