Thursday, March 26, 2015



[In her husky Teutonic accent]

How can I now face zee New Yawk street?
Vis out my beloved, whom dis heart did beat,
His shaggiest scowl, dis I much loved it so,
His fur was zee color of late vinter snow,
All him unkempt, like he had just voken up,
And you’d best bring quick, zee catnip cup,
I know I was just pretty face in his harem,
he was zee big king, you just can’t compare him,
to any cat stud, when he slipped from his home,
Ramsingh didn’t know just how far he could roam!
Ten or more ladies he could hit in zee night!
Owwww, what a bundle of scrumptious delight,
I laffs at zat Honig Boo Boo, such an interloper,
When he missed me one night, I was such a moper!
Kama Cat Sutra that he knew quite supremely,
Covered dis body like zee feline Bruce Lee!
But I knew he loved Sarah, he’d go on and on,
Though he said she talked too much of Lebron.
So now all zee pussies, will wail ova and ova,
Very late in zee night for our lost Casanova.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015


So, David Crosby hit a jogger. Jogger was hurt, with fractures. But this is how the reporter tells the story?

" Pedestrians are supposed to be on the left side of the road walking toward traffic, Clotworthy said. Joggers are considered pedestrians.

Crosby is known for weaving multilayered harmonies over sweet melodies. He belongs to the celebrated rock group Crosby, Stills & Nash."

Really? His musical style was pertinent in the telling of a traffic accident? Hmmmm.

Sunday, March 22, 2015


I am crying right now. The great Duffy Dean has passed. Who?, you ask. If you read my blog ever, you would know that he was the Himalayan Sealpoint (I hope I got that right) who was the cat partner to my friend Sarah in New York. He was a frequent character in some of my cheeky writing, and often the foil in correspondence with my friend. I am truly hurt that he fell sick with renal disease. I kept telling him to lay off the catnip-laced martinis and triple margaritas he loved on South Beach while trying to impress Honey Boo Boo. I know she will be sad. How I could come to love his leonine locks and sarcastic glance, and despite having never actually been able to scratch him, well, I don't know but I just did. I am going to miss him very much nonetheless, both following his adventures and inventing a few of my own for him. I feel so sorry for you, Sarah. Just know that he loved you and was lucky you always took him on trips, that of all the cats that could have brightened your life, he was the perfect one for this time in your life. Perhaps the loss of Spock was simply too much. Go in peace Duffy. Even though he was a lifelong supporter of the Hurricanes, he was secretly a great fan of the Gamecocks. I will look at his pictures and recall his foolishness, as reported to me. Maybe he will be in a Tardis, or be in cat heaven, but wherever he is I can assure you he will be in the heart forever of anyone who got to know him.

Monday, March 9, 2015

Nice Lines, Perez-Reverte

"you could find in the memory of every man the bittersweet shadow of a woman."

"He had stored up enough memories to justify his years."

Arturo Perez-Reverte, The Fencing Master

Monday, March 2, 2015


"Younger writers are always looking for "blurbs," one of the few words that sounds exactly as awful as the crime it's describing." Brian K. Vaughan, Saga, volume 3.

Friday, February 27, 2015


This was taken when Joey was about 5 and playing soccer at Trenholm.

Monday, February 16, 2015


I don't often post reviews that I already put on Goodreads, but in this case I thought the book is worthy of added exposure.

At year's end, S. M. Hulse's Black River better be on the annual list of best debut novels. Simple as that. An amazing achievement for a writer, even if it wasn't their first, and any author would be proud to have written this story. Not only is the English beautiful and the story nuanced, but the delivery is at times mesmerizing. She refused to take the easy road, delivering subtle twists and riding down paths that perhaps the reader may not want to follow but that make the story stronger. Not once did I feel that the dialogue from any of the characters seemed out of place or inconsistent. Even the few stretches of the story told from the protagonist's wife's point of view (and all one can do is nod your head in acknowledgement of her feelings) strengthen the whole. If I could assign it 4.5 on the GR scale, I would. Perhaps even a 5. Probably better than any writer I have taken up recently, she captured the intense anger, hurt, sadness, uncertainty held within a basically good, intense man who experienced horrible brutalization and deepest loss, brought to head by an even greater shot to his heart. A difficult, taciturn, laconic, god-fearing man, who once was a master fiddle player, Wesley Carver struggles with his strained relationship with his now-grown stepson, place in a changed world, memories of the worst day of his life, attempt to reach out to a troubled soul. . . losses and experiences that would unmoor almost any person. Even when there is awful symmetry in the narrative, it doesn't seem forced or contrived. This is not an easy read, as one will wrestle with questions of faith, familial conflict, fury, and forgiveness. There are some paths the overly sensitive may not want to tread. People who have been bullied, incarcerated or served as corrections officers, suffered from the inexplicable actions of others, lived through the passing of loved ones may have to put the book down at times. Right from the start she sends the reader down a melancholy trail. And yet, when finished, you realize you have read what might be a small masterpiece---definitely a superior piece of art---and I encourage you to read this book. If there are weaknesses (and what effort doesn't), I didn't readily see them. A few paragraphs, in my opinion, were damned near personal and perfect.