normally

Normally, I'd wait a while longer before writing, but what can I say? I just got off the phone with Fran and I've cranked up the Hendrix and I'm pumped.

Fran's moving to Atlanta next month. She got a promotion at her accounting firm and they're transferring her to the Georgia office to head up a new division. The relocation comes with a big raise, as if she needed it, with the rents being what they are in Atlanta. Sure, they're more expensive than, say, Oklahoma, but they're certainly not Los Angeles rents.

So Fran's off to Atlanta, which is great for her, but I'm not altruistic enough for that news to explain my most excellent mood. No, in my great selfishness, what excited me most in our conversation is that Fran's decided to leave her car here in LA when she leaves, and not only that, she's offered to sell it to me for a quarter of blue book. That's quite a deal. Fran's Caravan has seen quite a lot of action. Debbie and Fran and Elton and I all rode down to Coachella last year in the Caravan to see Madonna and the Red Elvises. Before that, when Fran was living next door to me, she'd let me borrow the Dodge to make 2am runs down to In-N-Out, usually picking up Elton along the way, for a pair of Flying Dutchmen. Elton had a habit of smearing ketchup all over his window at the slightest provocation -- a mere pebble to the windshield could cause him such a start that ketchup-laden fries would become airborne -- so what ought to have been a 45 minute late-night grub-grab would often turn into a 90 minute grub-grab and cleanup. Had Fran ever found out about the ketchup I've no doubt that would have been the end of our starry burger voyages.

Fran used to take her dog down to the Scrub-A-Pup, once a month, regular as clockwork, for a tick bath and a haircut. That was one shaggy mutt. Actually, it wasn't a mutt, it was a purebred sheepdog, but it was definitely shaggy, even after a haircut. Scrub-A-Pup is two blocks from Majorca's, so Fran, thoughtful as she is, would always pick up one of those alaskan smoked salmon beers for Victor as she drove back with her oddly smelling shaggy dog. The dog -- Aslan (har har) -- never smelled any better after the bath than he did before the bath. We always wondered exactly what it was that they dipped the poor mutt in there at the Scrub-A-Pup; was it some sort of tanning goo? He smelled like chewed leather afterwards, which, oddly enough, was quite similar to the odor he attended the Scrub-A-Pup to eliminate. You'd think they could spritz him with some Febreze or something, maybe hose him down with some Slurpee syrup or slather him with Old Spice. Anything but that chewed leather stuff.

I'm getting the Caravan, ketchup smudges, spilled smoke beer, chewed-leather dog stench and all. Fantastic!

Oh, and also, Fran's moving to a great new job in Atlanta.