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And now, the story of the mystery chair:

As some of you know (and some don’t), the house I live in is the house I grew up in. After my mother and I moved out of it, onto our separate lives, the house stood empty. After six years, I purchased said home from my mother and my family and I moved in and promptly started taking down the ugly wallpaper and sponge painted borders that had tormented me through childhood (the faux-stone plastic paneling in the living room was particularly hideous).

Part of this remodel involved the basement, as I previously mentioned. And in this basement lies the Mystery Chair.

I don’t remember ever seeing the Mystery Chair in our home as I was growing up. My mother has no clear recollection of it, either. But, when we went into the house after it had stood empty for six years, we found the Mystery Chair sitting, alone and forlorn, in the basement.

The Mystery Chair is an arm chair that looks as though it originated in that “different colors of rough, waffle-woven, homespun yarn in pastel colors as upholstery is a glamorous idea for any living room furniture” phase of the nineties. The shape is squat and modern, the colors don’t match anything. It is too big to remove in one piece; it is wider than the only door to the basement.

I have three theories about this chair, and how it got into the basement without us knowing or having a hand in it:

 

1. Someone broke into the vacant house, pulled up a section of floor, carefully lowered the chair down to the basement, then replaced the floorboards and relaid the carpet in such a way that their deed would not be noticed upon casual inspection of the floor, but would make a great impact when said hideous chair was found.
2. The chair has always been there. Wrapped up in our own lives and every day drama, the chair stayed, neglected, unnoticed, until such a time as all of our crap was moved out and we were forced to confront the reality of the chair. Furthermore, the chair was placed in the basement prior to the construction of the house, which was built around the chair.
3. Some point in our basement behaves in the same manner as the area around the event horizon of a black hole, and all the particles of the chair popped into our physical space when they disappeared from another location. For example, the chair may have been in our neighbor’s house before its particles winked out of our known dimension and rematerialized in an area with a greater attractive force, ie, our basement. This black hole theory would also explain the disappearance of my REM Monster Tour t-shirt with Michael Stipe looking romantically angsty and defeated on it that went suddenly missing in high school.

Any way you slice it, I don’t want to get rid of this chair. Is it ugly? Yes. Does its sudden appearance baffle me? Most certainly so. But it is the most comfortable chair ever to lovingly cradle my flat, white butt. Which opens up a world of paranoia all of its own:

• Is the chair’s comfort a plot to ensnare me, helpless, before the television to watch episode after episode of E! True Hollywood Story? Is it actually a sophisticated hologram beamed into my family room by the television networks to guarantee that I will be watching?
• Is the chair actually a demonic entity, lulling me into a false sense of security before one day successfully draining my soul and feasting up on it as I writhe in agony, tormented by visions of my misdeeds?
• Could the chair have been placed here by aliens as a calming amnesiac device to remove all memory of the horrible experiments they subject me to nightly?

All I know is, I don’t want to get rid of this chair. It is a part of me, as I am a part of creation, all of the earth and sky.

Today, my friends, is an epic day. Today, I engage The Hoff in figurative combat. Today, is Jen vs. The Hoff. Today, we see how I, a mere mortal, stack up against that shining beacon with wings of tenderness, David Hasselhoff.

Let’s start at the beginning. A very good place to start. When you read, you begin with A B C. When you prepare for imaginary battle with El Hoff, you begin with

The Basics
Names
Jennifer Armintrout. Fits perfectly in place of the words “Jesus Christ, Superstar” in the song “Jesus Christ, Superstar.” Has eighteen letters.
David Hasselhoff. Fits in place of the words “Jesus Christ, Superstar” if you stretch the first syllable of “David” out a bit. Has fifteen letters.
ADVANTAGE: Jen

Initials
Jen: JLA Also stands for Justice League Of America.
Hoff: DMH Stands for Hoffski.
ADVANTAGE: Hoff

Body
Jen: Flabby I don’t like fruit.
Hoff: Terrifically sculpted/cuts a dashing figure in lifeguarding trunks But slightly hairy.
ADVANTAGE: Hoff

Vocabulary
Jen: Has used “verisimilitude” in a sentence, successfully. No one knew what it meant.
Hoff: Coined the phrase “Hofftastic”. No one knows what it means, either.
ADVANTAGE: Draw

Personal Style
Author Photos
Jen: Brooding, in graveyard Also, taken by Jill Welch, coolest photographer on the planet.
Hoff: Grinch-who-stole-Christmas-style-sneer-over-sunglasses pose Not taken by Jill Welch.
ADVANTAGE: Jill Welch

Worst Outfit
Jen: Little House On The Prairie style dress. Wore it in Kindergarten. Never got over it.
Hoff: Piano key scarf and light up jacket. Wore it in Germany to sing above the Berlin Wall. Germans went crazy crazier.
ADVANTAGE: Hoff

Fly Ride
Jen: Your mom A green Dodge Neon, actually.
Hoff: KITT Effeminate talking car.
ADVANTAGE: Your Mom Hoff.

Career
Page Counts
Jen: Usually around 400. Above or below, depending.
Hoff: 270. Not counting bibliography, discography, television resume and other assorted end materials.
ADVANTAGE: Jen

Fight Scenes
Jen: Vampires getting killed in creative ways. In book four, Vampires, Werewolves, Zombies and Golems in a giant throw down.
Hoff: Transvestites chase him out of a New Zealand bar. I’m not joking, it’s in his book.
ADVANTAGE: Jen

Australia Thinks:
Jen: I’m okay. My book did pretty well there.
Hoff: is indispensable Prime Minister John Howard allegedly said “You’ve got to stay for the economy, the spirit and the soul of Australia.”
ADVANTAGE: Hoff. Also, Australia. Everyone wins!

Internet Presence
Jen: Hasn’t checked her MySpace in weeks. Has also forgotten her Facebook password.
Hoff: King Of The Interet. See videos below.
ADVANTAGE: Hoff

World Records Held
Jen: Unofficial record. For most times accidentally poking one’s self in the eye.
Hoff: Official Guinness World Record. For most watched television show ever (Baywatch).
ADVANTAGE: Hoff

Well, there you have it. The Hoff is cooler than me to the tune of 7 to 3. Jill Welch made an impressive showing in her absence.

I’m off to nurse my wounds– and by that I mean “miraculously heal them with the power of Hoffski”– and get some work done whilst waiting for the Crow’s Nest to open so I can get me some breakfast.

Keep it real, y’all.

Hear ye, Hear ye! Today, December 4, 2006, shall remain in history a holy day! A day of mystery and wonder, a day all shall look on in remembrance and awe! Today begins the five day Feast of The Hoff, the Hofftacular Spectacular.

It all began Thursday last when, whilst visiting an ailing friend’s bedside, I became possessed of a powerful urge to own David Hasselhoff’s staggering work of literary brilliance, “Don’t Hassel The Hoff.” I did then beseech my puking friend thusly: “Get up, bitch, we’re going to Barnes and Noble!”

With much protesting and great dramatics, my ill companion did roust herself and managed to cloth herself in some sweat pants that we might make the journey to yon B&N.

Oh, but my heart did race all throughout that thirty minute drive! My palms did sweat and I might have dropped an f-bomb or two at cars keeping a snail’s pace in traffic. Finally, finally, we reached our destination. I raced inside, my emetic companion lurching feverishly behind me.

“I need the David Hasselhoff book!” I sang out in anticipatory chorus as I approached the gleaming beacon of the information counter. “I need it real bad!”

The booksmith looked at me with something akin to admiration tinged with fear. “I’m afraid we’re sold out. But we do have the Chuck Norris autobiography, ‘The Secret Of Inner Strength,’ if that helps.”

“No!” I cried, the Hoff-hungry demon in my breast crying out for satiation, “I already have that one! I need the Hoff! How can you be sold out?”

“There are other silly people in the world, Jennifer,” a woman in the employ of the great B&N commented, and I reluctantly conceded that point.

Such an admission did not soothe my raging Hoff fever. Meanwhile, a fever of a different sort afflicted my companion. “Jen,” she begged, her eyes bright with sickness, her brow beaded with sweat from the exertion of not emptying her stomach onto my dashboard, “Take me home or I’ll kill you.”

“No!” I cried, gripping her shoulders and giving her a hearty shake. “I will not give up so close to the end of our quest!”

But she would not be swayed, and all the long journey back to her apartment I did employ my cell phone to contact other area bookstores, in vain. The Hoff’s popularity thwarted me at every turn, when each store on my speed dial informed me that all of their copies had flown from the shelves.

Finally, I reached the bottom of my alphabetical list. A Waldenbooks, in Portage, Michigan, had the cherished tome. “Donna!” I exclaimed in glee, “Save a copy for me!”

After leaving off my feverish friend, I once again took up my cell phone, to contact another of my most dearest and trusted allies. “Jill,” I shouted, my wonder and rapture emanating over the cellular waves as surely as raindrops disturbing gentle spring puddles, “Do you want to go on a wonderful adventure?”

I raced to her side, finding her as excited and ready for our quest as ever. Once again I made the interminable trek across town, wailing and gnashing my teeth at every delay. But soon enough we reached our destination. The Hoff was within my reach.

Every step I took across the parking lot brought me closer to my Mecca. My heart beat its self fearfully against my ribs. Closer and closer I came. Every second seemed infused with the holy importance of my task.

Donna, the smiling, helpful book peddler, seemingly unaware of my heightened state of agitation, rang my most radiant of purchases and slid the venerable tome into a plastic bag; the Hoff’s tan glowed through the white of the bag.

“Wow, you’ve really been looking for this, huh?” she observed, finally noticing my mania. “Who’s this for?”

Confusion! As if I would hand such a treasure over as a mere gift. This book was a thing to be cherished, perhaps willed to future generations after my passing, but it would not leave my hands! “It’s for me,” I stuttered, barely able to comprehend this world, where such a treasure would be callously given away.

“Oh.” Donna appeared perturbed at this, but it mattered not. I possessed the book of my desires! I had Don’t Hassel The Hoff!

My fingers itched to caress the pages. My mind worked like a hamster in an improperly weighted wheel as I drove to my destination. When I arrived, I pulled the book of Hoff from its plastic prison. Freed at last, the shocking blue and orange of the cover blazed with a godly light. The culmination of my efforts was upon me! A tear crept from my eye as I lifted the cover for the first time.

And my eyes landed on the word “Hofftastic.” And I realized that anything I really, really think I desperately need on a day when I’ve had only one hour of sleep the previous night is probably something silly that I could do without.

However, dear reader, you’re about to benefit from my insanity. Right here, all week long, it’s a Hofftacular Spectacular. A week-long celebration of the Hoff, from Monday to Friday. Every day, a new and Hofftastic post will bring you one step closer to a deeper understanding of El Hoff (for our Spanish speaking friends) or Hoffski (in Russian).

The week will include a review of the Hoff’s masterpiece of literature, Hoff quizzes, Hoff quotes and of course, plenty of Hoff eye candy. And, as if that weren’t enough, at the end of the week, tune in for “Jen vs. The Hoff,” which I can assure you will be a bloodbath.

Tell your friends! Tell your enemies! Tell them, one and all, to come, come see the amazing, the astounding HOFFTACULAR SPECTACULAR!

SPAM email. For so long I have been without it.

I used to have an AOL account. I got tons of SPAM there. By tons, I mean almost three hundred a day. That’s not an exaggeration. If I missed checking my email by one day, my inbox would have reached its limit.

So, I changed my personal email to a hotmail address. For almost two years I have been blissfully SPAM free.

Then, out of the blue, it began arriving. It started with the obvious ones: “Twin Asian girls get nasty” and “Wanna see pics of my wife?” I kicked them to my junk folder. Then, they started getting a little more creative. To escape the wrath of the junk folder, they started misspelling key words the filter would now be looking for. “Hrorny Teens Fiznuking!” and “Secksy MILF takes it all!”. BAM. To the Junk Folder.

Now, they’re getting deviously creative. “Your phone has been busy all day. What’s going on?” I see that subject line and I don’t even look at the address. I go, “Oh, that must be one of my many close and important friends. I wonder what is wrong with my phone.” I open it and there it is, a link to 100% Free Girl On Girl Action.

I can’t figure out how this happened. Conventional wisdom would say that if I’ve been visiting a lot of porn sites and entering my email to join them, that would bring on an onslaught of SPAM. But– and this will shock many, I’m sure– I don’t look at porn on the internet. I don’t go to porn websites, I don’t google for porn (Food porn doesn’t count. Who doesn’t love a full color photo of a glistening rack of baby pork ribs, fresh from the barbecue? Stop looking at me that way. I am not ashamed). So, where is all the porn coming from?

Who are these people– MILFmaster69@yahoo.com, CrizazyChic89@gmail.com, etc– who are so desperate for me to see pornographic material that they would try and trick me into looking at it? Do they feel they are doing me some kind of service? Do I, through my various emails and blog posts, come across as so thirsty for titillation of any kind that I will die like a desert traveler, my t-shirt tied to my head for protection from the sun, holes worn in my jeans from the constant abrasion of the pitiless sand, my lips blistered from sunburn and windburn and sheer dehydration, if I do not see girls go wild?

Of course, I know it’s nothing I did. SPAM, like Scabies, pops up suddenly and is hard to get rid of. You don’t know how you got it, but you’re pretty sure it was that airline blanket that you knew you shouldn’t use, but it was just so cold and your air vent seemed to be stuck in the open position. Someday, the glut of SPAM will be cured, but until then, why, Lord, why was I stricken with such an affliction.

I’m sure everyone else gets SPAM, too. Share with me, if you will, your favorite porno mail subject line.

BECAUSE I AM ENRAGED. Okay, for people who don’t live in the United States, you might be unaware of the fact that next Thursday is Thanksgiving here. It is a holiday that celebrates when the puritans got here from England and went, “Oh, crap, we should have brought more food,” and their American Indian neighbors came over and went, “Well, here, have some of this delicious food,” and the pilgrims were like, “Thanks. Have some of this delicious small pox!”

History lesson aside, Thanksgiving is important mostly because there is a big giant parade spectacle in New York City. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I kid you not, this parade is such a big deal over here that when I was a child I thought Thanksgiving was actually called Macy’s Day. So, yeah, giant parade. And while everyone waits for the parade in front of the big Macy’s flagship department store near Times Square, viewers at home get to watch musical numbers from current Broadway musicals and also The Rockettes. And this year? Sarah Brightman is going to be singing on a float. And at the end, Santa Claus gets there and is like, “It’s the holidays, Chumps!”

AND I’M GOING TO MISS IT. Why? Because my husband wants to have dinner with his family at noon. Which means we have to leave in the middle of the parade to get there! I’m going to miss it!

And I’ve missed it for the last few years to be at Thanksgiving dinners. I don’t even like turkey. Or smallpox. I just want to see the parade!

Sigh. If I had some of that spiffy new DVD-R or Tivo technology, this wouldn’t be an issue. But I don’t, because I’m cheap and afraid of change, especially when it involves machines with artificial intelligence.

I mean, if Tivo can learn that I like Family Guy, it can learn all of my weaknesses and strike where I am more vulnerable. You can go ahead and get murdered by your Tivo. I’m playing it safe right now and right here. I’m living for the moment.

Today, in my neck (finger? palm?) of the woods, AKA the great mitten state, it is the first day of firearm deer season.

Perhaps I worded that incorrectly. The deer don’t have guns, nor are they made of guns, as I might have implied. But it’s the first day you can hunt deer with a firearm.

I did it again, implying the deer have guns.

Anyway, I’m not hunting. Why? Because I have a February deadline. That’s right. My JOB is getting in the way of what I want to do in my FREE TIME. The next person who says I don’t have a job can explain to my editor why all my emails are suddenly coming from a tree stand in the woods.

I was pretty bummed about the no hunting development. For the past two years, I’ve been trying to get my butt out there to kill a living creature, but to no avail. However, when I look out at today’s weather, I rejoice that I am not sitting in a blind somewhere freezing my carharts off.

It is snowing. Well, kind of. It’s also raining. So really, it’s snaining. Or rowing, I’m not sure. And it is miserable.

So, instead of climbing a ladder and tying myself to a tree in the hopes of spotting that elusive thirty point buck, I’m spending my morning at Fourth Coast, downing skim milk double lattes with sugar free caramel syrup and being, in general, warm and dry.

Alright, dear readers, what comforts dost thou turn to when the gales of November come wailing?

Cool, I just mixed faux Shakespeare with Gordon Lightfoot. My two favorite bards!

This morning, for reasons I won’t go into right now, I had to go back to my old high school for like, two seconds. And God bless her, the office lady remembered who I was. I was like, “What? That was like ten years ago,” and she said, “You look the same.”

Figuring I was on a roll, I went to, and am now blogging from, the coffee house where I spent a lot of my time trying to get picked up by college guys when I was a teenager. Granted, I’m no longer trying to get picked up by college guys, but not a lot has changed here. Everyone still basically looks miserable and/or too smart for their own good, the music is like, weird and obscure and sounds like something rejected from the reality bites soundtrack, and the air is so smokey I’m actually considering bumming a cigarette from someone just to get a filter between me and the roiling cancer on the air.

Actually, that’s a lie. I have my own cigarettes. I don’t smoke, but I do carrying around some expensive cigarettes as a status symbol. I like to go into pro-smoking establishments and sit down and take out my Dunhills or what have you and pretend to smoke one or two, leaving the pack out for all to see, as if to say, “Look how important I am. I smoke fifteen dollar cigarettes.” It’s just one of a number of little mind games I like to play with the world at large.

Anyway, in honor of my trip down memory lane, I’m going to post the top ten little known facts about coffee shops.

Top Ten Little Known Facts About Coffee Shops
1. Everyone knows that coffee shops are a good place to score weed, but what they probably don’t know is that it’s also a good place to score absinthe.

2. Coffee house etiquette demands that for every hour you spend loitering at the counter, you must wash a part of the barista’s car.

3. Ha ha, just kidding. Baristas don’t have cars. They ride bikes, because they’re hippies and they care about the earth and stuff.

4. Nearly all of the flyers on a coffee shop bulletin board contain nonsensical subliminal messages like, “Ear your cheese!” and “Snort that vagabond, Haley’s Comet!”

5. 98% of the United State’s supplies of corduroy and sweater coats can be found in coffee shops.

6. A recent survey revealed that most college kids spend more time at coffee shops than libraries, because it’s easier to pick up high school girls in a coffee shop than a library.

7. Also, you can smoke there.

8. The amount of nicotine in the air at an average American coffee house is enough to fuel a nicotine powered generator for thirty-six hours.

9. The least popular flavor of flavored creamer is chitlins with green pepper. The second least popular is “Gingerbread.”

10. All coffee house art is produced by a company in Yarlborough, CT, and is supplied to independent “artists” around the country to sell to unsuspecting coffee houses.

This stuff is all true. Look it up. But before you do that, tell me, what is the one place from your childhood you’d most like to return to?

Apparently, as an author of creepy books, I have some sort of occult knowledge of good scary movies. “Jenny,” people say accusingly, “You’re an author of creepy books. You must know something about scary movies that we don’t.”

Well, that is patently false. I only know as much as the next person about a good horror movie. If it scares me, it’s good. But, to paraphrase the theme from Different Strokes, what might be scary for you might not be scary for some. So, keeping that in mind, here are my favorite “scary” movies, perfect for this time o’ the year:

The Ring Some people find this movie a little so-so. I absolutely freak out when I watch it. I almost pee my pants when the phone rings for about two days after I see this. I guess to some people, like, young people, the fact that it’s already really outdated (what the hell is a video tape? Is that some kind of stone-aged entertainment device, like they dug it up at Pompeii or something?) makes it less scary. Well, I’ve got news for you, teenagers! In the olden days, we had to watch movies on VHS because we didn’t have Xbox and we had to make our own fun! Wait, what was I talking about? Oh, yeah, The Ring. Yeah, it’s a scary movie.

House Of 1,000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects You have to watch these two together, because watching just one by its self is unfulfilling. You have to watch them back-to-back to get the whole, awesome story. You know that trash house in your town? The one with the empty hanging flower baskets and broken down cars on the lawn and they keep their Christmas lights up and on all year round and maybe they don’t come outside much and when they do they look kind of unfriendly? Yeah, if you watch these movies, you’ll be even more afraid of those freaks.

Cube These people wake up and find they’ve been trapped in a labyrinthine prison of deviously booby-trapped cubes and the only way to escape alive is by solving a complex mathematical equation. WHAT?! WHO THE HELL DOES THAT KIND OF THING? HAVE THEY NO SOULS?! Seriously, that is TERRIFYING. Whoever thought that up is a twisted person who should probably not be trusted to babysit for children. Man. People thing Saw is a scary movie, but Jigsaw could take a page out of whoever made the cube’s book. Sawing off your own leg is not scary. Math… math is scary.

From Dusk Til Dawn This is one of those movies where you’re like, “Wait, what is this? Is this a comedy? Is this a crime drama? Is this a retro-pop-culture-pastiche?” and then the vampires come. And they are awesome, evil vampires. Just like I like ’em. Awww yeah.

Now, since I have very little else to share today, I’m going to leave you with this, my new favorite commercial:

Okay, so last week I found out I had a weird inflammation in my chest due to also having pneumonia. That was terrible. But the medicine they put me on is worse than having pneumonia and a chest infection. It kind of sucked.

So, I got behind in my work. And my housework, especially. And now, my house is looking a hot mess and I have a party I’m hosting on Saturday. I guess the theme of the party has shifted from “Halloween” to “Party Like You Live In A Condemned Building.”

However, being sick has had one pay off. Lots of time to take the Wii internet browser for a spin and use the internet on my totally awesome giant plasma screen. And what did I browse for, besides Dresden Files fan fiction in which Harry and Bob get it on, you ask? I looked for movie news. Namely, Sweeney Todd news.

If you have never heard of Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, the magnum opus of one Sir Stephen Sondheim (he was knighted in absentia by me, ruler of my own country of Jenopia), then I weep a frenzy of weeps for you, dear reader. It’s simply the best musical ever. EVER.

The very basic plot is that Benjamin Barker, a barber transported to prison in Australia for a crime he didn’t commit, returns to find that– through the machinations of the evil judge who sentenced him– his wife has poisoned herself and his daughter has been raised as the Judge’s own child. He sets about getting revenge, which ultimately entails killing unwitting customers who come in for a shave and then letting his neighbor cook them into pies.

And they’re making it into a movie.

Starring Johnny Depp.

And Helena Bonham Carter.

And Alan Rickman.

And Anthony Stewart Head.

If that wasn’t enough, it’s directed by TIM BURTON.

TIM BURTON. IS DIRECTING. A MOVIE VERSION. OF SWEENEY TODD. BY STEPHEN SONDHEIM.

The amount of cool in this one movie alone will probably be enough that– and I don’t want to alarm anyone here, but I just thought you should be warned– the universe is going to implode under the sheer, gravitational force of that much awesome.

Two trailers have been released, and I’m going to give them over to you to brighten your day, the way slit throats and cannibalism always brightens mine.

“Blog every day! Or don’t blog at all!”

And I thought, “Well, that’s good advice.”

Only, what if, like today, I don’t have much to say?

I suppose I can just throw a little something up here, so when archaeologists find this blog in the future, they’ll say, “Here was someone who was a consistent blogger. We can tell from the carbon dating of these entries that she started off a bit shaky, but she really did pull it together eventually.”

Speaking of pulling it together eventually, I’m still hard at work on book four in the Blood Ties series. Which is fun and great and all of that, but revisions are HARD. All through the last quarter of the book, someone is crying on every page. Now, don’t take that and go “Ooh, the last quarter of the book is sad! I bet Harry Potter dies in it,” because that’s not the case. People are crying for no particular reason sometimes. I think I was having some serious hormonal problems when I was writing that. It literally reads like every character in the book is six months pregnant: “I asked Nathan to pass the chips. He broke down, his back shaking with silent sobs as he handed the bowl to me.” Obviously, not that ridiculous, but it seems that way as I’m proof reading it. My editor actually wrote “NO MORE CRYING!!!!” on one page. I’m surprised she didn’t hang herself after reading this, because I’m getting close.

It always amazes me how much I don’t remember about a book that I’ve written just a few months ago. I’m reading through this and finding things and going, “Wow, that is awesome! I can’t believe I wrote that!” Or, alternately, “Wow, that is gross! I can’t believe I wrote that.”

Yes, you heard it here first, folks: Blood Ties Book Four: All Souls’ Night has some of the grossest descriptions I’ve ever written. I’m not going to go into too much detail here, but toward the end of the book I almost made MYSELF sick when I read what I’d written.

Stephen King, watch out. I’m right on your ass in the gross out department over here.