A Soupbowl Full Of Beans

So, Saturday night? No pooches were screwed in the making of our play. A few pups were flirted with, but none were actually screwed. Despite the fact that Lon and Lis came over all the way from Keystone Heights and were sitting RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE STAGE, I managed to mostly do fine. I begged the two cast members who are onstage while I'm frantically trying to get the wig on for my old lady, to speak as slowly as they could without making it too obvious. The wig went on. I managed my accents. Mostly.
Mr. Perkins, who built the Opera House in 1890 and who is rumored to haunt the old building, did not seem to care. No lights flickered and went out. No eerie sounds were mysteriously heard.
There did seem to be an intermittent flow of cold air in the backstage area but that was probably because we kept opening the door to the outside.
So that was fine. We do it again on Friday and Saturday nights and then on March 7 we are taking the play on the road to Milton, Florida as a fund-raiser for their old theater which recently had a fire in it.
MILTON!
I don't even know where it is, but I think it's north of Pensacola. And that's where our band of merry actors will be headed to perform our play in a high school gym. Or something.
Kathleen- I'll bring the vodka, you bring the olives.

Okay. Let's talk about Michael Phelps smoking dope. (Do they still call it dope? I have no idea. Weed. How's that? Better?)
Here's what I have to say about it:
You go, boy. Do not apologize. Ain't nobody's business if you do.
The fact that marijuana is still illegal, sort of, is ridiculous.
Done.

Did you see Bruce Springsteen at the Super Bowl? I did. That was the only twelve minutes I watched. I have been in love with Bruce for many, many years. Still am. And he's in love with me. As proof I offer the fact that he has written about a thousand songs addressing me by name. Which is Mary. Also the fact that during the Born In The USA tour he played in Tallahassee because I wrote him a letter asking him to. Why else would he have come to Tallahassee? Just so he could do that old song Tallahassee Lassie?
I think not.
Some people love the Boss and some people do not. That's okay. Even my beloved Billy does not like the Boss. That's putting it mildly. I think he says something like, "I hate his fucking guts." I don't care. I still love Billy and I still love the Boss. Billy can listen to Reba who is perhaps the Old Aunt. I will listen to Bruce, who is the Boss.
I loved it when he did the crotch-slide across the stage and I wished with all my heart that he would do what I've seen him do before which is to kiss Clarence (Big Man) Clemmons on the lips but sadly, he did not. Still, it was a hell of a crotch-slide, especially for a fifty-eight year old man.

Now. On to the octuplets born in California to Nadya Suleman, a single mother who already has six children.
Excuse me?
Can anyone tell me why a doctor world implant a woman with eight embryos? Don't tell me that this is ethical. It is not. I have checked. And it's not common practice. Who paid for this and who is going to pay for the millions of dollars of medical bills those babies are going to rack up? Not just now but for the rest of their lives because they are going to have health problems stemming from their premature births and that is that. I heard (on NPR, of course) that the mother thinks she will be making some money by selling her story and pictures of the babies. Perhaps there will be a reality show. I'm sure there already is. In her dreams. But knowing the level to which reality shows have descended, perhaps she is right.
Look. This isn't funny. This is some creepy, creepy shit.
And anyone who has raised even one infant at a time knows that no one on earth is capable of raising eight. With six other children to take care of too.
There are some doctors who have a lot to explain because this woman did not manage to implant those embryos on her own. This is not an example of the miracles of modern science. This is an example of the corruption of technology for some purpose which I cannot even begin to discern.

All right. On to dogs. I have figured out the solution to my dog problem. I will gladly let Barack Obama and his family adopt my dogs, Buster and Dolly. They are three-quarters poodle which means they are mostly hypoallergenic. There is one dog for Sasha and one for Malia. Buster and Dolly will be very happy in the White House and my dog Zeke will be very happy that Buster and Dolly are not here trying to kill him. Buster and Dolly will not try to kill Sasha and Malia because they are girls, not Yorkshire Terriors. I will even pay shipping and handling to get Buster and Dolly up to Washington.
Problems solved.

And now, because I have an old friend from out of town staying here tonight I need to attend to things like linen-changing and floor-sweeping. I also need to take a walk. And make soup. Tonight's soup will be a lovely thing made of smoked-turkey broth, garbanzo beans, sweet potatoes, venison sausage and greens from the garden. It is going to be cold tonight and soup will taste good. I wish I could give every one of you a bowl.

Believe me, there will be enough.