Bart knows everyone in town. Not even kidding. One time I was at a purportedly haunted house with a medium of some repute. She was asking “Who are you? What do you want?” and nothing, for like twenty minutes. And then, just as we were about to leave the basement, we heard a voice, clear as day, coming from the far, empty corner.
“Wait one moment, kind madam. You, there, with the curly hair. Are you, perchance, Bartholomew Phillips’s sister?”
I looked around, but there appeared to be no one else who fit the bill.
“Lovely man. We went fishing together some time ago and it was quite enjoyable.”
Later, I asked, “You know a ghost?”
“If you say so. I don’t get into people’s business like you do.”
My car’s battery was dead this morning, so I spent a great deal of it–this morning–at Autozone, where the men all smell like mechanics. You’d think a mechanic would taste sweet, based on the smell, but my experience is that they either just taste dirty or exceptionally clean. The smell lingers even when the dirt is gone. I love honestly dirty fingernails, the way oil or grease or even field dirt, makes tall, narrow Us at the ends of fingers, how it gets into the knuckles of your skin and makes your hands look like a map full of tributaries.
Your body is a map to your life.
Anyway, the dude who smelled like dead leaves and dinosaurs changed my battery and got me on my way.
This is the busiest week of the year for me–leading up to Southern Festival of Books. Last night was the Best of Nashville shin-dig. The Butcher went with me. We got cornered by a local prominent attorney who, when told I blog, informed me he doesn’t read blogs. He negged me! I mean, it’s bad enough to be negged in a romantic context, but just because that’s how some dude goes through life? Ha ha ha.
And I have this friend who’s really pretty in a very approachable way who dude kept trying to impress with stories about how he shot a dude! But the thing that cracked me up about it is that my friend could rock the Faye Dunaway “Bonnie & Clyde” look, but, if you knew her at all, you’d never try to impress her with “I could be your badass” stories. She’s just not the gangster moll. She’d be the gangster.
Tonight I have a meeting about Project X.
Tomorrow is the most important day of my professional life. So, no pressure or anything.
And there’s some stuff happening after that, but who can focus?