Lucky Charms

I'm such a sucker for a foreign accent. I thought I'd matured beyond it. But now I see it isn't a maturity thing, it's just a thing. How can I help it, what with the Irish flooding me as they are. I might be an Eirophile. There might be a better term for it...

Last night Melissa and I saw Sons & Daughters, who rocked. I doubt I would have selected the male guitarist out of a crowd on the street, but when he played that guitar 0' rigor 'n' passion he made a face like he was having not just good sex but great sex. Christ, I say. I'm blushing.

Then, just minutes ago, one of the publishers of the journal I work for--who is in Ireland--called me with his real live voice. This comes after a series of friendly and anonymous no-voice e-mails. He startled me and I became like a young virgin girl first approaching that boy she's been crushing on for years. He said Cheers twice. (Do you hear the sultry dirty there?) He should have said more.

Don't tell Mark. Mark, don't tell Mark. We're all going to Ireland to somersault down lush green hills, drink dark beer, and speak sexy like saints, etc.

By "we" I mean either all of you or all of me.

Slan, as I've learned.