In Praise of NOLA


Essential oil.  “Top note of Lemon and Geranium, with a Middle note blend of Sheer Floral and Rose. Base note Wood and Amber. From the Exotic Floral fragrance family.”  Always drawn to exotic fragrances.

How are you today?


And On That Note…

A nice little something…I was helping a lost lady over at the hospital today, giving her directions, pointing out the way when she, said, oh, my goodness…you smell so good.  Well, that was sweet.  April Showers soap, and I had dabbed some NOLA on my wrists and neck.  An old-fashioned sort of scent…

A Shade Of Blue

Have a little folder tucked away of photographs, many of the most recent of you and they are happy ones.  I haven’t looked at them in several days and did a little while ago.  Funny, at the sight of you, all was happiness, and peace and everything was right with the world.  And as I sat there feeling this, a trickle of words from long ago began playing in my mind that suited everything, a trickle I couldn’t place, one phrase…”your eyes feel like silence resting on me…”  Then I remembered this song from so long ago, and I found the lyrics and wanted to place them here for you to see.

Your smile beams like sunlight on a gull’s wing
And the leaves dance and play after you
Take my hand and hold it as you would a flower
Take care with my heart, oh darling, she’s made of glass
Your eyes feel like silence resting on me
And the birds cease to sing when you rise
Ride easy your fairy stallion you have mounted
Take care how you fly, my precious, you might fall down
In the pastel skies of sunset I have wandered
With my eyes and ears and heart strained to the full
I know I tasted the essence in the few days
Take care who you love, my precious, he might not know


A Critical Eye? Surprising Myself

Last night, the Feast of St. Joseph, I had a small somewhat Italiano repast for dinner to pay him homage.  A truly divine bottle of Anthony’s Hill Pinot Noir, with gorgeous oak tannins; I stopped at Canseco’s and bought a lot of braided Italian bread; warmed and crisped it in the oven drizzled with olive oil, and Parmesan; basil pesto; dried tomato pesto and smoked mozzarella.  I’m not minding DST so much at all, and enjoyed the beautiful colors of the late spring afternoon as they deepened into evening; I unplugged the green St. Paddy’s Day lights from the back porch, left the white ones on and reconnected the purple lights; the flowers are beautiful there; the salmon colored geranium on the front porch is loaded with blooms and this I have in a blue pot.  Anyway, relaxing in the big blue chair as night fell, I watched the tape I’d made of what is perhaps my favorite film noir movie, up there with, “Out of the Past,” and one of my favorite movies period:  “Crossfire,” from 1948.  With the three Roberts:  Young; Mitchum and Ryan.  I have loved this movie from the first time I ever saw it, the story, the atmosphere, the shots, the acting.  Robert Young as Detective Finney reminds me so much of my father; the dance scene in the courtyard between Gloria Graham and the accused solider to that low down New Orleans jazz song is priceless…so, I always thought this movie was one of my guilty pleasures mainly because it suited me so perfectly all these years.  And then, God bless TCM, at this last showing they gave a history of it.  In 1948, it was nominated for five Oscars including:  Best Picture; Best Director; Best Supporting Actor (Robert Ryan); Best Supportive Actress (Gloria Grahame)and Best Adapted Screenplay.  Can I call them, or what?  Robert Ryan’s Montgomery is one of the most despicable characters ever.  The direction was great, and so was the cinematography, not to mention the sets.  It was film noir all the way, shadows and light, like metaphors for good against evil.  I’m glad I watched it again.

Here’s The Thing

I’m sick and tired of people, especially from the left, making statements that receive exposure through multimedia, that throw America under the bus to fit their own twisted narrative.  I’m tired of them falsely painting America to further their own lies.  Making a statement that at some point in the 20th century it was dangerous to be an artist and a liberal in America is a lie as blatant as the garbage Hillary Clinton tried to pass off in India last week about”backwards” America.  A liberal during those days was not a communist although I am beginning to believe completely that a liberal these days is a communist.  And it galls me at what I’ve lost to this arrogant tomfoolery, smoke and mirrors, perpetuation of a lie about a “hero” who never came close to ever being one.  I once used to put sayings for the day atop a schedule board each morning.  One of them was, “Kill A Sacred Cow.”  And feast.

And, A PS

I’m amazed at the commentary in the biography by the narrator, that “it was a dangerous time to be an artist and a liberal”  during the thirties, forties and fifties.  Is that on par with, “it’s never been a more confusing time to be a woman than now?”  Miller was not a liberal, he was a communist.  This continues to be a phony singling out of this faux martyr and all the lying rhetoric that goes with it.  A contemporary of Miller’s time, and a far better playwright, Tennessee Williams, was both an artist and a homosexual.  Where is the “high drama: concerning his life? Where was the danger thrust at him?   A liberal, Democratic president resided through nearly four terms in the White House, FDR, who championed social causes, who brought the country out of the Depression by his government works projects–where was the danger to him?  He was beloved for generations, as was his wife for her remarkable social contributions.  What you have in Arthur Miller is a coward, a communist on the sly playing the American system as a smoke screen to protect himself.  You could be either a liberal or a conservative in America freely, but you damn well could not be a communist who was anti-American.  This man seems to have devoted an entire lifetime to howling about the injustice he suffered when the truth of the matter is that he couldn’t stand that he was actually called out for what he was.

St. Joseph’s Day, And When A Family Member Should Never Do A Biography If They Can’t Tell The Whole Truth.

And, Happy Birthday to my little blog, that turns four years old today.

Well, in the sickening spirit of the hagiography that seems to follow playwright Arthur Miller around, there will be another whitewashing of his life presented tonight on HBO.  Told by his daughter, well, that should say it all–it’s told by his daughter.

You can see the unbending and fanatical support the left has for its own members today; the sainted Hillary Clinton; among many others, the martyrdom of Andrew McCabe, the perfection of Barack Obama, and it reaches back decades and goes to Arthur Miller and is further propagated here in this latest film, a retelling of the same old same old when truthfully, a lot about the truth of his life is left out that would tarnish that sainted image.

I remember when I made the decision to call out his play, “The Crucible” when I was taking college courses at night.  “Male Superiority as a Martyr Complex.”  My professor and I went round after round after the papers were graded, and I still held this play blamed women for male failure, among several other things, it was an “evil” 16-year-old girl” who victimized a grown man who had duped her into believing he loved her–and if it was truly an anthem about the author’s “dreadful” time before the HUAC, it was self-serving and had a ring of falseness to it.

It has been apparent to me for some time that the point that had to be made by his hagiographers was that it was Arthur Miller who stepped down to marry Marilyn Monroe and made certain she saw his journal notes calling her an embarrassment in front of his friends.  She was beneath his “sterling intellect and creative genius.” Was that also the reason he kept his Down’s Syndrome son institutionalized because he didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of his egghead friends?  On the face of it, the first visceral reaction to his marriage to Monroe could easily be, as was mine when I first learned about it as a child after her death, “what on earth did that beautiful woman see in that old man?”  That’s the elephant in the room no one wants to mention.  And no doubt, taking the superior intellect position was a salve to his wounded vanity when she threw him over.

And where is the mention of Mr. Matt Wayne, the pseudonym Miller wrote under as he contributed multiple articles for New Masses, a publication that heavily supported  that monster Stalin and communism.  That’s really ironic because when it was time for his sanctimonious appearance before HUAC, Miller committed perjury when he denied being a Communist and those dastardly members of HUAC then presented him with his own written application to join the Communist party.  And he stated he never remembered signing a part membership card.  His secret alliance to Stalin and his stint as Matt Wayne was uncovered by a college professor named Wald who also wrote a book about it.   How funny his grandson would one day say he was a great man who “changed the world.”

So, don’t call something a biography when all you’re actually doing is producing a sugar-coated valentine that skirts and avoids a lot of truths.  Don’t try to paint a hypocrite as a righteous man who wanted right all the wrongs.  This “sainted” darling of the left privately aligned himself with a genocidal monster, and showed himself capable of cruelty to his wives, and to his son.  In other words, if you can’t show the truth about a family member, don’t try to soft sell yourself and the rest of the world.

If you haven’t already, maybe it’s time for you to put that cup of Arthur Miller flavored Kool-Aid down.



Improvisation, And,

Good morning, Pushkin!  I’ll start with the And first.

Yesterday evening I watched two Irish-themed movies that I taped during TCM’s St. Patrick’s Day marathon.  The first was, “The Fighting 69th,” with James Cagney and Pat O’Brien. This was a good one; The Fighting 69th was a group of Irish New Yorkers who even fought during the Civil War, probably some of them knew Bill the Buutcher, and this movie centered around their time in WWI, which frankly, I think was the most horrid of wars in the grand galaxy of horrid.  Cagney played the cocky coward, Jerry Plunkett; O’Brien was the saintly soldierly Fr. Duffy.  They even featured poet Joyce Kilmer who was a member of the company.  Poems are made by fools like me, only God can make a tree.

The second was a 1971 charmer, “The Flight of Doves,” about two abused British kids played by the adorable Jack Wild and his little sister named Derval, who ran away from their mean stepfather on an odyssey to get to their loving grandmother who lived in a cottage on the edge of a lake in Ireland, played by Dorothy McGuire, an actress I always loved, who looked the same then as she did in her early career.  It was filmed in Ireland completely, and Dublin, and you know, I could live there most happily.  It was a sweet, offbeat little story, and I enjoyed it.

I would hate to live in a Del Webb community. Sushi eaters, artists, and the like. Port Pretension.

To return.  I’m sitting here in the afterglow of virtuous housecleaning, breathing in the scent of lavender and clean.  It’s threatening rain, overcast with low pressure, i.e., I have a headache that will end the minute it starts raining.  Blankets of fog this morning when I awakened.

There are two scenes in my favorite project of yours that immediately struck me as improvised.  It was the scene by the books and the fireplace when the male character was told, “you’re a very handsome man.”  Although I know there was a lot of improv, the second one that struck me was the question, “was your mother’s eyes also brown?”  That seemed to take the counterpart aback, but it was answered.  Of course, I could be wrong.

There’s a lot of brouhaha about Andrew McCabe being fired the day before his retirement would kick in.  After what he did, he got off lightly.  And, why should my tax dollars, and the tax dollars of everyone else earning money in America go to paying for his retirement? Anyone who get into bed with the Clintons seems to get spoiled.  I’ve said this before and in retrospect, I can’t help but say again that there has been a pall over this country ever since they hit the national scene.  They’re poison, and you know, I think she’s the true Black Widow, I think she’s more poisonous than he is.  I wonder if the liberal elite, who are so quick to decry white supremacists, realize how much of a supremacist they are.

What I think of President Trump.  In the past, he was probably a very worldly man, a womanizer, he was no choir boy by any stretch of the imagination.  But do you know, I think becoming President has made him a better man; I do believe he is turning to  God for help and I know in my heart he loves the American people, the little guy, who really isn’t so little in truth, I think if he had been born in upper classes, he would have played with the working class living along the river; I think there’s a Huck Finn somewhere in him, but maybe you are half Huck, half Tom Sawyer, who saw the drama of being shot in the leg.  I wonder what Huck Finn would have been like in love?  Not comparing you to Trump, you understand!  Except, perhaps, regular guys?

Perhaps I will order some Plexaderm.

Honestly, I’m so glad I got the housework done!



Surprising Myself

I had taped a  favorite movie of mine, The Age of Innocence and watched it last night. But do you know it was a story that struck so close to home it made sad and I turned it off. I kept wanting to shake ake Archer and Countess Olenska and ask them, what the hell are you two doing. And for what??????? As I said, a little too close to home.  All I could think was, what a waste of two fine lives.


St.Patrick’s, Part 2.

Well, couldn’t resist having a green beer to wish you St. Paddy greetings at BRUNCH time. Let me repeat, BRUNCH time.

I drove to World Market this morning and lo and behold they had April Violets soap. Just took the.most wonderful shower with it, a wonderful scent, not a Maw-Maw Violets. Also bought some Tuscan rose soap that smelled heavenly. Unfortunately, neither Violets nor lilacs grow in Louisiana,but if I could, I’d have beds of Violets and shrubs of lilacs. Ever wonder how wonderful it is that white flowers and purple flowers have the most wonderful scents? Lilacs, lavender, Violets, wisteria…I saw my first wisteria vine in full bloom yesterday driving home, trailing up a tall tree.

Right now I am cooking Irish stew I’m honor of the day and smothering cabbage. Plenty of nuts in the shell in the pot, and the stew smells heavenly.

But it’s too late for BRUNCH!