Je Ne Regrette Mahone
Well, she half expected it. She even joked about it.
“You know,” the wife said, “now that I’ve gone through all this trouble and planning so that I can see The Pogues in England, just you wait. They’ll end up playing in America now.”
And we laughed.
And, of course, they just announced their American dates.
There’s not many of them, though, and the wife regrets nothing. She still gets to take her long-delayed trip to the UK, not to mention seeing The Pogues in some rather exotic locales.
Of course, we’ll keep you posted on all the latest developments as the wife takes on England’s green and pleasant land, starting a week and a half from…now!
Beware, Blighty. She is coming for your curry!
And God protect anyone trying to beat her to the set list.
Speaking of the summer of 1977, I was flipping through the channels yesterday evening and what do I find but my old friend from Drama Class, The Star, playing the role of David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam killer.
It was awful, must have been some TV movie or something, although he played opposite a rather major star as the detective on his trail. The film was 20 years old, so he resembled the fellow I knew more than some of his recent cameos have.
What was odd, though, was just how much he resembled Berkowitz. I could see why they cast him. He was his spitting image. Funny it had never occurred to me before, I thought. It was spooky.
I mean, not as spooky as if it had turned out that I had gone to school with a serial killer. Although I’m sure some of the students I knew had probably considered it as a career path.
Over Thanksgiving, interestingly, I met someone who had actually gone to my old school. The best we could figure, we’d probably only had a year in which we’d overlapped and neither one of us remembered the other.
What we both had in common was our inability to get into the “advanced” high school, Central High, where you automatically graduated with a B.A. Both of us also had friends who’d managed the trick, while we had been condemned to George Washington High School, well known for its men’s rooms full of smoke and the forbidding luncheonette across the street where the bad kids hung out and all sorts of unimaginable hijinks went on, or so it was said.
Two or three police cars always seemed to be sitting in front of this place, as if they were waiting for the inevitable crime that would soon be taking place. I never had the guts to go in, or even cross to that side of the street. I stayed to the other side, where the library was, and busied myself with the occult mysteries of the Dewey Decimal System.
It was a good plan then and I’ve never seen a reason to change it.
“You know,” the wife said, “now that I’ve gone through all this trouble and planning so that I can see The Pogues in England, just you wait. They’ll end up playing in America now.”
And we laughed.
And, of course, they just announced their American dates.
There’s not many of them, though, and the wife regrets nothing. She still gets to take her long-delayed trip to the UK, not to mention seeing The Pogues in some rather exotic locales.
Of course, we’ll keep you posted on all the latest developments as the wife takes on England’s green and pleasant land, starting a week and a half from…now!
Beware, Blighty. She is coming for your curry!
And God protect anyone trying to beat her to the set list.
Speaking of the summer of 1977, I was flipping through the channels yesterday evening and what do I find but my old friend from Drama Class, The Star, playing the role of David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam killer.
It was awful, must have been some TV movie or something, although he played opposite a rather major star as the detective on his trail. The film was 20 years old, so he resembled the fellow I knew more than some of his recent cameos have.
What was odd, though, was just how much he resembled Berkowitz. I could see why they cast him. He was his spitting image. Funny it had never occurred to me before, I thought. It was spooky.
I mean, not as spooky as if it had turned out that I had gone to school with a serial killer. Although I’m sure some of the students I knew had probably considered it as a career path.
Over Thanksgiving, interestingly, I met someone who had actually gone to my old school. The best we could figure, we’d probably only had a year in which we’d overlapped and neither one of us remembered the other.
What we both had in common was our inability to get into the “advanced” high school, Central High, where you automatically graduated with a B.A. Both of us also had friends who’d managed the trick, while we had been condemned to George Washington High School, well known for its men’s rooms full of smoke and the forbidding luncheonette across the street where the bad kids hung out and all sorts of unimaginable hijinks went on, or so it was said.
Two or three police cars always seemed to be sitting in front of this place, as if they were waiting for the inevitable crime that would soon be taking place. I never had the guts to go in, or even cross to that side of the street. I stayed to the other side, where the library was, and busied myself with the occult mysteries of the Dewey Decimal System.
It was a good plan then and I’ve never seen a reason to change it.
posted by Count Screwloose at 5:23 PM
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