I'll be at Book Soup on the Sunset Strip on Friday, February 3 (that's this Friday) at 7 pm.

This was a very odd thing to encounter while wandering drunk down the Strip. Who is this bitch and why does she always wind up behind glass?

I cannot wait to (hopefully) meet s'm loyal Pussketeers, erstwhile readers, and Candyheads. (Yes, I invented that last designation in a characteristic fit of hubris. Cue the boos and hisses!) Seriously, please come see me if you're not busy. I will even kiss you with tongue if you're over 18 and not visibly oozing.

If I haven't answered your well-intentioned and/or FUCKIN' SCHWEET MySpace message, please forgive me. Internet access has become a complicated and fraught venture these days, and I will "holla back," as the platinum-haired white devil says, tomorrow evening. I know some of them are weeks old.

Celebrity sighting of the day: AFFLACK! on the WB lot.

Attention, ANTM junkies: Yesterday I spied Eva Pigford at In 'n' Out Burger. She smiled benevolently as if to say, "Yes, it's me. Continue staring." Oversized Chanel sunglasses obscured her modelesque radiance, so as not to sear our mortal eyes. She has nice ass cheeks.

L.A. is good. We're all enjoying ourselves, $12 mojitos notwithstanding. Weirdly, I ran into Drivetime Divas Lori and Julia at LAX, and we shared a gleeful Minnesotan moment. Fuck Hollywood! We're big in Shakopee, muthafuckas.

I miss my friends, but I totally do not miss the stratus clouds and road salt.

I really like our handsome new cat.

Since everything in life must be tied into Degrassi somehow, I have to point out that Ernie bears an eerie resemblance to Daniel Clark. It's the eyes or the chin or something.

Ernie, or "Boo-Erns" as he's occasionally known, sleeps a lot and squints adorably when roused.

He and Douchepacker get along pretty well. Note: Only about 1/3 of Douchepacker's torso appears in the frame. He's fucking massive. Ernie's a big boy too (in fact, his name at the shelter was "Big Boy"), but nothing can compare to the hissing sack of fat and organ meat that is Douchepacker.

I miss George, but I try not to dwell on it.

After writing today's entry, I realized that I constantly have dreams about either a.) chicks with dicks or b.) guys with pies. This must symbolize something, but what?

First, there was the infamous "Stephen King's Vagina" dream, in which I fucked Mr. King in a strange bed after he revealed his disturbingly girlish pussy to me. Oookay. Jonny supposes it was an ego dream, like "I'm such hot shit I'm going to literally make the world's best-selling author my bitch." I don't think I'm that monstrously confident, even on a subconscious level. But it was kind of fun.

A few weeks later, I had a dream I was making out with this blonde stripper. The blonde lowers her pants so I can lick her out. Only she has--you guessed it--a penis. Even weirder, she's wearing some kind of bizarre colostomy bag-type contraption and her penis is encased in glass tubing. She smiles apologetically. I reel at how wounded her dick looks. It looks as if it's been pulped by a steel-toed boot and the tube is its one salvation. The dick is withering before my eyes like an orchid, all livid shades of salmon and purple. I gulp with resignation and lower my head to service her.

There have been more of these dreams. I obviously have some kind of hang-up pertaining to mismatched and malfunctioning genitalia. Sexually, these images does nothing for me; in fact, the dreams usually end with me feeling squicked out and frustrated. So what's the ish? Psych majors?

Tomorrow I jet off to milder, smog-choked climes with Jonny, Rik and Missi. We'll be hooking up with Scott and his esteemed wife Kate once we get there. The rest will be a drunken blur. Actually, I don't tend to drink heavily in L.A. because I'm always aware of the precariously large rental car sitting in nearby valet hock. (Northern California is a different story. I'll be back, Monte Rio. Seriously, read that description and tell me you don't want to go there.)

Anyway, I'll be in L.A. until February 4, and then I'll return with a base tan and a suitcase full of crusty laundry. I will be blogging, as always, from the Daughter. I'll let you know if I meet any famous anus.

Jonny finally got a CPAP machine to relieve his chronic sleep apnea. Last night he had to sleep tethered to an oxygen hose with this giant plastic device suckered to his face. He was too anxious to have sex but I am so looking forward to kinky HR Geiger fucking in which I pretend to be a sadistic alien nurse. I have a feeling I may be repeatedly denied entry.

Speaking of slutting it up, I had the weirdest dream last night. I was crouching naked in a Wal-Mart parking lot and this hot white trash couple offered to help me out. I hopped gratefully into their van and they drove me to their trailer. Inside, the girl went down on me and asked me to repeat the favor. But then she whipped out a giant cock that was, like spewing cum, only it was girl-cum that tasted like the Gulf of Mexico. Every time I tried to suck her off, she came. I was freaked out by her salty spew and I asked her to put on a rubber. She and her husband giggled and told me I was a prude. Then I woke up.

It appears that something exciting is happening to Dooce. I don't know the girl, but I do know that once the lawyers get involved, it's real. Good on her!

Mark your calendars: I have a book signing in L.A. on February 3.

Time and location: TBA.

T&A: confirmed.

Let's catch up on things, shall we?

-In September, me and my Paramount homies successfully pitched a show idea to UPN. I should add that the entire time I was babbling in that Brentwood conference room, I was uncomfortably aware of a huge framed photo of Tyra Banks mounted on the wall behind me. But we did it. We were still in the running to be America's Next Top Show About Awesomely Promiscuous Veterinarians. (The other writers were ostensibly ordered to return to the house...pack their things...and go.)

-I handed in my final draft of the pilot about a month ago.

-This week, I was supposed to find out if the pilot got picked up or not. I'd bite my nails if they weren't made of plastic. I'm very proud of what we made. It should be on your TV.

-Now this. As of this morning, UPN has absorbed the WB. UPN as we know it is no more. The WB is no more. All WB and UPN shows will coexist in indivisible harmony on the same channel. Translation: Rory Gilmore and Veronica Mars could now plausibly hook up in a bi-curious crossover episode. Ratings, meet the roof.

I guess this means that if we get picked up, I'll be on "The CW," not UPN. Weirdness.

Jonny has been quietly blogging over at MySpace. Thrill to his amusing insights!

Seriously, it's about friggin' time. I mean, I know he has the Pop n' Stuff blog, but this is the kind of inside dirt I desperately crave. If you can't cyberstalk your own spouse, who can you cyberstalk?

My agent Sarah sent me this awesome Gotham Girls Roller Derby tee. Just in time for my City Pages review of Rollergirls to run this week. Call off the jam-- I'm clearly obsessed. Hey, how come no one ever says I look like the Joker? I totally do. I got Reese Witherspoon beat.

Also, I ate the guy from My Chemical Romance.

He tasted gay.

I admit it. I was one of four (possibly five) lonesome freaks who actually watched the Miss America Pageant on Saturday. It wasn't easy, yo. First I had to scan the Comcast gauntlet in search of CMT, a channel I hope to avoid in the future. Then I had to steel myself for the festivities. I couldn't resist-- I've watched this pageant nearly every year since I was a little girl with a budding hard-on for sequins.

I can't understand where they find these chicks. They're all 21, but made up to look 35--no wonder I always assumed the contestants were "mommies" when I was little. They have immobile hair, and as Jonny succinctly put it, they look like they tan with goggles on. I know there must be communities that manufacture these young ladies at a clip, but they sure ain't north of the Mason-Dixon.

I don't feel particularly bloggy today. I woke up earlier than usual and took my stepdaughter to school. Turns out teachers still scare the living crap out of me. One of them looked like she was about to grab me by the scruff and haul me into detention! If I'm gonna get the stinkeye from authority figures, I might as well earn it next time and wing some bottle rockets into the girls' john.

"Candy Girl" got a glowing review in the New York Post this weekend. Yay! As Sparky from Bring it On might say, PREPARE FOR TOTAL DOMINATION. Or something.

My dreadlocks smell like head. Time for a shower.