One of my husband's great loves is music. He has a prodigious music collection. When it comes to music trivia, you can't beat him. (Try it. Post your question in the comments. I double-dare you.)

If there's one thing it's easy to twist his arm into, it's buying music.

So I just asked him why he hadn't downloaded EmmyLou Harris singing Long Black Veil for me, a song I had parked on my work computer in the bad old days of Napster.

He headed directly for the office, logged into iTunes...and couldn't find it. iTunes. Supposedly it's full of good music. But it's low on EmmyLou Harris. Ugh.

I googled it and, doncha know, someone has posted the recording on YouTube. It's been so long since I've heard it, I'd forgotten it was a live recording with Dave Matthews.

For your listening pleasure:

Trixie Pye, Trixie Pye

The cat population in America has lost a good one this week. In fact, she's the only cat I've ever loved.

My roommate and I got her when she was around six-months-old and a friend of ours couldn't handle the cat and a new baby. By taking her in we saved her from the name Plasma, and after a week of brainstorming I named her Trixie Pye. It was the perfect name for her, with just enough sass to match her own. Thin and stately, it didn't take her long to find her own among my roommate's other two felines.

Over time she plumped up. I mean really plumped up. But she still maintained her kitten-like face, and that was the cutest thing about her. When I still lived with Trixie she slept in my room every night. Which means each morning I was awakened to her "making biscuits" on my chest. It annoyed me to no end, but she had a face that was hard to stay angry at.

Unfortunately, she recently contracted FIV, "kitty AIDS," and in the last few months she lost over half of her body weight. FIV is transmitted through biting, which means some cat out there is responsible for her demise. I've decided it would be unwise to go all Ahab on his ass, but the idea is tempting.

It's impossible to say her name only once. Trixie Pye, Trixie Pye just rolls off the tongue. And I will miss saying it.

Dude.

When I worked in Alexandria, Tucker and I shared an office. In those tight quarters we laughed a lot, griped a lot and fought like brother and sister. I sometimes liked to refer to him as a one-trick pony and that trick was the legalization of marijuana.

It was unfair but nothing could rile him like suggesting that pot is dangerous.

That was a prologue into this, which you should read at Ocular Fusion. Mike is an eye doctor. Two guesses says he's not for legalizing pot.

But pot smokers are always good for a laugh. There is that.

Armchair critics are not that interesting. This is not to say all professional critics are either, but there are so many of us who read, watch, and listen, all with opinions on everything, it does get tiresome listening. Or being ignored.

I knew this, but I've posted reviews anyway. This was a mistake. I read blogs because I am interested in cleverly-written tales of writers' experiences. Their opinions, yes, but mostly entertaining and instructive experiences that are unique to them.

It wasn't Superman I should have reviewed, it was the foray into the crowded lobby, the total ignorance of the employees, the tacky 3-D glasses, the cheering.

This weekend my husband I bought two copies of Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows. We were watching a couple of girls (parents gone for the night) and didn't think we'd brave the 12:01 book launch at Wal-Mart. I would have to settle for the morning. Sigh.

As 12:00 approached, it made less sense to wait. So we warned the eldest, locked the doors and drove through the warm night. The back of the store was crowded and we got in line. We hunted for the wrist bands that guaranteed our books, and they had Hogwarts' House names on them. We were Slytherin, which seemed unfortunate at the time.

Back at home we devoured the first chapter. One chapter, we told ourselves, and moved rapidly to the second. Forcing ourselves to stop we said goodnight and spent the rest of the next day with the girls...and stealing moments to read. In the bathroom. Before lunch. While they were watching a movie.

The moment they left, Jon flopped himself on the couch and I leaned back in the rocking chair, and we read. For five hours we read. At a quarter after 1:00 in the morning, we dragged ourselves away and tried to sleep. My dreams were strange.

We read some on Sunday, which didn't seem like Sunday reading, but I was sorely tempted. Exercising some restraint, however, we waited until this afternoon to finish.

It was very satisfying, but the best part was reading alongside my husband in a silence broken only by our gasps and whoops or to stop and compare notes.

To my recollection there has only been one other person I could read, and do nothing else, with, and we haven't been friends since girlhood.

This was special. This was a memorable story, the end of a series that I felt as much affection for as any loyal reader. And, I am giving nothing away here, the end of a good book is always sad.

But for the first time I ended that journey with my best friend on the other side of the room.

I Have Finished The Deathly Hallows

I will say nothing. But who else has finished it? Comment and let me know. Now.

Marital bliss - the 82 1/2 year kind

I think I can safely say that we all wish for the kind of life that Clarence and Mayme have experienced. I might take exception with the no drinking part. Come to think of it, every time I make tacos and we DON'T have Coronas we have an argument. =)

"We'll just set aboot ye!"

Saturday before last a baggage handler and Scotsman named John Smeaton was standing in front of Glasgow Airport smoking a cigarette when he saw a Jeep burst into flames not far from him. The driver, on fire, miraculously appeared from within and was soon being pursued by a police officer. The officer caught up with the assailant, an al Qaeda operative, who then began to pummel the lawman.

As the bizarre scene unfolded before him, Smeaton, by his own admission, tried to sort it out in his head. When he did, he took action, kicking the al Qaeda member and unwittingly turning himself into a hero for the times. Smeaton’s message to terrorists, according to the July 7/8 Wall Street Journal article highlighting him was, “You come to Glasgow; we don’t stand for it. We’ll just set aboot ye.”

Smeaton already has a spot on Wikipedia, not to mention at least one website - http://www.johnsmeaton.com/ - set up in his honor within days of his heroics and asking everyone who enters to buy him a pint.

Also circulating on the Internet is this Robert Burns-esque ode:

Twas doon by the inch o’Abbots
Oor Johnny walked one day
When he saw a sicht that troubled him
Far more than he could say . . .
Now that’s not richt wur Johnny cried
And sallied tae the fray
A left hook and a heid butt
Required tae sae the day
Now listen up Bin Laden
Yir sort’s nae wanted here
For imported English radicals
Us Scoatsman huv nae fear

Some are calling Smeaton Glasgow’s Jack Bauer. I say, raise a glass to him and gis uh a wee swalley!