It had to be done.

Greg Crites (The Hack) is the author of at least 14 hilarious novels.  His best book is Global Swarming because his co-author is not only a brilliant humorist, but also witty and gorgeous.  That would be me.  Go over to veinarmor.com and buy his books.  You’ll thank me.  Start with Global Swarming and don’t be shy.  I bet you know dozens of people who would like a copy.

Greg and I are pals for life, but I haven’t heard much from him lately.  He’s a busy man, chock full of ideas, sardines, and Captain Morgan.  I did notice he left me a message on Twitter which said:

Didn’t you get the pic I emailed of me wielding a vacuum attachment while cavorting in a Krauthammer unitard?

I can only imagine that particular image putting me off my Macon for life (I love bacon so much I give each individual slice a name) and was relieved the email didn’t show up.  I assumed Greg had been messing with me. 

It turns out the men in my life are actively attempting to send me into therapy.  Greg’s email appeared in my spam folder, proving Yahoo can occasionally send crap to the right place.   Once I recovered from my initial shock and guffaw, I realized why he doesn’t write or call.

Greg Crites has taken on the Herculean task of cleaning up America.  We should be ashamed for falling into the three categories this heroic writer has avoided.

1)      Too lazy to clean up America.  (Don’t kill my buzz.  Are there any Doritos left?)

 2)      Too apathetic to clean up America. (I could care less if America is beginning to look and smell like the skid marks on my jockeys.  Leave me alone.)

 3)      Too delusional to clean up America.  (Look at America!  She looks like she just came out of the box, brand-spanking new!  I wonder how much she’s worth on eBay?)

On behalf of the unwashed masses, I’d like to thank Greg Crites.  He’s a great American – even wearing that unitard.

Scene from Waiting for Karl Rove

“Are you their mother?”

Am I their what?

My reaction caused the waitress at the San Antonio River Walk restaurant to practically throw herself prostate at my feet. I can only imagine HER thoughts.

There went my tip.

But I’ll get back to her. This particular evening was about Kathy Griffin. Moses, High IQ and I had rented a room in a hotel a block from the River Walk so we could see her show at the Majestic Theatre.

I’m not going to waste time here. If you ever have the opportunity to see Kathy Griffin’s stand-up, don’t make up lame excuses like you don’t have the money or you’re in the hospital in a coma. Get your ass up and sit through two hours of sheer genius. One of the most brilliant comics I’ve ever seen, she’s also gorgeous, energetic and her timing is so dead-on she should get an Emmy for that alone. And I know something about comic timing.

The last time I saw her in person I could barely hear her because the two lesbians seated next to me kept up a non-stop discussion about who-knows-what. Did those bitches get their tickets for free? I also fell asleep due to my sleep apnea. I usually only get about four hours sleep a night so if I sit still for a while, I nod off. No offense to Kathy, it’s biological.

I almost did the same thing this time. My body tried to conk out during Kathy’s slaughter of Elizabeth Hasselbeck, but for once my brain managed to take control. For anyone who doesn’t know who Hasselbeck is, she was a loser on Survivor and managed to parlay that bit of fame into a gig on The View and a gluten-free diet book. She’s a conservative with all the brain power of my cat Vegas, who likes me to pull her tail and spin her in circles while I’m sitting on the toilet. (I should learn to shut the door.)

Since I work for a living (unlike Hasselbeck) I don’t watch The View. But here’s a YouTube clip of Kathy’s visit.

When Kathy appeared on The View Hasselbeck pulled out all the lame tricks of a junior high cheerleader trying to get the attention of the quarterback dating her best friend. I looked closely to see if I could detect a set of pom-poms as she yawned and stretched with a vapid look on her face. (Further research shows that’s her usual look.) As Kathy waved to the audience and walked off stage, Hasselbeck mimed kicking the comic in the ass, clearly not comprehending the significance of doing so before a live audience. Classy.

San Antonio is a military town and at the end of Kathy’s act, she thanked those in uniform and their families for their sacrifices and also graciously thanked everyone for purchasing a ticket, especially in these hard economic times. Now that’s class, Hasselbeck.

Now back to my regularly scheduled event dramatization.

The waitress laughed at something I said and asked, “Are you their mother?”

The “they” she was talking about was my best friend, 27-year old Moses and 39-year old High IQ. My very first thought was – blog entry! I immediately began to give her a bit of good-natured shit and she groveled the same way I do when I go up to someone in the bookstore and say, “May I help you ma’am?” and it turns out the Mrs. is a Mr.

Our waitress Lesley turned out to be a very good sport. She took several of my cards and agreed to pass them out. She looked a bit too young to have a 17-year old son who is planning to join the Air Force. Unlike me, who apparently looks old enough to be the mother of a near 40-year old man.

High IQ took a photo of Lesley and me, but you won’t be seeing it. In fact, no more photos of me will ever surface. Between my sprained ankle and the Texas heat, I’ve quit walking and in two months it appears I’ve gained ninety-three pounds.

Throughout the evening, High IQ and I engaged in stimulating conversation and debate. He’s gay, but with a strong conservative viewpoint. Unlike most conservatives though, he listened carefully every time I pointed out that he was wrong. I held my own with him, even though I didn’t understand half the words he used. This guy is a true intellectual. (I’ve never met one before. This IS Texas.)

But near the end of dinner I asked him if he happened to be schizophrenic. He kept up a running commentary on Lesley’s service. (Our waitress was covering not only her section, but the section of another server who didn’t show up. She’s a hero as far as I’m concerned.)

The following comments all belong to High IQ.

“Where are our chips?”

“She’s fun.”

“She’ll still get a good tip, but she’s too slow.”

“I love Lesley. She’s doing a good job.”

“Why hasn’t she brought my drink yet?”

“Lesley’s a hoot. I really like her.”

Okaaaay…

I had a frozen margarita and a beer with dinner. And dinner has to be included in this story. Two kinds of queso with chips and chile relleno smothered in cheese one hour before a two-hour show and some extra curricular activities has proven conclusively that I’m lactose intolerant. I discovered this potential disaster with thirty minutes remaining in the show.

I can handle this. We’re going straight back to the hotel. We have a suite. I have my own bathroom.

Unfortunately, Moses and High IQ decided we should walk to a convenience store to pick up some crack, aka Diet Pepsi for High IQ.

Uh-oh.

Thus began a bizarre case of life imitating fiction. There are two chapters in Waiting for Karl Rove which involves me, ten Slim Jims and an elevator which is eerily similar to the next portion of my evening. These chapters are the brainchild of my evil co-author Jeni Decker. She’s a sick woman.

There are certain things I vowed to never do in public no matter how old and feeble-minded I become. But when I made this vow years ago I didn’t take into account two gay guys on a mission to find some Diet Pepsi while on foot in downtown San Antonio.

The first mom and pop store was closed. This necessitated us backtracking to the theatre and then traveling several more blocks.

I can’t do this.

I didn’t explode, but it was a near thing in the elevator. At least the clean up would have been in a small enclosed area instead of two city blocks.

I bet you’re wondering if I’m done with this rambling evening of comedy, waitress-customer relations and dietary issues. Nope.

I was excited about attending Kathy Griffin’s show because the majority of her audience is gay. Gays love my work and I saw this as an opportunity to introduce myself to everyone standing in line near me, as well as my seatmates. I wore a t-shirt with the book cover of Waiting for Karl Rove on the front. I had whimsical cards announcing I’m a writer and a misfit. Even my sandals with their satin orange bows matched my bright orange t-shirt.

Yeah, that worked out well. First of all, due to those ninety-three extra pounds I looked like the offspring of Moby Dick and the Great Pumpkin. Those sandals didn’t help as they turned me into one of those old ladies who wear shirts with kittens playing with balls of yarn on the front. Icky. Or even worse, women at the Republican National Convention, all dolled up in red, white and blue everything. (Okay, so the Democrats do it too.) I was a mess.

The next misfire turned out to be the line where I could make even the most horrified fashion-conscious gay forget about my appearance and laugh at my wit and snarkiness. Strike two. We got there and there was no line. We walked right in.

I held out hope for my seatmates, but wouldn’t you know it? The three seats next to me remained vacant the entire show. So I left a card on top of the toilet paper in ladies’ restroom. Why not? My marketing plan had turned to shit.

I gave it two last shots. I left a five buck tip in the room on the nightstand, along with my card and a thank-you note. I’m sure the Hispanic maid speaks English and appreciates satire. (I’m also sure she’s probably here illegally. This is San Antonio.)

I also dropped one face down in the elevator. Yep. That will do it. New York Times Bestseller list, here I come!

Despite some setbacks, I had a good time until…

DUN! DUN! DUN! (Inside joke. Check out our Waiting for Karl Rove book trailer.)

I called Richard on the way home. When I left we’d been working on another book trailer.

“I finished the trailer.”

Uh-oh.

This made me nervous because he doesn’t get the concept of the book. He’s also a conservative or libertarian or some such nonsense. In other words…he can’t be trusted.

“I missed you,” Richard said as I flew by him to get to the computer.

“Yeah, okay,” I replied as I brought up his video efforts on my behalf. One minute later I sat back and sighed.

“This is really good, Richard. Even though you completely changed the script and are demanding a boycott of our book, I like it.”

“It’s my insidious plan to destroy your chances of becoming a leftist role model.”

“Yeah, I get it. Now if I might offer some suggestions for improvement…”

Uh-oh.

Waiting for Karl Rove Trailer

Serious inquiries need only apply:
jlcallmejeni@aol.com

NOTE: Please put Waiting for Karl Rove--Agent Query in the subject line. Queries sent with attachments will not be opened (unless it’s a contract) and any e-mail sent without the above subject heading will be deleted unread.

Please allow 2-4 weeks for reply, as our offices are inundated with agents querying us. Patience is a virtue. No calls, FAX’s or singing telegrams will be accepted—unless the singing telegram in question involves a scantily clad male or large quantities of chocolate —in which case, contact us with the scheduled delivery time at: jlcallmejeni@aol.com )

Kat Nove & Jeni Decker

(Visit the official website here.)

He was a good cat.

KAT! Try to sound like a woman!

Jeni, Richard and I are working on the book trailer for Waiting for Karl Rove.  Once my vocal dramatization of the events occurring on our trip goes viral on the Internet, everyone will know I couldn’t get a part in an Ed Wood movie.  That’s right.  My acting is so terrible even the worst director in the history of directors – whose Plan 9 from Outer Space is considered by many to be the worst film ever made – would not cast me in a movie.

 Jeni came up with a great ending for the book.  By great, I mean she came up with it and wrote it so I didn’t have to.  Since she’s a real live director, she also came up with the idea for the book trailer and is in the process of developing it.  All she asked us to do was read the lines she wrote.

All the Russian porn bots who hang out on my blog know that Richard is a computer geek and I’m an end-user.  Hint:  Humans are allowed to read my blog.  The computer geek v. end-user factor in our relationship causes conflict when we work on projects together.  Apparently, suggestions are NOT to be made by the end-user.  If the end-user were to make a suggestion, the computer geek might glare and would certainly make a condescending remark.  This might escalate into the end-user leaping across the coffee table with all the grace of a gazelle suffering from elephantiasis and karate chopping said computer geek’s Adam’s apple.  That will shut him up.

The following examples of us recording our parts might lead some to question my judgment regarding:

a)            who I choose to live with;

b)           do-it-yourself projects; and

c)            time management/bladder control.

SPOILER ALERT!

There’s a character named Lebowski in the book.  (Yeah, that’s all the spoiler alert you get.  If you want more, buy the book!)

We begin to record, alternating our lines as we go.  Richard reads Lebowski’s first line and sounds like a Pakistani convenience store clerk.  (Yes, I’m stereotyping.  ACLU come and get me.)

My inner thoughts on this deviation from the script will hereinafter be in italics.

What the fuck?

I can’t read a single line without him reading it back to me to show me how a woman would say it.  Unfortunately, he makes a much better woman than I do.

He reads Lebowski’s next line and sounds like Jerry Lewis.

Isn’t the telethon always held Labor Day weekend?

Richard is never happy with a performance the first time.  His next line is repeated over and over.  He explains he’s trying to find his inner Lebowski.

His inner Lebowski is a Mexican Vlad the Impaler?

Next he sounds like a drawling Texas Ranger.

I tune out and begin to casturbate.  Casturbation is the act of a writer procrastinating by obsessively wondering who should play her in the movie version of her book.

Meryl Streep?  Naw, too close to my own age and she’s beginning to get a bit hippy.  Diane Keaton?  I like her John Lennon sunglasses, but there’s her crepey neck to consider.  Ellen Page would be perfect!  We’re so much alike, both being anti-heroines.  But can a twenty-three year old actress pass for a grandmother?  Damnit!  Probably not.  Unless…someone like Spielberg directs.  Then the budget will be huge and makeup costs will seem minimal.  Keep her in mind, Kat.

“Ahem!”

Diane Lane!  That’s it!  She’s gorgeous.   She can act.  She has a great body.  It’s like we’re twins separated at birth.

“AHEM!”

Cecil B. DeHitler’s literal way of clearing his throat finally penetrates my happy place.

Fuck!  Who do I have to sleep with to get out of this book trailer?

Scene from Waiting for Karl Rove by Kat Nove and Jeni Decker

I'm not having fun...I'm drunk.

I can’t believe I survived a thousand mile road trip from hell with Jeni Decker only to come home and choke to death on a bug.  Well, not quite to death.  But if the phone rings, I won’t be answering it (unless you’re an agent or publisher) because my throat feels like I swallowed a sandpaper popsicle.  I hope the bug is dead because I don’t relish it laying a million eggs anywhere inside me, especially my colon.

 I can only blame my lack of judgment as far as the road trip goes on menopause.  That, and not understanding ahead of time that Jeni Decker is a trouble magnet.

I can’t write about the trip right now, or the book we wrote describing it.  I’m too busy worrying about what’s growing inside of me.    I suspect Karl Rove might have sent the bug with a message for me.  Don’t publish this book.

 I have a message for Mr. Rove.  Suck it.

With bail money, pepper spray, a first aid kit and a S.W.A.T. team.

What the hell did we get ourselves into?

To be continued…

a)            Jeni conned Kat into roving around in this white-trash Toyota;

b)           Kat’s drunk because Jeni’s mother called and spent 45  minutes describing how Jeni learned to drive in Mexico;

c)            Jeni just realized she needs to pour her beer out because Kat’s too drunk to drive;

d)           They could very well be collaborating on a book which will land them in jail.

Click the link to check out what Jeni has to say about this topic.

closetspacemusings