Unblinking Regard

...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....

It surprises me that I am still surprised by the stillness in our city neighborhood, our 'hood, circled twice daily, minimum, by cop-copters. Well, to the East of my house they circle, in the Projects. To the West, where I walk the remaining walkable housepet, all is quiet, fragrant in green wetness, humming with night creaks and squeaks and chirps.

As we stop at a corner, Shiloh does a double-take, which is even funnier on a dog. "What do you see, boy?" A small cat, sitting, in the street. "Let's have a closer look!" We cross. Cat runs. Dog strains at leash. Cat has disappeared into bushy landscaping around a darkened house. Dog seeks, checks, stops. I see eyes glowing, and in the gloom, outline of ears. Shift angle, I can make out head, stripes. Color? All cats being grey in the dark, I'd guess maybe...grey. Dog stares, sits. Cat, standing still as stone, stares back, and slowly, slowly, without moving her head, eases back end into sitting also, mirroring dog. They stare transfixed in apparent telepathic conversation.

Dog breaks first, distracted by the squawk of some waking avian creature. Cat continues to stare. Dog looks back, stares more. Cat flicks an ear, twitches a whisker, glances away, so bored with boringness of this boring dog. And looks back.

Dog's ears twitch, wriggle, emote, express, plead. Cat is unmoved, and eases into reclining position. 'I have eaten creatures larger than you for a midafternoon snack, and you do not frighten me in the slightest,' claims her body english.

Dog whimpers, and with excessive ear conversation, explodes into a play-bow at cat. Cat does not budge. Dog looks at me. "She's a cat, and doesn't want to play with you." I feel a pang, miss Silver, know that Shiloh misses Silver more than I do. I tug gently at the lead. "Come on, boy. Let's go home. Papa's waiting for us." With many a reluctant backward glance, Shiloh walks away with me.

The dark swallows blurry outline of cat, leaves not even a smile behind. The dark swallows us, too, and damp muffles sounds of our feet on cracked concrete walks.

Other Women

...alas, my love, you do me wrong/ to cast me off discourteously....

Apologies for my absence: I've been busy, and I promise to write all about it- tomorrow. Or the next day.

In the meantime, in addition to the always-amusing Sloth, you could visit Leese, Fleece and Lovisa, just because I love how those three names sound together in a sentence.

Leese has some wonderful recipes, if you're hungry; Fleece just started selling handmade jewelry; Lovisa recently adopted a cat. There. You've been introduced. Go.

(Greensleeves; Henry Tudor, Henry VIII of England)

Welcome, Farewell

...need to/ be back in the arms of a good friend....

The three-legged cat strolls across the street to lie down on a patch of grass outside my fence, mews, rolls over, begging for attention. Shiloh, inside the fence, whines and barks, infuriated by Smokey's inaccessible proximity. Hello, Smokey, you rotten thing. I stoop to indulge myself in scritching.

I return to the grounds of the Maryland Renaissance Festival, unsure of my stamina but positive of my welcome. The site has always loved me. Had I taken a tumble from the wall in Maryland, a patron would have stepped forward, catching me neatly in strong arms, or a bush would have miraculously appeared where no bush had been before so I walked away undamaged.

Or I perhaps would have floated midair, held aloft by the love that is given to Mimi.

It is returned tenfold, you know.

The Apostle pats me awkwardly. Which is odd, since we're comfortable with one another and he gives the most delicious hugs. "I'm sorry about Ken."

Yeah. He knew Ken less than I, and I not very well, but he knows I loved Ken very much.

No, not loved, love: Still love you, Ken, unburdened as you are by the treachery that was your body. I will miss your physical presence, but oh! there ya are.

It happened Monday. Happy Crossings, Ken.


(Girlfriend; Matthew Sweet)

Don't Blink Links

...Make your mind up fast/ If you want it anytime, I can give it/ But you better hurry 'cause it may not last....

He touches the pile of yellow polka dotted strings flung carelessly on Coco's table, glances out the window at the cloud-smeared sky, eyebrows raised. It clearly is not a good day to swim.

"I was hopeful."

Eyebrows settle and he sits.

**************************

Tim Kreider's cartoon is funny. (Pay no attention to the second sentence of the second paragraph. We know better, don't we, darlings?)

The Animal's column is political. Funny. Sad. True. Or so I am given to understand.

This is peculiarly sticky, in a make-it-stop way, and weird enough for me to like it. It's also social commentary.

Today, the first family session at Trapeze School. Seriously, my kids will run away to join an accounting firm someday.

The Maryland Renaissance Festival opens this weekend.

If you care to come out this weekend, or the next two, I have a pair of tickets. Would you like them? Contact me here.


(Come And Get It; Elton John)

Nobody Home

...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....

It’s not that I haven’t been writing.

I just haven’t been writing HERE.

I’m spending the day in Slothville, if you really must know.

Altered Perspective

...Right smack dab in the middle of town/ I've found a paradise that's trouble proof....

"It's National Get On Your Roof day!" a sucker-punch-gorgeous Latina announces to unimpressed passers-by. "So, get on your roof!" I smile, remember sneaking out my window late at night, just to sit on the roof and gaze at the moon. If my mother knew, she never let on. Some of the thrill was the illicitness of the jaunt, thinking that I might sneak down a nearby tree and go prowling around town, which I never did. This young lady sits in broad daylight. I wave; she waves back. Or perhaps she waved to the dog.

And do I scramble home, put the kids to bed and slither out my bedroom window, to observe the quiet street below, to hear extra-loud crickets and distant traffic?

I do.

Before verifying that this is, in fact, National Sit On Your Roof Day.

Just in case it isn't.


(Up On The Roof; The Drifters)

Info Byte

...watch it wiggle, see it jiggle....

It is possible- I don't say easy- to eat Jell-O with chopsticks.

Three Thoughts

...lovin' it up 'til I hit the ground....

1. That there is something quite precious about an otherwise skeptical child who will, if you hold her hand, wave back at the ocean, because it waved first.

2. That a pool is more interesting if there are four little boys around it and a large frog at the bottom.

3. That if you're not enjoying yourself, you're really missing the point.



(Love In An Elevator; Aerosmith)

Before Noon

...got me a Chrysler as big as a whale and it's about to set sail....

The Universe loves me and wants me to be happy, as it could easily have sent dreadful weather with which to NOT enjoy my new toy. But no, it's been lovely, and I take my top off at every opportunity. The brackish scent of baywater surrounds me as I cross the bridge into the city, haze palpable and delicious.

We park beside AVAM, and the children do not clamor to put coins in the meter, a sign of their excitement. They are in a hurry and know that I will Get It Done faster. Funny, this: they are spectators this time 'round. Since when are my kids happy to be sidelined?

The Inner Harbor is quiet. Morning workers have arrived already, leaving traffic a gentle hush, but no cackling crowds yet clutter the scene.

The crew is subdued, as are the students, weighed by heavy atmosphere.

The belt squeezes me in half. I shift it so that breathing becomes feasible. Focus on the ladder tether, reel it down slowly. Usually, I am impatient, and it locks up, snapping to still. My fingers savor the texture of the rope. Clips attach with quiet snicks, and I climb, one paw at a time, pushing with my thighs. The ladder's rungs, wrapped with white tape, grip back against my hands and feet. This may be my favorite part, the ascent. I am not yet tense with the possibility of screwing up.

Top, reach, grab fragile looking frame for balance, stand on platform. Beautiful. The cityscape is smeared with this morning's sultry haze. Hello, Scout. Waiting for the lines to be removed from the person ahead of me, we chat. I reveal a bit of my story; he shares some of his. The lines come up. I unclip my right side from the tether, he clips it to the lines. Left side. Peer down at the person at the bottom of the ladder, tug the tether so that he can reel it down, as I reeled it down a few minutes ago. Face forward again, looking for the bar. Hold with left hand to the frame, toes off platform, heels down.

This is the most terrifying moment for a first-timer, the moment right before being "let off," standing, hips thrust forward, toes in space, body weight straining against left arm, grasping trap with right hand. It's uneven and precarious, despite safety lines and Scout's restraining arm. Scout: "Left hand on the bar." He takes my whole weight. Desperate to take a little bounce, like a diver, I hold my heels down, waiting, waiting.

"Hep!"

I leave the board.

Brian's voice takes over, guiding me. "Legs up!" Pull my legs to the bar at the height of my arc, squeeze them through, hook them, nearly anticipating the next command. "Hands off!" I remove my hands, stretch, arch my back, look for the catcher, John, smile, frown? I don't know. Good hands = fingers together, thumbs splayed wide and pointing at the catcher. Do I have good hands? "Gotcha!" John has me. I grip back, unhook my legs, sail, bound to his wrists. "And sit!" He lets me go. Brian brakes my fall with the lines, clipped to my belt. I bounce into the net, looking up for grey mist sky.

Welcome to Trapeze School.


(Love Shack; The B-52s)

Kitchen Sink Links

...Who put these fingerprints on my imagination?....

Speaking of books, thank you, Lynne Truss. Can a book on punctuation send me to fits of giggles? Yes. I'm odd like that.

I also thank those who support her efforts.

(Despite The New Yorker's critique of her work. Why have I not subscribed to The New Yorker? So eloquent, so elegant, so slick and cosmopolitan. Oh, that's why, I guess.)

Thank you, Kurt Vonnegut. And I love YOU, Mister Writer.

Naturally, since it includes Nixon, I'm predisposed to love this. Thank you, Tim Kreider. My link to the current offering refused to work, so I removed it. I trust you can navigate this one on your own. [Newsflash: Pet Peeve- non-working links, or links to dead blogs or websites. Just FYI.]

For making me laugh yet again, I thank The Political Animal.

Ellen, thanks for cluing me in about the TWIGS program at Baltimore School for the Arts. It's a big reason why I still- and will- live in the city. It looks custom made for my kids.

A joke for you: how do you know when a porn star is done filling up his gas tank? He takes it out and sprays it all over the car. Courtesy of Sloth, via her blog. Thank you, Sloth, you dear, creepy creature.

There you have it, folks. Everything but the...



(Green Shirt; Elvis Costello)

Fiction? Strange.

...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....

Busy with many projects, some of which pay, I shortcut today.

I have just reviewed a couple of books on writing. Go see the reviews, if you're interested in books on writing.

And for recreational, non-instructive reading, I'm still working on the Vintage Bradbury I bought last month, and just finished Birth of Venus, which Coco handed me. That's got a great hook. Similar to Girl With A Pearl Earring in tone and theme, but more exciting. I recently enjoyed Orson Scott Card's Rebekah, as well. Currently making the rounds among our crew is my now-tattered copy of Lamb, the Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal,
by Christopher Moore, which is hysterical in a 'Life Of Brian' sort of way. There's a trend here. I trust you'll find it on your own.

Narrative, Quotes

The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. - Mark Twain

I apologize for my absence. I've been comforting my inner eight-year-old.

You know, of course, that Silver-cat is no longer with me. Julia Child died as well. I knew she would, eventually, but did it have to be this week?

I received mail to the effect that someone does not want to be friends with me. From two separate sources. In the space of a week. One of them even used the word "Goodbye." Ouch.

Now, don't get me right, I'm just askin' (as my word-hero, Yogi, has said) but am I weird to be hurt?

I treasure my inner eight-year-old: the boundless enthusiasm and optimism, the willingness to try anything once, twice if it's fun, the devotion to sensation and beauty. And while the "elder" me understands, intellectually, that not everyone will like me, the child inside wonders "how come?"

Fortunately, there are those who encourage me. Sachi, who feeds me emotionally and literally,(still chowing down ochazuki, thanks, sweetie!); Rob, who says that my writing feeds him; the Prince, who shakes his head in resignation at my effusive greeting- he was only on vacation a week- but permits my embrace; returns it, even; BuddahPat, who always greets me with, "Hi, Beautiful," and the Animal, who checks up on me and promises diversion. I am deeply grateful to people who appreciate my quirky ways.

So I soothe that young spirit, and spend time playing in the sun. As Jada Pinkett Smith is quoted as saying, "I've always been someone who wanted to consume the world in one big gulp."

Yeah. With juice dripping down my chin.

Alternate Existence

...Thursday....

I emerge early enough to not miss the moist carpet of haze before the sun burns it from the surface. Sun glows, red alien eye, smirking, taunting. Will it rain yet more? Enough, enough.

I plop onto a firm bank of sand, comb my hair even as breeze teases tangles back into its sandy length.

Shiny treasures tumble about, delicious seaweed washing onto foolish beach in green snarls. Tiny creature digs and hides again beneath the half-dry crispy crust.

Glowering ball moves from red to yellow, yellow to white, burns away the haze, chases off the clouds, savages the skin of my neck and breasts and arms. The sea foams and churns, invites and beckons, waves me in, licks at my tail-

Excuse me. Feet. Licks at my feet.

Laundry List

...Wednesday....

One (1) trapeze lesson
One (1) major screwup
Two (2) serious talking-tos
One (1) lunch with the White Diamond at JoyBoy Cafe
Two (2) short drives, one to the vet with Silver, one from the vet, without him
Two (2) long drives, both in the rain, first without the kids, then with
Three (3) cups of coffee, two strong, one weak
Two (2) beds in an $85.00 motel room
One (1) restless night, anticipating awakening

Inevitable As...

...and you're working for no one but me...

A beautiful drive in beautiful weather with beautiful company...and we talk about taxes, the ones I didn't do last year or the year before.

I was told by the IRS that I had three years to file, if I was due a refund.

Today I learned that if I walk the hairy outside edge of that, the IRS will do my taxes FOR me, making sure I DON'T get a refund.

We work on taxes most of the day, go to Coco and Sparkey's for dinner. Over dinner, we talk (and laugh about, believe it or not) tax code.

It's dizzying. We're not, by nature, any good at this. Still, leap through paper hoops, sign in blood and file in triplicate.

Then pay taxes on the refund.

******************************

Silver's dying. Tomorrow, we'll walk across the Rainbow Bridge.

I hate this. I do.

MA says that I have "a tender heart," which is her way of telling the children not to make fun of me when I cry at sad bits or happy bits in movies.

I haven't done my requisite crying lately.

It's not that I take it personally. We've had Silver fifteen years now, and he was two or three when we got him.

But my tender heart bites at me, knaws my core. I suspected I'd lose Pogo and Silver in the same year, but, oh, it still hurts.

Again, sympathy is welcome, though I wish I didn't need it.


(Taxman; Beatles)

Accepting Everything

...Already we'll all float on/ alright don't worry even if things end up a bit too heavy/ we'll all float on alright....

Daily, he grows thin, despite the wet food, softened with warm water that I give him, two spoonsful at a time four and five times a day. His legs are unsteady beneath his meager weight. I carry that frail body with me around the house when he craves my company. How long, how long?

(For any of us, how long?)

I should be memorizing lines, but with one weekend left 'til close, and the audience (it seems) none the wiser for my clipboard cheat, I read instead, fifty-year-old Bradbury; his mournful music echoes in my mind.

For the first time, I am invited into the mobile cavelike dwelling that houses my husband when he's working, taken for a ride down a road neither of us had explored before, introduced to the beast he wrestles through weather and timezones, working to keep us safe and fed and happy.

I leave some DNA behind.

(Float On, Modest Mouse)

Going Topless

...I can see you/ Your brown skin shinin' in the sun/ You got that top pulled down and that radio on, baby....

Love the process. Love the process. Love the process.

When life's a journey, not a destination (thank you, Areosmith)it sure is more enjoyable when you've got something fun to drive.

It's not a stick shift. The trunk is smaller than I'd hoped. The driver's rear window stopped working four hours after I brought it home.

But the big question is, does it look good with what I'm wearing?

White with a black top? Of course it does.



(The Boys of Summer; Don Henley)

Diary Entry

...Drifting this way and that/ Not touching ground at all/ Up above the yard....

For a second day, we have beautiful late September weather; odd, that: it's early August.

After errands, I treat myself to a 7-11 coffee whose sacred mission is to adorn my clothing. Yet another argument for black.

The sun turns overly friendly as I sit in a lawn chair, becomes an anxious lover; my clothes are excessive. What's handy? Hawk's sweatshorts and a collection of strings posing as bikini top. I spend a lovely hour as mosquito bait.

My yard, run amok since the theft of our lawn mower, has turned into a wildlife preserve. The birds and (I presume) bats can't keep up with the insect population. I should release a herd of toads. RJ-Next-Door asks when I'd like him to cut the grass. Now is good. I track down and remove bits of plastic that once were toys.

Nearly finished, I dodge a largeish flying thing, flinching before it reveals its nature: Butterfly, splendid in black and purple iridescence.

I am transfixed as it flutters away behind a tree that early this spring was a weed.

(And She Was; Talking Heads)

Lista, Hep!

...I'd rather be flying/ flying/ I'll take you everywhere I go....

"It's the best view in the city."

And possibly the best view OF the city.

I see city skyline, the black glass water of the harbor, glittering like cut crystal in the morning sun. The clouds are fluffy mountains, churning ice fields, happy lambs in the glistening sky. A few moments wait here is no hardship, requires no patience, only appreciation.

"You'll hate me tomorrow."

Doubtful. He's not doing anything I didn't ask for.

"That was catchable timing."

His approving tone pours like warm honey into my ear, spreading sweet across my synapses, finally lodging implication in my brain. Really?

"Yes. Scout's changing into his tights right now."

Scout in tights. That WILL be a treat.

Scout: "Gotcha!"

He does. I shriek with every morsel of breath I have left, which isn't much.

Brian: "We've got a screamer!"

Something wrong with that?

"I thought you'd like it."

That three-month old observance currently ranks as understatement of the year.

Halfway through the session, I signed up for Wednesday morning.Join me?

I came, I saw, I flew...but I didn't buy the T-shirt.

They were sold out.

(Flying; Crack the Sky)

Reality Strikes

...some sad things know to man/ but there ain't too much sadder than/ the tears of a clown/ when there's no one around....


I evidently know some unusually vicious people.

Or is everyone vicious and I never noticed?

**************************

Judy Rousuck's review came out today. Unfortunately, I can't link to it. You have to be a member of Baltimore Sun before you can get at it. If you're that interested, have at, but I'll just say that I thought it was a better review than CityPaper's. CityPaper, I think, has an inexperienced reviewer on board, and he contented himself with giving a plot summary with a teensy bit of critical analysis thrown in.

**************************

PARF is fun; though we arrive too late to take advantage of the pool or the cable TV, the children enjoy spending the night in an unfamiliar bed and eating buffet breakfast before being tourists for the day. I climb onto the Wall of Infamy, and though there is no chalk outline on the asphalt below, I notice, in blue tape, a large M stuck on the stone. Coincidence? Perhaps. I hang my heels off the back edge, grin and wave and blow bubbles.

I realize the man I've been calling Jack is not the owner, and anyway the owner's name is Chuck. This man's name is Tom. Who is he? I don't know. Have I met Chuck? I don't know that, too. Ellie hopes to see me later in the season. Kirk asks if I'm doing school days. I shrug. I make a signing motion with a tiny shake of my head and another shrug. "You haven't signed anything." Again a shrug and a negative shake, with a pretend phone to my ear. "No one's called you? They haven't even called you. Amazing." Raised eyebrows, rolling eyes, and a quick flash of a single digit. Kirk lets loose a loud guffaw that rolls into a belly laugh. I love finding people who "read" me this easily. It makes conversation so very enjoyable.

It is very hot and takes a lot out of the three of us. An enjoyable outing, though not the transcendent experience of last year's Youth Camp Day.

Youth Camp Day, Pennsylvania Renaissance Festival 6 August 2003

The drive to PA was gorgeous. Mist spread unevenly like creamcheese across rolling hills, tree-lumped landscape. Taillights, streetlights, twinkled cheerfully at me. The world was mine, the streets were dry. Every tollworker I met, the gas station attendants, all wore beautiful smiles. A smear of pink across the sky like a good morning kiss preceeded the dayglow red ball of bright that leapt onto the horizon. As usual, I wanted to travel down every river I crossed.

When I got to the site, people were waiting to greet me, happy to meet me. Some of my old friends were there. One gave me an apple. I got my performers packet, complete with comp tickets that I must use on Opening Weekend, if I'm to use them at all.

The high humidity and haze-veiled sunshine made the bubbles glow. I stood on the roof at the front gate, welcoming the young patrons, well before the gate opened. Having gone overboard with the glycerin again, the bubbles I created yesterday, (which marks, for me, the official beginning of RenFest season), were both luminous and phantasmogoric, all gleaming color and weirdly twisting shape in the light playful breeze. My soap ratio is too high, my Critic whispers. I didn't measure, and it was four-thirty in the morning, I whisper back.

Later I found another place to be picturesque. All over the site, which is snaked round with asphalt paths, there are landscaped hills of loveliness. This one had a large rock, perfect for a smallish mime. A plant known, I believe, as Budlia, grew in abundance. Yellow blossoms flickered amidst these purple-studded bushes: I was surrounded by tiny butterflies.

It's good to be home in the village.

Traffic on the way home is a meatgrinder; I return home in shreds.

(Tears of a Clown; Smokey Robinson and the Miracles)

Dink Dink Dink Links

"If an exit is indicated by 'dink, dink, dink,' how do we indicate an entrance? Knid, knid, knid?" - BuddahPat

They're made of common ingredients and a lot of nothing. But they're beautiful; they shine, glow, twist, float, elicit oohs and ahhs from the spectators. Who knows how full each one will become, how high each one will soar, how long each one will last?

Human lives? Those, too. I was thinking of bubbles. There had to be a metaphor. I just hadn't noticed it until now.

It seems overly kind, but the CityPaper's review of the show should draw viewers. If any of the "target audience" age bracket even READS CityPaper...perhaps the play's title should be Women and Men on the Edge of Their Final Exit....

(As was the case last year, though my photo is published, it isn't credited. Why that bothers me I couldn't say.)

The Democrats have left the Convention. Tim's got a theme going in his cartoons lately.

Farewell to the "L" word? The Animal debates.

I left home, left the hotel room, left the site of the Pennsylvania Renaissance Festival. I did not, this trip, find the need to exit- or enter- the emergency room.

(I give spending money to the kids for food and sundries. My son brings back a red rose for me. Where'd this kid GET all that charm?)

Soul Food

...so step up to the desk and check in/ hurry don't wait so that we can begin/ to treat you the way that you want and deserve....

I wake with joints swelled and creaky as wood left out overnight in the rain, and wonder if I will forever limp through mornings. Hot sticky air crawls across my skin like locusts.

I spend time in the company of my favorite blonde, my favorite Texan, and my favorite composer- who wear the same pair of pants- and fall in love with Jason Brown all over again.

It's a mini-reunion. The composer and writer are here, Nixon, Pat, the bass guitarist, the drummer, Mo Dean, Beautiful Girl #1, and the father of Gino #2. Love is in the room. JB plays what is now the opening number of the show, and sneaks in Drunk On Power, Just Plain Drunk, since the two people in the duet are standing together in close conversation. I request that he "play me out" with I Spy, You Spy, and drive off to meet one of the spies.

Ellen collars us, addressing herself to me, mainly, though it's The Animal who has the information she wants. Her crabcakes and shrimp salad have been ignored by the media. She is hurt. This will not do. I no longer eat crab or shrimp, but take it on faith that hers are better than Captain Larry's, whoever he is. I've seen the effort she expends on Thursdays to make her fishcakes. It is now my personal mission to get her seafood items in print. I'm not sure how, for, though I know foodies, I have no personal relationship with anyone who gets paid to eat.

Restaurant reviewers, assemble, descend, emerge from Cox's Tavern on Fort Avenue with high praise for Ellen's crabcakes and shrimp salad.

Shit. Now I'm hungry.


(Welcome to the Watergate; Pomeroy and Brown)

Prison Industry

...Shifty Henry said to Bugs, "for heaven's sake/ No one's lookin', now's our chance to make a break"...

Soon, now, soon. He calls, twice, not minding that I don't get back to him until days later. He comes to my door. He is helpful, cooperative, amused. I leave something on the stove to go with him, leave without my purse-cellphone-id-checkbook. My kitchen is blessedly undamaged when I return.

MERMAID

TOPLESS

XOX CYB

SHINEON

RAGDOLL

SNSHINE

DMITGRL

TOPSOFF

BENAKED

HOT 2GO

What am I doing? Guess.


(Jailhouse Rock, Elvis Presley)

Wolcott's Progeny

...make sure they get your good side, good side....

Put aside that I had one day to prepare for the role. Put aside that I've never acted in anything that's been reviewed, ever. Put aside that I'm not even really very interested in the show.

It still defies imagination and the bounds of reason that there should be reviewers in the crowd THREE NIGHTS RUNNING.

Judy Rousuck from The Sun- I'd be harsh, too, if I had "suck" in my name.
Mike Giuliano from Patuxent Publishing- never saw him.
and from CityPaper, an unknown mystery man who was not Gadi Dechter.

If the reviews are any good, I'll post links when they come out. Hell, I'll probably post the links even if I- or the show- get skewered.

Especially if I get another tag like "overly arty." Thanks, Judy.



(Goody Two Shoes, Adam Ant)