Most Ruthless Card Game? Bird is the Word.

American history and mythology are full of stories about deadly Wild West poker games, where one slight facial tic can cause a player's head to be blown off by another player's six shooter. But poker is for sissy fancy-pants compared to a card game that soaked up a lot of time in our little corner of Tennessee: Rook.

Rook was the only card game we could play in our house. "Face cards," or gamblin' cards, were forbidden in many good Bible Belt homes, but Rook cards were fine, since they didn't hold the whiff of tainted money, whiskey, cigars, and low-life wimmin. In fact, that's why Rook ("Christian cards") was invented by Parker Brothers around the turn of the last century. But I'm here to tell you that wild, fanatical rivalries can shake a house, even without tainted money and the like.

The game was big - powerful big - up at Grandmother and Granddaddy Rob's farmhouse in Henrietta, Tennessee. Now, my daddy's side of the family was always calmer and more in control of their emotions than my mother's whacky Atlanta Bully Bartow clan. The Nashville/Henrietta crowd was so nice and peaceful and took things in a calm, cool manner. Except when the Rook cards came out. Yep, once that deck of Rook cards was pulled out after supper, well, just be prepared for a competitive evening like no other. The calm, cool, collected crowd became excitable, overly-competitive Incredible Hulks.

Rook was serious bidness. No fooling around. Funny that, since I don't recall money, property, or whisky being involved. Guess it was just pure-T farmboy competition. Even as a little, little kid, I knew not to make light of the Rook game in progress. But my crazy Atlanta mama never got the message. It's a wonder she made it out alive, truly, because she was in it for fun and silliness - the direct opposite of what everybody else was in it for. Nobody wanted to partner with her. She was famous for letting rip a "Caw! Caw!" every time she drew the valuable Rook-bird card. Yes. It is a wonder she made it out alive.

I like Rook. It's easy to learn and fun to play. I like the memories of watching the game played at the farm in Henrietta, knowing I was witnessing a sort of cultural touchstone. I think I have a deck somewhere.

Poker? Pah! Pull out those Rook cards, hang on to your 14s, and pray you draw Mr. Caw-Caw!

A Tale of Two Daddies

It's Fathers Day and time to celebrate and remember all the good daddies out there. Two of the best come to my mind today.

Remembering my own sweet daddy, Newell Clayton Frazier, who died in 1999. He loved all of us like crazy and took real delight in us. He was the one who got up with us in the middle of the night (Mother had daytime sick-duty, Daddy had nighttime sick-duty). He loved grocery shopping, building things - mainly additions onto houses, and gardening. Boy, do I miss all the tomatoes, cucumbers, and squash he supplied over the years! He sat through (though complained about) endless PTA meetings. He let us go everywhere with him - Red Food Store on Friday nights, Stone's Hardware and Snyder's filling station on Saturday mornings, and any other place he was heading out to. He really lived into his fatherhood and set an example of what a good man and daddy should be. I miss him every day.

And celebrating my son-in-law, Greg - daddy to GrandBoy Liam. He, too, delights in his new baby,and shows all the makings of a worthy father - full of love and devotion to Baby Mama/my daughter Kate, as well as for his little boy. I'm sure he'll be the type to pile all the kids in the car whenever he's off to the hardware store or gas station, too.

Happy Fathers Day to all who are celebrated and remembered. Hooray for the good daddies!

Books Worth Losing Sleep Over

Yeah, yeah. Another post about books. Get over it. Anyway, a friend put out a plea on Facebook for "a fantastic, can't put down, grabs you at the start, book to read." Well, we all plod through our share of so-so reading material, but after a string of the "meh" books, one feels one deserves a rip-roaring page-turner.  So I started thinking: What three recently-read books kept me reading 'way past my bedtime? Here's what I came up with:

• The Book Thief by Markes Zusak. Hey, who can resist a book narrated by Death?
• Blackbird by Jennifer Lauck. Sort of like The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls - another page-turner, by the way, but stands on its own right. Couldn't put it down.
• Ghostwalk by Rebecca Stott. All the elements of a good thriller: alchemy, murder, Sir Isaac Newton, Cambridge (though I prefer Oxford).

What are your three most ripping good reads of late? Do share.

A Little (Sweeter) Night Music

After Catherine Zeta Jones' abominable performance of "Send in the Clowns" on the Tony Awards broadcast, I made the painful decision to write off the current Broadway revival of A Little Night Music. I've never seen the play, but I know the soundtrack backward and forward and really wanted to see the songs in context. But, oh, how awful was CZJ, whipping her head around, over-dramatizing this subtle, angry song? Yikes! (How she won her Tony is beyond me.)



If you're at all familiar with Judi Dench's rendition from the mid-1990s, it's hard to watch even the most seasoned pro attack "Send in the Clowns." I wasn't expecting Zeta Jones to measure up to Dame Dench, but I expected at least an engaging interpretation. Well, I'll leave it to you to compare - first Zeta Jones (YouTube, shot from TV version - only thing available right now), then Dench. There's about 1:00 of an interview at the head of the Dench video; stick with it, but grab a hankie first.



However, the gods of Broadway decided to smile down upon me. After all, who knows when the next revival of A Little Night Music will come around, eh? Well, Zeta Jones and Angela Lansbury (who is marvelous in the role of Mme Armfeldt, I'm sure) are leaving the show after June 20. The show is closed for a couple of weeks, when - wait for it - Bernadette Peters and Elaine Stritch take over Desiree and the Mme on July 13.

Sign me up, sez I! And I lucked out with an Orchestra Center/Center seat for . . . July 13. Bernadette Peters. Elaine Stritch. A Little Night Music. I can hardly wait for "Weekend in the Country," "You Must Meet My Wife," and "Every Day a Little Death." Buh-bye, Catherine.

Weekend with the Bellamys

Don't you just love getting away for a couple of days and catching up with old friends? Thanks to Netflix, I get to hang out with a whole passel of folks from my not-so-misspent-PBS-watching youth: the inhabitants of 165 Eaton Place: "Upstairs, Downstairs."  Even the theme song takes me back to my earth shoe-wearing days.

As nice as Richard and Lady Marjorie Bellamy are, it's really Rose, Hudson, and Mrs. Bridges that I want to spend time with. The "downstairs" friends always seem to have more intriguing stuff going on.

And secrets are being revealed that we Americans missed out on in the 1970s. I became suspicious when I discovered that six episodes  on the DVDs are in black-and-white, not color, and I couldn't remember ever having seen them. Come to find out, PBS didn't air the black-and-whites, and several other episodes from the first season.

A shame, too, because those first few episodes with Pauline Collins as Sarah are wonderful. She was cute as a button. Sarah comes back later, we know, but the lost black-and-white episodes are treasures. Such fun discovering new things about old friends, eh?

Anyway, with all the chores and running around that must be done this weekend, it's so nice to come home to Rose and Hudson keeping order at Eaton Place. And I look forward to reliving the years - theirs and mine - for weeks to come.

If only Mrs. Bridges had my supper on the stove.

Summer Trash

OK, so I've already told y'all about my plans to stick to Southern authors for my summer audiobook list, but who will give me ideas about what actual paper-page-turning books to read for the next few months? Why, the New York Times, of course. Thanks to Janet Maslin's list of  guilt-free beach books, I have a few ideas of what to have on hand to lull me to sleep at night. C'mon, you know you've been dying to read Chelsea Handler's Chelsea, Chelsea, Bang, Bang and Dave Barry's I'll Mature When I'm Dead.

No? Well, maybe something else will strike your fancy. Summertime is a great excuse for reading less intellectually weighty tomes (aka: trash). Nobody expects you to read War and Peace (has anyone actually read W&P - ever?), so you're free to pick up whatever murder mystery, bodice-ripper, or C-level celebrity biography you may be drawn to.

Realizing that one man's trash is another man's college entrance exam essay subject, I'm open to summer reading suggestions. I don't like romance (the type with Fabio, et. al. on the cover) or much of science-fiction, but I'm open to any idea you're not too ashamed to pass along.

Go ahead. Toss your trash my way. Let's agree to leave Tolstoy, Schopenhauer, and Proust in their rightful places, propping up wobbly tables and filling the unreachable shelf in the bookcase.

Growing Up Southern

Friend Richard is working on a new book about growing up Southern. We Southerners take our idiosyncracies for granted, I believe, and are taken aback when some little quirk that comes so naturally to us - speech, mannerisms, humor, story-telling - is pointed out to us by non-Southerners. As much as I want to pass on some pithy anecdotes for Richard's book, this ingrained-ness has made teasing out the stuff distinctly "Southern" troublesome for me.

Of course there are the usual suspects: our over-the-top love of Co-Cola, fried okra, church on Sunday, family reunions, outrageous (and outrageously told) stories, Gospel music, Steel Magnolia mamas, hard-workin' daddies (pronounced "deddies"), and Vacation Bible School.

And the burdens we carry: antebellum/plantation/slave-ownin' history, gun-totin' bubbas, trailer trash, some folks who are conservative-to-the-point-of-unChristian, 100%+ humidity in the summertime, and the fact that any time a news organization interviews someone from the South, they head for the fattest, greasiest, most toothless idiot they can find. (Hey! Who's in charge of PR for the South?  We've got some shorin' up to do.)

But delving into my mama-isms, school and church experiences, and musical tastes (be that music or food), a lot of what I'm coming up with may or may not be distinctly Southern. Maybe it's more about the time and circumstances into which I was born - "Greatest Generation" parents/"Baby Boomer" kids in 1950s/60s. Maybe it's just the standard middle-class experience of that era with a Southern swirl on top.

I do have a solid list of real Southern stuff to pass along. Deep down inside, I know that I'm different from anyone raised outside the South. Yes, there is some indefensible baggage, but mostly it's wonderful, shiny, hilarious DNA that I'm proud to have.

But if any of you Southerners have something you'd like to pass on to Richard for his book, let me know and I'll put you in contact with him.

New York Minute: Of Coffee Cups, Sidewalks, and Baseball

New York City is full of news. All the time. And it's not all Fashion Week, Met Openings, Broadway Premieres, or Times Square bomb threats. Stick with me, kid, and I'll keep you in the loop. Here's the latest.

New York lost the creator of a city icon recently. Leslie Buck, designer of the Anthora coffee cup died a couple of weeks ago. Way before Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts decided that coffee was a big deal, Mr Buck created disposable, distinctive Greek-themed coffee cups for the ubiquitous imbibation sold at delis, coffee shops, and street carts. Grab 'em while you can, but you must shun Starbucks, et. al., to get them. Or, stop by any gift shop and get a replica in ceramic. I don't like coffee, but I love the cup. Cheers, Mr. Buck!

The other day someone drew a line down a portion of 5th Avenue's sidewalk, dividing it between "New Yorkers" and "Visitors." A little art project, so think most folks, but it did spur lots of press coverage and discussion amongst the people. The point of the whole project was to create a fast lane for those of us walking at the speed of light and give folks who want to stop suddenly, take pictures, look around, get lost, etc., a place to do that without causing a major pedestrian pile-up. While acknowledging the importance of, even loving, NYC tourists,  those of us trying to get from point A to point B sorta like the idea of a speed line for workin' folks. Alas, the line is gone now. Fun while it lasted.

The weekend's biggest brou-ha-ha is the ever-popular subway series, pitting the New York Mets against the New York Yankees. Yes, a city divided. If I was a bettin' girl, I'l lay down bucks on the Yanks to sweep (they won last night), but as an Atlanta Braves fan, I really don't care who wins the subway series. It's best to avoid any baseball talk for the next few days because fan-egos are fragile (or explosive) here. Fortunately, a temporary cease-fire will be signed by Monday so that New Yorkers can function productively. At least until the next subway series.

So now you're in the New York loop. Go ahead, walk on the New York side of the sidewalk.

Southern Sounds for Summer

I've decided to spend the summer with Southern authors. From now to Labor Day, only voices from the South will be downloaded onto my iPod to enhance my daily commute, airline travels, and rambles 'round the big city. The last couple of summers have been dedicated to Tales of the (Real, aka New York) City, but I need a change.

It's amazing the number of fine books I've missed over the years, so I'm creating my very own summer reading list. Goodbye, Bookmobile! Hello, iPod! The goal is to find golden gems from Southern writers that have somehow escaped my attention and plug 'em into my little portable story-tellin' device. I'm looking for any and all suggestions of such literature available via audiobook for download, preferably from free sites, like the library.

First up: Olive Ann Burns' Cold Sassy Tree. My only defense for missing this when it came out in 1984 was that I had a year-old child at the time, and keeping up with bestsellers was not high on my must-do list. Second up: As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner. I've read a lot of Faulkner, except for this one, and am looking forward to having someone do the work of reading it to me so that I can just sit back and enjoy the language and the story.

I don't have a Third Up yet, so feel free to suggest away. Remember, I'm looking for American Southern - Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Virginia, Kentucky, and, yeah, I'll accept the city of Baltimore. Just send me the title and author, and I'll search it out. Doesn't have to be "Great Literature," just good Southern story-telling.

And if I can't find it in audio-form, I'll read it the old fashioned way, by turning its pages before going to sleep at night.

Finding my niche

For Elegant Scribbles, bid'ness is booming in 2010. That's the little handwriting/addressing service I started in December 2008. Not calligraphy, just neat, clear handwriting for event envelopes, wedding invitations, birth announcements, and thank you cards. I regularly place ads on craigslist and a few other free marketing online sites, and truth be told, it took a while for the ball to start rolling with it.

Thanks to a couple of non-profit organizations (remember last year's famous-people addressing bonanza?) and word of mouth, I'm kept consistently busy with my little cottage industry. Lately I've worked with clients from Hallmark Channel, MTV, and am now on L'Oreal's employee service concierge list. Seems folks either don't have the time or the hand-writing skills to address all those save-the-dates or fancy gala invitations. And they don't really want calligraphy; they want readable, neat handwriting. That, I can offer.

One of my biggest clients keeps me busy writing thank you notes to corporate leaders who have attended its exclusive conferences. I love having the work, but this particular client is the only one who wants me to block print everything instead of using script because the writing needs to look gender-neutral (and face it, my script is girly). I will testify that it takes a lot longer to block-print 200 thank you's than to write them in script, and I need a couple of days to rest my hand after one of these writing-marathons.

Most of my other work is for brides- and grooms-to-be: save-the-dates, wedding invitations, and thank you notes. So far, so good. Knock wood, I've had no bridezillas. They are so grateful to have this one big thing off their to-do list, that I'd really have to mess up royally to make 'em mad. All have been lovely people (and I hope I'm not jinxing myself by saying that).

Of course, I have a huge day-job, so Elegant Scribbles only gets my attention on nights and weekends. Still it pays for groceries and Con Ed, which is helpful. I'm just one person and have realized my hand-writing limits. I don't think I charge enough, but I hope to sort that out as time goes on.

Who knew that those early years struggling with penmanship booklets in elementary school would pay off?

Reelin' in the years

I'm 59 years old today. There, I said it. Actually, I readily admit to it, because I believe that those of us born in 1951 were born at the best possible time in the history of the universe. Face it, post-WWII United States was a fine little world to come into for a white, middle class kid. Everything was tickin' along. Men wore hats, women wore gloves, children wore Buster Browns or Red Goose shoes. Something big was about to happen, and we all knew it. Things were looking up.

A 1951 baby hit all the right stuff at the right age. We were the first to get our hands on Etch-a-Sketch, Vac-U-Form, and Give-a-Show Projector. And, yeah, Barbie. Crest aimed its "Look, Ma, no cavaties!" ads straight at us and our parents. Rock-and-roll and Motown had time to perfect their styles and get over their dorky periods before doing their best (and still best) stuff right about the time we hit our teens. Mini-skirts and fishnets - yep, teenage fashion just for us. Blue jeans, Woodstock, and college protests rose to fame as we landed on college campuses in 1969. By the time we got out of school and were earning a little pocket money, and looking real fine - disco! Ah, sex before AIDS. And so it goes.

I'm tired of all the Baby Boomer bashing. As I've said before, talk to the "Greatest Generation," who decided they deserved a decade of unfettered procreating. Being born wasn't our fault. We were just the beneficiaries of post-war technology, social and musical revolution, Madison Avenue, and affordable college education. Don't be jealous. Those of us 1951 babies were just lucky. (Don't want to hear any moaning from the "Silent Generation" or "GenXrs." Boo. Hoo.)

So, yeah, I'm 59, but it's been fun beyond words. Wonder what else will be invented just for me?

MaryAir

Straw = Spirit Airline's charge for overhead bin carry-on space. Camel's back = paying customers. Is this it? And the report that Ryanair will start charging to use its toilets, plus eliminating all but one loo on the plane? Crazy talk. (Wouldn't you hate to be the cleaning crew for those planes?)

It comes as no surprise that air travel is just not fun anymore. And I bet there are a couple of generations who don't remember when it ever was. Yes, all the security measures are definitely needed, though I seriously think we have the technology to eliminate the shoe-removal requirement, and I appreciate the problem of skyrocketing (no pun . . . ) fuel costs, and yeah, people like to fly cheap. But, speaking as a frequent flyer, we're about to hit a wall here.

So, I'm starting my own airline called MaryAir. A few of the amenities are:

• Free checked luggage - up to two relatively normal-size bags.
• Bags arrive in good condition with the flight on which you traveled and are ready for pick-up at baggage carousel within 15 minutes of your arrival. (OK, I may be dreaming here.)
• One free carry-on. One. Overhead bins can be used for the following: 1) the "stuff" of parents with small children (but do you really have to travel by air with that small child?), and/or 2) luggage of people who have to make a speedy exit for a connecting flight. For all the rest of you, check your bags or pay a big overhead bin fee.
• Standard, though roomier, aisle and window seats.
• Middle seats that are 6-10" wider than aisle and window seats, plus they have built-in heat massagers (people will be fighting for the middle seat on MaryAir).
• Tray tables sturdy enough to hold a laptop computer.
• No reclining seats. The seats on MaryAir are so comfortable, you don't need to take up the space of the folks behind you by reclining.
• Double arm-rests so that you don't have to play Elbow Gocha! with the person next to you.
• Free earplugs and/or headphones for everyone. Shhhhhhhh. Let's keep it quiet.
• Free bottles of water as you board the plane. That should keep you happy until some other beverage or edible offering comes your way.
• Zippy exits. First off: you people with connecting flights, who'll be seated in an area that facilitates your exit (and we know who you are, so those of you without connecting flight, don't try to pull anything) - grab your bags, quickly and GO. Second, the rest of us with one measly carry-on. Third, people with stuff in overhead bins.
• No nickel-and-diming you to death. One flat rate for your flight. Exceptions: over-sized, anvil-totin' checked luggage and overhead bin use (one bag) for folks not making a connecting flight.

I do not mind paying a bit more (note: BIT more) for an all-inclusive flight, which was the norm not so long ago. Airlines like Spirit and Ryanair are cheapies, so you do have that option of a low-low price if you don't plan to use the toilet or bring anything with you on your trip. Fine.

But the major carriers should stop this silly business of charging just to breathe. We get that fuel costs are up. We get that we have new security issues. But life is stressful and complicated enough without all this extra junk.

Let's make flying fun again. Welcome aboard MaryAir!

Build a Better Bookshelf

There has got to be a better way to display books in a library or bookshop than standard vertical shelving. I am never - and as I get older and less nimble, I really mean NEVER - going to stoop down to check out the offerings below, say, lower-thigh level. I used to check out all the books at or above eye-level on a row, then get down on my knees and check out the bottom rows, but I'm just not going to do that anymore. And getting back up isn't as easy or graceful as it once was.

I feel so sorry for those poor books on the two lower shelves. I don't see many people squatting down to have a look. But there they languish. Condemned to obscurity simply because they happen to fall on the bottom shelves alphabetically. There may be some ripping yarns down there, but I am not going to embarrass myself to find out.

It seems to me that some kind of shelving could be designed where you push a button and the shelf would rotate vertically, allowing the peruser to easily access books too high or too low to view. I am not an inventor, but I can't believe that Barnes & Noble or Borders wouldn't invest in the development of accessible shelving. And share that information with libraries. Wouldn't they sell more books that way? (And has anyone ever done a study on the sales of eye-level books vs. sales of bottom shelf books?)

And it would be terrific if the magical shelves were completely noiseless, though people no longer respect the silent spaces of libraries and bookstores as they chatter away on their cellphones. Well, one can only hope.

Just something that crosses my mind every time I hit the library or a bookstore. And don't tell me you've never thought the same thing.

Woe to the poor author whose last name condemns her/him to the lower shelves!

New York Dresses for Spring

After the snowiest February and the rainiest March on record, New York City has emerged in all her spring finery. Here's a peep at Herald Square, plus the incredible Flower Show at Macy's. (Yeah, those are real flowers bedecking the store's interior.)

Hope you're enjoying Spring, wherever you are!

One Good Friday

It's hard to submerge oneself in the passion of Good Friday on such a splendiferouly gorgeous day. So many temptations along the way. Blue, blue sky. Refreshingly warm breezes. Flowers and trees shamelessly a-bloom. New York City is like some lovable, giddy old tart, strutting her stuff and linking arms with you, begging for a little hilarious quality time.

And, OK, I let the old girl drag me around for part of the morning, but at noon, I gave her the slip and ducked into St. Bartholomew's for the Good Friday service.

I love "The Three Hours" Good Friday service. (Yes, it lasts three hours.) St. Bart's is dark and cool and Byzantine, so it helps shut out the sunny, crazy stuff happening outside its Park Avenue doors. I chose a pew near the front on the far left side and did my best to turn down my Type-A brain.

I cherish the readings of the seven Last Words, each given due reverence with music from the choir, a meditation by one of the clergy, prayer and silence, and a hymn. I love singing those passion hymns: "Ah, holy Jesus, how has thou offended," "Beneath the cross of Jesus," "Were you there," "My song is love unknown," "When I survey the wondrous cross," and "O sacred head, sore wounded."

The service bids me stop, leave the outside world outside, and attend to the message. Three hours is not too long to ask. Still, I wouldn't be able to stay for the whole thing if I didn't have the day off (one of the perks of working at the Church Center). Back in Atlanta, I'd only get to stay for a couple of the sets before going back to work. I like that I get the opportunity to block everything out for three whole hours now.

After the service and the tolling of the bell, I left the dark stone church and went back out into the blinding sunlight. My old friend was waiting for me. The 3-hour darkness not forgotten, I let her spirit me through Midtown and back up to Spanish Harlem, loving the sunshine, breezes, and flowers. I considered it a promise of things to come on Sunday.

A Blessed Good Friday to all.

The Bubble Bursters

Ah, the Bubble Bursters. You know who I'm talking about - those folks you can count on to try and deflate other people's excitement, joy, and enthusiasm. One minute you're sharing a bit of hilarity or good news, then - POP! - the Bubble Burster comes along to instantly deflate the fun with mean-spirited sarcasm or a catty remark. Once in a while you may have a snappy retort to put the BB in his/her place, but more often than not, you're left feeling tainted somehow.

Nobody likes a Bubble Burster. I wonder if they ever figure out why people move away from them when they join a group or just avoid them altogether. And I also wonder why they feel the need to be a spoil-sport in the first place. A need for attention? Jealousy? What?

There's one (or two) in every crowd. At the office. At school. At church. On Facebook. They're everywhere. And everyone can tell the difference between good-hearted teasing and a negative interjection. That's what separates regular folks from the Bubble Bursters.

I have a couple of Bubble Bursters in my life right now, but I'm just paranoid enough to be ready for them when they show up. But I've witnessed other people's Bubble Bursters recently, and I am fast losing patience. What they do is petty, hurtful, and sometimes humiliating.

Wish there was a pin big enough to burst those bubble-heads. Sigh.

As The Crowd Turns

Never trust a mob of humans. That's the lesson of Palm Sunday for me. One day that crowd is spreading palms along the way shouting "Hosanna!" (Ooh, you're so smart/pretty/powerful!) and the next it's shaking fists and screaming "Crucify!" (Damn you, traitor/hypocrite/sneak!).

Mob behavior is ripe fodder for sociologists. Perfectly nice, smart, moral folks behave counter to everything they know to be right when lumped into an incendiary crowd. Think Nazi Germany. Think a rock concert gone bad. Think Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery," for goodness' sake. On the upside, think Palm Sunday. On the downside, think Good Friday.

Too often churches and their messengers overlook this really important lesson in a rush to move through the Passion story, but I think they miss a real teachable, spiritual moment, especially in these highly-charged political times. Right now, we have hoards of people massed against one another screaming "Hosanna!" or "Crucify!," depending on which end of the issues they're on. Nothing good can come of it, really. It's an angry stalemate between two diametrically opposed human mobs. And we know how that turns out, if you follow it on to Good Friday.

Then there are folks like me, caught in the middle. Hoping for something to come along and pour a balm on all this manic/depressive/euphoric/homicidal mob-shouting.

The only thing to do is cover our ears and hope for Resurrection. Somewhere. Somehow.

A Modest Proposal: Only Fall Back

Oh, this time-shifting business! I do quite well with the "fall back" in the autumn, but putting clocks ahead in the spring knocks me for a loop for a couple of weeks. Why is that? Fooling the body out of a measly hour can't do that much damage, can it? All in me head, is it? Perhaps. But I don't know anyone who doesn't suffer from the same Spring Ahead Malady.

So here's what I propose. Let's just keep falling back. Time isn't tricked out of being what it is, anyway, so let's get creative. Yes, yes, I know. If we only turn the clocks back an hour a couple of times a year, then pretty soon everything would be topsy turvey. Day would be night; night would be day, etc. So what?

For eons (well, since humans sorted out a 60-minute/24-hour/12-month process) we've been tied to the ever-ticking clock.  Who's to say that's the only option? If we must keep track of time - and that's a big IF, since keeping track of time is driving us all to unprecedented stress levels - who says we can't manipulate it in more, um, interesting ways, hm?

Oh, c'mon. It'll be fun! Give us something interesting to do. So no more losing an hour a year, which takes us all weeks afterwards to get back to normal. Let's keep capturing an extra hour by only turning the clocks back. Psychologically, we'll think we're gaining an hour, even as the clock no longer matches the position of the sun. Be bold! Let's shake ourselves out of this awful Spring ritual.

Well, don't blame me for this crazy idea. Blame the loss of an hour. Maybe another little nap will help.

My Buddy Alfred

Once a week when I was a kid, a famous movie director would stop by the house for a little humorous banter, employer-insulting, and a ripping good yarn. He felt right at home in our den, and we were justifiably hospitable to this quirky, avuncular guy because he was so darn entertaining. His stories usually scared us out of our wits, but we didn't take them too seriously, as our friend made us laugh somehow over the whole frightening situation.

Thanks to Netflix and Hulu, that old friend has begun paying visits to me again. Yeah, he's been dead for years, and in this blindingly colorful world he still appears in black and white. But his black-and-white domain is often more colorful than anything the real world has to offer. Yes, it's so good to welcome my buddy Alfred Hitchcok back into my home.

I'm catching up on Season 1 of Alfred Hitchcock Presents' 25-minute episodes now that Netflix offers a way to watch them on-demand on my computer. I was probably too young in 1955-56 to be able to stay up to greet dear Alfred, and though I've seen several of the stories in re-runs on TV, many are new to me.

Hulu offers the later The Alfred Hitchcock Hour via computer. The first one I had to see was "An Unlocked Window," which scared me out of my wits as a teenager. One word: nurses. Anyone who's seen it will know exactly which episode I'm talking about. Oh, by the way? Still scary as all git-out, and I knew what was coming.

Watching Alfred every night got me thinking. Is there another legendary film director who has bothered to relate so thoroughly with his/her audiences? I mean, Scorsese or Tarantino go on talk shows or whatever and talk about themselves and their work, but I don't feel like I know either of them.

But Alfred Hitchcock? Why, he was like an uncle. He came into our house, brought wonderful gifts, and made us laugh. Especially when he ribbed his sponsors. Hitchcock was more than a film director, he was a buddy.

Good evening, Alfred. And now a word from our sponsor.

Welcome, Liam Samuel!

GrandBoy Liam Samuel was born today at 12:03pm - just in time for lunch! Mother and Babe are doing well. Father over the moon. Shorty PJs, aka GrandMary, ecstatic and blessed. For more on Baby Liam (and GrandMary), check out Confusions of Grandeur.

Welcome to the world, Liam!