we interrupt our regular programming

June 27, 2013 Erica Lucke Dean

Tonight, as a special treat, we have author Stephen Kozeniewski guest blogging for me because I was lazy...I mean Indy got bit by a snake and I was taking care of him. And I'm milking that excuse for at least another day. And no, I'm not drunk (though I do occasionally partake, despite what some might think) but I think Stephen is.

Eh, at least I get the night off, right?

Ladies and gentlemen...I give you, Stephen Kozeniewski...

Attention followers of Erica Lucke Dean!

I now control the vertical.

I now control the horizontal.

I now control the fluff.

Yes. That’s right. ALL the fluff in China.

Because Indy is sick. So while Erica is taking care of doggy I am spelling her for a day on her blog. I know it’s not normally guest post day (Saturdays, 12:00/11:00 central) but, I mean, come on. Her dog got bit by a Coppertone.

What? Sun tan lotion? Yes I know.

Her dog got bit by an ophidian of some description.

So, for today, one day only, you get a blue light special on me: Snephen Kozanflumflum. (I forget how it’s spelled.)

First of all, I want to point out that I have repeatedly canvassed Erica to change the name of her blog to Shit Out of Lucke. (Clever, no? Not, “Clever: no” but rather the interrogative. But also the first thing.) And every time she has responded, “Did you know Cooper was based on Harry Cargill?”

Yes. Yes, we all know that.

The topic tonight is booze. The reason behind said pre-aforementioned topic is that Erica, as you know, does not and should not drink. However, if Sex and the City has taught me anything (and it hasn’t) it’s that romance people like their booze. And that Baryshnikov is a terrible, terrible lover. So two things, really, that it didn’t teach us.

My poison of choice is bourbon. It’s not very ladylike, which is good, because I’m not. Ladylike. (Except for pedicures. Those are awesome.) And, specificagally, a brand of Old Bourbon called Booze Crow. I’m drinking it right now, in fact. You couldn’t tell. That’s how good I am at wordsmithery.

And why not? But, more importantly, why? Because I’m an author. A scrivener, a la Bartleby. A writesman. And if there’s one thing that everyone knows that they didn’t learn from Sex and the City, it’s that writesmans needs booze.

And why not? But more importantly, why? Take Hemingway. Please. [rimshot] It is a well-known and popular fact that Hemingway drank excessively all his life with no ill effects. (ed – Hemingway shot himself as a result of morbid alcoholism.)

Or, as another example, take Poe. Please. [crickets] Ahem. [clears throat] Poe also drank his whole life, and also, with no ill effects. (ed – Poe also took his own life due to morbid alcoholism.) Or Bukowski! (ed – Bukowski…well, he died of leukemia. But the booze probably didn’t help matters.)

But what is it about bourbon, brownest of the brown liquors, and Old Crow, oldest of the brownest of the brown liquors, that causes me to recommend it so highly? Well, because Old Crow is a classic. My friends, to a tee, make fun of me for this predilection.

“Old Crow is a bottom shelf,” they say, or they would, if they were still talking to me.

“Ahhhh,” I would theoretically reply, “But was it not Dr. James Crow, the eponymous ‘Crow’ of the title, who invented the single batch sour mash process?”

To which nodding all around would be my reward.

So, I guess what I’m saying is: Kids, don’t drink. It’s not cool. Be cool. Like Erica. And feel better, Indy. There, I was nice to a dog. Proof positive of my humanity in these situations.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled flibberjibbetflurmypassthebour

bon…

Blog: http://manuscriptsburn.blogspot.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/outfortune

Until the next time...I'll be enjoying my much deserved night off.

kitty cat karaoke

May 28, 2013 Erica Lucke Dean

If you've been following along, you know tonight was my weekly karaoke night. It's always a fun time, and tonight was no exception. Drink a little (though, I didn't), dance a little (again, I didn't) and sing a little (this, I did.) We even had cake. But as much fun as our Tuesday night crew is, it can't hold a candle to the Friday night bunch at Club Bengay.

Now before you go there, I'll have you know Bengay is not a sexual preference. It's a topical cream, popular with the geriatric set. And Club Bengay knows all about the geriatric set.

Friday karaoke nights reads a lot like 50 Shades of Gray Hair. Me and my crew are the youngsters of the bunch--cougars by modern standards. But this distinction alone made me wonder...is there something that comes after cougar? Not that I particularly like the connotations of being a cougar--my kids tell me I am, since I married a younger man--but I definitely don't like the idea that there's nothing beyond that. Does this mean I'm doomed to be a cougar for all eternity? I think not.

My girls and I sat around Friday night trying to come up with the evolution of women as cats. I've said it before, men are dogs and women are cats. And as cats, there must be an evolution as one grows up and ages. So we start out as kittens...just barely old enough to flirt, whipping out our claws all willy nilly as the urge strikes. We grow into the domestic house cat, have our families and live happily ever after going through nine lives like underwear. We then mature into cougars, trading in our aging husbands and boyfriends for young pups--donning clothes belonging to our teenage daughters. And then what?

I asked the other cougars in my crew, "what comes next?"

"Leopards?" was the response.

"Right...leopards...because of the age spots!" I concluded. And they all broke into hysterics. But yes, we all agreed, leopards it is. And after that? Once the age spots have all connected the dots? We become panthers. I only hope I'm still purring my way into pantherhood when that time comes around. One can only hope.

Am I being serious, you wonder? Probably not. Like I said, I reject the classification of cougar. I don't want to be called a puma, a leopard, or a panther either. I'd rather not be thrust into something just because of my age. But it was certainly fun to speculate. And to be fair, some of those ladies on Friday night are giving the cougars a run for their money. Or whatever it is cougars run for.

Until the next time...I'll be meowing at home for a few days.

attack of the zombie cat

February 21, 2013 Erica Lucke Dean

I think my cat may be a zombie.

He still looks like a cat. Sorta smells like a cat. Makes cat noises. But he caught a mouse last night and only ate the brains. This is the epitome of zombie behavior...eating brains. Therefore...and I feel as if making this leap is the next logical step...my cat IS a zombie.

So, now what? Do I lay awake a night waiting for him to come after me? Nibbling on my brains one lick at a time? Do I at least give him time to rid my house of the mouse population before putting an end to his rein of terror?

I have no idea what to think.

On one hand, I'm jumping up and down, delighted to know I'm down at least one mouse today. But on the other, I'm sort of worried my cat will begin to deteriorate until I'm fighting him off with a can of tuna and a shovel.

Why can't life be simple? What happened to the good old days when zombies only showed up in grave yards and over-populated shopping malls? I guess the zombie apocalypse is upon us.

Either that or I'm not feeding my cat enough.

Until the next time...I'll be picking up cat food (and dead mice)