The Burrow

Miss Vicki and I went to see Mavis Staples on Friday night.  The whole thing was completely glorious. There is free street parking after 5pm in downtown Tucson, a fact the street person resting under the bank awning noted as I examined the parking meter.  He complimented Miss Vicki's new Subaru, agreed that Tucson is very visitor friendly, and then asked if we could help a brother in need.   Having spent the afternoon testifying in Amster's custody suit, I felt the need to right the karma in the world.  The ten dollar bill on top of my wad of money went from my purse to his hand, both of us agreeing that it was his lucky day.  In a world where grown ups lie under oath, a random good deed helped to straighten my outlook.  Miss Vicki was worried that we'd forget where we left the car, but the library building, one block south of our parking space, was an excellent landmark.  Leaving her tenderly cared for vehicle on the street, we walked to 47 S...

Miss Vicki and I were in the presence of a legend last night. No, it wasn't the aging hippie birthday boy with the blown out greying locks above his too tight plaid shirt. It was the bass player Miss Vicki saw toting his instrument into the theater as we arrived downtown for a before the show dinner.  It was also Dr. Ralph Stanley, 87 years young. True, there was the occasional wandering around the stage when he was supposed to be singing at the microphone. A padded chair was center stage, and the whole audience exhaled in unison when, half way through the set, he managed to lower himself safely down onto the seat.  He looked frail and fragile and uncertain, until he opened his mouth. His voice has always been high and reedy. There's none of the roundness his son, Ralph Stanley the Second, carries. There's a mournful, verse-repeating, church-like quality to it.  He told us that he learned to sing in his old Baptist church , a capella, praying to the Lord . ...

You killed my father.  Prepare to die. If you've seen the movie, you were saying it aloud to yourself after you finished reading the title.  I know.  I get it.  Best movie ever.  Amster and Elizibeth and Miss Texas and Mr. 9 and Mr. 7-and-his-BFF-and-that-Mom-and-Grandma and I went to the Fox Tucson Theater this afternoon to watch it on the big screen.  It was perfect.  (Spoiler alert - if you don't know that I'm writing about Princess Bride ,  continue reading at your own risk.) I was the only one who'd seen it before, but the line at the will-call was full of "Mawwiage..." and "to the pain" and Miracle Max.  The smiles were beatific.  No one was in a bad mood.  Even the kids stopped fussing.  Robin Wright (Penn-then-not-Penn)'s first film role was perfectly cast; she is Buttercup incarnate. Billy Crystal and Carol Kane ran around my kitchen, Humperdink-ing for as long as my kids shared a roof. The movie...