Que Sera Sera

What have you


The other night at the bar, Dan and I commandeered Sarah’s camera because we thought it would be funny to hold it at table-level and take a picture of her boyfriend Jeremy’s crotch. When we looked at the screen a second later, this was what we saw:

THERE WAS NOTHING TO THE LEFT OR IN FRONT OF JEREMY WHEN WE TOOK THE PICTURE. Nothing in the area that could have even remotely looked like this, or reflected light or anything! I realize it looks like the inside of a left hand, but I was sitting on my left hand and taking the picture with my right! And it also looks sort of like an OTHERWORLDLY nose and mouth! Which really freaked out a table full of semi-drunk people! Clearly the only logical answer here is that this is a ghost, and this ghost was at my rack level, probably sitting in my lap, all up in my grill.

I hope it’s the ghost of a lost sea captain and he followed me home and is watching me type this in my underwear RIGHT NOW.


My old college pal Kerry was in town this weekend. Back in the day, you couldn’t separate Kerry and me and our friend Laura, and we got into many a coed caper that was part Babysitters Club girlish fun, part How Did We End Up at the Adult Bookstore Across State Lines Again? I think my favorite part of our friendship was that the three of us would refer to each other by our last names, which made uncoordinated me feel like I was part of some athletic team or something. No one ever calls me by last name, but man, it makes me feel so tough. Anyway, when I first knew Kerry, she was an art student with mismatched clothing who printed up business cards that said “Momma K’s High Priced Bitches: If Momma Ain’t Happy, Ain’t Nobody Happy” in order to win the Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey’s Pimp of the Year contest. Which she did. Kerry now works for a fancy law firm in Houston and lives with her boyfriend Cleve, a former Ultimate Fighting Champion. Cleve’s best scar (at least to me) is the one he sustained from a glass pan full of fresh-from-the-oven cookie bars to the face when Kerry totalled her car.

Kerry showed up at my door at 11 pm Friday, and we went straight to my neighborhood pub, where she told me she was full of Tylenol 3 and Flexeril from her (second) car wreck last week, and then in the same breath turned to our waitress, ordered a double round and said, “Could you just bring us an entire chicken?” We decided over breakfast the next morning that she and Laura and I are going to Dollywood in the fall. So Laura, if you’re reading this, we’re going to Dollywood in the fall. Just shut up about your PhD crap right now, because you can’t fight this. Need I remind you of the Los Hombres Latinos episode, and who won? I mean, aside from everybody.


The Hold Steady’s new album comes out tomorrow, which is six minutes from now, and you should go get it as soon as you can. I’ve been testdriving it since the end of January, and it’s still in my constant rotation. So far I’ve deemed it awesome music to listen to while cooking, cleaning, running, showering, driving, drinking, and making out. If you don’t like this album, you should check yourself into the hospital or something because you’re probably dead inside. They even have the lady from Schoolhouse Rock singing backup! Get it now.

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