Projectile Vomit and Puppies with Joni and Johnny

There was Joni Mitchell, and here was my wife, close to tears.

For years, she had loved the lady. Now the poet priestess was one table away at a mostly empty eatery on another hot 'n' hazy day in the San Fernando Valley. My wife approached, clutching at her heart, lavishing praise on _The Hissing of Summer Lawns._

Touched, Joni Mitchell inquired about our son, who was scrawling away with an orange crayon in his high chair. "He's an artist," my wife said. "Like you." Mitchell came in for a closer look. Our beautiful boy, Will, glanced up. Read more