I’ve Been Selling My Words Lately. I Thought You Should Know.

You’ll probably want to sit down for this.

You comfy?

I’ve been writing on the side.

Cheating on you.

It’s not the same, of course. They want to hear about things to do in Daytona Beach, nutritious root-vegetable recipes for those frosty-aired days in January, and the reason your commitment to quit smoking in the new year is really going to work this time. 

Frankly, I feel cheap.

Until the money transfers, that is.

Hey, I see you there, imaging all the zeroes.  Hot and cold running peppermint schnapps, heated electric couches, fur-lined moustache cups.  I’m thinking of having my elbows polished Tuesday, just because I can.

Look.  The offer came up, polite conversation, yah-de-yah.  Certain questions were posed, certain answers proffered, and the next thing you know, you’ve got a 24-hour deadline in front of you and you’re staring blankly out a window scrubbing your mind for different ways to describe vacation settings.

Honestly, it’s fabulous work.

Paid to write!  You may not know this to look at me, but I can sling the old word song.  I write just for fun.  I make notes in cookbooks (Willie eats this by the handful!) and leave notes for myself in my pockets (Do you know why six is afraid of seven?)

I write for my own amusement.

But when called upon to write about 12 Healthful Tips for the Dog Park, I, sir, answer the call.

People ask me, “What do you do?” and I always tell them that I’m a writer.  

And what does a writer do? 

She writes, even if it means 24-hour turnaround times.

Pardon Me If I Shout a Bit; or News of a Free Download of a Friend's Book and Pearl's Upcoming New Work

Today's entry is a bit of a change. I've been invaded by everyone's favourite slacker, Indigo Roth. When I say INVADED, I don't mean it in a Biblical way of course, tho clearly Roth has something Biblical in mind when he wrote his new book.

It's called TESTAMENT: FUNNY BADGERS, and is his first. It's also the first offering from RED ANGEL PUBLISHING, the new kid on the block (in a special Eighties way).

Who is Roth? Well, some have already compared him to Steinbeck out drinking with a stoned Pratchett, while Hemingway sings a high-camp karaoke version of "Always On My Mind". But one might argue that this is mere hyperbolé, and that Roth is putting words in my mouth. Who can say?

THE GOOD NEWS IS THAT ROTH'S COMPLETE BOOK IS FREE UNTIL THURSDAY ON KINDLE. YES, BOTH KINDLE HARDWARE, AND THE KINDLE APP ON IPAD/ANDROID/ETC.

It's 135,000 words; this lad is not messing about. This is no chapbook with delusions of grandeur. No sir! And it's FREE.

I'm reading right now, and I'm loving it. 

Go get it now, or you'll kick yourself.

Anyway, here's some content from my friend/soulmate/co-conspirator Indigo's shiny new book.

Oh, and by the way, if you make it to the end, there's some interesting news about RED ANGEL PUBLISHING's second offering. It's a little closer to home. *coughs modestly*

------------------------------

The Book of ABBEY

CHAPTER 4, VERSES 1 - 72

1 The waking moments of any day are precious. "Indigo?"

2 They are a wonderful blend of reverie and reality. "Mister Roth? Rise and shine!"

3 It is in them that the shape of the day is revealed.

4 "HEY FATBOY! WAKEY WAKEY!"

5 My lids open to a close inspection from a pair of golden feline eyes.

6 "I'm sorry, did I wake you?" purrs the quiet, feminine voice.

7 I wonder idly if I'm dreaming; my waking moments are unreliable of late.

8 I start to sit up, but the tabby cat has retreated from my face, and is now manoeuvring herself onto my bare chest.

9 The faintest of needles from her small paws silently encourage me to lie still.

10 She settles, upright and imperious, a pleasantly small feline with unusually symmetrical stripes. And a warm tush.

11 There's the faintest scent of gin.

12 "It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Roth," she lies without a trace of irony, "or may I call you Indigo?"

13 She seems very familiar, but I can't place her, nor her American accent. Michigan? Cleveland? Though, to be fair, I don't know any talking cats.

14 Wait a minute. A talking cat? A talking American cat? Ah. The dime drops, and I realise that it's a Minnesotan accent.

15 "Liza Bean Bitey, I presume? Of the Minneapolis Biteys?" My mouth feels dry, like I've been chewing cat litter in my sleep.

16 I hope I sound less apprehensive than I feel. And that I'm wrong about the cat litter.

17 "Mmmm," she purrs noncommittally, "Pearl said that you were a smart one. For a male of your species, that is."

18 The cat is of course referring to the Minneapolis blogging legend Pearl*, a friend of mine.

19 And as far as any cat is owned by anyone, Pearl is the owner and—to her eternal dismay—responsible for Liza Bean. This carries quite a price tag on both her patience and finances.

20 I mean, just the tuna alone...

21 "Hey! Ow! Stop that!" The claws are a fraction of an inch deeper, begging for my wandering attention. Liza Bean tilts her head with faux empathy at my discomfort.

22 "My apologies. It's a balance thing. You are rather... round." Good manners and insults; she must have gone to an expensive feline Finishing School. Probably Swiss.

23 But, answering the question forming in my mind, she continues, "I thought we might have a chat."

24 "Okay. Sure." I clear my throat. "So, you're a long way from home, yes?"

25 "Oh, you know how it is," she sighs, bored. "The nomadic life of an international musical artist."

26 "You're kidding?!" I sound genuinely excited, despite myself. "SQUEAK TOY are touring?!"

27 The Minnesotan all–cat jazz/blues fusion quartet are a legend in their home town, but I had no idea they were broadening their horizons;

28 leave it to a cat to try and take over the world.

29 "Yes, and our manager insisted that we take in your quaint little island."

30 "Really? Who's your manager?!" I hope it's Pearl, and that's she's with them.

31 "Me." She licks a paw smugly, compensating the shift in balance with a faster and more painful grip on the other. "And of course, we had to visit Cambridge."

32 "Well, of course, I wince, the history, the architecture..."

33 She stops in mid groom, her paw hanging in mid air. "Architecture is for primates. No, there's a good reason." She examines a paw. "Part of it is that the tour bus broke down. Right outside your house, in fact."

34 "Now, that is a stroke of luck," I say sourly, but wave a vague hand in the direction of the back garden. "If you'd like some assistance, we have several badgers on hand who can fix..."

35 "Yes, yes," she dismisses gently, "I've already had words with them. They were happy to help. It seems there's inexplicable razor thin slashes in some of the engine pipes."

36 Her gaze is momentarily attracted by the wanderings of a fly above my head; her tail flicks playfully, and her voice becomes distant.

37 "I have no idea how that could have happened."

38 She turns to face me. "Badgers are such competent engineers, don't you think?" She phrases this in such a way that the compliment sounds far more like filthy feral creatures. I frown, unhappy with the way this is evolving.

39 "So, did you wake me to ask if you could stay for a few hours?"

40 Again, the tail flicks happily. "Not at all," she smiles, "your charming lion friend let us in as he was heading out, and your bear has been helping the band set up downstairs." Liza Bean glances at my bedside clock. "They should be almost done..."

41 On cue, the amplified sound of a swinging band strikes up, and they launch into a remarkable rendition of BIG NOISE FROM WINNETKA.

42 Ignatz D. Katz's upright bass work is fast and bright, Hairball's piano is melodic and loose, but Stumpy “Lucky” Strikes on drums is in a world of his own, and plays a striking resemblance to a heyday Gene Krupa.

43 "That's terrific!" I gawp, my irritation blown away; I've heard the foursome's breakthrough album, NOT A CAN OF WORMS, but this is something else. "You guys are even better live!"

44 "And better yet with me on violin." The look is smug. A little too smug, in fact.

45 "Hey Diddle Diddle, The Cat Played A Fiddle..."

46 Ms. Bitey raises an eyebrow, which somehow reminds me of Death taking a good run up with his scythe. "Excuse me?"

47 "So," I say, changing subject, "if it's not the tour bus or the rehearsal room, what can you possibly want from me?"

48 The reply is cool, calm, definite.

49 "We're here for the lobster." I frown again, and the commanding cat spells it out in tones I would reserve for a slow child. "Your lobster. From Maine. In your fridge."

50 "Lobster?" I bluster a little, "What makes you think I have lobster?!"

51 I'm not sure I'm very convincing.

52 I like lobster. A lot. In fact, my picture is in circulation on badly–printed cautionary fliers in the crustacean world: pliers, bib, Have You Seen This Man, the works.

53 "Pearl occasionally buys what she laughingly calls 'the good shrimp'," says Liza Bean, "and tells me that one day we'll get some of the good lobster like Indigo always has."

54 What?! Dammit, that's my dinner; I think fast.

55 "Well, I don't have any right now, so I'm afraid you're out of luck."

56 It's no good, I'm a hopeless liar;

57 she's not buying it.

58 "Though obviously, had I known you were coming, I'd have happily shared it with four marvellous musicians." I croak the last of that, feeling myself wilt as the gorgeous golden gaze grows steely.

59 "I assumed that would be your reaction," purrs Liza Bean, "so I enlisted some help."

60 There's a knock at the door. A moment later it opens to reveal the ever–smiling gaze of Abbey, my next door neighbour. Seeing I'm awake she breezes in barefoot, the smell of sunflowers accompanying her, and tickles an appreciative Liza Bean behind the ears.

61 "Oh, there you are! Are you two making friends?!" gushes the lovely blonde. "Oh Indy, isn't she a beautiful kitty?!"

62 Liza Bean meows, grinning up at Abbey in a closed–eyed, adorable fashion which is clearly designed to snare unwary owners of albacore tuna.

63 "Lovely?!" I rant, exasperated. "She's a manipulative little wretch who's only here to steal my food!"

64 My neighbour cooes over Liza Bean, and picks her up. I hiss in pain as the claws come free from my flesh, but the cat yowls louder to cover it.

65 Abbey glances down and scowls at me, as if it's my fault that I'm being assaulted. She kisses the playful moggy's nose as she pops her over her shoulder.

66 "Don't be mean, Indigo." Stroking Ms. Bitey's stripy back, Abbey turns to leave. "Now, let's go see if we can find you some cream and some of old Mr. Grumpy's yummy lobster tail from the fridge."

67 Liza Bean does her best Cheshire Cat impression at me from Abbey's shoulder and waves a paw as the pair retreats from my bedroom.

68 Downstairs, the music is rocking.

69 Upstairs, I'm bleeding and defeated.

70 Rolling over, I discover cat litter scattered across my pillow.

71 "Why, I oughta..."

72 I flick it clear, fuming, and try to get back to sleep.

----------------------

PRESS RELEASE (extract preview)

"RED ANGEL PUBLISHING is pleased to announce that its second book will be an epic tale of Minneapolis by none other than blogging legend PEARL."

Details to follow.

But exciting, right?

Thanks Indigo! I hope one and all will jump on board the badger eBook bandwagon immediately. GO DO IT!

Love and kisses, Pearl

I Believe the Children Are Our Future; or I Was Completely Sincere and Utterly Sober

You asked for it, and now yer gonna git it: the speech, more or less, that I delivered to a Metro State University Creative Writing Class Tuesday night.  I spoke for roughly 25 minutes.  There are no recordings, but this is what I recall…

 I’ve learned many things in the last five years, the most important being that desk ergonomics are your friend.  I’m here to tell you that typing all day and typing all night will make Jack one unhappy, tendonitis-afflicted dude.  Learn from me, children, and protect your forearms.

People ask me how I find so many things to write about.  That’s like saying, “Aren’t you worried you’ll run out of things to say?”  Look at me.  Do I look like someone who will run out of things to say?  Now look at you.  Trust me:  you will never run out of things to say.

The truth is that writing is a skill.  There is no such thing as a muse.  The muse is you.  The muse appears through dedication to writing.  Turn off the distractions, head into your own mind, and get it down on paper.  Hemingway said that all first drafts are shit – and isn’t that comforting?  You’ve been freed of believing you must be perfect.  Accept the idea that the first draft, like the first time you do anything, will not be fantastic – but that you are free to go back to look for the stilted language, the repetitive words, the conflicts between past and present tense.  You are free to be imperfect, to be loose and unafraid. 

The more you do this, the easier it becomes.

They say the ideal blog post is between 250 and 600 words.  Beyond that number is “TL;DR” – Too Long; Didn’t Read.  People come to blogs for just a moment, for a brief respite in the day.  Me, I’m here only to share a snapshot, 300 to 400 words at a time.  I am not looking to change the world, only to show you how I see things. 

Sometimes the things I see are small.  I was on the bus the other day when I pulled out my little book to jot down a quick idea.  I overhear the women behind me whispering: “You know, I have my issues, but at least I’m not writing in my diary on the bus!” 

Me!  They’re making fun of me!  I mean, seriously, do these gals know who I am?! 

They got a good laugh out of what a weirdo I obviously was. 

And so did I.

And that is as it should be:  Everyone is somebody’s weirdo.  Today, I am the weirdo.  Tomorrow, it will be you. 

Hopefully someone will write about it.

Too often, people get flowery with their prose, as if the more words they use, the more legitimate they will sound.  Again with the Hemingway, but apparently F. Scott Fitzgerald asked Hemingway’s opinion on something he was writing.  After reading it, Hemingway returned the transcript with a note to “lose all the very’s”. 

For example:  “A very beautiful woman walked into the bar.”

Yes? 

No. 

“A beautiful woman walked into the bar.” 

Direct.  Simple.  Powerful.

Read your stuff with that in mind.  Again and again.  If you can read it without stumbling, if you can read it and hear yourself, you are on the right path.  The reader should have a sense of who is speaking, feel that they know you.  When I read my own stuff, I do my best to charm me.  Do I believe what I am saying? Would I buy what I’m selling?   When people come to read “Pearl”, they do so trusting me.  I have what is called a “contract with the audience”.  I don’t swear much, I don’t get political, I don’t lay blame or go on rants.  Let other writers do that.  We all have complaints, and I’m not going to add to your load by piling on mine.  All I want is to make you laugh, maybe give you some insight into why people, in my experience, behave the way they do.

Writing, as in life, requires that we be fearless, that we edit when necessary, that we expand when called upon to do so. 

Thank you so much allowing me to speak tonight.

Does anyone have any questions?

Oddly Enough, It's Not the Only Story I Have Where Someone Jumps on Someone Else's Back

A re-post.  Liza Bean Bitey's Skyped message to the wedding party at the Greenlight Group's charitable event "Bad Wedding Reception" has kept me quite busy.  Liza Bean is beside herself with a combination of giddiness and ennui that only a cat can produce.  

I shall, of course, write about it.  

In the meantime, please enjoy the post below, originally written sometime in 2010.


“WHAT?”

“THE VAN’S IN THE FAR LOT!”

“HUH?! Oh, YEAH! COOL!”

We have to shout for days after the Rush concert.

It is 1981. The night is warm and our ears are ringing. We laughingly proclaim, with the arrogance of youth, that we will probably wake up deaf, comments that are greeted, hilariously, with “what?” and “huh?” and other manner of wit.

I have bought a tee-shirt. I am careful with my money, and my having spent some is not lost on my sister.

“You bought a tee-shirt? Since when?”

“Since just now. Shut up.”

Karen laughs, a tinkling sound. Images of fairies in trees leading people astray comes to mind. She is two years younger than I am. Slender, with thick brown hair and big brown eyes, Karen is the girl that you are surprised to find is as sharp as she is pretty.

I twirl my tee-shirt above my head, smiling. Not-so-secretly in love with Geddy Lee, I have taken up the bass in the last year in the belief that somehow he will hear of this and want to meet me.

I am picturing the two of us, eight full strings of Great White North-ness, when the tee-shirt is yanked from my hand and a black- shirted blur of a thief goes streaking by me.

“Hey!” I scream. I take off after him, abandoning the others.

I may have lettered in cross-country, but I am not fast. How many rows did I run down? How many cars did he dodge in and out of? I keep my eye on the man with the tee-shirt…

“He has my tee-shirt! He stole my tee-shirt!” People turn to look but don’t step in.

“Pearl!” I hear Karen behind me.

“He stole my tee-shirt, Karen!" I am outraged. It's mine! I paid for it! "He stole my tee-shirt!”

And just like that, Karen shoots by me, legs and arms pumping. Smaller, lighter, Karen is a sprinter.

“HEY,” she barks. In sleek moves I can see to this day, she steadily gains on him, launches herself into the air –

She lands on his back. He whirls around, batting at her, as she wraps her legs around his waist, uses her fists to beat him about the head as she screams into his ears.

"No one” punch “steals” slap “from my sister!”

The last slap catches him across the eyes. Too late, he bends forward to protect himself. She jumps off his back and picks the tee-shirt up from where he has dropped it.

She tosses it to me.

“Come to Coon Rapids some time,” she sneers at him, delivering a parting blow with both hands to his ears, “I dare ya.”

And then we run, laughing and triumphant, to the far end of the parking lot.

Where the van is waiting.

Metro State Wants Me Back! or Have Your People Call My Peop – Uh – Cat

Dolly “Gee” Squeakers, formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers, pyramid-shaped feline and cross-eyed beggar of soft, chewy treats, lies flat on her back in the center of the room, the world’s least seaworthy vessel.

Poor Dolly.  Since betting – and losing – her rent money on the Orangemen in the NCAA Final Four last March, the albacore in her life, both actually and symbolically, has been thin.

And her hardscrabble upbringing will not allow her to accept what she feels she has not earned.

“Dolly.”

Flat on her back, she stares in the direction of the floor fan.

Dolly do love a good breeze.

“Dolly.”

“Hmm?”  She turns her bright blue eyes toward me. 

“You gotta stop this whole moping thing.  Frankly, you’re getting on my nerves.”

Dolly stares at me, raises her eyebrows. 

“I’m serious,” I say.  “Cut it out.”

“Maybe I’m deprethed,” she says.  Teased as a kitten for her lisp, it is rare that she speaks, preferring to “meow-meow” her communications instead.

“Maybe you’re a goofy cat with a gambling problem,” I say, not entirely sympathetically.

The cat smiles.  “Wanna bet?”

I smile back.  I love a cat with a sense of humor.  “Maybe we could work something out.”

She cocks her head at me.  I have her attention. 

“I’m speaking at Metro State again in October.”

The cat blinks.

“My first book, I Was Raised to be A Lert, is being used as a text book at a college; and they’ve asked me to speak.”

Blink.  Blink-blink.

"Remember?  I spoke there last year."

Blink-blink-blink.

“I’m hoping, Dolly, that you can help me organize my notes.  And in exchange for that, I can offer you a third of a can of albacore three times a week and a professional grooming upon successful completion of the project.”

The cat sits up, offers me her paw.

“Put 'er there, Pearl.  You got yourthelf a thecretary.”

Do It Yourself? No. Sometimes, No.

I read an article the other day about shifts in spending habits. Apparently there are some people in the U.S., even those with substantial holdings, who have cut back enough on going out for dinner, cut back on vacations, on general discretionary celebration and recreational spending, cut back enough to affect the incomes of those with the least amount of wiggle-room.

The move is toward a do-it-yourself vision of the future.

This got me thinking.

When you stop, say, having your silly and long-haired cat’s ass shaved (followed by a lovely bath, blow-dry and general puffery), what you’re effectively saying is, “Hey, Mr. Professional Cat’s-Ass Shaver, forget your rent and your groceries! I’m going to go against the natural order of things and shave my own fuzzy-butted animal!”

Now what kind of citizen would I be if I did that?

Ladies and Gentlemen! We must think of our bartenders, our waitresses, our tanning salons, our taxis! We must think of our florists, our bouncers and ticket-takers!

Look at the person next to you! Does he work on the weekend reshingling rooves? Does she pick up extra hours as a restaurant hostess?

Does she write chapbooks to pay for carpal tunnel surgery?

As a person whose labor is paid for by the hour, as corporate charwoman, as a banquet server, cleaning lady, painter of interiors, as a professional writer, I cannae sit idly by while my Working Class Fellows stand, ready to serve!

They can take our paychecks, but they can never take our freedom!!!

So!  I’m going out for a beer! No – two! Two beers! And dagnab it, people, I’m going to tip 20% – more if the server flirts with me!

Who’s with me?!!!


Now if you’ll excuse me, I have, uh, an appointment to make to have my cat groomed.

I am also quite serious about needing to sell chapbooks to pay for the carpal tunnel surgery I need.  Please see the header of my blog and consider buying my books.  They're small, they're goofy, and they'll come delivered to the address of your choice via the good ol' US Postal Service.

The Night I Spoke at Metro State University, or … and That’s When I Discovered I Wasn’t Wearing Pants

I couldn’t be more prepared.  I have, after all, both brushed my teeth and bathed, so tonight is looking pretty sweet.

I am driving to my first speaking engagement, the first one I will do that does not consist of reading from stapled, large-font-ed sheets of paper.  The first one where there is no chance of an adult beverage being served, nor books for sale, nor someone I know making a well-intentioned but obscene gesture at me in the hopes of freaking me out whilst I am a’stage. 

The drive to the school is interminable – and far too much of it is at 30 miles per hour. 

Thirty miles an hour?  Did you know there’s a 30 miles per hour now?!

My car is rolling its eyes at me, I can tell.

Thirty.  I am in agony.  What a ridiculously difficult rate of speed to maintain.  I’ve got a woman walking a dog about to pass me – on the right, thank you very much –  a guy on foot trying to hand me a pamphlet about “the power of positivity”, and a man on a bike coming over a hill growing larger and larger in my rear-view mirror.

I am only marginally exaggerating. 

Maybe I’m nervous.

And then I belch.

And I go pale.

It had been so long that I’d forgotten… 

Look.  Plenty of people have nervous habits.  Am I right?  I mean, what I do is not uncommon.  It’s not, as my friend Mary would say, a heinous habit. 

But it appears it’s a habit nonetheless.

I swallow air when I’m nervous.

Panicking, I look at the clock on the dashboard.  Roughly half an hour until I speak – when did I start noticing that I was nervous?  Noon?  Was that why I didn’t finish my sandwich? 

Holy Hannah, have I been swallowing air since noon?

I belch nervously as I spot the sign that points me to the parking lot I’ll want.

I belch as I find a spot.

I belch again as I grab my purse, my handouts.

And I belch yet again as I walk through the front doors.

Hi, I practice as I move through the double doors, my name is Pearl– urp – and I write the blog Pearl, Why You Little…

And The Colors Are Brighter and I Can Jump Higher…

You’re gonna wanna hold on to your hats – and any other bits of clothing that tend to fly off when you’re excited – but I have something new to report.

Also – are you seated?

Because there are birds.

In the trees.

I know! It had me blinking, I can tell you that much, but there – up there – in the trees, are birds.

Singing, chirping, non-Crow birds.

Surely barefootedness is just around the corner?

It’s been a long season.

Oh, come on, Pearl! You live in Minnesota! It’s not like you didn’t see the winter coming.

I hear you. I acknowledge your line of thinking.

But you are wrong. I didn’t see winter coming, not for what it really is, just like I don’t really see summer coming. You must know by now that the only way one can live in a part of the world like Minnesota is to develop seasonal amnesia.

Winter? Said during the heavy-wet-wool-blanket of heat known as August, the word has no power at all. Winter is but a brisk breeze, longed-for, recalled fondly as an excuse to wear adorably fuzzy sweaters and drink ourselves silly during toasty parties with others of our kind.

Summer? Summer, recalled during the I-think-my-eyeballs-are-frozen depths of blue-aired winter, is a skin-kissed dream of dappled sunlight and freshly mown lawns and not the stay-on-your-side-of-the-bed-there’s-not-enough-talcum-powder-in-the-world experience sure to come…

We forget the seasons, each and every time.

And are therefore continually surprised.

By birds. In trees.

The birds have returned. Next week the last of the snow may – or may not! – disappear. Not far behind that will be the buds on the trees and crocuses pushing up through the grateful earth.

We are eager. We are giddy. And we are ready to expose our limbs to the public.

I mean it, guys. I’m going to take off my coat eventually.


In other news, my friend "lisleman" at A Few Clowns Short created an xtranormal clip of a post I wrote a while back of Mary and I talking during a serving gig. It is here, for your amusement. :-) I love it and want to thank him from the bottom of my heart!!

Dolly Gee Squeakers Thinks You Should Have that Mole Looked at by a Professional…

In keeping with prior personal delusions, including but not limited to karaoke performance, water weight gain, and the strength of my come-hither look, we bring you the prophetic qualities of my iPod.

That’s right, cats and kittens, step right up while my iPod, set to “shuffle” and played during my Friday-morning bus commute reaches behind your collective ears and pulls out the shiny quarter that is your weekend forecast.

Eenie, meanie, jelly beanie! The spirits are about to speak! (Sorry, Bullwinkle.)

Ditch by The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion
Colleen by The Heavy
Shame and Fortune by Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs
Outta-Space by Billy Preston
I Feel It All by Feist
Setback by The Constellations
Black Coffee in Bed by Squeeze

And as the kids are saying, awww yeah. Should you find yourself in Minneapolis this Saturday I’ll be at Bunker’s for the Brutus, Billy Club, and Black Julius show. I’ll buy you a drink, you’ll buy me one, and we’ll split the cab fare back to my place.

Hey, and while we’re still sober, I might as well warn you that the bathroom door doesn’t always stay closed…

Have I described my place to you?

It’s a small-ish place, 1300 square feet, built at the turn of the century, when men were men, women were women, and judging from the closet space, neither wore clothes.

The bathroom, in particular, is small. Just off the living room and across from the kitchen, the bathroom door opens immediately to the toilet, followed closely by the sink and then the tub.

To illustrate the room’s cozier qualities, it is quite possible that, given a rather elastic spine and some funky desires we won’t go into, you could sit on the toilet and put your head in the sink. Also, should you be on the tall side, I’m willing to bet that you could sit on the toilet and reach the bathtub.

I can think of a couple of instances where this would be advantageous, although none of them bear close inspection.

This is not that kind of blog.

But should you drop by, say, Saturday night following the show at Bunker’s (The Bludgeoning!), should we find ourselves drunk and just this side of disorderly, should you find that you need to use the bathroom, I need to warn you.

Because while the odds are good that you will wake up in the morning with Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) perched comfortably on your face, it’s also a winning bet that Dolly Gee Squeakers (formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers) will throw a small scare into you whilst you use the facilities.

Dolly Gee: Bathroom Kitteh.

Dolly Gee has claimed the bathroom as her own. She is adept at pushing the door open, preferring to do so while there are people in the kitchen.

I know what you’re thinking. Why not secure the little latch up there? That’s what it’s for, right?

Dolly begs to differ. Mewing piteously until you open the door, Dolly awaits your breaking heart: What are you doing? Can I come in? Aww, lemme in! Lemme in!

Once in, the crisis over, Dolly is all business, straightening the guest towels, casually weighing herself while leaning heavily on the clothes hamper, jumping up and staring into the sink until you turn the water on for her.

Which, as previously described, you can do without leaving your seat.

And there you have it: Dolly thinks the two of you could be much closer than you are now.

And forewarned is forearmed.

And Then I Ask Myself: WWEBD?

I flew into Minneapolis from Dayton Sunday afternoon, after the Erma Bombeck Writing Conference.

It was a big responsibility, this conference.

The weight one feels, when operating with the knowledge that others are counting on one to behave outrageously, drink like Hemingway and write like, oh, Erma, is crushing, I tell you, absolutely crush– hold on a second.

Hello? Yeah, yeah! I’m home. Yesterday afternoon. What? No, I’m not drunk! Of course I learned stuff. All kinds of stuff. Saw Erma’s house. What? Yeah, big yard. Really big yard. Did you know the City of Dayton had some guy streaking through it a couple years ago? The taxi driver told me. Yeah! Lots of witnesses. Didn’t catch him. What? Oh, very funny. No, I’ve never lived in Dayton – and the streaker was a guy, not a gal. Sheesh. Make a coupla confessions and suddenly you’re a suspect every time someone runs through a yard without their trousers. Anyway, I gotta run, so to speak. I’m utilizing my education. TTYL, baby.

Now where was I?

Oh, yes. The crushing weight of expectations – and the accompanying exhaustion of paying full attention all day for three days.

Honestly, people! Have you been moved recently to pay attention, I mean really pay attention?

Yow. It’s so much harder than working.

But I did it. I participated and took notes, amused and was amused by my new friends, kept my mind open – and now I feel a weight to write something fabulously outlandish, something ridiculously fictitious. Something Gatsby-esque.

Should I?

Or shall I just report the events, as I swore to everyone I would?

And just what are these events, you ask? In no particular order:

1. The discovery that a hotel, much like a hospital, a park bench, and the workplace, is no place to get any rest.

2. The quality of writers (Wade Rouse - listen to his "At Least in the City Someone Would Hear Me Scream", a funny and touching memoir of he and his partner's move from the Big City to rural Michigan, despite, to paraphrase Mr. Rouse, having been born without the qualities that really mattered in their new world yet having the innate ability to detect quality leather goods...; Gail Collins, columnist with the New York Times whose lunch talk one day got me thinking, laughing, and buying her book "America's Women, 400 Years of Dolls, Drudges, Helpmates, and Heroines"; Craig Wilson, columnist with USAToday, whose sense of humor and firm yet gentle way of looking at things is just a joy; Bill Scheft, 15 years as a stand-up comedian and as many as a writer on the David Letterman Show, a natural speaker and genuinely witty writer with a new book out called "Everything Hurts" - follow the link!) at the conference was outstanding.

3. I rediscovered my love of listening to a lot of smart, funny people all gathered together. My face still hurts and I think my ears might be higher now than when I left.

4. I've found that I am doing a lot of the right things as far as writing goes. Next logical and horrifying step? Publication.

5. I've found that I am doing a lot of the wrong things as far as my writing goes. Word on the street? I am, and I quote, "giving it away for free". It's highschool all over again.

6. That's a joke, Mom.

7. I am meeting with a publisher in a month. That gives me 30 days to schvitz (thanks, Bill), chew my nails, wear my best friends out with this news, and gain a couple of pounds.

8. I have determined that the odds of me practicing yoga in a hotel room has been calculated. The odds are none out of none. None odds.

9. I think I may not be clear on what “odds” means.

10. It's been revealed to me that it is possible, faced with all-day large-group sessions, to hold one's wind for absolute hours. For cryin' out loud those auditoriums can get quiet, can't they?

OK. So that crushing weight I was feeling. I lied about the weight. The weight’s not so heavy. It is, after all, a self-imposed weight – I can make it as heavy or as light as I wish.

Happy Monday, everyone.

It’s another day above ground for you and I, and that makes it a great day. I hope you wore your good socks.

I’m Kinda Sorry for My Brain

There was going to be more, so much more to this post – and you shoulda been in my head while I was thinking about it, it was awesome. But I’ve run into a bit of trouble.

I may have killed off the brain cells that came up with it.

And it’s too bad. I really liked those brain cells. They helped balance my checkbook, came up with excuses as to why I couldn’t attend whatever it was I said I would attend and was now going to wienie out of, and held the secret to some of my better blog ideas.

Dammit.

Once again, friends, Romans, and countrymen, in the search for a dark friendly corner, camaraderie, and several Strong Bows, I’ve wiped my brain clean of the stress of the previous week.

Ah, the destructive and restorative properties of alcohol! I’ve lost all those bright ideas that kept me amused last night but I’ve also managed to pull my shoulders out of my ears, their default setting in order to absorb the blows I assume are coming.

I am lucky, of course, in that I’m not a repetitive sort of person and am free to choose when I drink. While I enjoy patterns, I’m leery of the ones that I see in myself.

Oh, and I also don’t like repetition.

Still, an evening with Amy, Diana, and Steph in a booth at the 331 was just the sort of thing that all the best movies and books recommend.

And writers wouldn’t lie to us, would they?

Speaking of which, have you ever listened in on the kinds of dialogue that pleasantly inebriated women indulge in?

I wouldn’t, if I were you. Women are strange and wondrous creatures with the ability to share an astonishing amount of information, but not everyone has the necessary clearance to be present when it’s divulged.

Last night, the conversations included midlife crises, male menopause, pregnancies and other sexually-transmitted wonderments, thong versus full-bottomed undies, and a number of other topics that I could only be coerced into revealing if someone were to buy me, oh, a number of Strong Bows.

The remaining weekends in April have been reserved for a serving job, a trip to Dayton Ohio for the Erma Bombeck Writers Conference and various other appointments.

But I have room on my calendar in May.

But Sometimes There's Just a Big Roaring in My Ears...

A re-worked re-post from this beer-drinking moron. Enjoy!

As one can imagine about someone who writes every day, I like to spend a certain amount of my life with no actual connection to reality.

I find it just works better with my line of thinking.

My favorite fantasies include a mixture of what could conceivably happen with what could never.

In other words, in my head, it is possible for me to rescue Elvis Presley from drowning while waterskiing.

I find that my best daydreaming is done in that nebulous time between awake and asleep.

I love that region, by the way. It’s like a tiny little vacation.

My favorite late-night fantasy, the one I’ve been lulling myself to sleep with lately, involves my having become a highly respected clarinet player, swinging, Benny-Goodman style, with a 40-piece band behind me. Gene Krupa is our steady drummer and a helluva guy if you can keep him off the sauce. Billie Holiday sometimes joins us for a song or two, rising from the table she keeps up front when she knows we’re in town. She plays a hot game of craps and most of the band owes her money.

We play all the hottest spots. Our crowds are hep cats who show up late and host outrageous after-bar parties. My best friends are L’il Jack, Midge, and Paulie, people who wear vintage clothing and pull short, unfiltered cigarettes from mother-of-pearl cases. Paulie and Midge have been together since forever, but Li’l Jack plays the field.

He’s such a hoot.

I am known as a generous soul, and I am forever being approached by people who had been mean to me in high school and now want to apologize.

They are always profuse with their regrets: “Pearl, we had no idea! Please forgive us for not having recognized your coolness sooner!”

If my difficult childhood has taught me anything, it’s how to be humble in the face of their groveling; and I have the bartender send their table a round of drinks, on my tab, just to show them that there are no hard feelings.

This sometimes leads to misunderstandings, though, and my now-fans try to get closer than I am comfortable with. ‘Hey, Pearl, I love your shoes. So where’s the band going after?’

When I have to make it clear to them, no offense intended, that they just don’t fit into the crowd I hang with now, they are always a little saddened. There are the inevitable tears as the truth of my words sink in; and I am forced to reflect, once again, on the responsibility that my genius carries.




As I say, I like to spend a certain amount of time in my head, away from the madding crowds; but it's not all fun and games in there.

I'm in The St. Paul Pioneer Press -- and this Time for all the Right Reasons

Pearl, Why You Little is mentioned in today's St. Paul Pioneer Press.

How much fun is that?

I was interviewed by Eskimo Bob over the weekend. Please follow the link to his blog and go to Episode 5, on the right-hand side of his screen. It's an hour-long podcast, and if you're short of time, I'll let you know the interview is about 14 minutes in.

I had a blast doing it. Thank you, Bob!

I Never Thought She’d Sound Like THAT

Every now and then, I am faced with something that has never happened before. Just such an experience presented itself Friday.

I was interviewed by Eskimo Bob.

Actually, that little sentence encompasses a number of things that have never happened to me before.

* I’ve never spoken to anyone while they were in Alaska.

* I’ve never, to my knowledge, spoken to anyone with even an ounce of Eskimo blood in them.

* I’ve never been interviewed for a radio show.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I was interviewed for a radio show -- I just didn't speak. The interview was based on the fact that I was the bari sax player in a pretty hot jazz band. Unfortunately, I was 18 at the time and entirely tongue-tied.

Apparently nodding to questions is a no-no on radio. I’m sure the listening audience wondered why the DJ kept asking the mute girl questions.

It was cruel, really.

I’ve learned some things, however, since then, as I am wont to do, and gave ol’ Bob what I’m sure amounts, in hindsight, to an earful.

It airs at 7:00 p.m. Sunday night, Minneapolis time. That’s seven hours post Greenwich Mean Time, if that helps you. I do hope you check it out, if only to support Bob and see how badly I stick my foot in it.

Me? Stick my foot in my mouth?

Nah.

Oh To Go Saling Now That Spring is Here

This coming weekend is Art-A-Whirl, a Northeast Minneapolis event full of gallery open-houses (free wine! free cheese!), bazaars, outdoor bands, and garage sales every couple of houses.

As has been previously discussed, I love a garage sale. What’s that, you say? You have odd bits of string for sale – cheap? Well hell yeah! Let me at it!

Let’s see. I’ve bought furniture, appliances, winter boots, pithy little sayings burnt onto wooden plaques, greeting cards – I even bought a pair of underwear at a garage sale once. No one believes me about that, but it’s true. They still had the tags on them. People act shocked, but I think they’re just jealous. A pair of $12 underwear for 75 cents?

That there’s a deal, my friend.

I defy you to pick them out from any of my store-bought underwear.

Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Anyway, here come the garage sales for Art-A-Whirl, and it’s time for this gal to give back to the community.

So here I sit, a pile of superfluous “stuff” in front of me, holding a roll of masking tape and a Sharpie.

How much for the books? Fifty cents seems fair. Used shirts? Used pants? Shoes, framed art, kitchen magnets, purses? Fifty cents.

That Mighty Mouse t-shirt? The little zippered cosmetic bags that seem to come with everything? That weird collection of tiny hotel soaps? You got it: fifty cents.

See, it’s not really about making money. It’s about clearing out what you don’t need anymore, what you outgrew, or what just isn’t cool anymore.

And going out and partying like Gary Busey on the proceeds.

Can I interest you in a tiny bar of soap?

Oh, Thank Heaven It’s Monday

I’m getting too old for this “weekend” stuff.

It’s exhausting! I either need to have more days off in a row or I need to just work straight through and not kid myself with pretending that Saturday and Sunday are going to be a break in the action.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Is it just me? Am I the only one finding myself running from errand to chore to drinks to odd jobs only to sit down Sunday evening and wonder what the hell just happened?

One doesn’t notice, of course, until one is home and sits down. That’s when one notices the bones in one's feet. That’s when you notice that despite the folding and the putting-away, despite being dirty-dish-free for perhaps the first time in weeks, there are odd bits of lint, string, and what appears to be a Crunchberry on the carpet...

I worked a church “mixer” brunch banquet on Sunday at Nye’s Polanaise. Nye’s was voted Best Bar in America by Esquire in 2006. It’s a fabulous place, an old-world style place, labyrinthine kitchens, full bars in the myriad rooms, linen tablecloths and a piano bar circled by upholstered stools: dreadlocked college student with corks in their earlobes sit next to an out-of-town sales executive sitting next to a 68-year-old ex-boxer sitting next to a couple on their first date, all of them singing a John Denver tune.

There’s a polka band that plays in a room off the front door.

Saying that the place has "ambiance" would not do it justice.

But the place's layout demands a lot of you. The building has stairs and layers and passageways designed in an era when I suspect people were smaller. Nye’s is a good-sized place; but yesterday, in the hours around lunch, the routes between the tables and the coffee, the kitchen, and the dishwasher were clogged with Easter-Sunday-dressed pre-schoolers and the older brothers and sisters charged with watching them. It was treacherous going for a while, but the serving staff was both speedy and cautious - no toddlers were harmed during the Palm Sunday Mixer.

The adults pushed the tables together, plates of food were consumed, the coffee flowed, and, surprisingly, so did the drinks.

I was not expecting the busy bar.

Who’d a thunk?

Anyway, thank heaven it’s Monday.

Frankly, I need the rest.

Ask And The Door Shall Be Opened

My reading was Friday night.

Shall I tell you about the toast at the 331 beforehand, describe the clinking of bottles, the sound of my nervous laughter?

Shall I tell you about the stories I sold that night for $1 apiece, the posted sign proclaiming “Help Pearl get to India! Just $1! Recession Friendly!”

Shall I tell you that my friend Paula drove in from Wisconsin – with a terrible cold – to surprise me?

Shall I tell you that my friend Shannon, a professional comedian, gave up a precious Friday night and was in the audience?

Shall I tell you that the other reader, Anya Achtenberg, uses words that change the color of the room, that send you inward and then return you, changed?

Or how about the laughter, the fact that the crowd loved Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys), that it was the fastest 30 minutes of my life and that I was flushed and happy at the end?

Nah.

Let’s talk about teamwork, shall we?

Immediately following the reading – but before we went to the Spring – Amy, Vin, James, Becky, Barb and her husband (why can’t I remember his name?), Paula, and I stood outside, saying our goodbyes.

And that’s when we discovered that Paula had locked her keys in her car.

Paula. From Wisconsin. My oldest friend in the world, the one who drove well over an hour without telling me just to see the look on my face, the one who came despite a cold that got worse as the night went on.

My membership to AAA, the people I normally rely on to get me and my friends out of such jams, had lapsed in January in a pathetic attempt to cut costs.

There was time spent with a wire coat hanger, angling for the lock; time doing the obvious such as checking the doors, hip-checking the trunk, testing the tensile strength of the windows.

So while the men went at the locks, the windows, circled the car hoping for a previously un-noticed portal, I called AAA, who, having taken my Master Card number, graciously reinstated me on the spot and promised to send someone.

I won’t say who had the beer in his trunk, but the wait promised to be amusing.

It was shortly after I hung up, however, that Vin got the car open.

Remember Vin? Vin, the Man with the Golden Wrench, is also, apparently, the Thinker Outside of the Box.

How did he open Paula’s ’98 Saturn?

Using the keys to his ’94 Jeep.

“It was on a whim, wasn’t it?” he said later, “and as with so many things – and you can ask my wife! – it’s all in the waggle.”

I canceled the AAA service, and Paula hugged me, slipping $30 in my hand. “The drinks are on me,” she whispered.

And yes, Paula, they certainly were.

It was a great night, but now I have to run. Liza Bean’s popularity has gotten back to her, and she’s been on the phone all morning. Apparently she’s in negotiations with a major studio for a suspense/thriller with a working title of “The Cat Always Rings Twice”.

She’s promised to mention me in her memoirs.

We'll Hide in the Mountains

Welcome to Friday, ladies and gentlemen!

What does the ever-shufflin’ iPod have to say about the weekend?

Remember now: You can follow the link, but sometimes it’s not the first one on the list, so be sure to match the song and the artist!

Pushin’ Too Hard by The Seeds
Rock Lobster by The B52s
Spanish Bombs by The Clash
Phenomena by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Wooden Ships by Crosby, Stills & Nash
The Rubberband Man by The Spinners
Joker & The Thief by Wolfmother
Teddy Picker by Arctic Monkeys

I have nothing to say about this except that The Spinners make me happy in a way that only smiling men in tuxes do.

And by the way, wouldn’t that be a great Halloween costume, you and your friends in tuxes and doing those cool dance moves? Forget the Pips, man!

Awww, who am I kidding? I still love you, Gladys. And your little Pips, too!

So tonight is my reading at Banfill-Locke, 30 minutes of unbridled Pearl-ness: probable humor, plenty of room for error. I am nauseous with anticipation.

The following is the bio that was sent out introducing me:
Pearl is the unpublished writer of the daily blog Pearl, Why You Little... (http://pearl-whyyoulittle.blogspot.com) and has written speeches, short stories, and essays for the past eight years or so, some true, some outright lies, and all without compensation. She is willing to write for food.

Kinda makes ya want to buy me a sandwich, doesn’t it?

Anyway, we have time for one, right? Just one?

My brother and I are just a little over a year apart. Until we were about 10 or so, we were basically the same height, the same weight -- there was even a brief time in there where I could beat him arm-wrestling.

He will deny it.

Don’t listen to him.

And while my brother has the ability to make me swear in imaginary languages until I'm red in the face, he also has a way of making me laugh until I go weak and fall off whatever I am sitting on, whereupon I am forced to regain my strength and assume a defensive posture, as next will come him sitting on me and offering to tickle me until I pee my pants.

We don't do that (much) anymore, by the way.

At one time our favorite argument involved what to do if we were required to go into hiding. Looking back, it may have had to do with the continual moving we did as children -- did we see ourselves as refugees? Dad said we moved a lot because it was harder to hit a moving target, but that was just clever talk for "there must be something better over there"; and we moved on a yearly -- and sometime half-yearly -- basis.

Kevin swore that we could always hide in the mountains. Never mind that we were born and raised in Minnesota. He was sure there was mountains around here someplace.

"What if there aren't any mountains?" I would say.

"Every country has mountains," he would say, dismissively. "You have to have mountains if you're a country."

I wasn't so sure about this, but hey! at eight years of age, it did make a kind of sense. As the years went by and our knowledge of the world grew, however, we developed grave concerns over where we would hide should we find ourselves inexplicably in, say, Belgium.

Kevin was sure that, somewhere in Belgium, there was a hidden mountain range.

To this day, we have this argument, although he now asserts that there was never such a discussion, that he was just pulling my leg.

I know better.

And if I ever go missing, you'll know where I am. I'm in the mountains. In Belgium.

Cool Book About Historic Minneapolis

Just because I'm that kinda gal, I'm going to take these first words to plug a book by an Uptown Minneapolis gal, Heather Block Lawton. It's full of historic photos of Minneapolis, and it is only right that it's called "Historic Photos of Minneapolis". I love these kinds of books -- photos of the buildings that used to be there, pics of people doing things that used to be ordinary and are now remarkable. You should check it out!

And now, on with the show.