Gimme Some Sugar, Baby

I’ve been fighting the Facebook temptation for a couple of years. It’s all I can do to keep up with the blog (as you gracious readers discovered this summer), so why add to my e-stress by joining a social network? But when Grant Miller asked me to be his friend, I considered it.

This past insomniaced Friday, I was up late Googling long-lost friends. I saw that one of my favorite long-losts was on Facebook, so I decided to give the page a turn.

The three minutes to sign up was worth it for this:

Yes, the man who always sits atop my Top 5 — whether I’m listing by lust level or alphabetically — is my Facebook friend.

Bruce’s next movie is scheduled to come out in late October. Here’s the (brilliant) trailer:



Awesome awesomeness, non?

p.s. The long-lost accepted my e-friendship request, too.

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Why I Love Dave: Reason #53

In case you missed last night's Late Show with David Letterman, the one John McCain bailed on because he had to rush back to DC to solve our economic crisis:

Seems McCain wasn't too busy for an interview with Katie Couric.

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People Who Understand You: Priceless

Had dinner tonight with Holly, one of my very favorite people on this earth — and one of Cup of Coffey's most loyal readers. It's liberating to spend an evening with someone who knows you better than most, who gets you, who just plain loves you. I'm one lucky girl.

The contentment of the evening reminded me of my favorite Mastercard commercial. I love these boys.



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How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Many of you wrote to check on me during my extended vacation from the blogworld, and for that I’m grateful. However, I’m on too much of a squishy high over my new-friend crush on Coaster Punchman to write an intelligent, interesting post, so instead I’m going to address some of the rumors that swirled during my e-disappearance.

• I did not spend the summer traveling Europe with R.E.M. Dammit.

• I did not steal Peter Buck’s Rickenbacker.

• My looking into that house down the street is not the straw that broke the financial camel’s back. I don't think ...

• I didn’t win the lottery. Dammit.

• I am not the reason why David Duchovny checked into that sex-addict rehab clinic. But he’s going to be in town next month shooting a movie, so maybe I can work in a relapse.

• I am not among the seven people who actually paid to see The Love Guru. I may have been absent, but I still have taste.

• Obama didn’t fist-bump me hard enough to bruise my typing hands. Dammit.

• I did not sneak off to have a baby, although I was spotted walking around with a blanket covering my pudgy midsection.

• I may have stalked Dale. But just a bit.

• I didn’t track down Kid Rock to kick his ass for ruining a perfectly good Warren Zevon song. But I’m considering it.

• I did not knock Noel Gallagher on his bum.

• I didn’t see any concerts, except for Kathy Griffin. Dammit.

I will fill you in what I did during my summer vacation, so check back. Regular posting is back, baby!

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Cups and Coasters

While my Hillary dream was a fascinating moment to share, it was really a chance to stretch my typing muscles, to tone up, to get back in shape for this bragging post.

I, blogging lads and lasses, spent Tuesday evening with beloved blog vivant Coaster Punchman.


CP was in town on business, and I selfishly didn’t share that news with local bloggers (sorry, cuz). Since hotels were booked all over the downtown and midtown areas, he stayed a hotel in my neighborhood.

Mr. Punchman has posted his memories of the evening. Be sure to read his post; he remembers more about the evening than I do. And his includes more adventure.

In theory, it was going to be a perfect evening to introduce CP to the ATL. A couple of cocktails al fresco, then a two-hour cruise driving around the city, topping the evening with dinner at a neighborhood restaurant James Bearded for its twist on Southern cuisine.

In reality … well, plans are made to be broken, right? Especially when that grapefruit margarita is as tasty as it sounded on the menu. So, yeah, we made it for the cocktail or two … which I think ended up being five. Five divine margaritas. And no driving cruise around my lovely hometown.

Note to self: Always carb up at lunch for cocktailing. An empty stomach does not appreciate tequila.

Tequila is my Kryptonite. I know my limit: four, no more. After that, things get fuzzy, ugly, confusing. Last time I went the full five dive, three summers ago, I ended up kissing my (female) friend in the parking lot. CP was spared that, but he did have one damn drunk dinner date. Whose shoe broke at some point, which added to her drunken, staggering charm.

But the conversation was fantastic. It’s liberating when you meet a blogger. You’ve never seen his face, never heard his voice — but you know his personality, interesting pieces of his life. Ice breakers aren’t needed. Dishing and spilling come easily. So did the cocktails — and thus I've spent the last two days thinking of more questions to ask and stories to tell. I think CP needs to come to Atlanta regularly.

CP is more charming and handsomer than I expected. Funny, smart, interesting, irreverent. We gossiped about the bloggers we love, gossiped about ourselves. I’m sorry he’s moving across the country before I get to NYC. Poor George should be called Lucky George.

In summary:

• Coaster Punchman is adorable.

• Embarrassing hangover has passed, but my big toes are bloodily stubbed.

• Grapefruit margaritas are awesome.

• I plan to go cocktail-free ... until Sunday's bottomless mimosas brunch, that is.

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Here I Dreamt I Was Hillary Clinton

My Hillary self was seated in a restaurant near Richard Thomas (star of The Waltons and those Mercedes Benz voiceovers). We chatted and realized we had nothing in common belief-wise, which got us laughing hysterically. Bill was not amused.

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