wherein mr nice guy answers some mail and encourages you to reach out and touch him, you tawdry trollop

yes that's right, it's saturday night and i live in the greatest city in the world and i have nothing better to do than write an entry in my interblog. when i finish typing this i am going to defenestrate myself.

but first, at the risk of alienating two out of all five of my readers, a new feature! welcome to Mr. Nice Guy's Mailbag! every so often (ok, whenever he feels like it), mr nice guy will respond to a message or two. he will answer questions about his personal life, dole out relationship and parenting advice, and respond to grievous assaults on his character. so what are we waiting for? the supplicants demand a response from their leader.

a certain Hugh Downer, a suspicious name if ever there was one, e-mails:

You said some 5 1/2 months ago that little miss nice guy would not be dressing as a pumpkin/fairy/skeleton etc for Halloween, but rather as a prostitute/crack whore etc. Can we have photos to prove that this will be done and that you're not speaking out of your bottom please?

well, it would seem, Hugh, that you are referring to this post. allow me answer your question with a question, Hugh: do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to find teeny weeny fishnets? i have been looking. it's not easy. also there's this obstacle: mrs nice guy steadfastly refuses to let me dress the baby up as a hooker for hallowe'en ... or any other occasion, sadly. she says it will be "too cold" outside and that she doesn't want "her daughter" all "whored up" and "exploited" for a cheap laugh. tch. whatever. i do remain unmoved, Hugh, in my visceral objection to fuzzy pumpkins and ladybugs and peas in a pod. gag me with a spoon. i believe i have struck upon the perfect compromise, however, and i am not going to tell you what it is. suffice it to say, it is a costume that requires some minor do-it-yourselfitude, which is not one of mr nice guy's myriad fortes. i must take ownership of the project asap, though, so as to avoid a fate worse than pumpkin. also, what's wrong with talking out of my bottom? i bet you can't do it.

next up we have this missive from someone who goes by ketzel:

Do you live in or near Connecticut and if you do can my husband and I come over for dinner? Of course if you are brave and do not mind underdone chicken or overcooked steak you can come here.

ketzel, my dear, are you proposing one of those "dinners" where mrs nice guy and i place our keys in a hat upon arrival? if so, i am so TOTALLY trekking to connecticut! but if i understand correctly, you're not really inviting us over, are you? you are inviting yourself over here. right? now, ketzel, as often as we have total strangers who we meet in some internet back alley over to our house -- where we keep all of our very expensive jewelry, rare egon schiele prints and our baby -- for dinner where they, strangers, have invited themselves, i am terribly sorry to report we're all booked up for the foreseeable future. maybe just coffee?

so. who's next? drop us a line.