The Refined Life. Sort Of

Darlings, we're off to the theatuh on Friday evening to see what Miss Sandra Bernhard has to say about things. Current things. We saw her here several years ago and were delighted with her efforts, so I'm looking forward to the show. It takes a lot to get me out of the house of an evening these days. I probably wouldn't even go this time if I didn't remember a sketch I saw her do back in the dark ages imitating Christine McVie living life as a restaurant hostess after she had received an eye injury from the flying fringe of Stevie Nicks' shawl. Pretty funny stuff.

Also, just now in our terribly quiet little neighborhood, I heard a racket out front and when I went to look (I had to, it was upsetting Saki and he demanded a report) it was not the skunks or coyotes I expected, but an actual fight. Fisticuffs. A brouhaha. Just as I was fixing to yell "I'm calling the cops" (which is a phrase I used with fair regularity when I lived in the French Quarter but haven't since we escaped to San Francisco) someone beat me to it. Damn. I hate when that happens.

Once we were standing on our Chartres Street balcony in the French Quarter with friends chatting and getting loaded when we saw a couple ambling up across the street. The gentleman kept repeating "Oh, bayby, bayby, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." The Lady, without breaking stride, turned, punched him in the jaw and dropped him, as they say, lack a bag of dirt and kept walking. He got up, still apologizing and caught up with her by now in mid-block at which time she punched him again. He managed to keep his feet, barely, and proved himself unable to learn his lesson because when he pulled up next to her she popped his sorry ass yet again and knocked him down, yet again. They then passed out of our sight and lives, but they remain a symbol of love to me. Oh, l'amour.

You know what else is a symbol of love? This.