Cheers

I did it again.

I went out and bought a nice bottle of champagne to toast the new year, came home, opened the wine fridge ... and realized I never had the bottle of champagne I bought last year. Or the one I bought the year before.

If I have one new year's resolution it's this: to make more time to open and drink nice bottles of champagne.

Caption this photo (#48)

I really need help with this one...

Wait... where'd it go?!

I swear there was a rabbit right there when I pointed the camera.

A View from the Altos

Speaking of Monterey Hills, I have a new piece going up at Patch sometime this morning. In the mean time, check out winter in Southern California. I know I've included many versions of this vantage point before, but I never get tired of the view.

Great Staging

I hadn't seen many old cars out and about since the storm last week. Then, today, I spotted this one in front of Fremont Centre Theatre. Bravo!

Musing About a Winter Sunset

I think the gold peeking through the clouds is summer waiting to return. (In Southern California, it's never too far away...)

Merry Christmas to All

With love!

Happy or Scary?

I'm going with scary. Because nothing is scarier than a clown ... except maybe a clown who jumps out at you when you least expect it.

Caption this photo (#48)

I need a little holiday help with this one...

and raining and raining and raining...

Ok. Seriously. Enough already.

It's still raining...

and raining, and raining, and raining, and raining, and raining...

(By the way, for musings on a rainy Christmas, check out my latest at Patch It will be up sometime before lunch.)

Oh, the weather outside is frightful...

Honestly, I went out with the intention of capturing some festive Christmas images and I got this instead. It's not my fault. It's been raining nonstop for days. The curbs are flooded. The parrots are cranky. The roses are hanging their little rose-heads, weighted by the strain with bruised little petals that will never make it all the way to the rose parade.

This is Southern California's version of a white Christmas. It's just, well, melted. And remember how Frosty was when he was melted? Yeah, well, that's why you get this picture today.

Unlimited

Unlimited. That's a great word, isn't it? I'm not sure exactly what this odd little wagon is trying to tell us, but the hopeful message is the same one I get whenever I volunteer for Little Bit's school parties.

Last week, a crowd of soggy, cold parents stood out in a soggy, school courtyard to hear a chorus of five year olds sing "Jingle Bells" and "The Dreidel Song." After the concert, fueled by cupcakes and juice boxes, the future class of '23 was more than happy to chit chat.

You can learn a lot from those kindergartners.

"We've had a lot of work with all that reading and stuff," Philip said through a mouthful of frosting. "I'm looking forward to relaxing over the winter break. People don't take enough time to just kick back and enjoy life."

"That's a good point," I said. "I don't think I take enough time to just kick back."

"Oh, you've gotta do it." Philip said. "Just relaxing and having fun, that's the best thing ever."

"I don't want to relax," Kate said. "I want to run around the yard so fast for so long that I fall down and can't get up!"

"Then what?" I asked.

"Do it again!"

"I'm going to bake cookies over the winter break," Little Bit said. "I might even be a baker when I grow up."

"I'm going to be an inventor." Philip said.

"Can you share any of your ideas for inventions?" I said.

"I think instead of just animal cookies, there should be landscape cookies. You know, trees and mountains and stuff. I could invent that and make, like, a thousand dollars!"

"Why stop at mountains," Little Bit said. "Why not make moon cookies and planet cookies and sun cookies, too?"

"Cookies for the whole universe!" Philip said.

"I'm going to be a runner." Kate said. "In the Olympics. Or maybe an ice skater."

"I'm going to be an ice skater, too!" Little Bit said.

"Ah, you guys can be skaters." Philip said. I'm going to invent rocket skates so that you can ice skate in the sky. You know, you could actually ice skate in snow clouds. That's the coolest idea I ever had."

There's a common thread to conversations among five year olds. It's a golden, sparkly thread of possibility. Those little ones are woven so securely with hope and potential, they haven't gotten even the slightest bit frayed by life. Or maybe they are just smart enough not to have been unraveled by the propaganda we all believe to be true: that we somehow have to compromise. That there are limitations. Maybe we've all been stuck settling for only animal cookies when we could have had the entire universe on a plate, if we'd just let ourselves imagine it.

Effervescent

Next time you go to the South Pas Farmers Market, check out the Bubble Man. Seriously, this man is to bubbles what Doris Kearns Goodwin is to presidents. I had no idea the creation and manufacture of bubble solution (or "bubble juice" as those in the know call it) was wrought with so much intrigue. Fun fact: did you know that the now defunct Tootsie Toys used to send tanker ships full of water from Lake Michigan all the way to China to use as the base for the company's prized solution? Well, now you do.

A Merry Little Christmas... Now

It's grainy, it's gritty, but it's proof positive that when Santa isn't traveling reindeer-style, he takes the train. Here it is a little over a week away from Christmas and the big guy is as relaxed as an elf after seconds on Mrs. Claus' secret recipe eggnog. (How do you think Blitzen got his name, anyway?)

If old Kris Kringle is this chill with so much left to do during the holiday season, why am I feeling like a Christmas light strand that buzzes when you plug it in? In this age of Amazon prime shipping and iTunes gift cards, I'm still down to the wire and starting to Bah a few too many Humbugs.

It happens every year.

What is it about the holidays that makes so many of us feel this way? We complain about all the carols playing in the stores, and yet we cry when we hear Judy Garland sing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." December isn't really red and green for us. It's got far too many blues. We miss the ones who are no longer here to celebrate with us, but it's more than that. We chase the Christmas dragon, trying hard to recapture those twinkly, star-topped memories of our childhood. We notice that our children are growing up too fast, and it makes us want to make sure we create some twinkly, star-topped memories for them, too.

I have to admit, though ... spotting St. Nick at the Farmers Market last night was a hang-a-shining-star-upon-the-highest-bough moment. A Clarence-finally-got-his-wings moment. For a few seconds, the world glimmered with magic and hope and generosity. It gleamed with all the silly, wonderful customs we drag out every year along with Aunt Ruby's porcelain ornaments. For a few seconds, it wasn't just Little Bit jumping up and down yelling "Santa! Santa!"

I was right there, with her.

Settings: Part 33

Here's a new twist on my old favorite...

I happened upon these kids shooting a movie outside the library the other day. What do you think their movie is about?

School, Sky and Tree

Does everyone love the art deco lines of South Pas High as much as I do? Maybe it's because I attended high school in a windowless cement block of a building that would would make your average prison feel downright elegant by comparison.

That depressing sky zapped what was left of my holiday spirit. I needed something lovely to pose in front of all those clouds, or else you guys would have ended up with a post today featuring a depressing poem and a black and white shot of a broken Christmas tree ornament.

Thanks, South Pas High! Nothing like a little architecture to lift a mood.

Headshot

The sculpture outside one of the gates at this house always makes me slow down for a closer look. This time, I couldn't resist taking a picture.

(By the way, I'll have a new column up at Patch sometime in the morning. This one is all about the Arroyo Seco. Click here to go straight to it.)

Perfect Day

While the Midwest literally collapsed under a winter storm yesterday, Southern California enjoyed one of the most gorgeous days in recent memory. It was 83 degrees, dry, breezy -- a tank top and flipflops kind of day. The kind of day that has been the subject of poem and song, the kind of day that made entire generations move west.

Here, golden ginkos reach for the west sun. Who needs ornaments with this kind of holiday gold?

Sweeter than any cream puff...

Look what I found parked outside Nicole's Gourmet Foods?

Caption this photo (#48)

I need help with this one...

And Many More

Happy birthday, my beautiful sister Judy. May this year be filled with many moments as carefree and happy as this one...

Update: not to steal lovely Judy's thunder today, but my mysterious hinting yesterday is revealed! Just scroll down and look for my familiar mug shot in the news section, or directly click here to go right to the story...

If you'll allow me a small detour...

Do me a favor, and head on over to South Pasadena Patch sometime this morning, before lunch. No, I'm not going to ask you to read another column of mine there, I just never expected to be in the news. If it's not evident what I'm (obnoxiously, mysteriously) talking about when you click, try again later...

And thank you, South Pasadena.

Update 1:00PM -- I'm not sure when the story I wanted you to read will post, so, like, well ... talk amongst yourselves? Here's a topic: colored lights or clear for holiday decorating? Your thoughts?

I'm not the only one

Imagine there's no heaven.

It's easy if you try.

No hell below us.

Above us, only sky.

Thirty years ago tonight I was out taking pictures of Christmas lights with my friend Roger. I was a junior in high school, Roger was graduating. We both loved cameras, and I loved his best friend who I thought was going to be joining us that night.

Austin was cold, in that good cold way --bundle up, see your breath, spike the hot cocoa with brandy stolen from Roger's parent's liquor cabinet. We were downtown where all the best Christmas lights were. It was only about a week until school let out for winter vacation, and we were already feeling lazy. Still young enough for Christmas to be a shiver-up-the-back morning of surprise and expectation. But old enough to envision of all of the new presents to unwrap when we finally escaped home, and high school, and the youth that we've probably spent most of our lives wishing we appreciated more at the time.

Austin has always been a music town. You can't walk around a corner without tripping over someone playing an acoustic guitar. Even the deepest of dive bars has a decent band. On that night, thirty years ago, Roger and I wondered why all we heard -- from every music joint downtown, from every car stereo driving by -- was a Beatles song.

"Jesus," Roger said, "Which one died?"

"I hope it was Paul," we both said together. And laughed.

We weren't serious. It was just one of those smart-assed things we always said about death. Death wasn't something faraway or unimaginable to our generation. They call us Generation Jones. Sandwiched between the very end of the Boomers and year Gen X was spawned, we were weaned on the Vietnam war. We grew up with nightly news calmly discussing mutual nuclear annihilation. Personally, I'd already seen someone I knew shot dead, and most of my peers had known people who had been taken young. Drugs. Car wrecks. Suicide. I don't remember those years as being carefree as much as being tinged with the possibility of destruction-- which is a kind of fuel for the teenage soul, already well-oiled with drama, and fearlessness, and the ace-up-the-sleeve secret knowledge that somehow you might be immortal, but the rest of the world just hasn't figured it out yet.

When Roger brought me back to my parents' house, he joined me inside for coffee. The family Christmas tree was lit. There were a few embers still struggling to stay alight in the fireplace. My parents were asleep, so when I turned on the stereo-- you remember the kind, one of those massive old pieces of furniture with speakers that took up an entire side of the room -- I made sure to turn it down low. Instant Karma was playing on the radio.

"Are the Beatles getting back together or something?" Roger said.

"I wonder who'll open for the reunion tour," I said.

"Blondie would be cool."

"They're too old to let Blondie open for them," I said.

I don't remember exactly when the DJ mentioned that John Lennon had been killed, but he was crying. It made me think of the TV footage I'd seen of Cronkite crying when Kennedy was shot. Roger and I just looked at each other. The Beatles were not the band of our generation. But they were part of our landscape -- like, well, like the moon, and the stars and the sun. They just were. And now the coolest, the most brilliant, the one we all would have liked to meet most, the one whose lyrics made Day in the Life poetry instead of just pop music, the one who seemed somehow redeemed from his own violent past and wise without being over-the-hill or out of touch, the cosmic, love-in, hippie shaman was dead.

Imagine if he'd have lived.

Imagine how he might have influenced our world.

Imagine.

LaunderLand at Sunset

I just love this old sign. It's such a symbol of the not-so-distant past -- all that brightly colored late 1950s optimism when even doing laundry was something to declare in big, bold letters!

And speaking of remnants of the past, I've got a new column up today at South Pasadena Patch. (It should be posted sometime in the morning, Pacific Time.) See if you recognize some of South Pasadena's historic little details... (For those of you who have trouble connecting via phone, try this link instead and scroll down to find my column.)

Going the Distance

I could hear the song all the way to my car -- actually, I played the same one a few times during my last real road trip almost 15 years ago. The music was almost, though not quite, as loud as the laughter from the open windows.

It's great to be young and free with a full tank of gas, a sunny day and a haircut that makes your parents crazy. (And remind me that I said this when Little Bit is a teenager.)

East Side Story

I had a great view of a camphor treetop melée between a small flock of LA County black crows and about five dozen territorial San Gabriel Valley parrots. I really wish I'd thought to take some video just to get an audio track of that incredible racket! After about fifteen minutes, the crows took off and the parrots changed their tune from bad-ass squawks to celebratory hollers rivaling a Staples Center sing-along of We Will Rock You.

Here, a couple of victors took a post-brawl dip in a street puddle left over from the recent rain.

Tree Decorations

Vermont and New Hampshire get all the credit for fall leaves, but every December South Pas puts on a pretty great show of seasonal colors. From maples to ginkos, local trees create a gorgeous palette of red and gold ... just in time for Christmas.

They're Evergreen Too, Ya Know...

Christmas trees are nice, but in any season I'm a sucker for our beautiful palms.

Bear with me...

....but you've seen something very close to this photo before. Although I haven't counted, I've probably taken at least two dozen other pictures from this very spot.

But it's the season's first snow on the mountains! And even though I've lived in Los Angeles for almost 23 years, it never ceases to make me want to jump up and down while pointing and squealing, "Snow! Snow!" Don't worry, I won't launch into the classic SoCal speech about how we can surf in the morning and ski in the afternoon. On second thought, guess what? We can surf in the morning and ski in the afternoon!

Tis the season to be jolly, indeed.

Just in Time

Today is the first of the month, and that means Theme Day for participating City Daily Photobloggers. This month's theme is Time.

I was this close to posting a really fun image of a Route 66 sign that was made into a clock. I found it recently at Fair Oaks Pharmacy. It's kitschy and fun, and a nice way to fool myself into thinking that the days aren't really passing by in their inevitable march to, well, something that isn't very kitschy or fun. But I realized that I was being rather uninventive, as well as wrapping up something obnoxiously existential and depressing in a rather syrupy and sarcastic little bow.

And then I remembered this tree. It's the legacy Morton Bay fig tree that dwarfs our historic library building. I love to sit there, perched on one of the roots like a wood nymph. The grand old tree has been growing for who knows how many years, spreading those roots out so far underground it's as if the entire city is being hugged by it. It has survived earthquakes, and wars, root rot and fungus, re-zoning laws and citizens who, believe it or not, at one point wanted to chop it down. If any one thing gets a solid A+ on the test of time, it's this tree. It reminds me not of the ineffable brevity of our lives, but of the gorgeous longevity of life itself. This tree doesn't have an opinion on Newton's version of time sequence vs. Kant's insistence that time is not even an event and can't possibly be measured. This tree hasn't pondered time travel's psychedelic world of possibility, where time itself is some sort of cosmic filmstrip and we can move forward and reverse if we can just sort out how to build a remote control to make it work.

This tree just is. And has been. For a very, very long time.

For other interpretations of today's theme, check out the work of a growing worldwide group of talented photobloggers. Click here to view thumbnails for all participants

Parked

It may be cold outside for Southern California, but it's still pretty nice to hang out in the sunshine at one of our parks. And, hey, while we're on the subject of hanging out at local parks... check out my latest column at South Pasadena Patch.

UPDATE: Thanks, LAist, for the lovely nod to this column today.

It's beginning to look a lot like...

While I was out taking pictures yesterday afternoon, Santa's elves were busy in the house. (Or maybe Little Bit and Jon were just feeling particularly festive...)

So, how many days do you think it will last before someone just has to take a bite out of it?

Brrrr...

Brisk winds. Rain showers. Nights in the upper 30s. I actually wore my coat outside for two days in a row.

It might not be this, but for Southern California it sure feels like winter.

Caption this photo (#47)

I think it's safe to say that I've got nothing for this one. Thanksgiving wore me out, I'm fresh out of interesting post ideas, and sometimes you just gotta go with a picture of a scary doll left on the floor near the bathroom. (Trust me. You do NOT want to run into this in the middle of the night. Shudder.)

Have at it, guys...

Loved Ones

You don't have to hang out with San Gabriel Valley bloggers much to figure out that we're a crowd who loves our animals. We've read all about Pasadena Adjacent's miraculous cat Tova. We've followed Petrea's sweet Boz on walks everywhere from Hahamonga to Cal Tech. I think everyone who keeps up with Karin, our beloved Altadena Hiker, has fallen in love with her dogs Albert and Phoebe. Recently, Karin introduced her readers at Altadena Patch to a certain little pooch with an irresistible underbite who was waiting (and waiting... and waiting) to be adopted at the Pasadena Humane Society. Pepe's story struck a nerve with people around the world who kept checking in to see if he had found a family of his own yet. A few weeks went by, and we all started to worry. Everyone knows that despite any shelter's best efforts, at some point there comes an end of the line.

When Karin finally let us know that Pepe had found a home, I could almost hear the collective cheering. I certainly let out a few whoops of my own, before grabbing my own furry little monsters, snuggling their velvety ears, and thinking for the million-zillionth time how much better life is with little four-legged creatures about. Ones that always love you. Ones that you always love even when they dig up your flower beds or throw up a hairball on your favorite quilt.

According to the ASPCA, "approximately 5 million to 7 million companion animals enter animal shelters nationwide every year, and approximately 3 million to 4 million are euthanized (60 percent of dogs and 70 percent of cats). Shelter intakes are about evenly divided between those animals relinquished by owners and those picked up by animal control. These are national estimates; the percentage of euthanasia may vary from state to state." Statistics like this make animal lovers like me feel an indescribable despair. The ASPCA also informs us that "five out of ten dogs in shelters and seven out of ten cats in shelters are destroyed simply because there is no one to adopt them."

Misty and Molly, the photogenic pooches in today's picture, came from an unwanted litter of puppies. Mirabelle, the extremely elegant cat you might remember, was from an unwanted litter of kittens. I suppose you can say that Jon and I rescued them. But, in reality, they are the ones who rescue us. Elizabeth Barrett Browning once wrote about her cocker spaniel that "his ears were often the first thing to catch my tears." She summed it up well. There is no amount of bad news, bad health or bad moods that can't be improved by a wagging tail or a loud purr.

After my father passed away, I remember sitting on the back porch with Misty and Molly on either side of me. There is a moment after losing someone so dear to you that you just think you might implode from the vacuum it creates inside. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't even want to think about it. I remember sitting there for a long time, just feeling the warmth of those big, wonderful dog bodies beside me. Misty had her head in my lap. Molly just kept staring at my face before getting up, wandering into the yard and coming back to me with her favorite bone. Usually, I had to engage in a bit of tug-o-war to get that thing out of her mouth, but on this day, she dropped it right at my feet. I don't think I had a better offer of condolence.

Several years later, when I was on bed rest for 7 weeks with preterm labor, it was Mirabelle who sat on the bed with me, day after day, night after night, only leaving to eat and visit her cat box. When I'd feel contractions and start to panic about delivering a premie, Mirabelle would snuggle up closer and calm me down. When the baby would kick, Mirabelle would often lift up her head, move closer, and gently put her paw on my belly.

We may have given these critters a house to live in, but they have helped make it a home. The joy that these fuzzy rascals have brought to my family is not something that can be adequately expressed in words. Words are too human. Animals know better than words. But animals -- especially all those waiting in shelters -- also need us to speak for them. Karin's column today at Altadena Patch is a great place to start.

Little Pilgrim

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

New Tradition

It's the Allee household's annual turkey cookie baking time again! Last year, Little Bit added a peacock cookie to the flock. This year she asked if they could all be peacock cookies.

"Mommy," she said. "There aren't any turkeys walking around South Pasadena. What do turkeys have to do with anything?"

Caption this photo (#46)

Yeah, so, I have a new column up today at South Pas Patch. Maybe it will help make sense of this photograph...

So Close

It was a perfect Model T. One I hadn't seen before. It was moving slowly, with no other cars on the road. I pulled into a red zone, scrambled with my point-and-shoot and ... sneezed. Which is why you see a slightly blurry, slightly scary image of me in the car side mirror instead of another lovely photo to add to our GOSP collection of South Pasadena vintage cars.

I'm losing my touch.

Storms and Lights

Ordinarily, rainy weather makes me feel poetic and snuggly. Yesterday, for whatever reason, all of the soggy gray just bummed me out. I'm tempted to post a Sylvia Plath poem or link to some naval-gazing mid-90s trance music on YouTube.

I am resisting the urge to compare the fall season's chilly drizzle with middle age and its inbetween-ness -- not exuberantly, flowery summer hot, but not yet settled into winter's clarity. Just dull and irritating...

Because that would be as obnoxious as all of that mid-90s trance music.

So, instead I'll just post a picture of Jasleen's mosaic lamps. They're bright and lovely in any weather -- and I'm sure there's some uplifting symbolism in there somewhere.

Winter is Coming

Yesterday's chilly weather and cloudy skies definitely made if feel more like the end of November...

Off My Back

I've raved about Ellen's Silkscreening before -- and I must add, that since then I have had the pleasure of hanging out with Ellen Daigle (the Ellen behind Ellen's,) and she is as cool as her shop.

This sign on her store window got me to thinking about T-shirts, and how they really do tell stories. When I look through my own T-shirt drawer it's like a scrapbook of my past. There are the well-worn Solidarność and Divest Now! shirts from my picket line walking, sign waving college years. There's one from The Who's farewell tour in 1983. My high school boyfriend and I went to Dallas to see that one. Sadly, we had to sit through the opening act of Billy Squire. Then, there's yet another shirt from yet another Who farewell tour in 2000. That one was at the Hollywood Bowl. I had box seats -- a perk from clients still flush from the Dot.com boom years.

There are all the ones from so many other concerts, they could be the wearable liner notes from the soundtrack of my youth: REM, U2, Guns and Roses, The Smiths, The The, Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana, Tori Amos, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Green Day, Coldplay. There are all the snarky ones that say things like "Will Write for Food" and "Read a %^$&ing Book!" There's the one with a picture of Tinkerbell and the word "believe" almost completely worn away. (But I still know it's there.) There's my old orange Lifeguard tank top. There's the charity red one from the Gap a few years ago that says Inspi(red). There's one I love to wear when I'm out with my husband because it says "I love my geek." There's the 1980 "Reelect Carter" shirt I wore when I was too young to vote but I bribed my 18 year old friend Marty to vote against Reagan. There's my "Friend of Bill" shirt from Clinton's second term. Then, there's the one with Nader's name on it. And finally the one that says "Apathy, Apathy, that's our cry, A P A... oh, whatever."

There are several with Little Bit's picture.

There's one Jon made for me that has "Sweetiepea" embroidered on it. There's another one he gave me with the famous portrait of Che Guevara. And then there is my personal favorite -- one worn on many nights with ratty PJ pants -- a pink t-shirt with a picture of Pussyfoot, my very favorite Looney Tunes character.

There's one missing from my drawer, one I never should have let my friend Machaela borrow back in 7th grade ... the Frampton Comes Alive concert T-shirt with 3/4 baseball jersey sleeves. (She never gave it back. I'm still not over it.)

What about you? Do your shirts tell your story? If so, what do they say?

Manhunt

As I compose today's post, this helicopter is still circling South Pasadena. At 3:15 PM yesterday, I noticed it hovering near Orange Grove Park. I had planned on taking Little Bit to the playground before dinner, but the loud speaker warned citizens to stay indoors. Then, I heard words that reminded me of when I used to see police helicopters a lot -- back when I lived in Venice Beach and Hollywood. "Come out with your hands up," the officer in the helicopter said, "and you won't be harmed."

Not such a good day for a park trip.

The Pasadena Police and South Pasadena Police departments were/are looking for suspects involved in a jewelry store robbery in Pasadena. Several have been apprehended, but more are still at large. You can read all about it here at South Pasadena Patch.

May I just add that it is so nice to finally have a local news source with up-to-the-minute reporting on exactly what is happening in South Pasadena. (And I'm pretty darned lucky to be writing a column for this great website!) Editor Sonia Narang was on this story within minutes of the helicopter going up, making updates as she gained more information. Local photo journalist James F. Carbone included some incredible shots of arrests being made and SWAT teams walking with guns drawn through South Pasadena yards.

Scary stuff, but glad to have a savvy local media outlet giving us the scoop as it becomes a scoop, and letting us in on details that directly affect our community.

Melancholy Kaldi

I hope you're not sick of these iPhone shots with my mono-plus-red filter. Something about a cloudy day and those red signs made me grab my camera, er, I mean my phone and try to capture a mood -- winter approaching, time passing, coffee cooling off, I don't know. At any rate, here's another one straight from the phone.

Close Up

I love the front door of the Eddie Park house. It's just so cinematic. And speaking of cinematic, check out my latest column at Patch, which should be posted sometime before lunch Pacific Daylight Time. It's all about filming in South Pasadena. (See? I'll bet you all thought I was going to ask you to play the "if this were a setting in a movie, what would happen here" game. Well, now that you mention it...)

Who me? Jealous?

One of these days I'll discuss the wonders of Great Harvest Bread Company -- although, someone with a wheat allergy reviewing a bakery is kind of like an alcoholic reviewing a bar -- but I'm too exhausted to discuss much of anything since I've been sick for two weeks and I am starting to feel like one of those characters in a Victorian novel. You know the ones: wrapped up in a blanket, stretched out in a wicker chaise lounge on a sun porch, meekly coughing into a lace hanky. Well, actually, I'm about as meek as a rabid armadillo and I'm not coughing into a lace hanky, I'm hacking into enough tissues to send a team of angry environmentalists over here to admonish me for depleting all those trees in the rain forest. My neighbor said she found out that strep is going around South Pas. I think I managed to get it on top of the cold I caught from Little Bit and now it is time for a throat culture, a large vat of penicillin and possibly a sledgehammer to put me out of my misery.

It's clear that, unlike your cranky blogger, the lovely women in this photograph were feeling healthy and happy, enjoying Sunday's Indian Summer weather while noshing on homemade baked goodies. I'm just enough of a sickly curmudgeon to be irritated by them.

So, what did you guys do this weekend?

Caption this photo (#45)

It's been one of those days. I need help with this one...

As Time Goes By

Oh, when I see these glorious old automobiles parked around town, they look just like time travelers. They lounge against curbs the way Veronica Lake leaned against a bar. The sunlight sparkles from their fenders like the glint flashed from Barbara Stanwyck's anklet in Double Indemnity. They're more than cars, they're the steel and chrome relics of a past we can no longer visit. Like the elusive Maltese Falcon, they're "the stuff that dreams are made of..."

And you're telling me they actually need gas? That they don't run on the internal combustion of 1940s femme fatales and timing of classic Bogart quotes? They aren't really apparitions materializing from a former era -- not noir joyriders from an alternative monochrome dimension? I'm supposed to believe that they aren't driven by the spirits of Chandler and Cain but, instead, by a guy wearing Dockers and a shirt from the Gap? There's probably not even a flask in the glove box. Probably just the insurance and registration.

Sigh.

It's a Fair Question...

Philip Marlowe. Without a doubt.

What about you?