PEARLS & AMBER

NEW YEAR'S EVE AT NOON

MOLLY DOES JANU SIRSASANA.

SEGO SAYS TO COUNT HIM OUT FOR THE COUNT...note feet and tail hanging out of lair.

HECTOR SAYS HE'S TOO BEAUTIFUL TO FUSS.

AND ME AND MY OWL SAY...

HAPPY NEW YEAR AND ALL THAT!

EARTH WITHOUT EARTHA

WOW!

SANTA BABY, EARTHA WANTS A CHECK.

EARTHA BABY WANTS TO GROWL AND PROWL AND HUM AND LIVE LARGE.

FOR ME, SHE IS THE SYMBOL OF AGELESSNESS.

I shook her hand once.  Yes.  In Baltimore, MD.

She'd put on a rousing, a sexy, a glittering show that never lost energy.

At the end of the show, to the drum of a standing ovation, she glided off the stage, grand dame in full furl, swept up the aisle, flanked by her bodyguards, and shook the lucky hand of everyone on the aisle.  One of them was me.  Suddenly there she was, tiny and fierce.  She grabbed my outstretched hand, shook it a hard yank, and with her other hand pushed right on by to the next person.

In a flash she was up to the back of the theater, and gone.

That is what it feels like now.  In a flash, she is gone.

I'll miss you, Eartha Kitt.

MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM SO. CAL!!!

MY MOTHER'S TINY POTTED NORFOLK PINE.

NOW THREE STORIES TALL.

WE ALL MISS OUR BEAUTIFUL MOTHER, WIFE, GRANDMOTHER EVERY DAY.

I KNOW EVERYONE HAS THEIR BELOVED FAMILY MEMBERS WHO ARE MISSED EVERYDAY TOO.

MERRY MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS, AND PEACE EVERY WHERE--

OUR LOVED ONES WATCHING OVER US--

WITH PURITY, SIMPLICITY, AND STRENGTH.

DIVINE DROP-LEAF TABLES

Elle Decor has a brief but thorough article about divine drop leaf tables this month

They'd called up their writer, their favorite down-and-out writer, whom they just knew would LEAP at the chance to write about drop leaf tables.

The writer said "Drop leaf what?"

The powers-that-be said "You know, like the time the side of the table...surely you know the time I mean....the whole side of the $#%&^%*&^*! seemed to fall off.  And all the food fell in, you know, somebody's lap and all--"

"No I don't," says the writer, and announces he did not go to Journalism school to write about drop leaf whatevers, no matter how much they planned to pay him."

"A lot of money," say the editors definitively.

"Yeah, well like how much exactly," says the writer.  Maybe he's even stood up now, and is frantically gesturing his wife to drop what she's doing and come over to clue him in as to what a drop leaf whatever is...he, afterall, in order to procure this job writing for Elle Decor had to make like he even cared about...well...decor.

"You know," his wife whispers in his ear," like the time the drop leaf table dropped, and all the spaghetti fell onto Grandma's brand new carpet."

Meanwhile the editors have stated what they consider to be an exorbitant amount for an article on stupid, pointless, drop leaf tables, but they need it now, this week--

"For that piddling amount I can have the article to you in a year.  After I've done a full investigation into fraud at your Magazine, about what you pay as opposed to what you promise to pay when one signs up to be your writing slave."

"Aw c'mon, Fred," they say now.  "Have a heart.  It's Christmas.  People are using their drop leaf tables.  This will be a socially relevant article, socially significant--"

"It won't come out until next summer--"

"Goddammit Joe--"

"Fred.  It's Fred--"

"Goddammit Fred, Santa is watching you."

"No.  He's watching my kids--"

"You don't have any kids--"

"That's Joe.  I have two kids, which is why I need MORE MONEY for this piece...especially seeing as how it's Christmas, like you said."

"Jeezuz, Jo...Fred."

"Little Sally is, even as we speak, handing me her Christmas list, her eyes all big and shiny and sure as hell her Daddy will get her everything Santa doesn't.  Oh, and look, here comes even smaller Susie--"

"Okay.  All right.  Sheesh."  The editors double the amount.

The writer beams.  His wife whispers, "But we don't have any kids--"

The writer begins--The divine drop leaf leaf table is the most--"

 

THE NEW PIRATE...SOMALIAN STYLE

Okay, THIS photo is my idea of a pirate.  Except for the eye-makeup, which I like anyway.

I know it is an old-fashioned, naive take on piracy, but this is because I thought pirates had gone the way of pilgrims.

It turns out there is a new breed of pirate running amok in the Gulf of Aden (look it up in that up-to-date atlas I just know you have).

They are Somalian, who like to refer to themselves as a kind of coast guard.

Indeed, they originally started as a way to defend the local fishing business.  But it has evolved into a money machine.  They capture the ship, demand a ransom, get the money, go home and live the high life.  Some of their neighbors at home are not happy with these nouveau riche gadfly criminals who flaunt their wealth, even buying extra wives and all.  I can imagine it must be ghastly.  The  raucous parties alone--

And Somalia is not proud of these pirates.  They have asked for help controlling the situation.

But as with all things huge and laborious like the International shipping business, getting anything organized without treading on each others toes takes endless phone calls, no work on week-ends, and translating issues that would boggle God.

So the flea like crews of six or so pirates on speed boats have got their racket made in the shade.

Lately the International shipping world has manage to agree that their lugubriously ungainly vessels MAY carry security guards.  HOWEVER, these men are not allowed to be armed.

Well, like you know, THAT will definitely alarm the (armed) pirates!

I can only conclude that what is really happening is a subtle effort to end international shipping via the waterways of...well the Gulf of Aden, certainly.

 

 

JAY LENO STAYS AND STAYS AND....

I don't like it.  This Jay Leno hanging around even longer issue.

What is with my generation having these breakdowns over trying something new.  We used to consider ourselves such trailblazers.

So here comes Jay Leno, who has been yelping for years he's going to step down and give Conan O'Brien his chance.

I thought this meant he was going to go away, and try something new, for god sake.  He's been doing that Tonight Show gig sixteen years now--

Isn't he bored?

Maybe, being a Taurus, he's sincerely afraid of doing something different.  It's possible.

But, I thought he'd at least race his cars around a little.  Can't you hear the 'boys' out in the garage right now?  The outrage?

"He promised he was going to spend more time with us, his family.  What's up with this new television show at ten deal?"

"Yeah.  And I'm not going to buy it when he tells us he'll be off early enough to come and change our oil before bedtime now."

The money must be spectacular.  

The ego as well. 

"Please please please, Jay, you gotta help us out here.  NBC is dyin', man.  You can't let this happen."

"But what about Conan?"

"What about Conan?  He still has his show."

"Yeah, but no matter how big his fan base, they'll just say it's because of my little insignificant lead-in show-"

"But it WILL be because of your little insignificant lead-in show, Jay."

"Insignificant?" whispers Jay. 

THE WEARING OF HATS

Hats are back.  Last month, big as life, the New York Times said so.

All right--they waffled a tad, and teetered a bit, by allowing the popularity of hats was no where near what it had been in the past, and probably never would be again.  But nonetheless, the article averred, "there clearly has been a resurgence."

The article went on to describe how items like candy colored bowlers had swept out of Sonia Rykiel's shop.  I had to pause here and adjust what I know and love about Sonia Rykiel's fashion design with pink and cherry bowlers.

The article closed with advice as to how to carry off wearing a hat.  "Make it your own," a designer of hats said--

Puhleez.  Of course.  What else is one to do in order to make a hat their own.

I used to wear hats.  To Mass every Sunday when I was growing up, back in the days when if you appeared at the church door sans hat, a piece of Kleenex bobby pinned to your head sufficed.

I loved my Sunday hats. My mother wore hats.  My little sisters wore hats.

We had big, beautiful hat boxes on the closet shelves, where now flat folded sweaters sit.  I don't remember where the sweaters sat when the hat boxes reigned.  I remember how elegant and beribboned those hat boxes were though. 

I'd love to wear hats again.  But it is work to wear a hat--

Hats blow off in the wind.  Hats blow off in the slightest breeze.  Hats blow off standing still. 

Most importantly, hats are ruinous to the hair.  So one must be committed to keeping the thing on all evening. 

It's hard to kiss someone while wearing a hat.  So he sweeps it off, in a moment of reckless passion, and is confronted by your hair.
I have it on the best authority that he doesn't give a damn about the state of your hair at this moment.  But it is difficult for the hat wearer to keep on track at that moment.  Because, the kiss finished, he draws away, looking down at you with...all kinds of beautiful and wordless emotion.
You however, are desperately trying to check the state of your hair in the reflection of his eyes.
He doesn't know this, and interprets the intense stare as meaning his passion is returned.  He moves in for step two.
This may be true love, when even though you have ascertained your hair is as flat as roads in Kansas, you toss beauty to the wind, and sink into step two with him.

Finally, hats are a must indoors on cold winter days.

THE PLEASANTNESS OF 'affable'

"What an affable fellow.  You'll like him."

Pleasant.

Easy to approach.

Shows warmth.

I was reading somewhere and this word showed up, and like a cosmic shot of wuzziness, I felt all warm and fuzzy at the thought of an affable, friendly ...well, anything.  These dogs, for instance.

I have favorite words.  I'm sure you do too, even if you don't know it--
Yes you do--
Don't argue with me. 

But I didn't realize until I read this particular word, and noted the pleasure it induced, that it is a suitable word to add to my list of favorites.

It even sounds like what it means.  Those two 'f's.  That soft short 'a'.  The 'ble'--

All together the word feels like a marshmallow when pronounced.

'Affable' also means courteous.  Does this mean there are no affable people in teeming large cities, like Paris?  Or New York?  I have a neighbor whom I'd call affable, even though he lives on the beach and plays tennis everyday, and lets his dogs bark at strangers.  He always smiles.  He always speaks in a kind voice.  But he grows quite unaffable when he talks about the people in New York City, which is his hometown--

Maybe crowds are in of themselves unable to be affable.  Maybe it is impossible to remain affable in the face of three people in a row stealing your taxi.

Gary Cooper was affable.  I wouldn't call Jimmy Stewart affable, though he tried.  Tom Hanks is affable.  Santa Claus is sort of affable, but since he is also a miracle, his affability is called into question.

Women are never referred to as affable.  Frankly we would never be caught dead.  That is, you see, our charms lie in other sweet behaviors. 

Affable has a sexless connotation to it.  One never refers to a sexy affable person.  Cuddly, yes.  Which has its own powers.

Affable men don't care about any of this.  Life is too short.  If one is affable (do you know who you are?), then you have discovered the true meaning of life.

Which is, in this case, how to be a perfectly pleasant person to be around, thereby adding peace in this world.

And this is worth all the adjectives in the dictionary.