The Stray Cats were riding a rockabilly wave of their own making through radio hits (Rock This Town, Stray Cat Strut) and energetic MTV videos. These were melodic mavericks, slightly menacing in the most adorable of ways, and added something — dare I say zest — to the musical menu of the early 1980s. I adored them. I still do.

My boyfriend and I had tickets to see them at the Saenger Theatre in New Orleans. I think we popped for like $16 per ticket, and I couldn’t wait. I planned my outfit weeks in advance.

Trigger warning: street violence. For those who want to stop now.

Parking being what it was (and still is) in N’Awlins, we found a place on a dark side street a little over 4 blocks from the venue and made our way toward Canal St, holding hands and blissful with anticipation. It was then, directly across the street that we heard someone demand “Give me your wallet” and several gunshots rang out. They didn’t just ring out, I could see the flashes in the darkness. I heard a man groan. The shooter, as far as I could tell, ran away, prize in hand.

Then…nothing.

Like, absolutely nothing. It happened so fast that once it was over, it was like it never happened at all. No sound came from the man lying on the sidewalk, whom I could not properly see in the darkness. New Orleans in those days was not the best with its streetlights.

I saw and heard no one else near us.

We started to bolt, but I was in high heels. I pushed my boyfriend ahead of me and said, “Run, run, get the security guard at the Saenger. I’m right behind you.” He took off like an Olympic sprinter, and I tottered in his wake in my heels. At one point I lost an earring and stopped to find it in the dark street and put it back on. I don’t know why. Shock, probably.

Soon enough, the cops and an ambulance rolled, and, not knowing what else to do, plus being young and durable, we went inside to the concert. The Stray Cats were great; I remember enjoying myself to the best of my ability, but spent the evening wondering if we had been ear-witnesses to a mugging-turned-murder.

The next day I combed the newspaper to see if there was any mention of the incident and couldn’t find anything.

Finally, a friend of ours who worked at (if memory serves) Charity, the trauma hospital later destroyed in Hurricane Katrina, told us that they received a gunshot victim from near the Saenger the night before. It was a man in his 30s, he said. He was alive. “Are you the ones who called it in?” he asked. Pretty much, yes. I was so relieved to hear the guy survived I didn’t question any further.

Tickets to the Stray Cats (original lineup, baby) for this tour cost almost 10x what we paid in those high-heeled, low-worry days but are well worth it.

I can’t wait to see them again. And I hope the victim of violence that night had, or is still enjoying, a long and happy life with minimal aftershocks.

I don’t know what he looked like. I don’t know his name. But I have never forgotten him.

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A city girl who lives in a raised house on a bayou, like one of those social science experiments they once did to study human behaviour to see if an unlikely candidate could adapt and survive in an environment foreign to them.

You know, before reality shows did the same.

The beach is right here too. I feel a breeze off the Gulf of Mexico every morning when I walk Peanut Butter Jackson, and I believe I live in paradise. I'm surrounded by woods, and have perhaps four neighbors scattered down a six-block-long road.

I live in a small town for the first time since birth. I had some concern when I found this house because I was afraid it would be too isolated for a city chick like me. Yet, I liked the location and situation because I was looking for peace and hoped I might find it here.

I needed peace after years of grief and turmoil, some disappointing defeats and the occasional fist-pumping triumph. I needed peace after the confusion of navigating long-COVID disease and the occasional big reveal of idiots among us.

After my husband died, I crossed Life's bed of burning coals with some resolve, hoping that each painful step was leading me somewhere kinder, better. But the years offered only the occasional oasis. Mostly I had singed soles and a soul that, weary of waiting and exhausted from wandering, had hung up a “Closed” sign, doused its lantern, and retreated into itself.

After a while I gave up early and often, sometimes even before noon.

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I saw the announcement on Facebook and decided to attend, although I wasn’t sure exactly what was being protested. We didn’t have any new information on what happened to young Mr. Wells that caused him not to return home alive after a celebratory Fourth of July with friends on Horn Island, off the Gulf Coast of Mississippi.

I had not seen any vigils or memorial walks being organized, so I figured, well, if this is what is happening, I’ll go. I wanted to pay my respects, show support.

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Describing DePoy in quick or thumbnail terms eluded me, so I asked for help from Princess Grace Foundation Fellowship recipient and one of the most respected people I know in the realm of theatre, Rosemary Newcott. She was quick to say, ”The first word that springs to mind when describing Phillip is ‘gifted’…but what is truly extraordinary is the myriad of ways his gifts are manifested. He is an exceptional writer, musician, performer, humorist, arts leader, collaborator, and all-around outstanding human.”

She’s not wrong.

Meet him, and you’ll find a pleasant and deceptively laid-back personality, especially for someone who seemingly never stops working, either on his novels (25 to date, with two more in the works), his music catalog, his stagecraft, or the occasional poem or essay.

“I have written every single day since 1965,” he says.

As I sat down to craft this piece, I suddenly felt overwhelmed in a way I never do when profiling cultural creatives. How do I write about a career that covers more ground than the Grand Canyon? It’s eclectic. It’s encyclopedic. Do I gush like a fangirl? How do I not?

At this point, I’ve known Phillip for more than half my life. We worked together during some densely creative years in professional theatre and remained pals along differing and winding roads of artistic pursuit and several (separate) weddings and divorces. These days, whenever our paths cross, I tend to get jacked up on a kind of puppy-energy excitement. If I had a tail (and I feel rather robbed that I don’t), it would wag when I see Phillip DePoy.

I finally decided that, in order to write about him, one needs a checklist. There is no other way.

At 75, DePoy has stacked up an impressive resume, as long as the Chattahoochee River that winds through his adopted home state of Georgia (he was born in Illinois) and in places just as overflowing.

His DNA is solidly rooted in the arts. He has two multi-talented siblings, Scott and Mary Claire, and their father, Bob, was a professional musician. His first play was produced in 1965, and his first poem was published a year later.

DePoy started writing short stories in the 1970s and novels in the mid-1990s. Since then, 44 more plays have been produced, regionally and nationally. He’s penned two nonfiction books (one, The Tao and the Bard, is a conversation between Lao Tzu and Shakespeare, using their own words).

He’s an Edgar Award-winning mystery novelist and was honored with a Georgia Author of the Year Lifetime Achievement Award in 2015.

Dozens of plays, dozens of novels, a few fine nonfiction turns, an award-winning writer.

Check.

in 2024 Library Journal praised DePoy’s first in a new mystery series, Booked for Murder (an Editor’s Pick on Amazon), as “an atmospheric work” and noted its “appeal to readers who enjoy Southern or bookstore settings, quirky characters, and beautiful, descriptive writing.”

His latest release, All My Bones, is the second in the series written under the pen name P.J. Nelson, a moniker constructed from a combo of his first two initials and his wife Lee Nowell’s middle name. Depoy often dedicates his books to musician/playwright/actor/singer Nowell, whom he calls “a remarkable human.” No slouch, she. Nowell carries an impressive load of creative credits and if you happen to reside in the Atlanta area or will be in that fine city on May 10 or 11, you can catch an evening of her original work here.

Southern noir scribe who really digs his talented wife.

Check.

As a youngster, DePoy attended The Actors and Writers’ Workshop, an Atlanta children’s theatre run by Walter and Betty Lou Roberts, parents of Hollywood stars Julia Roberts and Eric Roberts. The school was notable as one of the few integrated acting schools in the area, so he shared the stage with the children of Dr. and Mrs. Martin Luther King, Jr.

He can play, or “make a noise” (he says modestly) on a variety of instruments, including guitar, mandolin, violin, dulcimer, recorder, autoharp, piano, banjo, French horn, trumpet, trombone, and kazoo.

In the 1980s, DePoy was one of the first to put then-teenage Georgia songbird Kelly Hogan (Jody Grind, The Flat Five, back-up vocalist for Mavis Staples, the Decemberists, Jakob Dylan, the Drive-By Truckers, and Neko Case, among others) onstage in a band, Total Strangers. Decades ago, Phillips gave me a single that they released. I still have it.

Over the years DePoy has formed several bands, both genre-specific and broadly eclectic, and currently serves up intoxicating and smooth-as-a-ballroom-floor harmonies with Appalachian folkies The Dianas.

Jumped into the arts early and often, musically diverse, tunefully collaborative, plays multiple instruments.

Check.

One has to wonder how on earth DePoy does it all. Where does this crazy amount of creative output come from?

He doesn’t know.

For DePoy, it doesn’t matter whether he’s penning his latest Southern-soaked whodunnit, composing the score for a musical, writing a play, playing jazz, composing poetry, or taking a turn on the boards as an actor.

It’s all the same to him.

“It all comes from the same place,” he explains. “Wherever that place is.”

Cosmos-guided artist.

Check.

Earlier this century, I was working as the publicist for Peter Tork of the Monkees. Knowing his love of mystery novels, I began sending him some of Phillip’s books. He quickly became a fan.

In one email exchange where I informed Peter that a new book would be out promptly and I would send it to him just as promptly, his reply was short and sweet: “DePoy! Oh boy oh boy!” he wrote back.

Tork apparently wasn’t the only rock star being handed DePoy’s work.

“I wish you’d met George Dockray,” Phillip told me earlier this year, calling his friend “an adventurer.”

“He operated a float plane in Alaska and built custom motorcycles for celebrities…things like that, “ he said. “Once, he was hired by Linda and Paul McCartney to fly them to the Maldives. During the flight, which was a long one, he asked Sir Paul, ‘Do you want something to read?’ When Paul nodded yes, George handed him one of my books.”

A Beatle. A Monkee. A paperback writer.

Check.

While he shakes his head ruefully at the state of the union these days, Depoy has witnessed political turbulence before. Like a Bohemian-leaning Forrest Gump, he even somewhat innocently stumbled into a raucous chapter of American history — one that got him tossed in jail for a hot minute.

In the midst of what Depoy calls a “hippie road trip” with classmates from Antioch College, they got caught up in the chaos surrounding the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. They were arrested, along with famed “Yippie” activist Abbie Hoffman and hundreds of other students and protestors.

“We were all crowded into this jail,” he recalls, “Abbie Hoffman, in another cell, was yelling his comedy routine over the noise, and it was really funny."

Entertained in captivity by Abbie Hoffman after being arrested in politically-charged Chicago.

Check.

Phillip was remarkably generous with his time in being interviewed for this inaugural “Artist Spotlight” on my Substack—so much so that anything short of a novel feels inadequate to capture the full scope of our conversation.

I’ll close with something he said that’s lingered in my mind since we spoke in late January.

I asked: What do you want to know for certain before you leave this planet?

“I have two answers to that question,” he replied without hesitation. "When I was a college professor, which I’ve been several times, we would come across a certain segment of studying theatre, and in reference to general stuff in life, I would ask: Is it better to know than not know? Like, if your boyfriend was cheating, would you rather know or not know about it? Almost everyone says they would want to know.”

“Then,” he continued, “We would take that (conversation) out to include other stuff, and eventually people decide there are things they’d rather not know. I don’t want to know how the sausage is made, because then I won’t eat it. I have come to believe the only thing you need to figure out and know in life is who and what you are. Then do that.”

Depoy admits while this sounds simple, it’s not. Why?

“Because there’s the disruption and distraction of what you are told you should be. It’s really hard to figure out who and what you really are. I started thinking about this when I was 11 years old and wanted to be a priest. I’d like to know who and what I really am before I die. Of course, I believe I’ll probably know that after I die. I think that you die into your true identity, your true nature, your true being.”

Death as the ultimate self-discovery.

Check and checkmate.

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I step onto the front porch, and he’s in front of me, excitedly pulling on the leash. I live in a raised house, so we start for the landing to take the steps downstairs. Just then, my half-asleep, uncaffeinated brain registers that there is a fair-sized snake on the landing.

My brothers and sisters in Christ, there is no way to adequately explain what happened next.

The sound that involuntarily came out of your faithful correspondent’s mouth was a combination of a full-throttle garbage truck and a she-elephant in labour. I backed up so fast I went back in time, jerking Peanut Butter so hard that all four paws left the ground and he flew in a Matrix-like fashion through the air in reverse as we stumbled ass-first into the door we’d just passed through barely a second before. I let out a scream so loud it registered on seismographs in four regions of the United States. Fighter jets were scrambled at a nearby Air Force base.

I locked the door and gingerly peeked out the window. It was still there.

I don’t know my snakes well enough to be sure, but I was pretty sure it was a garter snake, basically harmless and good pest control, but here’s the important part: it was on my front porch, which is some 12 feet up in the air.

My brain raced. Peanut Butter looked at me like I had sold secrets to the Russians. I was trapped in my own house.

My brother came down the hallway.

“There’s a snake on the front porch,” I said.

“Oh,” he nodded.

“PERHAPS YOU DIDN’T UNDERSTAND,” I said, carefully enunciating each word, “THERE. IS. A. SNAKE. ON. THE. FRONT. PORCH.”

“Uh-huh,” he nodded again, got his coffee, and disappeared back to his room, where I assumed he was living his best life in blissful ignorance that our very existence was in peril.

“Thanks I don’t need any coffee!” I called after him with forced cheerfulness, “I shall never need coffee to wake up again!”

I didn’t know what the hell to do.

Peanut Butter had to go out and make his morning business.

I took him out the back door, eyeing every step down into the back yard. As we walked around, I puzzled what to do next since the front of my own home was inaccessible due to reptile invasion.

Now, here’s the thing about me and snakes.

I don’t mind them, really. As long as I don’t surprise them and they don’t surprise me, all is well. Those are the rules; they are written in stone, they cannot be broken, and they cannot be bent.

No surprises.

After Peanut and I came back into the house, I went and peeked out the front door. The snake was gone.

What.

Where did it go?

I traipsed out the back door once again and crept around the front of the house, scanning under the steps, the lift, the ground, my flower bed. Nothing.

What the actual freaky deaky doo.

I looked under my car. On my driveway. Around the yard.

Gone.

I figured it had climbed onto my porch, going after the tree frog who often perches up there, or a lizard that emerged due to the warm weather, or perhaps, for laughs, it just wanted to see the lady of the house soil herself.

Ya’ll. I am but a delicate flower.

Still, it was gone. I would be fine once I changed my pants.

Around 10:30, I walked out onto the front porch to soak up some sun and sea air.

There it was.

Hanging on my outdoor cargo lift.

I ran back inside.

I texted my neighbour Kim: “The snake is on my lift! What do I do now?” I considered selling my house.

Just then, I heard the roar of a Harley outside and realized her ex-boyfriend was at her house. I stumbled down the stairs whimpering and waving my arms like someone stranded on a desert island.

“It’s hanging on my lift! Like it’s the Garden of Eden!”

Her ex ambled over, in all his manly glory, and took a broom, eventually wrangling the striped intruder - who actually tried to fight him - into a ditch at the front of the property.

“You need to get back together with him,” I advised my neighbour via text once the coast was clear and I was back indoors, changing my pants for a second time before noon.

“Nope.” she texted back, obviously not caring about my heart health.

Y’all.

I am but a delicate flower.

I do not do snakes in living spaces.

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Howdy Horn Honkers. Gotta say that Trump’s ICE and Border Patrol is the weakest, worst “law enforcement” l have ever seen in my life - and l watched the brutal, blundering LAPD and Derek Chauvin, et al, same as you have. These Keystone KKKops would be hilarious if they weren’t so glaringly masculine-fragile, weak of will, and murderous.

But their days are numbered.

Trump will not always be there as a protective athletic cup for their tinsel dicks and minuscule manhood.

They will be named. You can count on that. They will be shunned. Their families will be run out of decent neighborhoods. They will not be able to secure a good job. Their children will, or will contemplate, changing their names.

What they don’t realize, as they are currently drunk on illegal and immoral power, is that dear leader will ruin their lives.

What Trump is doing is unsustainable. All thinking people know it.

The Dems know it.

The Independents know it.

The non-voters know it.

Even the GOP, those brave enough to afford a moment of honesty as they feverishly fondle their fascist playbook, know it.

We have seen it before and it is playing out as familiar as the alphabet.

There’s an old saying in Latin, “Fiat justitia ruat caelum.”

Let justice be done, or the heavens fall.

It means justice must prevail regardless of consequences, even if it causes chaos, and that fairness is paramount. Upholding moral rightness is so crucial for now and future days that it outweighs personal or societal upheaval. It’s an unwavering ethical responsibility.

The People will win this battle.

Sometimes, all it takes is one person as a symbol for society, holding grocery bags and standing in front of a tank in Tiananmen Square.

Small groups can make a huge difference. Do not ever doubt that small groups can make big changes. There’s a long list of such groups.

Larger groups can sweep the shit right out of the street. The good guys outnumber the bad guys in this current situation. If this was not true, they would not be so obviously afraid and working so hard to suppress those groups.

All you have to do is not give up.

Or, in the words of the Dalai Lama:

“In your heart and in the world

Work for peace

And I say again

Never give up.

No matter what is happening

No matter what is going on around you

Never give up.”

So.

Let justice be done or the heavens fall.

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Yet I can’t think of once in my life I’ve posted a Bible verse on my wall or had a plaque on my desk or the like. You’re much more likely to see quotes from philosophers, Southern Folk Art, a Paul Klee print or two, or something I love from a Native American artisan.

Two original paintings hung in my Atlanta house for years that I had pulled out of a dumpster when a wellness center in a random strip mall closed its doors for good.

Oh - and then there’s Elvis art.

Lord knows I love me some art depicting the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll.

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I think this is the case for most of us.

It doesn’t mean the memory isn’t there. It just means many exist below the surface and we don’t see them on the regular.

Until.

I jolted awake this morning as if shaken by a lover or natural disaster and drew a quick breath, pulled suddenly out of slumber recalling something I hadn’t thought of in so long that for a moment I wondered if I was still asleep.

I tend to give nicknames to people I like a lot or love and if you are in that number you’ve likely heard me refer to you super affectionally by whatever moniker I bestowed on you.

I don’t know why I do this. It’s a verbal kiss, I suppose (except for that one couple I call “Pussy & Personality Disorder”…but I suppose that’s a smooch-invite as well, if only to kiss my azz.)

I also love it when people give me a nickname. I have a friend who calls me “Bruce” and it always, but always, makes me laugh. My late husband John would call me “Mariposa” and later “Little Cosmic Girl” after the Brett Dennen song and both will ever make me smile.

My eyes flew open this morning and my first thought was about the boyfriend I used to often refer to as the Jack of Hearts. I had other nicknames for him as well, but I hadn’t thought of that one in so long that if you had asked me yesterday I would have had to ponder to pull that particular pebble to the surface. I probably hadn’t thought about it in 40 years.

Anyway, that well-deserved nickname (is there any other kind?) sprung from the Bob Dylan song “Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts.” It’s a long tale and a hazy, humid, love story but I shan’t go into that part just now.

That trip down memory lane took me to another destination.

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In many places, come September is when summer starts to yield its power to autumn, but not Texas. Texas is unapologetically hot right now — in parts hot-windy and in other parts hot-calm and in still other parts hot-dusty. But hot nonetheless.

As I drove out of eastern New Mexico, where the temperatures were pleasant and white wispy clouds brushed across the pale blue sky, I thought, “What a beautiful day!”

Then I crossed into Texas where various road signs admonished that speeding was not allowed, not to drink and drive (“You can’t afford it” one sign chided) and the left lane was for passing only. I was also instructed to “Drive Friendly - The Texas Way.”

I barely finished reading the road signs when a billboard screamed at me CONGRATULATIONS YOU’RE A FELON.

What.

WTF just happened?! I wasn’t speeding, I wasn’t drinking, I wasn’t lollygagging in the left lane and I was driving as friendly as one could at 70 mph.

I finally realized, right, marijuana is legal is New Mexico, but not in Texas. The billboard was informing those who brought weed over the state line that in addition to the stricter driving laws, if you’re caught with pot, you will be arrested and charged with a felony.

How the heck has Willie Nelson lived here for so long. Ditto Matthew McConaughey. And Woody Harrelson while we’re at it.

I’m not a marijuana user, so my butt let go of the drivers seat cushion, but was still relieved for many to see the next billboard advertising a law firm specializing in representing folks who got picked up with pot.

Problem, meet solution.

I continued to “drive friendly” for miles. And more miles. And even more miles. Texas is big, any way you look at it. There’s caucasians and cows everywhere off the panhandle, gas is cheap, and dive-like restaurants in many places will serve the best steaks you’ve ever tasted in your life.

My old pal, the late and very great Micheal Smotherman, a multi-talented singer/songwriter with quite the creative catalog, used to tell me in his characteristic drawl about the state next door to his native Oklahoma, “They’re full of shit in Texas, but they make great steaks.”

I drove for a few hours, as the road signs got more surly (“Don’t Mess with Texas!”) and the temps rose.

By the time I stopped for the night my dog Peanut Butter Jackson was panting as I walked him through scrub grass where the grasshoppers were half his size and I continued to perspire in the late-afternoon heat.

As I turned on the A/C in a ramshackle, but very clean and over-priced motel room somewhere in Central Texas, I was aware I smelled like a hamster. Simply from driving. I don’t know how that happens.

The road continues.

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So be it.

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This one is gonna take a minute, so grab a cuppa or run for the hills.

Your choice, and whichever choice you make it’s the right one.

We all have those months of the year that are most evocative or poignant in our inner and outer world and August can be a weird month for me. I was born in August (howdy fellow Leos!) and it's my late husband John's birthday month as well.

We met one fine morning in August of 2003 and I will never forget that moment. It changed my life in an instant… and forever.

The anniversary of Katrina rolls around every August and for anyone who was there, forgetting is nigh impossible.

I lost my mum because of that storm.

She was injured in the hurricane and never really able to walk again and finally not at all. She died on the anniversary of the storm, giving the date that extra oomph of shock and sadness I didn’t really need.

Even without her injuries I'm not sure she would have survived. That storm broke her. For a long while it broke me too.

My experience is by far not the only sad story to come out of Katrina's widespread chaos and destruction.There’s still some 100 unidentified victims among the almost 2000 folks who lost their lives over seven states.

May we honour them all.

It’s been almost two decades since Katrina blew in and left so many lives, including my own, in shambles.

So how am I doing almost 20 years on?

I'm okay. More okay than you'd think, considering that Katrina was not my first trauma rodeo, and unfortunately she wasn’t my last.

Why am I doing okay?

EMDR.

May I explain?

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-Stevie Ray Vaughn (1983)-

One must admit that the ongoing work and outcomes from the terrible flooding in Texas is simply heartbreaking. There is no other word.

I've been in flood waters 3x and let me tell ya, it's nothing to mess around with.

If you've ever been in or witnessed a flood, you know it too. Oh, you do.

The first time was in New Orleans when my boyfriend and I were staying in a motel on Airline Highway while our apartment on Esplanade was readied.

The city flooded so badly that for a little while NOLA was cut off from the outside world. That could actually happen in the early 1980s.

I was too young to be afraid.

When we realized our motel room had gotten about 5 inches of water we peeked out the window at a parking lot that was a sea some 3-4 feet deep. We climbed out the window onto the hood of my car, which was rendered useless because it was filled with water that covered the seats.

Interestingly, the weather wasn't too bad.

We jumped into waist-deep water and started toward what we hoped would be higher ground.

We weren't alone. Other folks were wading down the streets and a couple even passed us in canoes. I was holding a towel over my head, figuring when we got to drier land I'd need it.

We finally got help and made our way to an Auntie's house in a nearby suburb where she fed us and we watched the news.

The second time I was trying to get some animals to safety in Mobile, AL., as a hurricane was winding down.

I nervously eyed the roadside ditches, which were filling fast, and listened to the radio as it blasted flash flood warnings while I made my way through the driving rain.

I made it to safety, but not because I was smart. I should not have been out there.

Be wiser than your faithful correspondent.

Don't do what I did.

The third time was the Big Daddy (or Big Mama) of wind and water, Hurricane Katrina.

A 30-foot wall of water hit Gulfport, Mississippi, pulling dozens of hotels and animals and buildings and railroad cars into the Gulf. I was in the neighbouring town where 16 feet of storm surge simply wiped out everything in sight.

I knew of, as every adult does, but had never seen the intense devastation that can be wreaked by water.

Water is one of the softest substances on earth and can take down a 60-unit apartment building and miles of bridges and houses in damn near no time flat.

I've seen it.

I've crawled over debris and stood in the middle of destruction so total that I didn't recognize a place that hours before I knew like the back of my hand.

If it wasn't for the Gulf of Mexico, which is how I had to orient myself, I wouldn't have known how to get to my own house. That's how bad it was.

I don't wish to be Lady Bummer but here's where I make yet another one of my PSAs about natural disasters.

Please make you have a plan, because as we've seen in Texas (and yesterday in New Mexico) in Western NC and Georgia last year with Helena, you can't count on being safe just because you're not on a coastline.

1.) Make sure your most important papers and meds are already in plastic bags at the beginning of Spring storm season and during Hurricane season.

2.) Keep a backpack with two flashlights in it, a bottle of water, a portable charger, sunscreen if you're a pale person, work gloves, glasses, and in my case, I keep a little floatation jacket for my dog, Peanut Butter Jackson.

3.) Do not turn off your phone at night.

Those weather alerts come in shrill and will wake you up.

Last week we had a flash flood warning at 2 AM here in New Mexico (in the high desert!) and it jarred me out of my slumber.

I went to the kitchen and looked out at the street rushing with water, but it seemed to me that the arroyos out here could handle it. I hoped so anyway.

Still, because I have hurricane trauma, I didn't go back to bed until 4 AM.

When waters rise you're often in a situation where no one can help you.

You have to make decisions, and make them fast. Being prepared helps a lot, especially if you're alone, elderly, disabled in some way or responsible for other pets or people.

I cannot stress to you enough how important it is to make some simple preps.

On the western Gulf Coast of Mississippi, at the police station where first responders were holed up to wait out Katrina, the water came in so fast a dozen or more folks were trapped in the very building they had hunkered down in.

And it was filling up.

The doors were blocked by water. There was no opening them. The station had bulletproof windows that they couldn't break to escape. They tried.

Finally the officers all lined up, aimed, and emptied their service revolvers in unison until they shattered a window enough for them to manage to get out

So. Yeah.

If I sound like I'm overreacting, trust I'm not.

As my dear mum used to say, "Mother Nature is far more powerful than thee."

Just prep and have a plan, folks.

Make it easier in case things get hard.

Have a great summer one and all, as ol’ Hank once said, “If the good Lord’s willin’ and the creek don’t rise” (song written by the wonderful Jerry Reed.)

xxx

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Forgive me. I must have been overcome by woke and caught a case of DEI instead of being the woman I should be -- pumped up with patriotism and Botox.

Once I consulted the Trump Bible ($59.95) and prayed over my $Trump meme coin (market price) I realized the error of my ways.

I got a peek at the offerings for our “Golden Age of Arts and Culture” at the Kennedy Center and admit it’s a bold and tantalizing choice to begin the season with the pro-USA stageplay “Little House on the Prairie Moved for Development” starring no less than Scott Baio as Laura Ingalls Wilder. Since women are no longer allowed onstage at the Center this tracks, but please know audience females will have our very own gender-secure restrooms (take THAT JK Rowling).

I really think Baio is a wonderful choice for the impish and bonneted Wilder. I have similar feelings about Mel Gibson playing Caroline, Laura’s mother.

I can’t wait.

One tingles to know they are proposing an incredible re-working of “The Sound of Music” where the Nazis catch the von Trapp family at the end. This artistic achievement will bring the audience to its feet and provide talking points in segregated schools for years to come!

Why? First, the Nazis will be played by real Nazis! And on nights when a Gestapo cast member might be busy hunting immigrants, Stephen Miller has kindly offered to goose step in.

Before each show, there will be a family-friendly sing-along, so bring all the kids and keep having more.

Enjoy traditional tunes like “What a Friend We Have In Jesus and President Trump,” “Jesus Loves the Little Children (as do a few suspected members of Congress)” and a rousing “Jews Will Not Replace Us” sung by torchlight. Enjoy!

For the music fans, Kid Rock will be in residence all year, taking a summer break to go to rehab, and Uncle Ted Nugent will take over to rock the house with all the songs he's written about Hillary Clinton. Nugent will finish his show each night setting a rainbow flag ablaze by shooting a flaming arrow out of his butt.

I cautiously admit he recently missed during a long night of rehearsal and hit Kristie Noem. It melted her facial fillers, but she's okay now.

Did I say women were not allowed on stage at the Kennedy Center?

Oh l correct myself.

Lindsey Graham’s one-woman show “Bring Me My Tissues I Have Daddy Issues” is sure to be a fan favourite, wherein Miss Graham talks about her rise to political power in the Deep South and shares make-up tips on how to find the perfect shade of foundation to highlight a red neck. She will also astound the audience with tales of how she managed to keep her dildo collection safe during the Civil War.

We sincerely hope all Americans will join us to celebrate the rich heritage of this country and take great pride in entertainment that reflects authentic American culture and celebrates the red, white & blue with an emphasis on white.

God Bless America and no one else!

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Y'all know how much I adore the American South. On occasion it makes me proud. Today is one of those days.

Senator Bradford Blackmon, a young (editorial note: and good-looking) lawmaker in the Magnolia State introduced a bill this week aimed at banning men from masturbation or other sexual acts if they have "no intent to fertilize an embryo."

The "Contraception Begins at Erection Act," would make it unlawful for y'all gentlemen to shake hands with Mr. Winky if you're not planning to increase the population of the fine, conflicted state of Mississippi.

I laughed so hard at the cleverness of Sen. Blackmon's pointed attempt to introduce men to the restrictive legality of forced reproduction and lack of access to contraception that women are facing in that state and others.

Please be aware in this bill there are fines involved if you are charged with windsurfing on Mount Baldy. It'll cost you $1,000 for the first offense and $5000 for the next time you scratch Yoda behind the ears.

If you absolutely insist on Celebrating Palm Sunday, a third offense is $10,000.

The clever Senator Blackmon is a Democrat (yes, we have them in Mississippi) and knows this bill is unlikely to pass the GOP-led Legislature, but if it did and was signed into law by Gov. Tate Reeves, a Republican, it would go into effect in July.

I am howling. And applauding.

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I understand.

Trump's first speech as the 47th President of the United States was just about what you would expect as he was handed the keys to the kingdom.

Border. Crime. Gender. Mars.

He declared that Mexican drug cartels would be designated as terrorists. A fine idea. But you know they work hand in hand with your pal China, right?

So I assume cartels must disband unless they're on TikTok.

He will declare a national emergency at the Southern border, he says. He shut down the app that allows migrants to legally (instead of illegally) enter the U.S., dissolving 4,000 applications into mist.

The "Remain in Mexico" policy will be revived. "Catch and release" will end. Millions of undocumented people, he told us, will be deported.

This hardline policy is likely the biggest reason Hair Hitler got re-elected, and what many -- in fact, more than not -- Americans want. Remember, he even received 46% of the Latino vote.

If he does it on the scale promised and it’s not limited to actual criminals, it's going to have an impact on the economy.

I'm not sure even his voters will enjoy that impact.

But we shall see.

He told us that gang activity in the USA will be eliminated. I support this. I'm not sure how they'll eliminate the GOP but I can't wait to see how Lindsey Graham fares in prison.

There will be U.S. policy proclaiming there are only two genders, male and female (in that order of importance, I have no doubt.)

You are assigned based on whether your body produces eggs or sperm.

They’re not even gonna bother with chromosomes. Too science-y.

Trump got a standing ovation by the gender Gestapo for this announcement, both in the Capitol and a nearby arena where his pronoun-insecure faithful gathered.

Let me sprinkle some facts into this convo.

There have been Trans citizens during every single Presidential administration this country has ever had -- and even before that. There will ALWAYS be genderqueer and Trans folks. Oh Donald, stop this silliness. Go sexually assault a hamberder or something.

He promised my beloved Gulf of Mexico would be renamed the Gulf of America. Hillary Clinton literally laughed out loud at this.

Me too, Hil.

Drill baby drill. This means some federal lands, formerly protected, will be damaged or destroyed. But why?

We are already the second biggest energy producer in the world.

The only reason we amp up drilling is to make oil barons and related corporations richer.

Wish voters understood destroying the land they live on to make people WHO AREN'T YOU richer is a terrible idea unless you think "Make America a Barren Wasteland" is a keen slogan.

I know the unaware cheer that it will reduce prices at the pump, but they may literally choke on their delight because it will increase pollution-related illnesses.

Fact. Look it up.

Harmful emissions come out of big oil drilling projects. EPA regulations keep them in check.

He's planning on relaxing EPA restrictions.

Trump said we will plant an American flag on Mars. First Lady Elon Musk cheered. He looked as happy as if he had good sense. Amazing to have enough cash to colonize Mars and not use it to make Earth better. What a guy.

"The Golden Age of America begins right now."

But whose Golden Age is this?

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Your faithful correspondent was fully awake in the middle of last night because I have lunar insomnia, so there I sat, drinking coffee and watching the Sky News morning show.

A Complete Unknown has been released in England, so the lively discussion for a segment between the news anchors, a Warwickshire professor, and a print journalist was “Is Bob Dylan As Good As Shakespeare?”

The perky professor sported overalls and an American-in-British-academia accent. I liked her. The subject is treated with a light gravity.

I never miss England quite so much as l do when watching Sky News or even when there’s a Royal scandal or some such extra fol-de-rol.

The Sky discussion reached an agreed-upon conclusion that no, Bob Dylan is not “as good as Shakespeare,” no one is, but it doesn’t matter…because he’s Bob Dylan. And Dylan is as meaningful a cultural figure as you’ll find in the 20th and 21st centuries.

But you know who isn’t as good as Shakespeare or Bob Dylan?

Neil fucking Gaiman.

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Writer D.G. Speirs once reminded readers of an old idiom: Never quarrel with a man who buys ink by the barrel.

In other words: never piss off a writer.

Make that a New Year's resolution if you will.

If they write fiction (I don't) the author will name a character after you, a character everyone despises. They'll then kill you off, naked, in a three-way with a prostitute and a possum where you get eaten by a cocaine-crazed crocodile that was trained by the cartels.

And the audience will cheer your demise.

If they write nonfiction (I do) the writer will tell the raw truth about you, laying bare your assholey-ness, your secrets, your lies, or whatever cudgel you use to hit other people with instead of doing a little therapeutic gazing in the mirror as most thinking humans do.

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Please don’t think I’m crazy, but I am bereft over losing the tough and sporty girl who was my “ride or die” during the most tumultuous decade of my life.

I bought the Juke when my husband was dying of brain cancer 10 years ago. In the uncertain final days of his life, his family and I brainstormed on how we could get him from our home in Atlanta back to the Native American reservation in New Mexico where he was from.

His Pueblo tribe, like most Indigenous peoples, have death rituals going back centuries. Tried and true, everyone knows what to do when someone passes into spirit. They spring into action and come together to honor, prepare, and bury their own.

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