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Thin port. Thick explanation.

Thin port. Thick explanation.

Those lines have been running through my mind since I woke up this morning.  Don’t know what the dream was about, but note to self: no watching No Country for Old Men right before bed mkay?

It took me awhile, but I finally got the meaning of the title after thinking on Tommy Lee Jones’ completely still tone and timing of his scenes.  Even though Javier Bardem’s killer was slow and methodical; he was a jackrabbit compared to the molasses Sheriff.

I met Javier Bardem’s voice a few years ago in Collateral and have been mesmerized by it ever since.  Collateral is the movie where Tom Cruise has white hair, remember?  Like the first sighting of the shark in Jaws, and the conversation in the autoshop in 16 Candles (full range of my movie tastes here), there are scenes in Collateral that I can watch again and again.  Starting with Javier Bardem talking about “Santa Clouse” with Jamie Foxx pictured here.

His voice is like the silky running of water over creek stones and log jams.  You never want it to end, even when his psychopath is offering cryptic coin toss messages of fate and the evils of all men.  You just want the freak to whisper about the path and the journey and the inevitability of your own death forever.


Meet Bucky.

Named by his trigger-happy previous owner Buckshot; I pretend his name is short for Buckster, Buckbeak (Harry Potter fans?) or when the tennis shoes come out, Buckwild.

He would prefer to spend his days inside my mouth, but will settle for having his head permanently behind my kneecap, panting my calves into an early sweat.  He also loves to steal the Orbit gum from my purse. Quick and quiet, I often don’t even know until I turn around to kiss his big black nose and find the crime scene pictured here.

Although I have two kids now, Bucky is still the biggest baby in the family and will most likely be talked about here regularly.  Lovingly.  Laboradoringly.

My office got moved out of kid territory, which means out of dog hair territory too.  So, he’s not under my feet or wrestling with Rio the kitty as I write this.  Does anyone watch TV just to spend time with their dog?

Before I melt into slack-jawed, hazy-glazed, fetal position with dog on top, here’s a little mistake Bucky made on St. Joseph’s Day last year.  We had Indiana guests, and my purse was left in the pile of Abitas, paper towels, plastic trays and newspapers for the afternoon shrimp feast.  Bucky the intrepid reporter was tip-toeing around with my small green notebook in his mouth.  Most likely working on the afternoon scoop.