Dame Agatha Does It Again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                           Girls, I am telling you, I am on a reading frenzy, this Summer.  It is like I cannot read one book fast enough, before I am thinking about the next one I will be on to.

                                             As someone said to me, recently, what would a Summer read be, without Agatha Christie.  So, when I was presented with "The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd," I was pretty sure I had read it years ago, but so long ago, it wouldn't make any difference.  And it did not.

                                              Now, over the years I have read at least a dozen of Christie's works.  In many cases--and this was one--with my background, and current "Cold Case" obsession, I can generally figure out who the culprit is, and I did here.  But not while enjoying the opportunity of playing along with Hercule Poirot, or admiring Christie's plot construction.  Though I have to say, the solution in her best work, "And Then There Were None," I never saw coming, and you simply have to read my favorite, "Crooked House," which precedes "The Bad Seed" by five years.

                                               "The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd" is as tightly constructed as a game of Clue, something I owned when younger, and am rather familiar with.  I kept picturing the novel's cozy, British settings, as a giant Clue board.  And played along with Poirot, as we moved the pieces.

                                                  As well as arriving at the same conclusion.  I love being stumped, but being able to solve the mystery should not deprive a reader of the pleasure of reading one, as long as that mystery is well written.  And that is a certainty, with Dame Agatha.

                                                   Her greatest mystery of all was her life.  What happened to her, during the time she vanished?  There is absolutely no truth to the rumor she had tea with Amelia Earheart.  And Elvis had not even been sighted, then!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                                    I suppose we will never know!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Am I Being Reduced To White Trash?????????????????

                                How could I be, darlings, with my elegant pretensions, and Cecil Beaton gowns?

                                 Now, I have not eaten Ritz Crackers since I was a child.  I used to love them with peanut butter on them.  But, recently, they have been turning up at our house, and I have rediscovered their buttery pleasure.  That melting goodness is just unsurpassed as far as my almost addictive palette is concerned.  But I do not want to be any Mama June!  Mama Rose, yes!!!!!!!!!

                                  Did you ever hear of White Trash Lasagna?  Instead of pasta, the layers are Doritos!  Can you imagine?  I wonder how it holds all together.  It also must be mighty salty.  Not good for the blood pressure!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                   So, I began to wonder about the possibility of Ritz recipes.  I know, back in the "Bisquick" era, they were highly touted.

                                    Pie crust can be made from Ritz crackers.  So can topping for Macaroni And Cheese, as well as chicken batter.  Of course, I cannot guarantee what this will do for one's health. Let alone, social status!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                     I bet Mama June served these dishes all the time.  Fresh Direct never hit her table, back in the day!  Maybe now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                      Maybe White Trash Cooking is coming back into your vogue?

                                     But, at the age many of us are now, darlings, can we afford to risk health, for taste????????????????????

                                      Ritz could be the pits!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

An Unexpected, and Delightful Surprise!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                      I have admired Jonathan Safran Foer, since he burst onto the scene with "Everything Is Illuminated," which I actually read twice.  It was an impressive debut; even more so, on a second reading, which I encourage for everyone.  His next book, "Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close," while widely anticipated was, for me, at least, a big let down.   It was touching, but just too gimmicky, and all throughout it, I kept asking, "Jonathan when are you going to write THE book?"

                                       Well, dears, he has.  When I picked up the voluminous (579 pgs.) of "Here I Am, coming off of 'Extremely,' I was like Sisyphus looking at anther rock haul up the mountain. This continued, as I launched into it.  But somewhere, long before page 100, something clicked, and I knew I was off on a hilarious, exploratory investigation, into a disastrous marriage, Jewish traditions,  the state, both geographic and cultural of Israel, and other facets of our contemporary society.  Jonathan Safran Foer has finally written the book I always knew him capable of writing.

                                         It takes a lot for me to laugh outright at things on the printed page, but this book does that.  It is not all intellectual pomposity or pretension; it is none of those things at all.  It reads like a charm, and I could not tear myself away from the ups and downs of the Bloch family.  Is this a Jewish riff on "Anna Karenina?"  In the broadest sense of the word, yes.  But it is much more--beyond Roth, beyond Bellow, though their influences prevail.  Mr. Safran Foer, always talented, here comes into his own.

                                        Which leaves me in a quandary.  If this book is go good--and it is--how can his next one be any better?  What will he do, beyond this?  It may be too early for Safran Foer to ask these questions, basking, as he must be, in the success of this work, but readers and admirers of his cannot help, but be naturally curious.

                                           Oh, I have to say this.  Some sage critic  compared this novel to "Middlemarch."  Yes, George Eliot's "Middlemarch."  I mean, are you kidding?    The two have as much connection with one another as white toast has to Pop Tarts.  I doubt whether the author of this statement has even read "Middlemarch."  I have read it three times.  Why bother comparing Safran Foer's book to anything, as it stands so well, on its own?

                                            I had hitherto heard only comments like "OK," from my sources about this novel.  What a pleasure to discover it is much more than that!

                                              Keep writing, Jonathan!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                       

That Alice Watson Was Some Piece Of Work!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                               I am now coming down the home stretch on "Cold Case," darlings!  At Season 7, the show is beginning to seem tired, and the issues being examined aren't as fascinating anymore, maybe because they have been examined, already.

                                That's the way it has been, so far.  I am not through yet.  But, there was a glimmer of hope at the climax of "Read Between The Lines," when Alice Watson revealed herself to be some piece of Grade A motherfuckin' bitch!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                  Butter wouldn't melt in Alice's mouth.  The episode starts off with she and her husband, Ken, adopting two girls, a teenager named Donalyn Sullivan, and her preteen sister Meesha.  They were daughters of some crack ho' and low life scum no one knows anything about.  One would think, with Alice and Ken adopting them, they would be safe.  But, hons, they stood a better chance on Philly's streets.

                                The Watsons have a secret.  Ken is a trucker, and is on the road a lot, but when he is not trucking, he is shacking up in sleazy motels with underage girls.  That is right, Ken is a pedophile, a predator, which explains why a seemingly healthy, 30-ish couple have no children, and Alice is one of those all-for-keeping-up-appearances types, so she looks the other way.  But glass houses eventually crash, girls, as we know.

                                Donalyn is a teenager, and all that goes with it.  She's not buying the Watsons' act.  What is more, she has some talent, on the street, as a rap artist.  The Watsons disapprove, but, the talent is there, and, when Donalyn discovers Ken's secret, after he comes on to her, she knows she has to get she and Meesha out of there.

                                 This leads to a confrontation between Alice and Donalyn in a club where Donalyn is scheduled to perform.  She is coming up in the ranks as "Sugar Dawn."  Only, she never gets to perform, because bitch Alice reveals she is not going to sacrifice her illusion of her perfect life.  She also reveals she cares more about the younger Meesha than Donalyn; the older girl was just part of a package adoption deal.  What a stone cold bitch!  But she gets colder, because, when Donalyn reveals the truth about Ken, what he did to her, and that Alice's marriage is a lie, the woman cannot handle it.  She hits Donalyn over the head with a lead pipe, killing her.  This bitch is right up there with Miss Diana Ross!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                  But, remember, dolls, this is "Cold Case," and Alice gets hers.  Lily, looking perfect as always, drags Alice's sorry ass off to the slammer, where she will spend the rest of her life.  No more manicured lawns for her!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   And the grown Meesha sees her older sister's ghost!!!!!!!!!

                                  See what happens when one constructs a life, based  on illusions?  It falls apart.  Like Alice Watson. Or Blanche Du Bois.

                                   Blanche did it more poetically.  Alice wasn't any better than the skank trash she thought she was so high above.

                                      Down the prison hole you go, Alice!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                   

It's Not Quite Miss Porter's, Darlings!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                        I was just writing recently about the worlds of deformity and grotesqueness in Carson McCullers.  Karen Russell, whose novel, "Swamplandia," I loved is fascinated with the magical and mythological.  This is a short story collection, and let me assure readers, she is as comfortable in this form, as she is with the novel.  In fact, some inform the other.

                                         The first story, about Ava Bigtree, and the Alligator Theme Park, lays the groundwork for what became Swamplandia.  She gives the Westward Expansion movement a mythical variation by having the carriage literally pulled by its patriarch, who is--I kid you not!--a Minotaur!  But it is the last, and titled story I found most moving.  Not since Jerome Bixby's short story, "The Young One," has so poignant a tale been rendered of lycanthropic victims trying to assimilate into modern society.  And Russell explains what happens when they can't, or don't.

                                          This is an almost perfect short story collection, yet I cannot wait for her next novel, as I am sure there will be.  Meanwhile, if you haven't, try this collection, or sink your fangs into her other, "Vampires In The Lemon Grove."  I am anxious to read that one, now!

                                           Russell may not have McCullers' poetic lyricism, but she explores fascinating terrain not many authors do.

                                            Keep it up, Karen!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"....And The Old Men Playing Checkers, By The Trees!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

                                            "The birds like tender babies, in your hands,
                                              And the old men playing checkers, by the trees."
                                              --Jimmy Webb, "MacArthur Park"
                                       


                                  Long before Donna Summer discoed it, this song was a part of my life; to my 12-year-old self it was the epitome of romance, and awakened something in me sexually, though I did not realize it then, with its orchestral interlude, which sent me rolling down the side hill of my house, in abandoned ecstasy.

                                    Flash forward, a half century later.  Yes, dolls fifty years later.  Having listened to the song recently, which still makes me swoon, I am forced now to ask myself--Now that I have retired, have I become one of those old men playing checkers, by the trees?  Is that what I am now reduced to?

                                     Observing over the weekend, I came across many parks, with people playing checkers.  There are still even fake cement checkerboards pressed into the pavement.  There are actually more game boards than trees, so finding a shady spot to do this is not as easy as the song would have it seem.

                                       Am I actually ready for this?????????  Do I want to be?????????  No!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                       Games are fine.  I loved them when young, and still love them now.  But I will be damned if I will be labeled as some old codger, whose days are defined by this.

                                          Personally, I would rather wear that "yellow cotton dress, foaming like a wave, on the ground around my knees."

                                          Coffee and my readers define my days, darlings!  Or, at least, kick it off!!!!!!!!!

I Just LOVE The Dairy Pure Cow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                               So often, dolls, do I write on here about commercials that annoy me that it gives me pleasure to write one I actually like.  It is the Dairy Pure commercial, featuring the Dairy Pure cow!!!!!!!!!!!!  Isn't he cute?  Not since Elsie, has there been such a bovine mascot!!!!!!!!!!!!

                               By the color blue, I am guessing this cow is a male.  But I think all cows are cute.  If anyone can sell milk, it is this cow.  TV stardom is coming his way!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                More cows on TV, darlings!  Bring back "Petticoat Junction!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"