Minor celebrityhood: What’s YOUR dubious claim to fame?

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I miss the Fly By Night Club, a proudly sleazy Alaskan bar that served up Spam and satire in equal doses. Nine months a year the club presented “The Whale Fat Follies,” a musical revue that skewered local and national politics, Martha Stewart, wildlife management policies, the Neiman-Marcus catalog, the official state fossil (that’s the woolly mammoth, not Sen. Ted Stevens), money-grubbing evangelical ministers, opera, squid, Bill Clinton and just about anything else that club owner Mr. Whitekeys figured could get a laugh.

The slide shows usually included at least one naked backside. The male cast members enjoyed the cross-dressing skits just a little too much. Some shows featured the world’s first tap-dancing outhouse, a performer introduced as “the happy tapper in the snappy crapper.”

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A few good reads, and saving your smile.

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The good news is that I don’t have any cavities. The bad news is that I need a crown replaced. The worst news? No dental insurance.

What I do have, however, is a dental-hygienist sister who will X-ray and clean my teeth for free, and an emergency fund to help pay for the crown. Not that I’m thrilled about dipping into the EF, mind you, but at least I won’t go into debt fixing my face.

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Friday giveaway: Necks and the city.

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“Sex and the City 2” opens May 27, and I’m happy to be hosting the Blog & Save giveaway of the script necklace — aka the  “Carrie necklace” — made famous in the TV series.

You don’t have to be named Carrie to win it, though. The necklace, from Limoges Jewelry, will spell out your name as long as it has fewer than 12 letters.

Normally this necklace it would cost $69.99 – but if you win, it won’t cost you a dime.

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Turning invisibility into stealth.

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In the summer of 2007 I won a fellowship to attend the University of Washington’s two-month Summer Institute in the Arts and Humanities. One day we were given 20 minutes to write something about a specific aspect of our identities.

Here’s an excerpt from mine:

“All terrorists should be middle-aged women,” I once said – only partly in jest. 

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When you buy cheap, you get…longevity?

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I am wearing flip-flops that I bought at Rite Aid when my daughter was two years old. Abby will be 32 in August.

Granted, these zoris didn’t get a whole lot of use during my 17 years in Alaska. But I’m still amazed how well they’ve held up. I’m also grateful: They kept my feet off the ground for three days straight when my broken toe convinced me not to put on a real shoe.

Abby has her own cheap-but-dependable anecdote, which she detailed in a blog post called “Unexpected quality.” Her favorite pair of shorts, which she’s been wearing for 11 years, cost $10. It amuses her how “some of the cheapest things turn out to be so ridiculously durable.”

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Inattention can cost you. Ask me how I know.

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On Friday morning I was rushing through my exercises, as usual, and thinking about five other things, as usual. Preparing for a hamstring stretch, I swung my left foot up toward the cedar chest. I missed, and the top of my foot hit the couch.

Side note: It’s not really a couch. It’s a loveseat/sleeper, a purply-pink fabric stretched over a frame made of steel, or possibly bricks. The corner, where the steel/bricks meet, was where my second toe connected.

Instantly I unleashed multi-syllabic swear words. The air turned blue overhead. I swear the loveseat blushed. After hobbling around the living room like a football player who’s just taken a crotch shot (Walk it off, Freedman, walk it off), I said out loud, “I have got to start paying attention to one thing at a time.”

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Calypso bread.

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Every so often I stop by the Jimmy John’s sandwich shop near my apartment. Not to buy a sandwich, though: To spend 50 cents on one of yesterday’s baguettes, which I call “calypso bread.”

That’s because it’s day-old.

Daaaaaay-old.

Daaaaaaa-aaaay old.

Any of you who aren’t laughing yet, follow this link. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

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