I will wipe up the dead moth and warm up the little black skillet in anticipation of your return.

We will sort out the whisky matter in private. Until we do, I hope a chilled bottle of pinot gris will do the trick.

Affectionately yours,
Mrs. Scatter

p.s. You can’t fool me about Miss Julie London. She has boobs a mile wide.

No, this blog does not make you look fat.

Really. I truly mean that.

Love,
Mr. Scatter

LaValle has shamed me into an early return. I have been selfish, logging all these miles with no side-seat commentator to critique my driving decisions. I am ashamed.

I am sitting in a little local coffee shop called “Starbucks” in the bustling burg of Centralia, Washington, determined to continue my southward journey soon. I have left a place called “Puget Sound” which appears to be a 65-mile-long parking lot, or something people in Seattle and environs refer to as “normal.”

This “Starbucks,” it seems, is also a wayside on “the information superhighway.” Are you familiar with this mode of mass transit? I remain puzzled about the Maker’s Mark. Is the bottle or is the bottle not empty?

Looking forward to a swift return,
I remain,

Yours truly, etc., etc.,

Mr. Scatter

P.S.: I have been admiring the portrait of Miss Julie London above. My, but that woman can sing!

And then I feel much better.

Last comment: the technical aspect of a show in the Bowmer is a separate treat that never grows old.

Heidi, sounds like we just missed you. If we were there at the same time, you may have been the only Portlander we DIDN’T run into.

George, thanks. One of the most disturbing things about “Merchant” is the way like just goes on after Shylock’s humilation, as if once the trickster was outtricked, everything was just sunrise and roses. One of the reasons I like Bill Rauch’s straightforward approach to the script so much is that it allows the story to pretty much play itself out, and prompts the audience to think about WHY it plays out that way. I really think we need to understand history before we can jufge it, and this production is illuminating.

I am sitting in a coffee house somewhere in the wilds of the middle of the last century. I asked for Sanka but they didn’t know what I meant. This coffee house is “hooked up” to something called “the information superhighway,” which apparently was invented by something called a “gore” and allows me to communicate with you through the ether. No, I don’t understand it. My old friend Ben Franklin didn’t really understand electricity, either, but he figured out how it works.

I thought the moth had flown through the open window. Apparently not. I’m sure Judy Garland throws a mean hatchet. Why are you throwing away the lid to the Maker’s Mark? Last time I looked the bottle was forty percent full. Is something rotten in the state of Kentucky?

Please order “Sin Death and the Devil” for me. You can put it on my account.

Don’t worry; I’ll be coming home. But not, I hope, before Tuesday.

Love,
Mr. Scatter