Music and passion were always the fashion at the Copa.

Well, jelly my belly on a ship made of Skittles. Can you taste the rainbow? Because I sure can't. In fact, I can't even differentiate the colours.

I got a comment recently, from someone named Alan. (You know who you are [said in melodramatically frightening tones]... Unfortunately, I don't know who you are, which is soooo much the problem here!)

Anyway, he informed me that he doesn't blog (which is okay by me, to each his own .. or her own ... or their brother's sister's cat's chewtoy's own [oh, and how it baffles the human mind that I could have just as easily said 'its own']). Which means I can't at all get back in touch with him. Because I have a few questions, to be honest.

Then, I thought, what would the barefoot contessa do? ... And it dawned on me.

She'd blog. So, Alan, if you can see this, I hope you'll get back to me. I'm not too good with smoke signals, but I will get a friend to help me with the flames if that's what it comes to.

One, thank you -- not just Alan, for this one, but anyone and everyone -- for commenting on my blog. Comments are joyous little sparks of ... joy (that wasn't redundant at all). Sure, I'm not throwing a cotillion or something of a similar effect, but it brings a smile to know someone somewhere near or far has read my blog and took the time to comment. It means Yoda has taught me well.

Two, I'd like to say, a lot of people have found my blog by accident. It might be the exact phrase used most often in the comments section. In fact, here's a mere sampling of the kind of stuff that goes on with this wandering of the web and stumbling upon the typed essence of my daily ramblings:

"Hey, you, just stopping by. You don't know me, but I read your blog religiously and I've even wrote a manifesto in your honour. It's on my mantle, and every night, I chant your name forty-two times and then cluck twice, to save all the chickens in the world, before going to sleep. By the way, I found your blog by accident. Have a nice day. Cluck, cluck."

So, it's safe to say, dear Alan, that you are not alone. Baa.

Three, point two was a blatant lie. No one can sue me. No one.

...But people do stumble upon my blog.

Four, you said that the right column of my blog is self-responses. It's not; it's a monologue from Good Will Hunting. Unlike the majority of women who went to see that movie because something in Brazil started throbbing when they saw Matt Damon shirtless, I went to see it because I have a learning ... speciality, if you will. Considering people will likely be able to find me through the Internet if I state just what, I'll just call it a "specialty". So, the gist is, I'm pretty darn clever. And that's not snobbery; it's factual. To be honest with you, if I didn't know it was a fact, I'd probably not say it, because I feel rather kooky, off-the-wall, and thus, less than Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind calibur at least ninetyish percent of the time. But, yes, Will Hunting (oh-so-fictional Will Hunting) and I have some commonalities, that's all. And the monologue was pretty moving for Robin Williams, whose always seemed to allot all his skill points into comedy. And I believe I just made the slightest video game reference. Huh. Well, I'll be damned.

Five, Alan, how exactly did you get the impression that I have run into some shallow men? I mean, yes, I have, but I'm sure you've run into plenty of shallow women. I'm sure that hasn't ruined womankind for you (or I, at least, hope not). I know some men who are really the nicest people on the face of the planet, as far as I'm concerned, and the majority of my friends are guys, actually. My boyfriend's included in that list, of course, and he's an angel by virtually any definition. You should see his halo and he looks kick-ass in that big, long, white, dress-like, robe thingy.

No, seriously, though; what gave you that idea? I don't know what I typed or implied in my typing that gave you this idea that I thought men were arrogant or ... I'm not sure your choice of adjective, but ... it's beyond me.

And, it's not to say that I haven't been majorly hurt by individuals of the male species. I most certainly have... but I've come to realize something about males like that. Not men, they aren't, not one little bit. Boys. Baby boys. Immature, irresponsible, unrespectful, and wasteful. Of my time, of their time, of virtually everyone's time.

I came to this judgment on my own. I didn't pull the whole "I am woman, hear me rant" bit and yammer to a bunch of bitters and cynicals to come up with this. It just came true to me in its own gradual time. And I like it that way most.

For, knowing this, I see the beauty in everyone, but I have an awareness of the 'boy' in everyone, too. (Or 'girl', if the term applies.)

Six, I know number five ran a bit long there and may not mean much to most, but I figured some things have to be said, even if it's just to hear it (and by "it", I mean "the clacking of the keys on my keyboard").

Alan, I hope you see now that "the picture I painted" is a sunny one. I'm not a thunder and lightening kind of gal.

You know what else needs to be said? She was a showgirl with yellow feathers in her hair... at the Copa, Copacabana. (I really need to learn all the lyrics to that song if I'm going to mock it relentlessly, as I do.)

Seven, Alan, you said that I may not read any value in this contact from someone who thinks he heard something in what you had to say. I gave you a blog entry. And am more than willing to communicate. So, value what you have to say..? You can determine that one for yourself.

Eight, I know you said you might not even come back to my blog again, and, granted, that's your choice. But it'd be nice. (Oh, get ready for it ... Modesty alert! Modesty alert! Stay inside your homes! Turn off all major appliances!) I'd like a second reader, ahem. Me reading my own stuff is getting old; I need a fresh pair of eyes.

Ooh, and that's the last item on my Christmas list!

Nine, oh, snicklefritz, it's getting late. I should shimmy my way to bed. Not saunter, not tip-toe, and definitely not walk. Shimmy. There's simply no better way.

Ten, yay. I really wanted to make it to ten. How O.C.D. of me. Nightie night in shining armour!