First of all, a thousand apologies to foodie readers, but I didn't take a single picture of the amazing-looking and -tasting food at Alinea. I enjoy seeing other people's food pix, but I just can't do that in fine-dining situations ever since I once saw Chef Pete scowling at a diner who was happily clicking away, and anyway you can see better pictures on their website.

I did, however, manage to take a few goofy camera-phone pictures of me and Neil:



This one is blurry, but I like the contented, slightly dazed look on Neil's face, which pretty well represents his expression throughout the meal:



And here's Neil in the photographic style of Nick Rhodes (yes, I was enough of a Durannie to buy Nick's incomprehensible photo book):



Here's a Magnificent Mile skyline near our hotel:



Mr. Beef from the outside:



Mr. Beef from the inside:



And the winner is ... Portillo's!



(I know I said I hated taking food photos, but Mr. Beef was empty and nobody notices what stupid touristy shit you do at Portillo's.)

In keeping with its Richard Bachman theme, this scary scale in my hotel bathroom weighed me ten pounds lighter than I weigh at home despite my having consumed a 23-course meal the night before:



Garden photos coming soon, I promise.

And when I got back, the city and my street and my house and everything were right here where I'd left them. This sounds like an obvious statement, laughable even, until the alternative has happened to you. I am glad to know I can travel. This trip was very much a baby step but still scary, and I'm not planning to go jetting off on a regular basis, but at least I know it's possible.

Ah, but I do love Chicago. Apart from the food, which I believe to be as good as anywhere in the country, I never seem to hear anyone talk about what a beautiful, welcoming, walkable, generally user-friendly city it is. Obviously that changes some in the winters, which I have not yet dared since Neil says I would need special clothing to avoid death or at least severe frostbite.

I want to extend a special thank-you to Elyse Marshall, Neil's publicist at Harper Collins, who took the incredibly generous step of arranging to stay with Chicagoland friends so I could have her room for the night. She looked very much like most of the publicists I've had over the past several years -- young, female, and gorgeous -- but, unlike the majority of them, I know she must be better than competent or Neil wouldn't have her. In addition to the hotel room, Elyse, you have given me a shot of new hope for the publishing industry.

HOME. I have now traveled outside Louisiana/Mississippi and returned successfully with no deaths and only two panic attacks. On the second leg of my return flight, despite my having requested all aisle seats, I got a middle seat next to a young man with extreme B.O. I could just about take it when he was still, but I almost passed out any time he moved an arm. Luckily he slept through most of the flight. I'd nearly forgotten all the reasons I so love to fly.

It was a fun trip, though, even if it had its moments of trauma, and it was a good baby step for me. Thanks so much to Neil, The Fabulous Lorraine, and publicist Elyse Marshall for making it happen.

Well, I did it. I flew 927 miles from home, only really freaked out once, had a truly lovely dinner with Neil (more details later, or see his journal), and am now at O'Hare waiting to please God fly home. Before coming to the airport today, I had time to conduct an important taste test: half an Italian beef sandwich each at Mr. Beef and Portillo's. I'm sorry, Chicagoans; I know you think it's fast food, but Portillo's is about a million times better.

A few years ago now, I made a bet with Neil that I could build him a helicopter that wouldn't crash. I lost. Thankfully, Neil survived the disaster, and ever since then I have owed him dinner at Alinea. It turns out that he will be at some big book thing (American Library Association? I think that might be it) in Chicago this weekend, and I'm not busy, so I am flying to Chicago to pay off my bet. I'm greatly looking forward to seeing Neil and eating at Alinea again, but aside from that other little trip to Chicago when we were still in post-K exile, just to see civilization again, this will be my first trip outside Louisiana/Mississippi since 2005. I'm certain I'll have a good time once I get there, but I'm also certain that the only thing that will compel me to get on that plane will be the thought of my dear friend's disappointment if I don't show up. Scared. I'm really doing it and I am flat-out dead-eye Jesus-praying scared, even though I'm only staying overnight. Oh well, it will be good practice for the Amsterdam trip in November ...

(By the way, anyone who wants to see an actual display of courage, as opposed to my whining about a four-hour jaunt, should go to Alinea's press page and read the second story from the top, "Burned" from Chicago Magazine. It's a grueling and fascinating account of 33-year-old Chef Grant Achatz's battle with stage 4 cancer of the tongue, of all things, his insistence on individualized treatment, how the experience has changed his already complex food theories, and his journey back to taste, which is still in progress. May God and all the saints bless him.)

Here's a true one-of-a-kind item: a hand-written piece of perversion by yours truly!

Auction description:

In 1989, Ian McDowell (MORDRED'S CURSE, MERLIN'S GIFT, "Geraldine" in Poppy Z. Brite's LOVE IN VEIN) wrote CRAZY CREATIVE WRITING: STORY STARTERS AND WORD BANKS, a reproducable workbook for teachers of grades 1-4, which was published in 1995 by Carson-Dellosa, an educational pubilshing company based in Greensboro, NC. The book consisted of 30 "Story Starters" -- that is, the first paragraphs of stories, such as "Donna was in her room, playing a game on her computer. Suddenly, a big fat toad hopped out from under the bed and jumped on the monitor. "Give me a kiss, Cute Stuff," it said. "I'm a prince." The reader was then instructed to WRITE WHAT HAPPENED NEXT on the ruled lines following the first paragraph, and use as many words as possible from the provided "Word Bank" while doing so. Each Story Starter was accompanied by an illustration and 12-16 blank lines on which to write, as well as the aforementioned Word Bank.

I'm Ian and will stop talking about myself in the third person now. In the later 90s, I started pestering various professional writer friends to complete a page in one of my contributor's copies of this book. Quite a few complied. NEIL GAIMAN took the story of the Frog Prince described above. POPPY Z. BRITE took the story of Abe, the boy who'd always wanted to join the army, in a VERY perverse direction. Caitlin R. Kiernan wrote a lovely mini-story about Hannah, who woke up one day to find she'd turned into a horrible monster. Kelly Link wrote about Julia and her rapidly expanding cat, turning it into a mini-epic. Other contributors included Mehitobel Wilson, Phillip Nutman, Rain Graves, and Rachel Manija Brown.

The stories are short, but they're original pieces of fiction which will never be published anywhere (I'm pretty sure they can't be, as the begining of each story, the part I wrote, was Work-for-Hire and presumably still owned by Carson-Dellosa, who would not be pleased with the decidedly adult direction some of these authors took the material). Neil Gaiman's, for instance, is 150 words long, and like most of the other contributions, imaginative and laugh-out-loud funny. Each contribution is in the author's own hand writing. You can't have a more limited edition, or a more unique collectable (and yes, I know "more unique" is a barbarism) than this.

Here's a link to the item, which unfortunately isn't mine because it should sell for a mint! Ian's a pal, though, and this really is a nifty thing, so I thought I'd mention it.

I've been meaning for a while to write an entry thanking everyone who has helped Chris with The Green Goddess. He's not only far happier than he was during his period of unemployment; he's even happier than he was at the Delachaise, because now he gets to be the asshole. (He isn't one, but that's how we often describe one of the perks and pitfalls of owning your own restaurant: "You've been working for assholes all your life, now you get to be the asshole." Did I use that somewhere in the Liquor books? Probably.) Anyway, though I've said many times that I never wanted to own a restaurant or be married to a restaurant owner again, you don't try to keep the people you love from doing what they love, and though I'm a little alarmed by the sudden precariousness of our lives, I do see that he is happy. So thanks to all of you -- investors, customers, those who've provided good word of mouth, those who liked Chris' food enough to keep him encouraged during the rough months, and a particular tip of the hat to Neil, the restaurant's uncle.

(Re: Neil's comment from the linked entry, "Poppy was too nervous to talk to me that first time for reasons I've never been able to figure out, so I chatted to Chris," I've told him before that I was embarrassed to talk to him because I hadn't read any of his work at the time and I thought he would be offended. Now, of course, I know he wouldn't have minded. As I said to him at the dinner where we discussed this, "I've read it now. It's very good!")

Why, O why does the Amsterdam of my dreams always include a fictitious museum district between the Red Light district and the outer canals? And why, in my recent dreams of the place, is my mother always there? (I like traveling with my mom, but I don't think either of us would much enjoy a trip to Amsterdam together.)

The paper didn't come again this morning. I had to cover a 9am-11am shift at the church, so I was up too early to notice the quality of my coffee. I did manage to compose this ditty, with deepest apologies to Dorothy Parker:

O life is a comforting, cushioning pad
Whose days seldom offer much drama;
And love is a thing that can never go bad,
And I am Michelle R. Obama.

Oh, and happy birthday to Neil. Take me birding on your Jet-Ski in my dreams again soon, OK?

After a Meet the Candidates forum at Cafe Adelaide last night, suspect_d and I had dinner at Cuvee. It was very good -- Bob Iacovone is currently serving a foie gras Twinkie* -- and they comped us like $45 of food and drinks. I came home pleasantly tipsy and spent the rest of the evening reading wonderful stories Ramsey Campbell and Neil Gaiman had sent me in manuscript, then starting Paul Theroux's new novel Blinding Light. It seems to be, among other things, an erotic novel. His idea of eroticism is emphatically not mine, but he writes so well about it that I don't much care. However, I think it must say something bad about me as a reader that (I don't think these are spoilers, particularly) I would have been more interested in the ongoing adventures of the awful Americans (and one particularly evilly-drawn Londoner) in Part One than in discovering Steadman back home at the beginning of Part Two, swilling datura and dictating his new novel.

Despite slight hangover (though nothing like the apocalyptic one I had after the first time I drank with suspect_d, at Lenny's and the Sazerac Bar -- both gone now, gone), I must go this afternoon to have my new author photos taken. As they used to say in the Ninth Ward (and probably still do), "Ya never know whatcha look like until ya getcha pitcha took."


*Because I know someone will ask: This was a slightly sweet cake baked in a Twinkie mold and piped full of a foie gras mousse/goat cheese filling. My one criticism of Bob's excellent cooking is that I wish he would overcome his fondness for the foie gras/goat cheese pairing. He obviously feels that they enhance each other, a position with which I emphatically do not agree.

I went out and bought myself an Elisabeth Kübler-Ross book, On Grief and Grieving. We've all heard about those five stages; let's run through 'em. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. Check, check, check, check, um ... It would be nice to think there was imminent Acceptance in my future. But no matter how neatly the little boxes fit and how intelligent the writing may be, I've never had the gift of gleaning useful information from psychobabble. I suppose it's the same reason I can't sit still and talk to a therapist, or something very similar: "You don't know me. I am not the Universal Patient. Hell, people pay me to talk to them." And, sadly, most therapists I've encountered (though I've not visited one for twenty years now) did treat me very much like the Universal Patient, Crazy Teen Version, complete with platitudes and sanctimony and warnings about how if they thought I was hurting myself (with drugs, razors, etc.), they'd put me in the hospital, with no apparent inkling that the only effect this had was to better hide the fact that I was hurting myself.

Razors aren't my friends anymore, haven't been for ages; however, I still take too many drugs, particularly pills of a calming nature, particularly in the past six months. Ms. Kübler-Ross has done little so far to convince me that her book can provide a different kind of help; in fact, with all its talk of loved ones dying, it's having the effect of half-convincing me that I'll suffer some even greater loss soon. That magical thinking again: "Don't think about your loved ones dying, or they will!" And despite people telling me I am strong, daily life in southeast Louisiana shows me that I am not. I endure so little. I have a place to live. I did not lose the majority of my belongings. I did not lose a relative. My husband and I are both working. I have the luxury of angst. I'm tempted to remind myself of that old hammer adage -- When you say you have a headache and somebody says, "You think YOUR head hurts? That guy over there just got hit on the head with a hammer!", it doesn't make your head stop hurting; it just makes you start looking around for a hammer -- but this time I think it would only make me feel I deserved the hammer.

I appreciate the kind e-mails I get when I post entries like this one, but if you write suggesting that I reconsider therapy or SSRIs, I will ignore you. I've already made clear that these are not options for me. Whether or not you agree, please respect this.

On a more cheerful (?) note, I have finished the Chronicles of Narnia and reread Neil Gaiman's short story "The Problem of Susan" that got me started on the whole thing in the first place. I'm still not certain how I feel about it all. Deeply unsettled, but that's life as we all know it lately. Is C.S. Lewis really suggesting that ( spoiler ) In Neil's story, was Susan given the chance to be redeemed, or was the journalist's dream true? And why did she need to be redeemed; what had she done that was so awful? And it's hard to contradict the professor when she says any God who would put her through the experience she endured was having a bit too much fun. I have the feeling I'm going to read this story again and again, and be jabbed awake by it in the dead of night, and maybe have a nightmare or two. (Of course, that would be nothing new; last night I dreamed of (A) having a bellyful of segmented red worms; (B) being a beautiful lesbian high school teacher who seduced one of her students and was arrested for it; and (C) Bobby Hebert baking a football-shaped lemon tart frosted with orange ganache and chocolate lacings. I defy The Rapists to make anything of those three.

Since people seem inordinately interested in my Narnia reading, a few clarifications:

- I did start with The Magician's Nephew as advised. Someone was kind enough to send me an omnibus edition of all seven novels from my wish list, and I'm currently almost done with The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe.

- My angst about reading the books does not have to do with fictional sexism or thinly veiled Christian doctrine, neither of which is especially onerous to me. Rather, I'm worried because Neil's story "The Problem of Susan" revealed the ending of the chronicles (with fair warning, mind you), so I know what's coming, and I get to spend seven books dreading it. I'm enjoying them in spite of it, though.

What else is of possible interest? Not much, I'm afraid. I spent last night completing the signature sheets for Masques V and putting the finishing touches on my editorial about the closing of Our Lady of Good Counsel. For Chris' and my lunch today I made a pizza topped with two kinds of sausage (Whole Foods' green onion/habanero and Emeril's sun-dried tomato), jalapeños, onions, artichoke caponata, and mozzarella. It was drippy but good. Tomorrow I am doing an interview and photo shoot for Bust. I'm very tempted to wear my cocksucker suit, since it will be in season by the time the issue comes out, but it is not in season now and parading around New Orleans in seersucker in March is inexplicably embarrassing to anyone who doesn't live here. I may have to make the sacrifice for fashion, though.

Oh, and for those who've asked, I'm taking a short break from eBay auctions in order to recover from Mardi Gras and get back into a decent writing routine. I'll resume them soon, The store is still open, though I'm quickly running out of inventory for it -- I never thought there would be so much interest in my foreign editions and overstock copies!

- While I'm a big fan of Doonesbury, and especially of Uncle Duke and Honey, I think this whole Mardi Gras red herring is pretty stupid. For one thing, it began with a major inaccuracy: it's not a faux pas to use a cell phone on a float; in fact, it's de rigeur to call your friends and family and find out where they are so you can deluge them with throws.

- I'm uninterested in movies in general, but I could conceivably be interested in a movie wherein one handsome cowboy told another, "I don't know how to quit you, and I'm damn glad of it."

- As a child and Gilligan's Island devotee, I had simultaneous, seemingly unresolvable crushes on Gilligan and the Professor. Thirty years later, I find myself married to a man who somehow embodies qualities of both.

- I hold Neil Gaiman responsible for many recent woes in my life. Exhibit A: His introduction to Volume 5 of The Collected Omaha the Cat Dancer ("[I]t's neither erotica nor pornography -- simply a story in which the virtual cameras continue to roll while people take their clothes off and make love (just as they do in the world you and I inhabit) -- delineated with an unblinking charm which has the odd effect (for me, at least) of making one wonder where all the sex has gone in the other fictions one reads or hears or sees ... ") caused me to write a sex scene of the sort of explicitness and necessity I thought I was done with forever. Exhibit B: His short story "The Problem of Susan" made me realize I'd somehow managed to get through nearly forty years of life without having read The Chronicles of Narnia. It also made me want to read them -- and now I am -- but gave me to understand that this would not be a particularly pleasant or comforting experience. I've only just begun The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe and am already filled with a nameless dread.

- If anyone who watched the recent Iron Chef America battle is laboring under the delusion that the best chef won, I urge you to come to New Orleans and pay $200 for a small portion of snake vomit.