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rundown rundown

Rundown of opening weekend:

— Beanhouse regulars showed up, which was good.

— They have not had any personality and/or character transplants, which was bad.

(Oh, and by the way, I’m “outing” The Beanhouse, since it no longer has retail outlets; it’s strictly a wholesaler. It’s where I get my beans and you should, too. Go here: Diedrich Coffee. I’d be happy to help any of you pick some coffees from them.)

Annnnyhoo ….

Oh, yes. The personality non-transplants. Some people don’t seem to understand that while I’m offering the coffees they’re used to and the espresso menu they’re used to, not every freakin’ thing will be exactly the same as it was at The Beanhouse. I’m a small business. Wee. Not a corporation. So, please, coffee kooks, enough with the …

— Traaacey, I thought you’d be open on the 1st!!”

“So did I. Stuff happened.”

— “Traaaacey, where are the cranberry muffins??”

“I’m a small business. I’m using a different supplier.”

“Oh. What bakery are you using?”

“Maison Coutez.”

“Ooooooh!”

(That’s Costco, peeps. I just made up that name for it, but it sure shut her up.)

— “Traaaaaacey, you need to have bran muffins. People like bran muffins.”

“No, they don’t.” (At least this customer is a good sport.)

— “Traaaaaaaaaaacey, where are my blueberry scones???”

“Hm. I don’t knnnnnow.”

— “Traaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaacey, the parking situation isn’t very good.”

“Well, I’m not God. Or a city planner. I have no control over that. There’s free 2-hour parking right across the street.”

(The guy who complained about that pissed me off almost daily at The Beanhouse with his gloomy-doomy ways. That was his FIRST comment upon entering our pleasant cozy little bar area.)

“TRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACEY, WAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

Right now, I’m sleep deprived and questioning whether I’ve made some hideous mistake. So …. lie to me, say nice things. I don’t care what it is. Tell me you look hot today. Or you won the lotto. Or you look hot and you won the lotto.

Tell me what sleep is like. Or food. Or sleeping with food. Or gorging on sleep.

Ready … Go:

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wherein tracey implodes

?!?@@$!!????%&!!##flahbernaga?!!#?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Boheme opened this weekend. My bones have officially liquefied into butter. Proof: When I went to type “opened,” it first looked like “pooooened.”

Overall, though, I really think it “opened” more than it “pooooened.”

And someday …. someday …. I will live to blog again.

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friday night boredom

Friday night boredom and my crappy cell phone camera are a heady mix for sure.

Witness this intoxicating horror — a bad picture of a bad picture.

Our black-and-white wedding invitation, framed. A friend of ours who’s the Art Director for a local theatre took this back in — apparently — our salad-and-mushroom days. I mean, look at our hair! I remember my sweater was peach and had buttons down the front and that I wore it backwards a lot so the buttons went down my back because that made me cool. Right? RIGHT??

But look at our hair ‘shrooms! Seriously. Gah.

A real salad bowl of unsightliness.

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blogger bloggers

What is up with Blogger? I’ve tried to leave comments with some of you with Blogger blogs — Shannon, WordGirl — and it won’t even show that lame “word verification” thingy. You know, those smushed-together, distorted letters that you’re supposed to be able to read and then type in the little box? Yeah, those. I’m not getting those. I HATE those, to be frank, but they are a necessary evil if I want to comment on Blogger.

So Blogger bloggers, what is up with that? Is invisibility is the new distortion? Is smushed the new straight? Is homeless the new charming?

I mean, have a hard enough time with the funhouse letters. I frequently type them wrong and not from typos either, but from bona fide belief that those are the letters they’re going for. Well …. that, and guessing: “Is that “ld”? “lal”? “bl”? “Okay, uhm, uhm, uhm, let’s go with … l-a-l.” Waiting. Waiting. Nope. Wrongalito. And then after you type in the wrong letters, Blogger sneers at your intelligence and good intentions and posts a new set of smushed letters which I’m pretty sure is basically their way of saying, “Good Lord, Peaches; you suuure is dumb.”

So tell me, Blogger bloggers. What is UP??

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I am #1!

Someone found this blog by actually Googling “Phil Nosferatu.”

And I am pleased as puddin’ to announce that I’m the #1 result for that particular search. So — good news! If you’re looking for Phil Nosferatu, you’re already here! WOO-HOO!

See, Mom and Dad? Dang it all if I’m not finally accomplishing something to be proud of!

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come on, vogue

Sheila turned me on to this guy. Love him. Then I clicked on the link to his younger brother’s work. Love him, too! Then I scrolled down and found this piece of his:

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And this weird thought flitted through my brain. I suddenly couldn’t help but wonder something. Did Madonna — or her people or whoever makes these kinds of decisions — use this piece as inspiration for this:

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This is her performance of, uhm, “Vogue” at the 1990 MTV Music Awards, which I remember watching solely because she was going to sing that song. Back then, I was all a-twitter about the whole thing.

I know it’s totally random, but that literally was the first thing I thought when I looked at the piece, “Oh, look! It’s Madonna’s Vogue!” Just wondering if this was the seed of that idea. That’s all.

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ai

That Nosferatu dude is freaking me out.

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He looks somewhat less Nosferatuey in this photo because his baldness is hidden underneath gammie’s afghan there. His baldness is always hidden lately because of the obvious Nosferatu gleam and pale whenever his skull is exposed. So tonight he wore a Gilligan hat and sang some schmaltzy LeeAnn Rimes song and Simon’s critique was: “I just didn’t get it tonight. You’re up there with your big hat and your weird eyes and I just didn’t get it.”

Randy interrupted, “Dude! He can’t change his eyes.”

Simon just said, “Well, whatever. They were weird.”

Plus, his name is Phil. I’m sorry. You can’t be the American Idol and be named Phil.

Phhil.

Phil Nosferatu.

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