What Not To Wear

I know this may shock you, but there is dissension in the party line at the vonBloggenschtern compound.

And it all has to do with...

...dressing up the dog.

With the significance of the day today, and the interweb rife with possibilities, the battle has reached a fever pitch.

Never having had the live little dolly to dress up (the boys are all so-o-o-o beyond listening and completely, rudely, ignore the GQ and Men's Vogue magazines I leave strewn about...), I turned my attention to the pug.

My mad fashion stylist skillz was not appreciated. By neither man nor beast.

You see, with pugs, their tail is their happy barometer. If it's curly and up:

Happy chappy.

If it's at half mast:
A little uncertain. A little guilty.

Like when Mommy finds the pile of white fluff that used to be a roll of toilet paper.

And if their tail is completely tucked?

Then they're just dog trannys getting ready to hit the bar (their lack of opposable thumbs makes the double-sided tape thing a mite tricky...).

Tucking also indicates they're unhappy/pissed. Which is how the barometer needle swings when Zeus vonB is subjected to costuming.

Sh*t.

So, in the daylight hours before All Hallows Eve, I can only admire what might have been, and I share with you, so you can commiserate along with me...

What Not To Wear #1 - The Pug-ligator

Oooh, so fierce! Able to gobble up screaming little monsters in one big chomp! Just look at that murderous gaze...

(or maybe he just wet himself).

What Not To Wear #2 - Wicked, It Is

Not only am I digging the little green dangly hands, it's nice to see that this is an anatomically correct Jedi Knight costume. Hel-lo, light sabre!

And finally,

What Not To Wear #3 - Darth Pug-dar

Be afraid- very, very afraid - I have many buttons, gizmos and doo-dads festooned upon my sunken asthmatic chest. Wheeze...

And Queen Amidalah? Yeah, I tapped that bitch...


Happy Halloween, everyone! Be safe.

Thoughtful Thursday

One of the many things that I love about being Canadian is that while we may loathe & despise our next-door-neighbor, should we ever both find ourselves adrift in the big bad world? We would be each others' champion to the bitter end.

We are Red & White & Gloriously Maple-Leafed homers.

So, when I manage to find Canadian writers in the blogosphere, I cling on to them like the shiny treasures that they truly are (I would hope this courtesy would be extended - it is, after all, the only polite thing to do. And hell-ooo? Canadians? Polite)

(But really? It matters not to me. Chaçon à son goût).

One of my absolute favorite North-ish North American blogs EVER is Stacy's The Best Life Ever.

When I'm having a crap-tacular day, I can go here and see how time and again this ridiculously good-looking woman and her ridiculously good-looking husband and their ridiculously good-looking dog are making lemonade out of lemons, livin' large, and lovin' life.

Stacy's a thoughtful soul, full of observations that leave me pondering for days after. She just seems to get it. The beauty in simplicity; the simplicity in finding the beauty.

One of her quotes is from Paulo Coelho; as I read this, the hairs at the back of my neck stood on end - it was exactly what I needed to read at exactly the right time:

"The teacher never tells the disciple what he or she should do. They are merely traveling companions, sharing the same uncomfortable feeling of "estrangement" when confronted by ever-changing perceptions, broadening horizons, closing doors, river that sometimes seem to block their path and which, in fact, should never be crossed, but followed.

There is only one difference between teacher and disciple: the former is slightly less afraid than the latter."

That, my friends, is simply beautiful.

Yay, Canada. Yay, Stacy.

Wordsmith Wednesday

Felicitations, Congratulations, and a Huzzah, Huzzah to the Countess of YickYack, Countess Crystal, Mental P. Mama and Dale.

They are the lucky recipients of a copy of "Trunk Music" by Michael Connelly, the second selection from The Baroness Book Giveaway. Thanks to the lovelies at Hachette Book Group , too, for taking care of all of the administrative mumbo-jumbo. Been there, done that, dragged the inebriated boss out the local bar for her 4:00 pm meeting (silly cow)(her,not me), bought the designer t-shirt.

Believe me when I say that this is best left in the hands of professionals...

Also.

Believe me when I say, "But Wait! There's More!"

And I ain't talking no ginzu knives, people.

I have been advised that I am able to give away 50 - count 'em- 50 more books.

All at once. 10 titles; 5 copies each.

In time for Halloween - this shall be called:

The Baroness' "Spooktacular*" Book Giveaway
[DEAD-line:(hah!)(I kill myself)(hah again!!) is Friday October 31st, 2008, when the rooster crows at midnight]

(* I wish I could take credit for this particularly punny bon mot; sadly, I cannot)

Prepared to get your ghoul on - here they are, in their frightening fabulosity:
1. The Heretic's Daughter by Kathleen Kent (*also available as an audiobook)
2. Isolation by Travis Thrasher
3. The 13 Best Horror Stories of All Time by Leslie Pockell
4. The Monsters: Mary Shelley and the Curse of Frankenstein by Dorothy Hoobler
5. The Myrtles Plantation: The True Story of America's Most Haunted House by Frances Kermeen
6. Ghostly Encounters: True Stories of America's Haunted Inns and Hotels by Frances Kermeen
7. The Terror by Dan Simmons (*also available as an audiobook)
8. Dracula by Bram Stoker (*also available as an audiobook)
9. When Ghosts Speak: Understanding the World of Earthbound Spirits by Mary Ann Winkowski
10. The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova (*also available as an audiobook)

Easy contest question - favorite Halloween costume EVER?

Maybe you never did Halloween. Maybe, though, you've seen a costume that you would have like to have rocked.

This will do.

Usual Rules:

1. Contest entries go to my private Bat-computer (which I keep under glass, just like the BatPhone): Baronessvonb@gmail.com

2. Please include a mailing address (no p.o. boxes, please)

3. Contestants must live in either the US or Canada. No Transylvanians - cheaters!

4. Indicate, if applicable, whether you want the book or the audiobook.

I'm On Board - Quadrant 3

It's been a while.

Do you even remember this? Or this?

No worries.

We'll just move on to this -

a wee glimpse into what I glimpse at when I'm trying to decide what to write, and what not to write. It may be surprising, considering the sheer volume of words I tend to pour onto the page, but I do self-edit a lot. And often(my, oh, my - this blog would be such a different place if I didn't have the Debbie Downer filter cranked up to 11).

In a very Alice-in-Wonderland-ish sort of way, it's also a wee doorway into the outer chambers of the inner workings of the Baroness (it's so much more tidy to keep all the mechanical stuff behind a door somewhere.). So, let's all take the pill to make us small and see what we find...

I talked last week about His Greenness, Mr. Sal E. Mander of Maui, Hawaii. I also raved about the faboo architecture of Savannah.

Another place with breathtaking architecture that the vonB's recently visited was Chicago. It really is my kind of town.

But I'm not talking about the riverfront:

or Millennium Park (although that ginormous jelly bean - shiny!),with the spewing humanoid fountain and the Gehry-designed Jay-Pritzker Pavillion:

I'm talking ivy, people. I'm talking Harry Carey sculpture.

I'm talking Wrigley.

This, aside from Fenway, was one of the Meccas that the Baron has been wanting to pilgrimmage to for years. So, with time a-wastin', we did. We crammed a whole lot of Chicago into the 4 days we were there, but the picture of Duke 2 in his Cubs hat is one of the defining moments of that trip. It was quite possibly one of the happiest afternoons we all have spent together as a family.

***************
The map tucked into the corner of the board is of The British Isles. Perhaps you remember this question as part of an long-ago logic exam:

Wrigley Field is to the Baron as ______ is to the Baroness:

a) The Gator Bowl
b) NASCAR
c) Scotland
d) Hunting

I'm sure you chose "c" (it's always "c"). And you would be right. I can't wait to get my men in kilts and go roamin' in the gloamin'. This will fill my heart with joy.

****************
The business cards tucked in the edge are of our past Rotary exchange student from Germany, the beautiful Fraulein Felicitas; the top one is for a doggy daycare where we take Zeus the Wonder Pug once a week. Strictly for socialization.

It has nothing to do with the fact that I have a limited tolerance to letting him in and out and in and out and in and out of the house. All day. (as a quick aside here, if any of you know Cesar Milan personally, we could use some help here)

I know, I know. Doggy Daycare. How freakin' precious. But I feel a responsibility to my dog to try and get him to think like he's a dog, instead the mini-human he believes he is.

To date, this has not been a successful endeavour. I refuse to give up, though. One day, he'll actually initiate playing with another dog, and I will know that God's work has been done.

*****************
The matchbook is from one of my favorite places on Earth, Nye's Polonaise Room in Minneapolis, MN. Schnitzel, bratwurst, polka. Does life get any better? When AJ actually thought to snag me a matchbook before we left? My heart grew 10 times that day. That kid's going places.

*****************
The postcard (sorry I could never part with this one, Countess iPost!) is from one of my favorite kitsh-a-terias, Sophie's Cosmic Cafe. Who doesn't love a place that serves breakfast all day? Because, I maintain, anytime is a good time for oatmeal. Hellz to the ya on that one, people.

*****************
Last, but certainly not least is a card from the Deck of SARK.

Now this one is entitled "Being a Succulent Wild Woman", but I'm quite sure that there is no advice on feminine hygiene products nor nail polish, so it could go for the dudes, too. Here's some things to aspire to, boys and girls:

Be Delicious
Discover Your Own Goodness
Smile When You Feel Like it
Be Rare, Eccentric and Original
Describe Yourself as Marvelous
Paint Your Soul
Investigate Your Dark Places with a Flashlight
Make More Mistakes!
Tell the Truth Faster
You Are Enough You Have Enough You Do Enough

This woman? She's a genius. I swear.

LOVE the game, AND the Playah

EEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I'm so freakin' excited!!

I've said it before and I'll say it again - oh, how the Baroness loves it when a plan comes together.

You people - you really are a creative lot. You can been a little timid, but with some Belgian chocolate and a warm mug of mulled apple cider (I'm all about the cider)(ok, more the mulling), I might coax y'all out of your shells yet.

I've received my first "Option A" entry for the Baroness Book Giveaway (which ends tonight at midnight) - and it is has been embraced the challenge with enthusiastic delight. You are most certainly a winner, Countess of Yick Yack - you can throw that in the trunk and take it to the bank, sistah girl.

Pack, Unpack

"The Countess of YY woke up with a sense of dread. Not because it was forecasted to have flurries that day but the for the fact she knew she had to pack for yet another trade show. LA was known for it's for glitz and glam. For the Countess who is neither glitzy or glamorous she was truly in a funk. Packing was something if she wasn't Jewish she would have given up for lent. Now she needed to decide does she pack her overnight bag, her 36" or 72" suitcase or just screw it and throw everything in her trunk and just drive to LA.

Hearing the voice of the Baroness in her head she defers to the overnight bag because whatever you don't have you can buy. What must she pack? Since the Countess of YY wants to be sure to get to Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles, she must pack a GPS device.....oh that's right, she doesn't own one. Okay we will just trust a cab driver to get there.

Okay truth time here, if the Countess of YY were to list everything she were going to pack it would really be a snore fest as she tends to over pack and is thinking of forming a club called Overpackers Anonymous. The things she always has on her is a good book. That way if she is kept waiting on the tarmac, the airport, or whereever, she won't mind waiting. Number two her medication. Countess YY's philosophy - "Better living through Chemistry". A night light so she doesn't break her neck when she gets up in the middle of the night to ....well, you know. Oh yes, her make up. Heaven forbid she should leave home without it. Snacks, many both sweet and salty, Countess of YY has the metabolism of a hummingbird according to those her know her. These are things she carries with her no matter where she goes. Hence her 35 lb purse. She has recently seen a chiropractor, since her favorite massage therapist lives in another country.

Her sense of dread lifts as she sits down on the plane, fastens her seat belt, shoves her bag with both feet under the seat in front of her. She says a prayer of thanks to the travel G-ds for getting the free upgrade then turns to see who she is going to be sharing her flight with and it takes her breath away when she realizes it is..."

OK Baroness, that is it. I want to win the book as I love books. I have moved a million times and I bet I move 1000lbs of books each time I move. I always told my kids don't ever marry someone who doesn't read. what more can I say, there is nothing better than a good book except a best friend. The best thing is when the best friend reads and can suggest good books to you and visa versa.

There is nothing like the smell and feel of book..............................

The Countess of Yick Yack

There Be Some Junk in the Trunk

Did I, perhaps, overstep?

Did I, perhaps, make too forward an assumption?

If so, I profusely apologize.

I was only having fun.

Perhaps it was a bridge (or a trunk) too far.

This past Wednesday, I did my Baroness Book Review (lots of babble, a vague glimmer of insight) on Michael Connelly's "Trunk Music".

I also introduced the book giveaway (5 copies up for grab), and suggested an entry:

What would you pack in a trunk (car or Louis Vuitton),

if you were going to travel to Los Angeles, and why?

Tell me in the style of a mystery novel.

The deadline is supposed to be tomorrow at midnight.

I have yet to receive one entry. Huh.

So how about this?

Option A:
What would you pack in a trunk (car or Louis Vuitton),

if you were going to travel to Los Angeles, and why?

(If you'd like - tell me in the style of a mystery novel)

Option B:

Name

Mailing Address

Send either to my email addy:

Baronessvonb@gmail.com

Other rules and such:
1. You must live in either the U.S. or Canada

2. Mailing addresses can not be a P.O. Box. Street addresses only, please.

3. 5 copies are up for grabs. Free of charge.

4. Only one entry per person, please.

5. Contest deadline is midnight on Monday, October 27th, 2008 - winners announced on the 29th.

Reservations for One

One day a couple of weeks ago, my massage therapist (a Sikh) asked me (a Jew) how my holidays were going.

"OK, I guess", I said. "I'm not really doing much for them this year".

Her brow furrowed. I could tell she was troubled by my unexpected answer.

"What?" She gently implored, "I thought you had all these things you have to go to at the Temple."

Well, technically, that is quite correct. This part of the year, the High Holy Day season (starting with Rosh Hashanah and ending with Yom Kippur), is chock-a-block full of religious services and community obligations.

But this year, I just wasn't feeling it. What I was feeling was the guilty pangs of hypocrisy, had I chosen to go through the motions, just to try to drum up some enthusiasm for some arbitrary days on the calendar. Which - this year - don't really neatly dovetail with where things are for me on these days on my calendar.

So I chose not to go.

To any services whatsoever.

And, as far as I know, they don't take attendance.

Rosh Hashanah services are akin to a Christian's Easter or Christmas Day service. It is then that every single congregant comes out of the woodwork to put in an appearance. They may never show up the rest of the year, but here they are, in all of their penitent finery.

It is mayhem. Happy mayhem.

Celebratory mayhem.

Mayhem born of jubilation of the successful ending of one agrarian year, and the promise of an equally successful new series of harvest seasons.

But mayhem, nevertheless.

After much soul-searching, I have finally decided that I'm not a narcissisitic exhibitionist after all. I don't need to hate crowds because they draw away from the spotlight being on me, me, me. I've decided that I just hate crowds because, they're, well, crowded.

Crowds make me anxious. They make me tense. They make me claustrophobic.

So the whole not going? Doesn't make me any less spiritual. Just a lot less boxed in.

And then there's the Holiest of Holy Days, Yom Kippur. Our Day of Atonement. By the time this day rolls around, it is assumed that one has got all of their apologies and the subsequent "I forgive you's" in place.

Once these actions are ticked off of the metaphysical to-do list, then we're ready. We have effectively wiped our slates clean, and we'll find out who's inscribed into the Book of Life.

And, while our usual weekly prayerbook could very well be used as a multi-faith devotional, with its many beautiful passages and meditations? Some of the phrases from the prayerbook that we use for our High Holy Days services, seem to me, to border on the barbaric:

Who shall burn with the fires of greed.
Who shall drown in the waters of despair.

Who shall rest at the end of the day.
Who lie sleepless on a bed of pain.

Who shall be locked in the prison of self.

On Rosh Hashanah it is written,
on Yom Kippur it is sealed:
How many shall pass on, how many shall come to be;
who shall live and who shall die;
who shall see ripe age and who shall not

Who shall live and who shall die.

That sentence is as jarring to me as the first heavy clod of earth that hits the coffin lid at a burial. It shakes me to the core. And, I suppose, that's the intent. But this year, I could not bear it. I could not steel myself against it.

This year, I know of a couple of people who are struggling, or who have struggled valiantly to stay on that damned "Who Shall Live" page. And things are not looking so rosy.

These are good, solid people. Yet their lives are fluttering back and forth between one page and the other, and more than ever, it really bothers me to think that some unknown force will decide in which direction the wind will finally blow them.

Call me cowardly, call me irreverent, call me whatever.

As far as I'm concerned, I still have the ability to make one choice:

Who will go to services, and who will not.

Thoughtful Thursday

Don't tell the Baron, but I used to love a woman.

Martha Stewart, to be exact.

Only here's the thing - I don't think that Martha loved me back.

All her crafts, her recipes, her suggestions? I busted my ass, time and again. She didn't care.

Nothing, nothing, NOTHING was ever like it was supposed to look, to be, to taste. She just smiled at me with her smug, effortless grin.

She made my anxiety/perfectionism levels go to Red Alert (even as I think about this now, my blood pressure's going up a bit).

The writing (in a lavish Gregorian Monk Scroll font) was on the wall (stacked Corsican slate, roughly mortared by Connecticut artisans) - we had to break up.

And then I found Real Simple magazine. Which lives up to its title. The recipes always work out, the suggestions are down-to-earth, for real folk in a real world. I don't need a staff of 40 to make it happen.

Another bonus, which I had completely forgot about until I picked it up again this month, is that the spine of the magazine has a quote on it. So when you've got them stacked up on a shelf, you've got a lovely series of quotes to inspire you.

This month's is from Eldridge Cleaver:

"Too much agreement kills a chat."

From an ex-Martha sycophant, I couldn't agree more.

Wordsmith Wednesday

(See book contest at the end of the post)

I may have mentioned once or twice in the past that I'm a little anal-retentive (which could potentially begin to explain this), especially when it comes to mystery writers.

When I hear of someone that I think I would like to read, I must start at the beginning of their works, regardless of where the authors currently are in their careers.

My justification of this is that I like to read/watch the evolution of the character over time. I find it is very revelatory about the evolution of the author as well.

I may also have mentioned once or twice in the past that I'm a little obsessive-compulsive.

So once I find a mystery author I like, I read their entire library. If I can't get a book in the series, I will stop reading the series until I find it. Sometimes, I won't even start. Even if I have book 1, 2 and 4, but am missing 3.

Some are easy to locate. Think Janet Evanovich. Think Lori Avocado.

Then there are the others; the ones that bookstores don't stock anymore - think the Spencer series of Robert Parker. Think the earlier Alex Cross series of Robert Patterson. So I have to hit either Amazon or our city's used bookstores. I'm usually successful. Sometimes though, I have to count on the kindness of the Countess of Yik Yak to go to the mystery mecca of Minnesota, Uncle Edgar's. What I need is always there.

Here's the thing. Faye and Jonathan Kellerman, Patricia Cornwell, Sue Grafton, Diane Mott Davidson - I pounce on any new book from them as soon as it's out;I've received my advance notice from the publisher, or checked Amazon for the tentative release date. I am like the prolific Serengeti lion in the high grass, just waiting for that meaty gazelle with the ingrown toenail.

In keeping with the lion analogy, I pounce and devour. And then, when I'm done in a day, I am left to wonder why these people can't be less selfish and more prolific and put out a book every 3 months or so. I am left at odds, waiting and waiting.

But now, by some magical intervention from the Hachette Book Group fairy, comes Michael Connelly and his book, Trunk Music. Here's a fellow who looks like a keeper. So much so, I am willing to be introduced to the main character mid-way through the series.

And let's talk for a minute about the main character. His name? Hieronymous Bosch. How can a guy with this handle be anything but interesting?

I don't know much about him, but what I do know is that he's had some nastiness happen earlier on, pre-story; he's just recently come back to the squad room to resume his detective duties. So, not only am I compelled to find out if there's any alluding to what happened to get Bosch suspended in the first place, but I'm looking forward to see if his current actions give away any clues as to why he might have got suspended in the first place.

Another thing I'm liking about Connelly is that I'm learning some new things. I've read my fair share of whodunnits; I would like to think that I'm pretty savvy in the procedures that go into both crime scene and forensic analyses. Yet here, there were some surprises. Something new and -pardon the pun- novel. I appreciated that.

One of the downfalls of a mystery writer, in my estimation, is the awkward articulation of romance that is usually thrown in to spice things up. Most writers, men in particular(again - in my estimation), fumble through this like a horny teenager.

Once again, with Connelly, I was pleasantly surprised. He kept the dialogue realistic, and his descriptions of intimate interplay was neither too florid, too fromage-y, nor too pulp-ish. The guy gets it; how A goes into B, and is able to deftly keep commentary current and moving along at a satisfying clip.

When I was waffling about reading someone new, and feeling a little like I was cheating on my perennial favorites, my friend Cormac Brown - a Michael Connelly fan - quickly snapped me out of it.

"He's not a difficult read", said the wonderful crime fictionalist Mr. Brown. He also added that Mr. Connelly is a disciple of Raymond Chandler and Ross MacDonald (while I shamefacedly admit to having read neither, I'm interpolating here that this means if one is described thusly, it is high praise indeed).

Cormac Brown - you are right yet again, sir.

This novel was compelling, and intriguing, and dammit - I could not figure out the ending.

And that is enough for me. Now, when I am alone in the tall grass, and getting some tummy rumblings, I have new prey to stalk - Michael Connelly and Detective Harry Bosch.

**********************************************************************
Baroness von B's Book Contest Giveaway
(courtesy of the fine people at Hachette Book Group USA)

Rules:
1. You must live in either the U.S. or Canada

2. Mailing addresses can not be a P.O. Box. Street addresses only, please.

3. DO NOT answer this in the comments section of this post - you must e-mail me your answer to the contest question at Baronessvonb@gmail.com. Be sure to include your mailing address, or your entry will be tossed to the bottom of the pile.

4. I will pick 5 of the best answers, and these winnahs will get a copy of the book, as well as having their answer quoted here for everyone to see.

5. Only one entry per person, please. Let's not ruin a good thing.

6. Contest deadline is midnight on Monday, October 27th, 2008 - winners announced on the 29th.

My work here is done. Here's where your work begins:

Trunk Music opens in a park just off of Mulholland Drive in Los Angeles; the title refers to a Mafiosa term for killing someone and dumping them in a car trunk. Those wise guys, such charmers.

I'm thinking riffing on this particular fact is a little on the macabre side - so I'll ask you this instead:

What would you pack in a trunk (car or Louis Vuitton),

if you were going to travel to Los Angeles, and why?
Tell me in the style of a mystery novel.

I'm On Board - Quadrant 2

As you may or may not remember (perhaps one too many a glass of champagne, mes amies?), I decided last week that for the next 4 Tuesdays (now 3), I would give a glimpse behind the green curtain, so you could see what I look for in the way of desperation.

Quadrant One is so last week, darlings; on to Quadrant Two:

This quarter is pretty much all about pictures, pictures, pictures.

You may recognize the 2 black and white postcards. I talked about Wynn Bullock's "Child on Forest Road" here; I talked a bit about Henry Hamilton Bennett's "Leaping the Chasm at Stand Rock" here.

Up in the tippy top right hand corner is the cover of an old birthday card of mine [no doubt in celebration of an old(ish) birthday...]. It reads "Money Won't Make You Happy But Spending It Will". Ain't that just the truth and a half?

The photo just below the "Believe" word art is a picture taken when the Baron and I had an escape holiday a few years ago, sans children. We found a delish place in Scottsdale, Arizona, and this was the view of Camelback Mountain from the courtyard outside our room. I love my children dearly, but I've know their father for much longer. And there are times when it's good to get re-acquainted, if you get my drift (cue the chicka chicka wanh wanh music...).

Just to the right of the ceramic sun/moon is a picture of the limo for "The Little White Wedding Chapel" of Las Vegas, Nevada.

On our 10th anniversary, the Baron and I renewed our vows, solemnly and reverently at The Graceland Wedding Chapel. This sacred re-union was, of course, officiated by Elvis.

For our 20th, we wanted to do something different, something not quite so heavy. What to do, what to do?

How about a drive-through wedding chapel? Hellz, ya! Nothing says "I lurv ya, babe" like hanging out the roof of a limo as your vows are read at the drive-thru window.

This is what it's all about, people.

And, as an added bonus, at the end of the ceremony, the Baron turned to Dukes 1 & 2 (then aged 15 and 17) and said very loudly - "There! Now you're not bastards anymore."

I thought the marriage commissioner was going to pee herself.

To the right of this is a picture of one of the streets of Monmartre. Just please don't ask me which one. We walked so many hours that day, I was hallucinating a little by the time we got back to our hotel. And no, it had nothing to do with the absinthe(s) I had with lunch.

The bottom right picture is of a building in Savannah, Georgia. I went there with The Countess of Yik Yak on a Girly Getaway. I have to admit, it was a bitch and a half to get from here to there, but so worth the effort. Quite possible one of my favorite travel destinations - I just never want to have to travel again to get there. Paula Deen, if you're reading - send Michael in his boat!

OOOh! The best for last. Despite what Kermit says -it is easy being green. In the case of Sal E. Mander of Maui, Hawaii, it's very easy indeed.

One of the downsides I found from having chemotherapy was that I could never seem to get warm. So, when we were trying to decide on where we would go to celebrate after I was done, my only criteria was that it was somewhere I didn't have to wear 3 layers of clothing.

Kapalua, Maui it was. We all were able to finally breathe and relax, and just leave all the stress of dealing with my illness behind. Believe me when I say that it wasn't just me that went through this - my family, like or not, was along for the ride. And it was hard.

Then there was Sal, our friendly neighborhood gecko. Every day, he would be waiting for us. You can't really see from the picture, but he's actually posing for this. I really think he has a shot at being American's Next Top Model.

He is so smiling with his eye.

Mystery Monday

Proud Parenting fact: Duke #1 taught himself to read when he was about 3 years old. His vocabulary was stunning.

However.

When it came to art projects, my darling little Duke #1 was, um, a ponderist.

A minimalist.

Oh, alright already. He was a bona fide perfectionist.

I do not know where this comes from, said the Baroness, averting her eyes from the incredulous stares and gaping pie-holes of those who know her well...

Needless to say, every time I went to pick him up from preschool, regardless of what fantastic creation his teachers had inspired, I knew right away - as I assessed the drying paintings in the hallway - which one was his.

That would be the piece of construction paper/kraft paper/fingerpainting paper that was completely blank, save for his name in the lower right hand corner.

That his teacher had written.

He was fine with this, and did not seem to be bothered by the reality that while his classmates were getting their Dali-esque grooves on, he stood solemnly in front of his easel. And produced nothing. Not a brushstroke. God only knows what was cooking in that cranium of his. I began mentally reviewing his infancy, to think as to whether or not he had incurred any blows to the creative area of his brain.

All this seemed to change as he entered Kindergarten. He had an amazing teacher who knew how to crack the code, and get him to take the baby steps of putting pen to paper.

Soon, he was unstoppable. He would rush downstairs in the mornings before school, still in his pajamas, and scream like a tortured artist: "I need paper!! I need a pencil!! NOW!!!!".

I was more than happy to oblige. I heaved a huge sigh of relief that the synaptic connection between his amazing brain and the page had finally begun.

I recall these long-ago moments when I find that there are times when my mind is racing at such an alarming rate, I have to quell the urge to scream: "I need paper!! I need a pen!! NOW!!!". (I also add "AND COFFEE!!! LOTS AND LOTS OF COFFEE!!!!")

Which is why I always keep a notebook and pen with me. This mindful act stops me from writing on napkins and newspaper borders and old grocery lists in lip liner (which I have resorted to, on occasion)(sad, really).

The "Mystery" part of this post comes from a page in one of my books. I've read it and re-read it about a hundred times, and for the life of me, I cannot even begin to unravel what I was driving at when I scribbled this crap down. I would like to point out here that I was neither:
a) sleepwriting.
b) drunk,
c) under the influence of cough medicine, mushrooms or legally obtained glaucoma medication (I don't even have glaucoma), nor
d) huffing keyboard cleaning spray.

So, I will leave this with you, and let you take off your cool sunglasses, smooth your tie out, and go all Caruso on my ass. Tell me, please, what the hell I was thinking? It's mess.

Working Title: Look in Your Own Backyard

The elusive hunt for fulfilment/happiness/health/prosperity begins 2 feet ahead of you. No, not the big screen tv. Nor the liquor cabinet or bread box. It's true - really - you just have to see it. Sometimes you have to work insanely hard to move 2 feet forward. It may require taking 2 steps backwards, in order to get a view of the larger picture, to behold the extraordinary in a different light. To repair the damage.

We're a lazy lot by nature, so is it a surprise that this minimal effort seems so unappealing?

Something obviously got my knickers in such a knot that I had to jot these passages down in a hurry, and then have such a brain fart (more like olestra-induced brain shart) that I can't even remember where I was going with this.

Thoughts? Ideas?

Help!

How About That?

Oh, I am feeling so smug.

Why, may you ask? Because as of today, I have 4 days' worth of posts queued up and ready to roll.

I am never usually this organized.

I blame coffee.

Wait, I love coffee.

I can't blame coffee.

It must be just like my highly personalized horoscope said - something about planets aligning and friends saying stuff and the guy in the place with the thing.

Yeah, I blame all that.

And this blaming thing makes me wonder - why I do feel the need to lay blame?

(Not really; I'm hardly that deep)

But it does segue quite nicely into our first holiday of the upcoming week:

Sunday, October 19th - "Evaluate Your Life Day"
A day? One single, solitary day? Oh, ho, ho - I think not. Are they freaking kidding me?

Or... maybe there are many of you out there who are in good places in the metasphere. You have solid friendships, loving relationships, and a serene and content soul.

Would you consider lending the rest of us a hand with this?

Because we, apparently, only have a day.

Thursday, October 23rd - "National Mole Day"
Please note that the Baroness has been gentle-hearted, and given those of you who needed it an extra 3 days to evaluate your life. (I, myself, have not finished yet - but I heard that the teacher is really easy, and won't take off any marks for late hand-ins).

At first glance, I thought this holiday might be an homage to the mole, a/k/a beauty mark:

(photo source here)

Or perhaps they meant the member of the mammal family Talpidae in the order Soricomorpha. You know, the animal? Like this fine fellow?

But no. It's even better than that! It has to do with an area of information near and dear to my heart.

That's right. Shoes.

Chemistry. This website, devoted to the mole, reminds us all that from 6:02 am to 6:02 pm, some nation, any nation will commemorate the contribution of Amadeo Avogadgro to the quantification of molecules of a particular substance. I won't give away too much, as I'm sure that all of you closet geeks out there want to fly your freak flag and go here to find out more.

I know that I wave my banner wild and free. I am proud to be ridin' white and nerdy.

Friday, October 24th - " Lung Health Day"
Not much explanation needed here. Who doesn't want healthy lungs?

For those of you out there blessed with clear airways, I strongly urge you to take a few deep breaths, and count yourself lucky.

This link from the American Association of Respiratory Care is informative and illuminating.

The Baroness knows quite a few people, young and old, whose lungs aren't quite like they used to be.

There's me, for one.

There's my dear blend Asthma Girl, who only developed breathing issues as an adult.

And then there's her:
Sure, they look healthy from the outside, but c'mon.

Can you imagine how squished her real lungs must be when she lies down? Yikes.

Saturday, October 25th - "Make a Difference Day"

I know for a fact that my readers are a fine bunch of people. They have hearts of gold and are very clever. This being said, I leave this to you to do what you think is best.

I will suggest this thought- even smiling at someone is considered Social Action.

As for me, I'll be at a charity soirée, and plan to make a difference by not only supporting our local hospital foundation by bidding on a multitude of Silent Auction items, I'll also be making a difference in the balance of our Visa account.

Which in turn makes a difference in the Air Miles we rack up. Which in turn makes a difference in the happiness quotient of our family as we squire Duke #1 back and forth to visit from school.

See how easy this can be?

Thoughtful Thursday

When I was on my huge self-help kick a few years back, I became smitten with a particular bookstore close to one the beaches near my home.

At a time when my guts roiled daily, the sound of the ebb and flow of the water could have been calming enough.

But then, on top of that, to enter this shorefront bookstore was an extra ahhhhhhhh. As soon as I crossed the threshold, and took in that big whiff of new books and potential, I was peacefully quieted.

It was here that I first read the words of Susan Ariel Rainbow Kennedy, known to her beloved readers as simply SARK.

This lovely woman had a tough go of things early on, and from those times of retreating inward, she gestated this amazing spirit - she speaks to you as if she has known and loved you forever, and she is always there to gently urge you to stop beating yourself up, to move onward and upward.

She has a new book out: "Juicy Pens and Thirsty Paper: Gifting the World with your Words and Stories and Creating the Time and Energy to Actually Do It".

Her myspace page is here.

If the titleof the book wasn't enough to draw you in, how about this quote, which I'm quite sure will resonate with quite a few of us:

"You dare...to write your life. You dare to be viewed and projected upon as wildly successful and ingenious. To write yourself open. To write through the closures and scars and insecurities and sometimes loud voices that repeatedly say: How Dare you? and answer just as profoundly This is How I Dare."

Let's all attempt, in our own unique fashions, to be daring today.

I'm On Board

Just recently, I have noticed that on a couple of my absolutely favorite sites there has been a "challenge" of sorts initiated by the blogosphere's famous Mrs. G.

This involves a photo essay of a typical "Day in the Life".

While I was captivated by both the days of AsthmaGirl and Mental P Mama, I soon realized that there is never a typical day in the life at the von Bloggenschtern household, so how could I ever hope to document such an ever-changing landscape? Not that my days are extraordinary, they are just chaotic - one might have to take dangerously high doses of dramamine before viewing.

So I thought and I thought.

And pondered.

And threw in a dabble of mulling.

And then I sprained my hypothalamus and had to lie down for a few hours.

But, Eureka! I decided I would spend a few Tuesdays giving y'all a glimpse into a place that rarely changes. A place in close proximity to where all this magic happens - the bulletin board above my computer:

If you were to shake me vigorously to unsettle some of my fondest memories, these items would topple out of my brain, via my left ear.

This board is where I look for outward inspiration & where I go inward for my mental sanctuary.

It reminds me of where I've been, what's important to me, and sometimes it just nags me about what I have to get going on.

Without further ado, let's start picking this baby apart, shall we? Quadrant by quadrant.

Quadrant 1

(click to enlarge)

1. The cell phone number of my California cousin, to whom I rarely speak. Her mom is my 2nd-to-last surviving aunt. As my family line has dwindled out over the years, I have never learned about the demise of my aunts and uncles from my any of my cousins. It has always been through this particular aunt, who I guess is the macabre family historian.

When Auntie leaves this mortal coil, I will never know unless I break down and call said cousin to ensure I'm not left out of the loop (yet again). This is a difficult subject to brooch, and one I am not particularly looking forward to. Yet it must be done.

Ack.

2. The picture of the tree has kind of a cool story. The year I was in Grade 1, it was the 100th anniversary of the confederation of Canada. While for some, confederacy celebrations would include the eating of cake and waving of paper flags, we were all given pine trees to take home and plant. I thought pine was more of a Swedish thing, but what did I know? I was only 6. Jeez. Go Canada!

By some miracle, even though there have been 2 subsequent families in the house since we moved, the tree has always remained, and is now a pretty good testament to Canadian living. I recently paid homage to it, and took a couple of pine cones to start this process again. This could be cool.

3. The postcard was just to remind me to keep things in perspective, like my leetle friend with the darling hat. (a nod to the girls over at CNN...)

4. The circle postcard is from a visit to Chicago's Art Institute. It's one of those prismatic ones that change depending on how you look at it.

Shiny.

Trippy.

So me.

5. Thank you card from the Dry After Grad Committee. This was the group that I was involved with last year, and the one I complained bitterly and immaturely about to whomever would listen (until there was no one left to listen).

The card was a lovely sentiment I was so not expecting. This made it all the more special.

6. The "Dharma Works" business card was from a fellow I met a few years ago, when our nephew was doing an installment at a sculpture park in Washington State. We had ourselves a grand old time; it was on Mother's Day, and I got to be Jake's West Coast mommy at the pre-show breakfast spread they provided. Sweet!

It was all so lovely; I met some fascinating artists, and saw some amazing work. Click here to view the awesomeness that is our nephew.

7. Ah, the fake moustache -for those days when mine, disappointingly, does not come in quite the way I would like it to.

Nah. I found them at one of my favorite dollar stores, and people - it was love at first sight. Each one has its own name (this one is "The Scoundrel"). How can you not love that? (you can get your own set, right here!)

For a time, Duke 2 was quite fond of wearing one on all special occasions (I believe it was "The Smarty"). So, it seemed only appropriate that for his 13th birthday, with Humour as the theme (think whoopie cushions, rubber chickens, and wind-up chattering teeth), these would find a place of honor in the mix.

8. This was a fridge magnet of my mom's that we got her from one of our favorite little slices of heaven-on-earth, Saltspring Island (I'm such the fine BC ambassador...)

This island is an artisan's (and artisan seeker's) paradise, with studios and gardens around every bend in the road. We found this at Everlasting Summer (special thanks to the vonB men for toughing out the 20 whole minutes we had to spend here - I know how tortuous it was for you. And should I ever forget, you are always sure to remind me).

I chose it originally because of the picture of the hydrangeas (love 'em). Interestingly enough, it's a U.S. stamp. I was not aware that the mail went both ways.

9. The ceramic sun/moon is from a little shop in Playa del Carmen that I was entranced by. Come for the shiny, stay for the color. I'm such a good little tourista.

It just seemed to sum up all things good about our Mexican vacation - the warmth, the beauty, the simplicity. Ahh. Me thinkee that it's marguerita time somewhere...

10. The pampered dictator of the vonB roost. And it's not me! Behold the great pugness known as Zeus.

Shortly after we got him, we noticed that he had some bumps on his belly, so quickly rushed him to the veterinarian. "Ah, they're just harmless nubbins", said Dr. Signoveryourpaycheck.

So Zeus became known as McNubbin. (Note please that this was wa-a-a-y before the movie "Superbad" came out - we are nothing if not visionaries...).

Then we noticed that the lustly Z. was falling head over heels in lurve with his doggy bed.

McNubbin became Pinky McNubbin.

One night, watching the Westminster Dog Show, we came to the sad realization that our dog had no fancy-schmantzy breeder's name.

And so that night, then and there, he was knighted with a proper title, one befitting a hound of the vonBloggenschtern principality:

Sir Pinky McNubbin of the Manchester McNubbins

Ooh, that dog. He's such a handful.

Well, maybe two hands full.

OK, five.

How is it Possible?

How is it possible?

That even after fasting for the day yesterday, I gained weight?

That even after fasting for the day yesterday, then having a healthy meal, I gained weight?

That even after fasting for the day yesterday, then having a healthy meal THEN kickin' it on the treadmill, I gained weight?

Sh*t.

The human body is a complicated thing, people. Sometimes all the questioning in the world won't change what is. Numbers don't lie (but the Baroness will, if you ask).

Me thinks that, in order to find illumination, some retail therapy is in order.

(Nah, not really. I just want to go shopping)

To all of my fellow Canadians, I wish you a Happy Gobble Day this weekend.

May the 2 pounds of mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie sit like a delicate flower petal in your tummy, and may the tryptophan lull you into a delicious turkey trance.

May your gathering of your clan, be it large or small, be soul-nourishing and laughter-filled.

And may we all not care whether weight is gained. It's so not worth the time thinking about it.

Eat, drink, and be merry. Repeat as necessary.

Thoughtful Thursday

If you had told me a year ago that I would be quoting the following source - for Thoughtful Thursday no less - I would kindly but assertively be telling you that you had bats in your belfry.

Nasty, rabid bats.

Nibbling away on your brain.

Icky, I know. But true.

It's a year later, and over the past weekend I caught the Baron watching one of his guilty pleasures DVDs. Normally, I just avert my eyes, and skitter out of the room, stat.

This time, I kind of got sucked into the vortex. Why?

Because it's a year later, and I heard that voice. Wait a minute - I recognized that voice.

It's the voice of my new favorite tv doctor, the brainiac who has usurped House in my heart.

Instead of averting my eyes, I stopped dead in my tracks, looking at the screen. I saw those deep dark eyes, and I felt the vortex making me dizzy. Or maybe it wasn't the vortex at all.

Maybe it was the essence of Kal Penn (a/k/a Kumar, a/k/a Dr. Kutner). Dude has got me all a-quiver.

Dude is hawt.

Dude is sexy - smart sexy.

So what that he's one half of the idiot duo who have been to two of the more, uh, important hotbeds of social activism - White Castle AND Guantanamo Bay? I now know that he's been carrying Harold this whole time.

Harold is, I'm afraid to say, a moron. I mean this in the least xenophobic of ways.

While I watched, mesmerized, Kumar recited the following poem, and the world around me blurred and I felt all airy and giddy; it was the seldom-verbalized mating call of the nerdy.

I stared at the screen, agape, and a-geek.

It was him and me, me and him. No one else.

It was math bliss.

It was this:

The Square Root of Three
I’m sure that I will always be
A lonely number like root three

The three is all that’s good and right,
Why must my three keep out of sight
Beneath the vicious square root sign,
I wish instead I were a nine

For nine could thwart this evil trick,
with just some quick arithmetic

I know I’ll never see the sun, as 1.7321
Such is my reality, a sad irrationality

When hark! What is this I see,
Another square root of a three

As quietly co-waltzing by,
Together now we multiply
To form a number we prefer,
Rejoicing as an integer

We break free from our mortal bonds
With the wave of magic wands

Our square root signs become unglued
Your love for me has been renewed
David Feinberg

Wordless Wordsmith Wednesday

I know, I know, I know.

Alright, already.

There it sits, lonely but patient, on my nightstand. It is such a bad idea for me to try to read at the end of the night before I go to sleep; I have managed to make it through exactly one and one half chapters.

Yuh. My life is so thrilling, so chock-a-block full of excitement, I am spent by day's end. Ah, the carefree life of a Baroness. Sucks to be me.

I can assure you, I have nothing to do tomorrow (Thoughtful Thursday post is already queued up) but read. How could I possibly promise you this? Because according to my operating manual, God says so (well, I'm supposed to be reflecting, but how long should that take? Two hours? Three, max? I've been a reasonably nice person this year - not much atoning required)(unless you know otherwise...)

However, I will right now atone to Hachette Book Group for not being on the ball with this; rest easy that by next week, I will have an opinion. Forgive me.

I have a book that says you have to.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch Che-volving

Oddly enough, The Baron and I, with our large-ish personalities, have more than a few passionate...

...arguments.

(Get your minds out of the gutters, you!)

They usually go something like this:

Baron: "Blah, blah, blah, yadda yadda yadda, I'm full of confidence and maven-esque qualities, so I will argue with an exponentially increasing volume and win because I'm extremely competitive."

Baroness: "Yadda yadda yadda, black is white, you're completely off-base, I'm an only child and used to getting my way and what I may lack in facts I will make up for in tenacity. I will wear you down to a nub of your former self."

These charming pas-de-deuxs usually end in an unsatifying "agree to disagree" tie. Damn it.

So, the memories of the ones that were rational and calm are usually somewhere near the front of my brain.

One of our more interesting "dis-gust-shuns" (as the Dukes used to call them) stemmed from a old chestnut of wisdom from none other than one Dr. Gregory House:

"Everyone lies"

As a corollary of that, the Baron trotted out a rather bold statement:

"People don't change"

His argument, annoyingly supported by facts and citations, was along the line that people are inherently who they are. They may say that they've changed, but it's a lie. Look at habits, said he. These are ingrained. They are practically written on ones DNA. One can't change what is and what always will be.

I, being an ex-scientist-type, threw down the irrefutable (ok, unless you're a creationist) gauntlet of Evolution. People do adapt, they do change - they have no choice.

Thusly, strangely, we both agreed with the other. And we begat a new word:

"Che-volve"

The act of not quite changing, but of kind of changing, and kind of evolving, so one appears to be somewhat new. But not.

All I can tell you is that, while I've been extremely successful with my recent weight loss, when I was circling the dessert table on Friday night, I had not che-volved. Not one little bit.

And that was a bitter pill to swallow.

(The 3 brownies made it much easier...)

Smart is the New Sexy, The Old Sexy...

...the sexy sexy, the always sexy, the forever sexy.

Some seemingly random facts:

Every Sunday morning, I go swimming.

Early.

Part of the outfall of growing up an only child is that I have an inherent disdain for crowds; they give me a slight rash.

So, I endeavor to get up and out the door early, to get to the community center just as the doors open, to be one of the very few lane swimmers at the pool.

Another outfall of OCS(Only Child Syndrome)? I hate to share.

But this Sunday morning, I accidentally slept in. This error began the day off to a lousy start. By the time I got to the pool, the normally 3 empty lanes had been changed over to 1, in order to accommodate lessons. I was left with a melange of lane-mates who ranged in speed from the merely annoyingly slow to the painfully excruciatingly slow.

Plus, one of these ass-hats managed to clock me in the head as they passed me going the opposite way (by accident, I'm sure).

I tried, length after length, to salvage something positive from this precious time I had devoted to something I'm really not all that crazy about (i.e. exercise in general); to find some positivity in a positively crap-tacular, chlorine-laden hour.

I found it, or shall I say I found him, waiting for me by the whirlpool as I was about to schlump back to the locker room.

This particular facility has a white board where the staff takes turns writing the "Quote of the Day".

And there he was.

Albert.

My dear, sweet, wicked smaht, bed-headed Albert:

"Gravity cannot be held responsible for people falling in love"

Albert Einstein

The swimming experience? Sucky.

People falling in love? Ahh. Nice.

Gravity, in general? Not so kind to us elderly women who are slowly evolving from a 36 C to a 38 long.

But Gravity, in the hands of a master? Smart. Romantic. Sexy

For me and Albert, on a day that didn't start out too great? All I had to do was look.

The writing was on the wall.

I Know I'm Canadian, But...

... am I missing something here?

Why is it that all reports today talk about how Sarah Palin did a "respectable" job in last night's debate?

Was I getting an alternate universe satellite feed?

Because the most prevalent thoughts that crossed my mind were:

a) that the writers of "The Daily Show" should be bowing and scraping to the producers of the debate; their work for today was almost entirely done for them, complete with a subject bar underneath Ms. Palin's talking head that was so clearly NOT the topic she was yabbering on about.

b) Tina Fey has one of the cushiest SNL guest-gigs in the world.

Duke 2, who was home late last night, was caught watching the taped recording of the debate, rather that what he had originally intended to watch when he got home - Survivor and The Office.

When he was asked why, he sheepishly yet astutely said "It's like crack - I can't stop watching".

Out of the mouths of babes, people.

To all you "Joe Six Packs" out there: TGIF, buddy. Have a rockin', amped-up weekend, gettin' loaded and huntin' for endangered species on your new ATV.

To the rest, I don't know what to tell you.

The view from my kitchen window?

Scary.

Thoughtful Thursday

Over the past few days, every time I open my fridge, I see them.

Staring at me from the bottle of Family Recipe Italian Dressing.

Those blue, blue eyes of Mr. Paul Newman.

And I am blue, blue, too.

Let me just say this up front - even in his later years, the guy was hot.

And for me, at least, it wasn't his looks. It was his spirit. His humility. His humanity over and above the facade of the industry that was merely a means to an end.

If you go to the Newman's Own webpage, there is a picture of him looking on as some kids are frolicking around him. This is not some stage-y publicity shot. This is the true essence of who he was.

I have it on good authority (from my salad dressing) that since 1982, Paul Newman and Newman's Own Foundation have given over $200 Million to charity. One of his favorites was Hole In the Wall Camps, for children with serious illnesses.

And I end today's Thoughtful Thursday with his simple quote on philanthropy:

"You can only put away so much stuff in your closet"

Wordsmith Wednesdays

Welcome, one and all, to the antithesis of "Wordless Wednesday".

Life is short, people, and I have waa-a-a-y too much to say to stop talking. Even for a day.

It is here that I will commence reviewing books randomly chosen by me off of a list provided by the lovely people at Hachette Book Group USA (I'm partial to shiny covers) , and it is here where I will begin contests for giveaways of the books I'm talking about.

Just not this week. Patience, darlings. It's a virtue, I hear.

Not too long ago, I finished up "The Mercedes Coffin" by Faye Kellerman. It was part of her Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus series.

I love Faye Kellerman's writing (her husband Jonathan is none too shabby either). I love the characters of Peter and Rina, and the lives that Faye has created for them; I've been watching them evolve for a very long time.

The storyline for this book involves 2 crimes, some 15 years apart, that have very similar M.O.s.

The first crime is a cold case - the murder of a high school principal who is found bound and shot execution-style in the back of his Mercedes, his car abandoned in a remote Los Angeles park.

The second, newer crime, triggers a re-opening of the case. Primo Ekerling, a music producer, is discovered dead in the trunk of his Mercedes, also bound and shot execution-style; his car parked on a city street for a time before it's discovered by the Grand Theft Auto division of the LAPD.

This book was published in 2008.

Shortly after finishing up this book, I received my first Hachette book, "Trunk Music", by Michael Connelly.

I have not read Mr. Connelly's work before, but I know bloggers who do, and seem to like him. That's good enough for me.

I decided that, in order to get a feel for what I would write about today, I would read the back cover summary. And I quote:

"Tony Alisio finally had a hit. Stuffed into the trunk of his Rolls on a ragged stretch of Mulholland Drive, the B-movie producer took two bullets to the head - the kind of job wiseguys call 'Trunk Music'..."

This book was published in 1997.

Oh, dear.

I'm a little afraid to crack open the front cover. I feel I'm being unfaithful to Faye.

Or is Faye being unfaithful to me?

Either way, I'm intrigued.

I'm hoping you will be, too.