I really have nothing profound to write. I am simply letting my readers know that I am still among the quick. I did see the Russian Cutie yesterday. She now owns the bar at the City Museum in St. Louis. The City Museum for those of you who do not know is a combination museum and funhouse. From the volume of screaming kids I heard, it seems to be more funhouse than museum, and so one can readily understand the pressing necessity for a bar nearby. The parents need a respite from the din or a place where they can belt up in order to cope with the din. The Russian Cutie, in fact, calls it an oasis. Judging by how many kids were running about in wild and shrill abandon, I'd say she should make a killing.
Especially if she wears that pink shirt, short enough to reveal her lithe midriff and diaphanous enough to reveal the color of her aureoles. That will make the dads want to stay longer or volunteer repeatedly to get drinks for their dehydrated, bawling brats (she does sell bottled water and soda, as well).
Anyway, I had a Blue Moon. Did not chat with her much. She was too busy. But I didn't mind that much. Her aureoles kept me sufficiently busy. She did tell me that I should check out the Museum, that it was very cool with all this old junk renovated and put to lots of interesting uses. And all I could think about was all the interesting uses to which I could put those constant aureoles. Because I am not talking about aureoles that artists use to indicate the saintliness of their subjects, I will have to go to confession. And as beautiful as those halos were, I did not leave a tip. She might think that I should confess my ingratitude as well.
Speaking of which, if you are Catholic in St. Louis and need to be shrived quickly, go to the Old Cathedral to Father Quirk. He just gives you a Pater noster and absolution. The bare minimum, and you're out in two minutes, if that. No matter what you confess, his penance is always one Our Father (That's the Lord's Prayer for you Prots). I've always wanted to test this by confessing a string of murders, rapes, and sundry acts of terrorism to see if that would make him say something more than, "Say one Our Father. Now let me hear your act of contrition." And then say that I just committed sacrilege by giving a false confession. Maybe he'd give me TWO Our Fathers. Maybe.
Finally, I must note the return of Father V. to MySpace. He's been back for nearly a week and a half, and I have not baited him yet. But I will. He's a Catholic Priest, so I have to treat him a little bit better than I do my Protestant Stalker, but, since his heroes include neo-con assholes like Neuhaus and Novak, not by much. At least my Protestant Stalker realizes why people hate Israel. Father V. apparently thinks hatred of a brutal apartheid regime is simply unintelligible. But I should cut Father V. some slack. Maybe during his absence he read something other than the drivel in the pages of First Things and learned that the moral case for modern Zionism is really utter nonsense. And, perhaps, too he has learned finally that we were lied into the Iraq War, that reasonable people cannot in good conscience disagree about the justice of such an obvious injustice, and that, therefore, people like Richard John Neuhaus are irrational psychopaths. Perhaps. One can only hope.