I'm also the Henry Miller of shoes:

My theater friends used to say that I'm the Bukowski of desserts, so I know whereof I speak when I vociferously recommend the new line of chocolates, Cocoa Pete's. The flavors, textures, packaging, and price comprise the perfect dessert, or PMS dinner.

If only writers landed endorsement deals.

Cocoa Pete's Chocolate Adventures

Buckingham's Chalice:

A few months ago, I wrote that Lindsey Buckingham now looks like a haggard English professor.

A retraction of sorts: I'm watching the Fleetwood Mac documentary on VH1 and next to Mick Fleetwood and John McVie, Buckingham's visage is positively dewy. In addition to the bongwater, Buckingham clearly drank from the cup of life, too.

[Note: Dear Stevie, your cracked gravel voice still breaks my heart.]

The Blair Bitch Project:

I'm really ill and missed most of my friend's birthday party tonight. (By the time I got there, I had to leave. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to drive home safely.) I was looking forward to toasting her on her big night and I'm bummed.

I've got awful chills so I've changed into flannel pajamas, my robe with the puppy dogs on it, and thick wool socks. (The latter comprise the only garments I own from that style-chomping black hole, REI.)

It is in this mood and under these circumstances that I've turned on the television and inadvertantly encountered Katie Couric's interview with Jayson Blair. I loathe Blair for all the obvious reasons, but here's the truly absurd thing: he's explaining to Couric that his bipolar disorder played a role in the grotesque deception he perpetrated at The New York Times. A manic depressive New York writer: that's *historically unprecedented.* He must feel like a two-headed baby. With fins. If mood disorders gave writers permission not to do their jobs, homo sapiens would still be scrawling in the dirt with sticks.

This day is over. I'm going to sleep.