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dreaming my little dreamy dreams
12/06/2007 = 06:42 AM

Monty's posted the recording of my guest appearance on Friday Night Live. The show went on for about four hours. I was on for less than thirty minutes, starting right around the beginning of the second hour. But it's well worth listening to the whole thing, if you can find the time and, unlike "real" radio, you can break it into bits and listen at your leisure. (NOTE: In case you haven't guessed, it's very much Not Safe For Work.)

Also, there's a new PC Lite with both Andy and me, and to all you grammar police who like to try to arrest me for saying "Andy and me," you may turn in your badges, because "with" is a preposition and should not be followed with the subjective "I". If you're going to call me out, make sure your warrant at least has a legal infraction. Thank you.

I have also received word that, while my book was not the book club selection at Juma's last book club meeting, it was the topic of discussion for at least as long as the actual selection was.

That does my heart some good.

Even though I imagine the club didn't actually spend much time on either book, preferring to discuss important things like pizza, beer, families, and men with cute butts.

I wasn't there. I'm imagining. It's what writers do.

Another thing writers do is have really vivid dreams when they don't feel well. Or, at least, I do.

Here's my latest fever dream, which aired last night. I was the only one who had tickets, but I'll tell you all about it.

I was at a benefit performance, where Sandra Lee (the television lady who claims to be a "semi-homemade chef" but is actually just a person who uses shortcuts in the kitchen like all the rest of us, which she managed to parlay into a television show teaching us how to do stuff that, if we can't figure it out on our own, we probably can't figure out how to work the television and tune into, either) said Redd Foxx would be coming out and singing Great Balls of Fire as the grand finale.

I said, Didn't he die, like, fifteen years ago?

She said, No, I just had breakfast with him this morning.

So I hung around for the grand finale, which was, indeed, Great Balls of Fire, but performed by Brad Sherwood, the improv comedian who makes my toes all toasty.

Before he went on, Sandra Lee walked onto the stage and made a giggly announcement that she was really embarrassed, but, as it turned out, Redd Foxx had died in the '90s.

My seatmate (Mary McDonnell from Battlestar Galactica, another show I don't watch) said, What a ripoff.

I replied, That isn't even what's bothering me. Now I want to know whom she had breakfast with.

That's when I woke up.

Dear Sandra Lee:

Keep it sweet, keep it simple, and keep the fuck out of my subconscious. I already know how to mix sour cream with dry soup mix, thanks anyway.

Sincerely:

Golf "The Fact That You Serve Your California Dip in 'Darling Little Bowls' Does Not Make You a Better Person Than I, Even If I Eat My California Dip Out of the Mixing Bowl" Widow

Tags: writing; dreams; Sandra Lee

drinking: coffee
listening to: Steve Miller Band, Jungle Love
am i the only one: who thought steve miller was saying "chug-a-lug?"