This Afternoon In Drama

Like Baby Jessica From The Well

My bowls are now free!

They decoupled Monday after ten sweet nights together.  When I finally pulled the two of them apart, a cup of conflakey water spewed forth from the bottom bowl, as if I'd performed CPR and rescued it from drowning.  But instead of hearing a whispery, "You saved my life!" I swear I could make out a, "Hey, I wasn't finished!"  Weirdly enough, it was my Boston "media escort" (I'm serious) who came up with the separation solution: pouring hot water on one bowl while pouring cold on the other.  The bowls held together for as long as they could-- I think they're a little bit in love, and wouldn't be surprised if next time I put them in the sink, I wake up the following morning to find them spooning again.  And if that happens, I'll cave and say, "Okay, be together.  I love romance," and switch over to my new set of bowls:

The Kellogg's Cornflakes Collectors Series.

The people at Kellogg's must think I'm way fucked up because they're offering a free ceramic bowl for every five proofs of purchase, and I'm now on my fourth bowl.  This means I've consumed 20 twenty-four ounce boxes of Kellogg's cornflakes since March.  Since the offer goes until June 30th, 2007, by then I imagine I'll have enough bowls to serve breakfast to Angelina Jolie's inevitable thirty-person family.  Come on over, Shiloh, you should have teeth by next summer!

You see how happy that little redheaded girl is on the Kellogg's bowl?  She does not represent 1/100th the excitement of what I feel when I eat my bowl of cornflakes every single morning (welllllll, technically "afternoon" according to the "clock.")  It seems that every year I get hung up on a particular food item, and I eat that item to the exclusion of all others.  Last year, it was an all s'mores, all the time diet.  This year, that crispy, golden flake has run away with my milky heart.

Now that the bowl thing is resolved, of course I have a new problem.  My right eye has been twitching for the past nine days.  Trying to determine seriousness, my dad asked if it's even twitching in my sleep.  And I told him there's no way I can get to the bottom of that.

I just hope my eye doesn't twitch at my appearances this week, since it makes reading really awkward.  Tomorrow night I'll be at Powells in Portland, Oregon, and Thursday night I'll be at the University Bookstore in Seattle.  Since I know pretty much no one in either city, I might just be reading to my twitch anyway.  She particularly likes the part about Bell's Palsy.

To Feel Stuff news round-up:

The book makes The Portland Mercury think of Aerosmith.

The Seattle Times backs my ass up and uses a weird picture that I didn't even know was in circulation.

The Eugene Weekly implies my author photo makes me look like I've just been having bowl sex and says, "Seigel's writing has the self-conscious cleverness of someone in an MFA program," and I wonder if this assessment has something to do with the fact that my bio on the back of the book informs the reader that I'm "currently working on {my} MFA from Bennington"?

When I used to read recaps by Pamie on Television Without Pity, I'd think, "We should so be friends." And then, magically, she showed up at my L.A. reading.

I like this review a lot (see 8/16) because Tori writes about my book like it's a ghost.

Over at Maud Newton's Sean Carman reviews the book along with Marisha Pessl's Special Topics in Calamity Physics, and thankfully doesn't point out that she's much prettier than me.

Regifting Kind Of

There's a note on the itinerary my publisher gave me that says when I get into Boston, a "media escort" is to help me "kill time" until my hotel room is ready for check-in.  This is a professional media escort, so if I was the type who needed to go pick up drugs, prostitutes, illegal puppies then I'm sure this person could play debauched concierge, but honestly that morning will probably turn into something more along the lines of me asking, "Chocolate pancakes, please?"  And then, "Oh my god, do you want to take some pancakes, go to the park, and see if we can get squirrels to sit on the bench with us?" 

Right now, if I had an escort to help me take care of things, the one request of him/her would be, "Can you help me figure out how to get apart these bowls I've had stuck together since Thursday night?"  I put two plastic bowls in the sink, and from what I can tell, the one underneath decided to expand its identity to incorporate the other's.  And now they are making the bowl-with-two-backs and refuse to decopulate.

The most scandalous thing to happen to me this past week wasn't a scandal of my own doing, and possibly not even a scandal at all.  But I choose not to believe the latter.

If you're a longtime reader of the blog you might remember that I made my first (and to this date, last) television appearance on "Connie Talks Books" or at least that's what I'm calling it because I'm not sure she deserves my Googling effort.  During my visit, Connie casually let me know that she thought my green halter top a shiteous choice, and gave thoroughly disapproving looks when she discovered I wasn't wearing a bra during the wiring of the microphone.  (How was I supposed to know the cameraman would need to go underneath my shirt?  I always see Portia DiRossi clipping her mic directly onto her halter string while Conan growls and makes tiger claws at her.)

After my reading at Book Soup on Tuesday night, a store employee brought over a stack of my books to sign.  I opened up the top copy of Like The Red Panda, and on the title page I saw this:

At which point I started launching into a succession of, "That fucking bitch!"-s while my mom, standing behind me, said, "I hate when you cuss, Andreaaaa.  I hate it."  Two years ago Connie asked me to make that book out to her, and while I don't expect everyone who has one of my books to keep it beneath her pillow with a sprig of lavender, I do kind of think that if someone has specifically made something out to you, you probably shouldn't just chuck it like last week's Bed, Bath & Beyond mailer.  That note is a little moment trapped in time.  I would rather Connie had mailed my book straight back to me with a "Ehhhh, no thanks," so I could have my moment back. 

I was ready to declare war right that instant with Connie, despite her being year-round sweatered, page-boyed, and a senior citizen because I am not in league with the majority of this country that staunchly believes the elderly are always cute, funny, and innocent just because they're elderly.  My mom, consistently unreasonable voice of reason, was like, "Maybe she was really, really into your book and she brought it here while attending another author's reading so she could continue while waiting, and then accidentally left it behind?"  To which I yelled, "She doesn't attend shit, Eileen!"

I proceeded to investigate.  Book Soup doesn't buy back used books, so the dedicated Panda didn't get on the shelf when Connie did her spring-cleaning and sold the outcasts.  Did Connie pull a ruse?  Return the book in a Book Soup bag leftover from another purchase and then use the greater public's aforementioned softy impression of the elderly to convince the salesclerk she'd forgotten the receipt at home, and could she just please get store cred?  Did Connie dislike me, my book, or my brazen bralessness so much that she just simply wanted all memory of us out of her house?  Did she slip my novel among the store's stock without any desire for compensation because being rid of my contagious harlotry was payment enough?  Just what is Crafty Connie up to?  I would like to know.  Suggestions welcome.  About the bowls too.

Now in more Me news:
To Feel Stuff gets an Elle magazine mention here.
The Boston Globe had some nice things to say about it today.
And Largehearted Boy has an essay I wrote on why the songs in the book are in the book.

But I'd Of Had To Miss The Dance

For those of you who don't live in cities along the book tour, there it is.  Adam's surreptitious video skills come through again.  You'll notice that I'm wearing what has now been dubbed "The Dance Vest," adopted after my mom's best friend insisted she saw my breasts when I danced in Orange County.  If people really did see my breasts or my breast-colored strapless bra, that's actually okay with me because it is my belief that we all have breasts on varying scales, but the vest was a concession for my mom (early Hanukah present).  One night I caught an a.m. re-airing of Oprah and she was showing her very favorite sports bra, which looked like it was made out of wetsuit-type neoprene and literally locked each breast separately into place, and I would love to dance in one of those, but Oprah's favorite sports bra was something like sixty dollars, and I'd rather spend that money on J. Lo shoes (see video for reference).

Oh What A Feeling, When We're Dancing On The Carpet

Here are some pictures, courtesy Adam Karsten, of the dancing at the first reading in Irvine.  I messed up on the routine, though, which should have been: Hip bounce.  Kick out.  Turn.  Go down.  Up with hands clasped.  Pop, Pop, roll around.  Pirouette.  Cross hand body.  To the side.  Bump.  Bump.  Snap.  Punch.  Pivot, pop knee, shoulder up.  Roll to other popped knee, circle hand.  Grab crotch.  Down.  Hands behind head.  Elbows in.  Turn, thrust, thrust.  Come up.  Kick, bend, shake shoulders.  Side sway high, double up.  Side sway low, double up.  Knees in, bounce, bounce.  Kick and turn.  Elbow, step.  Switch elbow.  Pretend to sleep.  Cross over, brush off shoulder.  Bend over, arms out, arms middle, arms up.  Heart beat pound.  Knee roll.  Walk around, stomp, stomp.  Knee bent in, arm swivel, turn with head roll.  Hip lift times two.  Shuffle with arms up, arms crossed, switch arms, and fist over head.  Low turn.  Stomp with bent elbow.  Bent leg bounce with straight arms.  Bend arm and knee, switch arm, robot up.  Run in place holding head.  Turn.  Roll head and back to straight.

I'll try to do better this Tuesday, when I read at Book Soup in Los Angeles at seven o'clock.

Also, there's a new interview up at Absolute Write.

Conversations From Last Night

The Tropicana Bar at the Roosevelt Hotel, Hollywood, 12:20 A.M.

Guy In Skinny Jeans: Man, when it's hot they have the firepits going, but when you actually want them, like now, they just light three little fucking candles on the logs, you know?

Me: So write a letter.

Guy In Skinny Jeans: I should!  Nobody writes letters anymore!

Me: I know.  Write a letter.

*
Tropicana, 12:45 A.M.

Bald Guy Who Looks Like a Brooklyn Hipster Jew And Who Says He Is French, But His Accent Is Suspiciously And Artificially Thick: Yes!  Yes!  I am from France!

Me: I don't necessarily believe you.

Bald Guy: No?

Me: When I took French in college, my French teacher wanted to kill me because I refused to do the accent.  I know a little bit about questionable accents.

Bald Guy: I want to hear the American-accented French!

Me: Jeh.  Mah.  Pell.  Ann.  Dree.  Uh.

Bald Guy: (delighted) Ahhhndreach!  {goes into incomprehensible maybe-French}

Me: That's all I know how to say right now.

Bald Guy: {still speaking maybe-French}

Me: Ca va.  Ca va.

Holly's club, Hollywood, 1:15 A.M.

(The doorman lets Kim through, but stops me for my ID).

Doorman: Now I'm going to guess how old I think you are and see if I'm right.

Me:  Where do you put me at?  Fortyish?

*
Holly's club, 1:21 A.M.

Guy With Spikey Hair: Why do you look so sad?

Me:  It's in my nature.

Guy With Spikey Hair: In your nature?

Me: In my nature.

*
Holly's club, 1:45 A.M.

Guy With Big Chain Necklace: Girl, why do you not look like you're having a good time?

Me: I am.  Just inside my head.

Mel's Diner, Hollywood, 2:05 A.M.

Wasted, Profusely Sweating Guy At Opposite Table: {to Kim} Ohhhhh my goddddddd, I lovvvvethatpair of boots.

Kim: {to him, holding up Bar Mitzvah prop-type gigantic green-framed toy sunglasses} Do you want to wear these?

Me: {petting the carnations on the table} I don't know why carnations get such a bad rap.  I love them.  They're what my parents used to bring me after dance recitals.

---

P.S.  A reminder- my Irvine (and first) reading is at the Jamboree Barnes and Noble this Tuesday evening.

P.P.S.  Update 8/9/06: A visual aid.  Me and Kim at Mel's.

Loves It

Michael Miller, can I buy you a Tasti D-Lite when I'm in New York?

Bullets and Bulletins

The message of the day:

The new book is now "officially" out because it is the first day of August, 2006.  If you get the book off of Amazon and end up liking it, then you can do me a huge favor by saying so with the stars and the customer commenting (and if you don't like the book, you can say so, too, but for obvious reasons I can't condone this behavior).  Some chick just bashed me in my book's Amazon forum for pretty much having an adolescent heart, so I guess I'd better say that if you don't have a secret soft spot for the Dawson's Creeky and Felicityish romances of WB heyday yesteryear, you might not be down with To Feel Stuff.  I warned you.

Love,
Andreaa.