Happy St. Paddy’s Day!

the in


Pluto’s Snitch

Yesterday I ordered the latest in the Pluto’s Snitch series by Carolyn Haines, named, “The Spirit of Seduction.”  Woo-woo!  I also pre-ordered the next Sarah Booth Delaney bones mystery, “Charmed Bones,” described as trouble starting when a group of witches want to bring a Wiccan school to Dahlia, Mississippi.  Can’t wait for this one.  I’m thinking about, “Booty Bones” from a few summers ago, when her boyfriend, movie star Graf Milieu, was recovering from a gunshot wound in the leg he got helping Sarah and Tinkie Bellcase Richmond on a case.  On Dauphin Island in Alabammy.

I had to laugh watching Greg Gutfeld’s show.  I don’t know who the lady was, but she co hosted a radio program with a doctor, and she brought up Jeff Sessions, castigating that loony tunes mayor of Oakland, another stupid liberal woman, who pre-warned the illegal aliens (with criminal records) that ICE was about to conduct a raid.  This DJ mimed  Sessions in a Southern accent when he said, “how dare you?!”  She went on to say in the same Southern accent, “I have the vapors, somebody get me a mint julep!”  Her co host then said he thought of, my boy, Foghorn Leghorn.  It was funny, teasing in a non-malicious way.  As one who frequently says in a Southern accent, I have the vapors! And, in a not Southern accent, will request a mint julep, I can relate.  How dare you!

I’m thinking of the night I sipped ice cold Chardonnay in a clear green wine goblet, wearing a scarlet fleece robe, in bed, reading, “MacBeth” out loud.  I caught sight of myself in the dresser mirror and thought I looked positively medieval.  And, quite mad!

(But I had fun.)


PS, Random Thoughts, Asides

How could I forget to mention this:  Arf, arf and woof, woof.  As I descended the steep incline of the parking garage exit last evening to go home, I was behind an SUV that had a discreet I Love My Dog bumper sticker on it.  Looking at the license plate, I saw that it was personalized and read:  SCHNZRS.  I wonder if one was named, “Leo.”

Monday evening, as I lounged in mine living room, with the windows open to the divine fresh air, I heard dogs.  Lots of ’em.  Beneath my windows.  By the time I got to the kitchen window, they were gone, but I saw one lady possibly in her late thirties, pick up a little dog.  He was about the size of Earl, with beautiful white silky fur.  She picked him up as a baby high in her arms; he looked like a terrier, pointed little face and pointed ears, but the corker was that his little face was in a perfect, symmetrical division, half pure white and the other half was pure black.  He was adorable.  And as his mama held him so high to her face, not knowing someone, me, was spying on them, she began kissing that poochie on the side of his nuzzle repeatedly, and from the look on his face, the dog knew he was a positive celebrity.

( I have got to find a way to dismantle Autocorrect on this site.)

Revisiting the name Aurore.  That was the name of the cafe in Paris in “Casablanca,” where Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart last met and shared champagne with each other and Sam.  Remember when the guns started and she said, “Rick, are those guns, or is it just the beating of my heart?”  And, “Kiss me.  Kiss me as if it was the last time.”  Cafe Aurore.  I can see it on the windows and the red checkered cloths.

Ovation; Mint; Spies, Peace

Another gorgeous, cold, springlike day.  The azaleas are riotous along Metairie Road, fuchsia, pale pink, white, all blooming beneath the oak trees.  I’m really not having a problem at all this year with CDT, although I overslept until 6AM this morning and had to rush; if were were CST, I would have had plenty of time to dawdle over coffee…just had to point that out.

I was thinking many happy thoughts this morning, still holding that gift in my hands, and the peace.  And this happiness is second by second, minute by minute, no contemplation of the future, no expectations, just it in and of itself enough to suffice.

Mint juleps for medicinal purposes. I have been experiencing the niggling joy is little muscles spasms traveling up my shoulder to behind my ear for several days.  Aspirin did not help; salve did not help; the moist heating pad did not help.  So last night, I bought some mint and muddle a huge bunch of it in powdered sugar in the blue Mason jar, added a lot of ice, poured some JD over this and garnished with another huge bunch of fresh mint that I periodically chewed as I sipped.  The anti spasmodic quality of mint, and the relaxation of alcohol curing spasms–bottom line:  I no longer have niggling little muscle spasms from my shoulder to my neck.  And, the remedy was, delicious.

I enjoy having the Ovation network.  And I have become addicted to one of their new series called, “X Company.”  It takes place during WWII, and the X Company is a crack band of spies who are based in Ontario, Canada, but operate through the French Resistance in France against the Gerries, those lovable laddies who, in one episode, an officer told a soldier to train his gun on a little girl no more than 7 or 8 forced to hold her arm up in the Sieg, Heil, salute, and, when her arm finally would drop, to shoot and kill her.  He was a good Gerrie, and let her go when his superior’s back was turned.  Bt anyway, these are all young, brilliant people in this band and one of them, Alfred, suffers from a brain synergy condition where his senses are overloaded–he has a photographic memory, and when music is played, he can see the color of each note–blue is the most perfect to him–there is one woman, Aurore, ( Ilike that name!) and the actress who plays her describes her character as “a journalist who was in France when the war broke out, so she joined the Resistance, and as a journalist, she’s a go-getter and curious.”  They pretty much stick it to the Gerries every week, but the stories are also fraught, I say, fraught with suspense, and a lot of good human features, and well, I tape it every week and usually watch it the next morning before work.  Years ago when contemplating what I would have liked to contribute to the WWII effort had I been alive then, I always said I wanted to be part of the French Resistance.  I think Alfred might be falling for Aurore because in one episode, he was playing the piano and described to her the blue colors he saw coming from the piano keys.  As she walked away, he watched her, and saw blue emanating from her.  It’s a good show so far.  There’s one either Cockney or Aussie dude I like very much, but seriously, half the time I can’t understand what he’s saying!




Revisiting That Tarot Reading

You know, I’ve never been that as apparently wrong in a Tarot reading ever before, but since new information has come to light, I realize who the dishonest, deceptive woman is who I warned you about signing on the dotted line because this was all done to gain mastery of you and power over you, and I believe this is the project trying to get through her questionable company that’s going to be the total failure. That is what I was seeing.


Ah, German composers.  Ah, German operas. Mozart would get my vote:  “The Magic Flute:” “Don Giovanni.”  Then, there’s the non-German, Puccini–especially, “Turandot,” with my favorite operatic piece, “Nessun Dorma.”  I haven’t watched opera in a long time–I used to watch Live from the Met in the heyday of Pavarotti, Domingo, Sills all the time, sometimes listened to the matinees on Saturday afternoons on the radio.  But not in a long, long time.  But if the truth must be told there is an operatic composer, a certain piece that I always associate with comedy, although it is not intended, the sound of which conjures visions of a vainglorious egotistical elitist pseudo-pseudo entering the room to the strains of, The Ride of the Valkyrie.  Overblown music, teutonic strains of aryan superiority–well, you could play that as Hillary Clinton entered a room, couldn’t you?  There was always something about that piece that, even as a child, made me giggle, and that was long before I ever saw Elmer Fudd sing, “Kill Da Wabbit” to its strains.  I always pictured a stout, solid, fat man with a beer stein dressed in 19th century garb who, sorry, child that I was, full of expressive gas.  I still can’t hear it without cracking up.  And so, I must place this timeless clip here to emphasize my point.