I don’t know if this is a “shouty” or “whispery” post because I’m using proper capitalization in tandem with run-on sentences, but I fell asleep at 10 because I was SO TIRED, and woke up at 4 because my land line was ringing with some oddball robot-beeping on the other end when I picked up instead of the news of a loved one’s death, so I had that going for me. Now I can’t etc. etc. and there’s so much iPad and State of the Union stuff clogging my Twitter and I care about neither right now, though Andrea Pelosi’s face is a thing of deep American beauty and maxi pad jokes are very Cathy Ladman’s gorgeous stand-up circa 1994. All I will say is that I’ve done a few interviews this week about “Le Book,” and if one more guy asks me how I think the people in my book will react to my writing about them, and was it revenge and did I use their real names and aren’t I worried, I might crack like Mink Stole in Desperate Living. Because, first of all, who am I, Babs Walters writing Audition? I am nobody who slept with anybody. There are no boldface names, just pseudonyms and other details I added to protect the characters in my stories after consulting with Penguin Legal and my own lawyer who is Jewish, by the way, in case you need his contact info. Important: It’s MY real name that’s going on this thing—I’m the one putting myself out there, in whatever cross hairs, looking the most like an idiot, if anything, or at least the most vulnerable and honest and ideally ridiculous because HEY EVERYBODY I AM DANCING AROUND AND TELLING JOKES A LOT IN BETWEEN THE STUFF THAT IS SAD. Meanwhile! Nobody protected me when I was in the thick of these situations; and look at John Edwards, or don’t, look at David Letterman, whom I have always IDOLIZED as a comedian, and who had to be told over the weekend between his glib announcement about doing “creepy things” and his apology to his wife and staff that he actually may have hurt some people and needed to apologize? Steph was the one fielding internet remarks about her “butter face” on TMZ and Dave was the one pulling in Hugh Grant interview ratings once his dabblings were forgotten and he was killing it, taking to the recent Late Night World War II hostility like a cat to sunshine. He should have protected her and Clinton should have done the same with his brunette matzo ball, I know ancient history, but come on, who’s the one with her last name forever used to describe (by hacks) a sexual act, and who’s the guy who has two thumbs and gets to live happily ever after in Chappaqua? My book is about me, A-DOY. The stories are self-portraits with other characters in them. Read together, they tell you sort of how and who I am, and it’s exposing and scary and I feel naked even though I’m in a one-piece on the cover and God Bless and keep Photoshop, by the way. But I “went there” (“Don’t GO there!”—The 90’s) because I knew that unless I did, it would be a shit read. And also because I have a good story to tell, and because Penguin paid me to tell it. Duh, I know, but also head scratch and things that make you go hmmm. So that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it and other things you should know tonight is that non-cinnamon flavor Puffins are just organic Corn Bran that will make you thirsty if you eat them plain, and that half a Xanax takes exactly one hour and 23 minutes to sink in.

Night, all. x