Print Page - Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center

CAMELOT FANTASIES => Eros & Aphrodite Erotic Romance Center => Topic started by: Clay Death on December 31, 2015, 10:45:40 pm

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: DaddysKitten on May 30, 2022, 11:05:53 pm

Quote from: Regan OLeary on January 15, 2016, 04:50:53 pm

SOUTHERN SAYINGS
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I thought I would explain, and possibly de-mystify, some misconceptions about Southern sayings.

Yes, I say y'all, and I say it often. In the South, y'all can be singular or referring to a small group of people. All y'all is plural and typically refers to a group larger than five. I also say I reckon, as in: I reckon so, and fixin': I'm fixin' to start a pot of coffee. And, I will start that pot of coffee drectly, meaning I will get to it directly, as soon as I get back from seeing Mommanem: Mama and them.

I don't go to juke joints, which are rural bars, often owned by wonderfully vibrant characters who always have a story to make you chuckle. The reason I avoid the juke joints: because my husband would pitch a hissy-fit, or have a conniption, prompting him to say: "Eh! you'd be three sheets to the wind," or better yet: "Act like you got some raising!" Of course, that would lead to a falling out, or a disagreement, and I would go off half-cocked and say, "Ya don't know your ass from a hole in the ground," which is simply a way of saying: "You don't know what you are talking about."

I do piddle, but not often. I simply don't have time to waste messin' around, doing nothing - but I embrace the idea. I truly want to piddle more: maybe even get punished and sent to my room - but my husband and children won't let me go to my room. Probably because there is always something tore slap up! Things are never broken in the south, just tore slap up. And Mama's got to fix 'em.

Piddling makes me think of words like sorry, bad, and trifling. In the south, these words are very closely related, but there is a difference. Sorry is just plain lazy and worthless. Bad is the additional adjective you add to something that is already no good. Trifling, well that is just plain useless. If I were to say: "You're a trifling, sorry, bad-ugly cuss!" - yeah, it's not a compliment. Trust me! This is coming from a woman who can start an argument in an empty house!

I am not Cajun or Creole but know where the bayou's yat, I eat King cake, I appreciate langiappe, and I love the Big Easy, a.k.a. N'awlins. I do live in da Parish, I collect Doubloons, hurricanes make me think of Pat O'Brians instead of stocking up on batteries and water, and I know how to laissez les bon temps rouler (let the good times roll), when I pass a good time with my friends. I don't own a pirogue and no, I don't have alligators in my backyard. However, when asked, I have been known to spin a wild and colorful tale about my pet gators.

And finally, bless your heart! I am always tickled reading the online explanations for this southern phrase. For decades, southern women have said, "Bless your heart!" It is truly used to express concern, to show sorrow at hearing troubling news, or to console someone who has given their best effort only to be disappointed with the result. Contrary to the web searches you might find, it never implies insult or malice to the person it is directed to, even if that person isn't present in the conversation. For instance:

"He worked so hard to get that little girl's attention, and she treated him like a rotten sack of potatoes!"

"Oh, bless his heart!"

I find it amusing when the phrase is explained as an insult, such as, "screw you" or "you're stupid" because if you know southerners, particularly southern women, we don't mince words. If we want to express love and concern for your situation, we say, "bless your heart!". If we want to express our regret with your lack of intelligence, we say, "Oh, darlin', you're just a dumbass!"

I have only touched the tip of the iceberg; there are dozens of these southern colloquialisms that are humorous, sometimes sad, but always entertaining. Don't think for a moment that southerners who use these expressions are inferior or uneducated. It is simply a language of a colorful and unique heritage that is as intriguing as its people. From my neck of the woods, to yours! I wish you joie de vivre, the joy of living, and merci beaucoup!

See more at ReganOLeary.com

Bless your heart, ThanQ

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on March 19, 2016, 01:02:27 pm

Read an excerpt from What One Leaves Behind A Bane Shaw Novel - Coming Summer 2016

http://reganoleary.com/2016/03/10/what-one-leaves-behind-excerpt-from-chapter-22-isu-assassin-squad/

The adventure continues as Bronagh & Shaw travel to Glasgow for their wedding. But here is the question...Do IRA assassin squads still exist in Ireland?

On July 1st, Bronagh sat alone in the kitchen of the duplex. Conner had gone into the city for some groceries. She planned to cook. Bronagh had become bored eating out, and she missed cooking. She decided she wanted to cook a traditional south Louisiana meal for Conner, but mainly, she wanted to keep herself busy. Gumbo was out of the question since young, tender okra would be near impossible to find in Ireland. She decided on a simple chicken and sausage jambalaya with traditional French bread. Even with the unavailability of andouille sausage, Conner assured Bronagh he could find a decent, highly seasoned smoked sausage in Galway. Not likely. I’m a long way from LaPlace. LaPlace, Louisiana, the andouille capital of the world: an hour’s drive southeast from her home in Livingston Parish, but, she would manage, she decided, with whatever sausage Conner purchased.
She thought of Shaw’s upcoming birthday; he would be fifty on Saturday. She fought back tears and ignored the car in the driveway, assuming it was Conner returning to the duplex. Bronagh jumped, startled by the hammering on the door. She peered out the window at Jimmy pounding on the duplex door. His face was like stone when she answered.
“Where’s Conner?” he asked.
“In the city. What’s wrong, Jimmy? What are you doing here?” Bronagh asked.
“Get Conner on the phone, Bronagh!” Jimmy said, looking around the duplex. “And take off that damned cross!”
Bronagh handed Jimmy the phone.
“Conner, stay in the city,” Jimmy said. “Do not come back to the duplex until Bronagh calls you!” He hung up the phone and looked at Bronagh. “Take off that cross, Bronagh, now!” Jimmy shouted.
Her spine stiffened, and she unlatched the clasp on the silver rope chain. Jimmy grabbed Bronagh’s arm and led her into the bedroom. He snatched her Celtic cross from her hand, lifted the mattress and tossed it on top of the box springs, releasing the mattress to crash down on top of the bed’s foundation.
“What the hell is going on, Jimmy?” Bronagh asked again.
Jimmy pulled a large silver crucifix and a beaded rosary from his pocket and tossed them on the dresser. “Get undressed!”
“What? No!”
Jimmy grabbed Bronagh’s shoulders. “Get undressed and get in bed! I don’t have time to explain!”
She glared at Jimmy with her hand on her hip. “You’d better find time to explain, Jimmy!”
He looked at Bronagh. “I got word in Belfast that one of your neighbors along the lake saw you wearing your cross and attending service at the local Methodist church. They learned I had rented you this duplex. They suspect I’m an informer: passing on information to you!”
“Who, Jimmy? What are you talking about?” Bronagh asked, utterly confused.
“An ISU is coming down from Roscommon,” Jimmy said. “For the love of God, woman, get undressed and in that bed!”
“ISU?”
“Internal Security Unit. The Brotherhood.” Jimmy said, undressing and messing up the sheets on the bed.
“What? Oh, Jesus!” Bronagh began to appreciate Jimmy’s concern when he stood before her, naked, save his underwear. “I told Conner I didn’t need this crap in my life! What in the hell have you and Conner gotten me involved in?” she said.
“I didn’t write the green book, love. I’m sorry. Please get undressed.” Jimmy heard car doors shutting outside on the driveway. “Bronagh, now!” Jimmy crawled underneath the sheets on the bed.
Bronagh stripped away her outer garments and climbed under the sheets near Jimmy.
He put his arm around Bronagh’s shoulders and crossed himself. “Keep your mouth shut. Let me do the talking, love. I don’t want to be a stiff at the hands of my brothers!” Jimmy listened for the number of footsteps he could distinguish. Five men, he thought. Two stay outside, three come in. He looked at Bronagh. “In Belfast, you called me a pig. Now would be a good time to pretend you find me charming!”
When Jimmy heard the front door slam open, he pulled Bronagh close to him and kissed her, just as three masked men kicked open the bedroom door.
“Hello, Jimmy,” said the tall masked man holding the micro Uzi.
“What the hell is this?” Jimmy asked.
“Uprooting an informer!” the tall man said.
“Informer?” Jimmy cackled.
“You think this is funny Jimmy?” he said pointing his Uzi at Jimmy’s head.
“You obviously know me, brother, but I don’t know you! And I doubt the three of you have ever met! So, aye, I know what this raid means. And, aye! I find it funny!” Jimmy said, still laughing. “What do you think you’ve found, here?”
“You are renting to a Protestant Irish-American, touting information,” the tall man said.
“You mean a Catholic Irish-American. That I am. And, I’m, umm, more than just ‘renting’ to her.” Jimmy chuckled, stroking Bronagh’s neck and hair. “The only turning I’ve done is when she rolls me over, if you get my meaning.” Jimmy looked at Bronagh and stroked her sheet-clad hip. “And, the only secret she knows: I’m a fast lover when I get between the sheets with her.”
The gray-masked man spoke. “Where’s the cross?”
“What cross?” Jimmy asked.
The man with the gray mask glared at Bronagh. “Where’s your cross, ****?”
Bronagh glared back. “On the dresser!”
He turned, picked up the crucifix and the rosary, showing it to the other men. Jimmy studied their reactions carefully. He knew the third man, holding the AK-47 with the standard 30-round magazine resting on his hip, would never speak; he was the assassin. Their eyes revealed questions. Jimmy could see them doubting the reliability of the information they were given.
Bronagh saw their doubt, too. “My wallet is in my purse. I’d appreciate you not stealing my cross!” Bronagh said.
Jimmy squeezed her hand, wanting her silence.
“What?” The tall man asked.
“Take whatever you came for, but leave my cross, please,” Bronagh said, terrified.
The tall man pointed at the crucifix. “This is important to you?”
“Of course!” Bronagh said. “My mother gave me that cross!”
Jimmy’s body was rigid. He didn’t want Bronagh engaging in conversation with these dangerous men.
“How do you know Jimmy?” the tall man asked.
Bronagh looked at Jimmy, smiled and stroked his chest. “Jimmy’s an old friend.”
“Friend, huh?”
“A friend with benefits,” she said, kissing Jimmy’s cheek. Bronagh looked back to the tall man. “He’s my lover when I visit Ireland.”
The gray-masked man holding the crucifix leered at Bronagh. “I don’t trust her!”
Bronagh snapped her head in his direction and glared at him. “You don’t trust me? You barge into my bedroom while I’m making love to my man, masked, wielding weapons, and you don’t trust me?” She turned to Jimmy. “You were right, baby. Not all Irishmen are as charming and endearing as you are!” Bronagh kissed him, hoping her trembling hand wasn’t too obvious.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” The gray-masked man asked.
Bronagh released the clasp she had on Jimmy’s lips, eased up in bed, pulled the sheet to her shoulders, and leaned on her supposed lover’s chest. She leered at the man. “What do I mean? You bust in here and want to know what I mean?”
Jimmy pulled at Bronagh’s arm and growled at her. “Leave this alone, Bronagh!”
“No, Jimmy!” She looked at the gray-masked man. “It means you’re rude and ill-mannered! You act more like those crude thugs in London than an Irishman!”
Jimmy squeezed Bronagh’s hand hard. We’re dead! We are dead! But at least I get to die like I wanted: lying in bed next to a beautiful woman! Jimmy started laughing when he saw the gray-masked man chamber a round in the 9 mm he pulled from the back of his jeans.
His compatriot waved the pistol down. “What’s so funny, Jimmy?” The tall man asked.
Through fits of laughter, Jimmy said, “You’ve done it now! You insult her by calling her a Protestant and a ****…,” Jimmy shielded his mouth and whispered, as though Bronagh couldn’t hear him. “She thinks you’re here to rob her: you are still holding her cross, after all!” He resumed his normal tone, “But, what’s worse: you’ve shattered her romantic beliefs that all Irishmen are irresistible.”
Bronagh playfully poked Jimmy. “Indeed! I certainly don’t expect Irishmen to act like this!” She turned and looked at the three masked men, her heart racing and her stomach knotted with fear. “You should be ashamed of yourselves!” She shot a small glance at the man who wouldn’t speak, but only for a second.
The men exchanged glances, then the tall man chuckled. Bronagh’s southern accent and her innocence had almost convinced them she was oblivious to the seriousness of this raid. They were there to rob her. But, they were also certain she didn’t realize it was to rob her of her life.
The gray-masked man glared at Bronagh. “I don’t give a **** about this crucifix and these beads! I don’t reason her a Catholic! And I think Jimmy is lying!”
The tall man stopped laughing and looked at the AK-47 man. Bronagh saw dread enter Jimmy’s eyes. She smiled and stroked the side of his face. Jimmy had no way of knowing how many Catholic Masses she had attended with Shaw.
“Perhaps, he needs us to pray for him, baby,” she said to Jimmy. Bronagh whispered in Jimmy’s ear, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…,” She let her words trail off when she began kissing Jimmy’s neck and ear, still stroking his face.
“Oh! Jesus!” Jimmy said. He grabbed Bronagh’s neck, kissed her wildly, and crushed his **** in the side of her leg, finding her petting, and her ability to pray like a Catholic arousing, given their circumstances.
“Anyone can memorize a Hail Mary from watching enough television!” The gray-masked man shouted.
Jimmy groaned when Bronagh broke her clasp on his lips, turned slowly, and stared at the man. “Sounds like you need the Penitential Rite, you ass! Shall I pray with you?” Bronagh said, peering at him.
The gray-masked man darted toward Bronagh, furious with her for calling him an ass, but the tall man put his hand on his associate’s chest, stopping his advance. He looked hard at Bronagh and nodded, expecting her to deliver her claim.
Bronagh smiled weakly at the tall man, grateful he had stopped his angry accomplice. She became very reverent and held her dark eyes on the tall man when she spoke again. “I confess to almighty God, and to you…,” she paused and looked at all three men standing over her bed, and she continued when she looked back to the tall man. “…my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do—”
“Enough!” The third man broke his silence. He turned and left the bedroom. The other two men turned to follow him.
“Are you really going to steal my cross?” Bronagh asked the gray-masked man, still clutching Jimmy’s crucifix.
He paused and looked at the crucifix and rosary still in his hand. He threw them at Bronagh. She snatched them from the air.
“I didn’t realize there were names for that ****,” he said to Bronagh.
“Maybe you should spend more time in Mass than you do ruining the holidays of tourists visiting your country!” Bronagh reprimanded.
He permitted a slight nod and left the house.
Bronagh shook when she heard the car engine start. Jimmy jumped up and walked to the living room window where he watched the assassin squad back out of the driveway. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen and raced back to the bedroom. Bronagh was gripping a pillow and trembling. Jimmy handed her the bottle. She jerked it from his hand, and he watched her take a long pull, straight from the bottle, like a man might, instead of the glass-drinking lady he knew Bronagh to be. He pulled on his jeans and sat next to her. Jimmy exhaled a hoarse sigh, pulled Bronagh’s shaking body to his, and kissed the top of her head.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on February 21, 2016, 10:57:08 am

I like fish & lobster too, Clay but I like crab as well.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on February 21, 2016, 10:50:20 am

Ah! Ya haven't had my crawfish! They would change your mind!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on February 17, 2016, 10:47:29 pm

Quote from: Regan OLeary on February 17, 2016, 07:34:43 pm

We call them Crawfish, Ditchbugs, Crawdads, Mudbugs, or Louisiana lobsters - but for the love of a spicy tail - never call them crayfish! That's just wrong! Sinfully wrong and usually spills out of the mouth from individuals who hail from north of the Mason-Dixon line where they likely pronounce pecan: pee-can!

If there is one food synonymous to Louisiana, it's crawfish. Our state harvests approximately 120 million pounds in a typical season. It is a staggering number even when you consider this yield comes from over 100,000 acres of crawfish pounds, and from our vast natural wetlands like the Atchafalaya Basin. And consider this: the Atchafalaya stretches over an impressive one million acres, snaking through fourteen of Louisiana's sixty-four parishes from the Gulf of Mexico north to Avoyelles parish.

A popular saying in Louisiana: 'suck the heads and pinch the tails' or how to properly eat crawfish. Once you separate the head from the tail, you suck the head to enjoy the succulent fat and the peppery juices that collect there from the boiling process. Grasping the bottom tip of the tail while using your teeth to pull the flesh out of the shell requires a bit of skill, dexterity, and practice. Trust me - it's worth the effort to learn how to pinch a tail correctly!

Before the onslaught of the inferior Chinese crawfish a few years ago, Louisiana fishermen supplied 90% of the world's crawfish. In the early 1980's I worked for foreign owned export company as their head of personnel. It was a brilliant operation with a "secret" dill sauce splashed over huge, steam-cooked, 15-count crawdads, and flash-frozen in nitrogen freezing tunnels. That product was shipped to Scandinavian countries for the astounding price of $ 25.00 per pound. A tidy profit considering the fisherman raked in $.65 per graded pound and facilities like ours exported 14 million pounds of crawfish each year!
Crawfish season in Louisiana usually runs from February to June, depending on the weather. Rainfall and warm temperatures mean an early and bountiful crop of feisty freshwater bottom-feeders. This year, for instance, we have enjoyed boiled crawfish beginning in early January.

If you live in south Louisiana and plan on hosting a crawfish boil, you know it is going to be a glorious day. You may have read Creole recipes that begin: "First, you start with a roux…" Usually, that is true in preparing an authentic south Louisiana dish, but not so for boiled crawfish. First, you start with beer! When I boil crawfish, I always drink a beer. I'm not a big beer drinker, I prefer wine, but crawfish means beer drinking. It also means seasoning - lots of spicy pepper, hence my desire for beer! A pot big enough to accommodate a 30 pound sack of crawfish is heavy when it's full of boiling water. Get men to help - again, beer makes enlisting said men an easy task! Commercial bagged seasoning, salt, lemons, garlic, onions, corn-on-the-cob and red potatoes are standard ingredients in the pot. I also add whole carrots, asparagus, whole mushrooms, and sometime sausage links. Because only about 15% of the crawdad is edible, thirty pounds is enough to feed six people. A crawfish boil is a day-long event when all of your family and friends are invited - a happy and unique party - a laid-back gathering with good food, great company and cold beer!
Interested in Crawfish Recipes? Leave me a comment! Have a blessed day!

crawfish is so popular here on the coast.

it is popular in New Orleans also. I grew up in New Orleans and still I could never get used to the taste of crawfish.

just give me fish or lobster.

;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on February 17, 2016, 07:34:43 pm

We call them Crawfish, Ditchbugs, Crawdads, Mudbugs, or Louisiana lobsters - but for the love of a spicy tail - never call them crayfish! That's just wrong! Sinfully wrong and usually spills out of the mouth from individuals who hail from north of the Mason-Dixon line where they likely pronounce pecan: pee-can!

If there is one food synonymous to Louisiana, it's crawfish. Our state harvests approximately 120 million pounds in a typical season. It is a staggering number even when you consider this yield comes from over 100,000 acres of crawfish pounds, and from our vast natural wetlands like the Atchafalaya Basin. And consider this: the Atchafalaya stretches over an impressive one million acres, snaking through fourteen of Louisiana's sixty-four parishes from the Gulf of Mexico north to Avoyelles parish.

A popular saying in Louisiana: 'suck the heads and pinch the tails' or how to properly eat crawfish. Once you separate the head from the tail, you suck the head to enjoy the succulent fat and the peppery juices that collect there from the boiling process. Grasping the bottom tip of the tail while using your teeth to pull the flesh out of the shell requires a bit of skill, dexterity, and practice. Trust me - it's worth the effort to learn how to pinch a tail correctly!

Before the onslaught of the inferior Chinese crawfish a few years ago, Louisiana fishermen supplied 90% of the world's crawfish. In the early 1980's I worked for foreign owned export company as their head of personnel. It was a brilliant operation with a "secret" dill sauce splashed over huge, steam-cooked, 15-count crawdads, and flash-frozen in nitrogen freezing tunnels. That product was shipped to Scandinavian countries for the astounding price of $ 25.00 per pound. A tidy profit considering the fisherman raked in $.65 per graded pound and facilities like ours exported 14 million pounds of crawfish each year!
Crawfish season in Louisiana usually runs from February to June, depending on the weather. Rainfall and warm temperatures mean an early and bountiful crop of feisty freshwater bottom-feeders. This year, for instance, we have enjoyed boiled crawfish beginning in early January.

If you live in south Louisiana and plan on hosting a crawfish boil, you know it is going to be a glorious day. You may have read Creole recipes that begin: "First, you start with a roux…" Usually, that is true in preparing an authentic south Louisiana dish, but not so for boiled crawfish. First, you start with beer! When I boil crawfish, I always drink a beer. I'm not a big beer drinker, I prefer wine, but crawfish means beer drinking. It also means seasoning - lots of spicy pepper, hence my desire for beer! A pot big enough to accommodate a 30 pound sack of crawfish is heavy when it's full of boiling water. Get men to help - again, beer makes enlisting said men an easy task! Commercial bagged seasoning, salt, lemons, garlic, onions, corn-on-the-cob and red potatoes are standard ingredients in the pot. I also add whole carrots, asparagus, whole mushrooms, and sometime sausage links. Because only about 15% of the crawdad is edible, thirty pounds is enough to feed six people. A crawfish boil is a day-long event when all of your family and friends are invited - a happy and unique party - a laid-back gathering with good food, great company and cold beer!
Interested in Crawfish Recipes? Leave me a comment! Have a blessed day!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on February 17, 2016, 07:31:55 pm

I love Daffodils too! Yellow roses for friendship - covers the spectrum of emotion I think.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on February 17, 2016, 05:58:36 am

Daffodils are my favourite flower but yellow roses are my favourite roses too as yellow is my favourite colour, Regan.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on February 16, 2016, 07:17:41 pm

Thank you my dear! You never forget Yellow roses are my favorite! :-*

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on February 10, 2016, 10:47:40 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on February 10, 2016, 01:31:01 am

Quote from: Regan OLeary on February 08, 2016, 10:03:10 am

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EAT New Orleans!
[/b]

Whether you are visiting New Orleans, Louisiana for the Mardi Gras Carnival season, or taking in a New Orleans Saints football match, or simply enjoying a romantic weekend at one of the Vieux Carré's historic hotels, leave plenty of time to eat New Orleans!
When I travel, either here or abroad, my destinations are determined by food. Yes, attractions factor in to my choice of places to visit, but I always eat my way through a city. Luckily for me, New Orleans is less than 80 miles from my home. No other city in the world has more culinary offerings waiting to be had than The Big Easy.

I could literally write a book on the best restaurants in NOLA, what to sip and sample, and what to gorge on, but instead I share with you a taste of some of my favorites. Enjoy!

Oysters:
"In 1910, before Satchmo had ever formed his first band, the Acme Café was opened on Royal Street in the French Quarter. Acme has been pleasing the palates of discriminating diners ever since."
Acme Oyster House
724 Iberville Street (504) 522 - 5973 Website: http://www.acmeoyster.com/ Twitter: @AcmeOyster
And …
Live entertainment and dining with the most beautiful views of the Mississippi River!
Jackson Brewery Bistro Bar
620 Decatur Street, 1A (504) 333 - 6914
Website: http: http://www.jaxnola.com/
Twitter: @JAXNOLA
Brunch:
Steeped in elegance and charm, Court of Two Sisters has an aristocratic lure for visitors to the crescent city. Don't miss the Jazz brunch in the lovely courtyard, nor the sumptuous turtle soup!
Court of Two Sisters
613 Royal Street (504) 522 - 7261
Website: http://www.courtoftwosisters.com/
Twitter: @CourtTwoSisters
And…
"Brennan's is both historic and contemporary, proof that fine dining remains proudly relevant. As other cities lose their traditional restaurants to lifestyle changes in a fast-paced world, New Orleans continues to embrace and support the grand establishments that perpetuate this art." And there is absolutely nothing I can add to that!
Brennan's
417 Royal Street (504) 525 - 9711
Website: http://www.brennansneworleans.com/
Brennan's Bananas Foster Recipe
SINGLE BATCH (SERVES 2-4)
•   1 Ounce Butter
•   1⁄2 Cup Light Brown Sugar
•   1⁄4 Tsp Cinnamon
•   1 1⁄2 Ounces Banana Liqueur
•   1 1⁄2 Ounces Aged Rum
•   1⁄2 Banana Per Customer
DOUBLE BATCH (SERVES 5-8)
•   2 Ounce Butter
•   1 Cup Light Brown Sugar 1⁄2 Tsp Cinnamon
•   2 Ounces Banana Liqueur 1 1⁄2 Ounces Aged Rum
•   1⁄2 Banana Per Customer
METHOD
•   Combine butter, sugar, and cinnamon in a flambé́ pan.
•   As the butter melts under medium heat, add the banana liquor and stir to combine.
•   As the sauce starts to cook, peel and add the bananas to the pan.
•   Cook the bananas until they begin to soften (about 1-2 minutes)
•   Tilt back the pan to slightly heat the far edge. Once hot carefully add the rum, and tilt the pan toward the flame, to ignite the rum.
•   Stir the sauce to ensure that all of the alcohol cooks out.
•   Serve cooked bananas over ice cream and top with the sauce in the pan.
Muffaletta
"Located on Decatur Street in the middle of New Orleans’ French Quarter, we're a third generation, old-fashioned grocery store founded in 1906 by Salvatore Lupo, a Sicilian immigrant who is famous for creating the muffuletta." Psst! They deliver nationwide!
Central Grocery New Orleans
923 Decatur Street (504) 523-1620
Website: http://www.centralgrocerynola.com/
Po-Boys


Mother's Restaurant
401 Poydras Street (504) 523-9656
Website: http://www.mothersrestaurant.net
Beignets
This French pastry is deep-fried and smothered in powdered sugar, and best enjoyed with a steaming cup of dark roasted coffee. Everyone knows to head over to Café du Monde and take-a-load-off across from Jackson Square.
Café du Monde
800 Decatur Street (504) 525-4544
Website: http://cafedumonde.com/
Bread Pudding
"Commander's Palace, nestled in the middle of the tree-lined Garden District, has been a New Orleans landmark since 1880. Known for the award-winning quality of its food and its convivial atmosphere, the history of this famous restaurant offers a glimpse into New Orleans' storied past and has been the go-to destination for Haute Creole cuisine and whimsical Louisiana charm."
Commander's Palace
1403 Washington Avenue (504) 899-8221
Website: http://www.commanderspalace.com/
Twitter: @Commanders_NOLA
Huckleberry Pancakes
Serves 4 to 6
Ingredients:
2 eggs
3 tbsp. butter, melted
1/4 tsp. vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups cake flour
1 tbsp. kosher salt
3 tbsp. granulated sugar
2 tbsp. baking powder
1 to 2 tsp. vegetable oil

Preparation:
In a medium bowl combine eggs, butter and vanilla extract. In another medium bowl, mix flour, salt, sugar and baking powder. Gently whisk the egg mixture with the dry ingredients until just combined (a few lumps may remain). Do not over work.

Allow mixture to rest 1/2 to 1 hour before cooking.

To cook, heat a 12-inch nonstick skillet, heavy bottomed skillet or a griddle over medium heat for 3 to 5 minutes. Add 1 teaspoon of oil to coat the bottom of the skillet evenly. Pour 1/4 cup of batter onto 3 to 4 spots on the skillet and cook the pancake until large bubbles begin to appear, about 1 1/2 to 2 minutes. Using a spatula, flip the pancakes over and cook until golden brown on the second side. Repeat with remaining batter, using remaining 1 teaspoon of vegetable oil as necessary.

Sauce:
Ingredients:
1 oz. white chocolate, chopped
2 oz. huckleberries (or other fresh berry)
mint leaves to garnish
confectioner’s sugar to garnish
honeycomb for garnish
1 oz. candied pecans

Preparation:
Sprinkle pancakes with white chocolate and huckleberries and garnish with sprig of mint leaves. Dust with confectioners’ sugar. Candied pecans may be served with pancakes.
Steaks
The best steaks in NOLA are found at the Chophouse. Stop by and say hello to Barbara, Jerry and Greg Greenbaum!
Chophouse New Orleans
322 Magazine Street (504) 522-7902
Website: http://www.chophousenola.com/
Twitter: @chophousenola
Cocktail
The Hurricane
"Pat O'Brien converted his speakeasy to a legitimate drinking establishment in the 600 block of St. Peter Street called, of course, Pat O'Brien's." Sip the world famous Hurricane in the outdoor courtyard that captures the charm and ambiance that is the quintessential New Orleans and remember: "Have Fun" at Pat O's!
Pat O'Brien's Bar, Inc
718 St. Peter Street (504) 525-4823 Toll Free: (800) 597-4823
Website: http://shop.patobriens.com/
Twitter: @PatOBriensBar
How to Make an authentic Pat O'Brien's Hurricane
In a 26 oz. Hurricane glass, mix
•   4 oz. of Pat O'Brien's Hurricane Rum or a good Amber/Gold Rum
•   4 oz. of Pat O'Brien's Hurricane Mix
•   Fill with crushed ice
•   Garnish with an orange and cherry
Fried Chicken
The aromas of Mississippi and Louisiana cuisine emanating from the kitchen fill the air in the historic Treme neighborhood of New Orleans. In 2005, Ms. Willie Mae Seaton was honored with the prestigious James Beard Award for “America’s Classic Restaurant for the Southern Region.” Serving "America's Best Fried Chicken" since 1957!
Willie Mae’s Scotch House
2401 St. Ann Street (504) 822-9503
Website: http://www.williemaesnola.com/
Twitter: @WillieMaesNOLA
Red Bean and Rice
Opening in 1990, The Praline Connection serves "down-home" cajun-creole style soul food at affordable prices and features three generations of "Pure-D-Goodness".
The Praline Connection Restaurant
542 Frenchmen Street (504) 943-3934
Website: http://www.pralineconnection.com/
Jambalaya
The Old Coffeepot Restaurant was established in 1894, and has been known to serve one of the best breakfasts in New Orleans. Try the red jambalaya that begins with an herb crusted, oven-roasted chicken and finished with homemade tomato sauce. Plus, they are located right next door to Pat O'Brien's!
The Old Coffeepot Restaurant
714 Saint Peter Street (504) 524-3500
Website: http://www.theoldcoffeepot.com/

great stuff.

thanks for sharing and posting this for all of us and for all of your fans/friends/followers and potential new fans and followers.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on February 10, 2016, 01:30:43 am

That's great, Regan. Have a nice week!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on February 09, 2016, 11:13:21 pm

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on February 09, 2016, 05:11:25 pm

Ann, Sooo many good places to eat shrimp in New Orleans, I couldn't pick just one or two establishments. And they are freshly served straight from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico! Have a great week!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on February 08, 2016, 11:30:02 am

I've heard they do nice shrimps there. I like shrimps but I prefer mine fresh & to eat them as they come.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on February 08, 2016, 10:03:10 am

(https://www.camelotfantasies.com/proxy.php?request=http%3A%2F%2Fi428.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fqq2%2Freganoleary%2Fnew%2520orleans2_zpsrsbi1q0h.jpg&hash=f3f3672eee188a3d81d5066442607fc0619734cf) (http://s428.photobucket.com/user/reganoleary/media/new%20orleans2_zpsrsbi1q0h.jpg.html)

EAT New Orleans!

[/b]

Whether you are visiting New Orleans, Louisiana for the Mardi Gras Carnival season, or taking in a New Orleans Saints football match, or simply enjoying a romantic weekend at one of the Vieux Carré's historic hotels, leave plenty of time to eat New Orleans!
When I travel, either here or abroad, my destinations are determined by food. Yes, attractions factor in to my choice of places to visit, but I always eat my way through a city. Luckily for me, New Orleans is less than 80 miles from my home. No other city in the world has more culinary offerings waiting to be had than The Big Easy.

I could literally write a book on the best restaurants in NOLA, what to sip and sample, and what to gorge on, but instead I share with you a taste of some of my favorites. Enjoy!

Oysters:

"In 1910, before Satchmo had ever formed his first band, the Acme Café was opened on Royal Street in the French Quarter. Acme has been pleasing the palates of discriminating diners ever since."
Acme Oyster House
724 Iberville Street (504) 522 - 5973 Website: http://www.acmeoyster.com/ Twitter: @AcmeOyster

And …
Live entertainment and dining with the most beautiful views of the Mississippi River!
Jackson Brewery Bistro Bar
620 Decatur Street, 1A (504) 333 - 6914
Website: http: http://www.jaxnola.com/
Twitter: @JAXNOLA

Brunch:
Steeped in elegance and charm, Court of Two Sisters has an aristocratic lure for visitors to the crescent city. Don't miss the Jazz brunch in the lovely courtyard, nor the sumptuous turtle soup!
Court of Two Sisters
613 Royal Street (504) 522 - 7261
Website: http://www.courtoftwosisters.com/
Twitter: @CourtTwoSisters

And…
"Brennan's is both historic and contemporary, proof that fine dining remains proudly relevant. As other cities lose their traditional restaurants to lifestyle changes in a fast-paced world, New Orleans continues to embrace and support the grand establishments that perpetuate this art." And there is absolutely nothing I can add to that!
Brennan's
417 Royal Street (504) 525 - 9711
Website: http://www.brennansneworleans.com/

Brennan's Bananas Foster Recipe
SINGLE BATCH (SERVES 2-4)
•   1 Ounce Butter
•   1⁄2 Cup Light Brown Sugar
•   1⁄4 Tsp Cinnamon
•   1 1⁄2 Ounces Banana Liqueur
•   1 1⁄2 Ounces Aged Rum
•   1⁄2 Banana Per Customer
DOUBLE BATCH (SERVES 5-8)
•   2 Ounce Butter
•   1 Cup Light Brown Sugar 1⁄2 Tsp Cinnamon
•   2 Ounces Banana Liqueur 1 1⁄2 Ounces Aged Rum
•   1⁄2 Banana Per Customer
METHOD
•   Combine butter, sugar, and cinnamon in a flambé́ pan.
•   As the butter melts under medium heat, add the banana liquor and stir to combine.
•   As the sauce starts to cook, peel and add the bananas to the pan.
•   Cook the bananas until they begin to soften (about 1-2 minutes)
•   Tilt back the pan to slightly heat the far edge. Once hot carefully add the rum, and tilt the pan toward the flame, to ignite the rum.
•   Stir the sauce to ensure that all of the alcohol cooks out.
•   Serve cooked bananas over ice cream and top with the sauce in the pan.

Muffaletta
"Located on Decatur Street in the middle of New Orleans’ French Quarter, we're a third generation, old-fashioned grocery store founded in 1906 by Salvatore Lupo, a Sicilian immigrant who is famous for creating the muffuletta." Psst! They deliver nationwide!
Central Grocery New Orleans
923 Decatur Street (504) 523-1620
Website: http://www.centralgrocerynola.com/

Po-Boys

Mother's Restaurant
401 Poydras Street (504) 523-9656
Website: http://www.mothersrestaurant.net

Beignets
This French pastry is deep-fried and smothered in powdered sugar, and best enjoyed with a steaming cup of dark roasted coffee. Everyone knows to head over to Café du Monde and take-a-load-off across from Jackson Square.
Café du Monde
800 Decatur Street (504) 525-4544
Website: http://cafedumonde.com/

Bread Pudding
"Commander's Palace, nestled in the middle of the tree-lined Garden District, has been a New Orleans landmark since 1880. Known for the award-winning quality of its food and its convivial atmosphere, the history of this famous restaurant offers a glimpse into New Orleans' storied past and has been the go-to destination for Haute Creole cuisine and whimsical Louisiana charm."
Commander's Palace
1403 Washington Avenue (504) 899-8221
Website: http://www.commanderspalace.com/
Twitter: @Commanders_NOLA

Huckleberry Pancakes
Serves 4 to 6
Ingredients:
2 eggs
3 tbsp. butter, melted
1/4 tsp. vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups cake flour
1 tbsp. kosher salt
3 tbsp. granulated sugar
2 tbsp. baking powder
1 to 2 tsp. vegetable oil

Preparation:
In a medium bowl combine eggs, butter and vanilla extract. In another medium bowl, mix flour, salt, sugar and baking powder. Gently whisk the egg mixture with the dry ingredients until just combined (a few lumps may remain). Do not over work.

Allow mixture to rest 1/2 to 1 hour before cooking.

To cook, heat a 12-inch nonstick skillet, heavy bottomed skillet or a griddle over medium heat for 3 to 5 minutes. Add 1 teaspoon of oil to coat the bottom of the skillet evenly. Pour 1/4 cup of batter onto 3 to 4 spots on the skillet and cook the pancake until large bubbles begin to appear, about 1 1/2 to 2 minutes. Using a spatula, flip the pancakes over and cook until golden brown on the second side. Repeat with remaining batter, using remaining 1 teaspoon of vegetable oil as necessary.

Sauce:
Ingredients:
1 oz. white chocolate, chopped
2 oz. huckleberries (or other fresh berry)
mint leaves to garnish
confectioner’s sugar to garnish
honeycomb for garnish
1 oz. candied pecans

Preparation:
Sprinkle pancakes with white chocolate and huckleberries and garnish with sprig of mint leaves. Dust with confectioners’ sugar. Candied pecans may be served with pancakes.

Steaks
The best steaks in NOLA are found at the Chophouse. Stop by and say hello to Barbara, Jerry and Greg Greenbaum!
Chophouse New Orleans
322 Magazine Street (504) 522-7902
Website: http://www.chophousenola.com/
Twitter: @chophousenola

Cocktail

The Hurricane
"Pat O'Brien converted his speakeasy to a legitimate drinking establishment in the 600 block of St. Peter Street called, of course, Pat O'Brien's." Sip the world famous Hurricane in the outdoor courtyard that captures the charm and ambiance that is the quintessential New Orleans and remember: "Have Fun" at Pat O's!
Pat O'Brien's Bar, Inc
718 St. Peter Street (504) 525-4823 Toll Free: (800) 597-4823
Website: http://shop.patobriens.com/
Twitter: @PatOBriensBar

How to Make an authentic Pat O'Brien's Hurricane
In a 26 oz. Hurricane glass, mix
•   4 oz. of Pat O'Brien's Hurricane Rum or a good Amber/Gold Rum
•   4 oz. of Pat O'Brien's Hurricane Mix
•   Fill with crushed ice
•   Garnish with an orange and cherry

Fried Chicken
The aromas of Mississippi and Louisiana cuisine emanating from the kitchen fill the air in the historic Treme neighborhood of New Orleans. In 2005, Ms. Willie Mae Seaton was honored with the prestigious James Beard Award for “America’s Classic Restaurant for the Southern Region.” Serving "America's Best Fried Chicken" since 1957!
Willie Mae’s Scotch House
2401 St. Ann Street (504) 822-9503
Website: http://www.williemaesnola.com/
Twitter: @WillieMaesNOLA

Red Bean and Rice
Opening in 1990, The Praline Connection serves "down-home" cajun-creole style soul food at affordable prices and features three generations of "Pure-D-Goodness".
The Praline Connection Restaurant
542 Frenchmen Street (504) 943-3934
Website: http://www.pralineconnection.com/

Jambalaya
The Old Coffeepot Restaurant was established in 1894, and has been known to serve one of the best breakfasts in New Orleans. Try the red jambalaya that begins with an herb crusted, oven-roasted chicken and finished with homemade tomato sauce. Plus, they are located right next door to Pat O'Brien's!
The Old Coffeepot Restaurant
714 Saint Peter Street (504) 524-3500
Website: http://www.theoldcoffeepot.com/

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on February 08, 2016, 09:03:41 am

Thank Clay! Another NOLA piece coming shortly!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 28, 2016, 10:55:01 pm

Quote from: Regan OLeary on January 25, 2016, 01:38:16 pm

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Throw Me Something Mister!

The Mardi Gras, or Carnival season, begins on the Twelfth night following Christmas and ends on the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday. Mardi Gras originated from the pagan practices in ancient Rome. Christian religious leaders arriving in Rome felt it would be easier to adopt some of the local traditions instead of eliminating them all-together: more bees with honey than vinegar, so to speak.

In America, Mardi Gras began in 1699 when explorers Bienville and Iberville landed in what is now Louisiana, just south of New Orleans. This spot was named point du mardi gras and the celebration began. It wasn't until the 1740's that lavish balls were introduced to the festivities by then Louisiana governor Marquis de Vaudreuil. The first recorded parade took place in 1837 where masked citizens rode in carriages or on horseback under the glow of gaslight torches. The first recorded "throws" of beaded glass strands was in 1870. I know! I know! What a mess! And then Rex arrived! The King of Carnival. A Russian duke had the honor of being the very first King of Carnival in 1872. Later, Rex established the recognized colors of Mardi Gras: purple for justice, green for faith, and gold for power.

You might be thinking: What's so special about Carnival in Louisiana, after-all, other states celebrate Mardi Gras. This is true. Alabama, Mississippi, and even Washington DC have annual Mardi Gras celebrations, but Louisiana is the only state in which Fat Tuesday is a legal holiday and it has been since 1875.

Louisiana is notorious for its festivals, hosting in excess of 400 annually, but none bigger than Mardi Gras. In northwest Louisiana, you can attend a glitzy masquerade ball in Shreveport, catch trinkets on the streets of Baton Rouge at the Spanish Town parade, or head to the heart of Cajun country and chase chickens in Mamou, collectively celebrating Louisiana's biggest holiday. But, nowhere on earth is Mardi Gras celebrated bigger and better than on the streets of New Orleans.

More than one million people converge on the Crescent City every year to partake in Louisiana's biggest party. Hotel rooms are sold out months ahead, and the Friday before Fat Tuesday, the historical hotel, the Royal Sonesta, greases the poles along Bourbon Street to keep revelers from climbing to the balconies above the street. The numerous parades that roll through the French Quarter and greater New Orleans will cover more than 130 miles - that is farther than Baton Rouge is from Lake Charles. These parades contain more than 800 floats, 400 marching bands, 100 vehicles, 70 horses, and more than 20,000 float riders. The float riders will throw nearly 13,000 tons of beads to party-goers lining the streets, and I couldn't begin to venture a guess at the number of women willing to raise their shirts, exposing their bare breasts, for a prized string of plastic beads. Inevitably, some garish drunk fellow will try to cop a feel, resulting in the boyfriend smashing said drunk's head into one of the 500,000 King cakes sold during Carnival. It is rather silly to me. Why waste a perfectly good King cake over a pair of tatas?

Speaking of King cake: no trip to Louisiana during Carnival would be complete without sampling this wickedly delicious pastry. These seasonal cakes represent the king's bearing gifts to the Christ child, and are a cross between a cinnamon roll and a coffee cake. The braided dough is laced with cinnamon and topped with a poured sugar-icing, then adorned with purple, green, and gold color-infused sugar. Other delectable fillings have emerged over the years and include Bavarian cream, strawberry-cream cheese, and my favorite, pecan-praline. Traditionally, a tiny plastic baby representing Christ Jesus is hidden inside the cake. If you get the piece of cake with the hidden baby, you are obligated to purchase the next King cake or "throw" the next Mardi Gras party.

Throws! "Throw me somethin' mister!" Besides beads, plastic cups, and stuffed animals, a highly sought-after float throw are doubloons. These brightly-colored coins are stamped with the Carnival krewe's logo. Some doubloons, like those from the Krewe of Rex, are highly collectible. The only throw more coveted than doubloons are the Zulu coconuts. Yes, coconuts. This iconic krewe has a long, and at times, controversial history. So popular are these prized painted coconuts that Ebay sellers enjoy a thriving market on the sale of these gems. Sheila Stroup of The Times-Picayune wrote a great article last February about the Zulu coconuts. I have posted the link below.

I could ramble on and on about the wildest party in the United States that ends this year in Louisiana on February 9th! But, I have a fresh pot of Community coffee, and a 24-ounce iced King cake that require my attention. Join us in Louisiana for Mardi Gras! We will surely pass a good time, and we shall laissez les bons temps rouler - let the good times roll!

LINKS:
•   Sheila Stroup of The Times-Picayune - http://www.nola.com/mardigras/index.ssf/2015/02/zulu_coconuts_always_the_favor.html

King Cakes:
•   Randazzo's (Slidell) - https://www.kingcakes.com/index.php
•   Manny Randazzo King Cakes (New Orleans) - https://www.randazzokingcake.com/
•   Gambino's Bakery (New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Lafayette) - http://www.gambinos.com/Default.aspx

2016 Parade Schedules:
•   New Orleans - http://www.mardigrasneworleans.com/schedule.html
•   Baton Rouge - http://www.mardigras.com/parades/?location=baton-rouge

sensational and fascinating.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 28, 2016, 10:54:13 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 25, 2016, 01:38:16 pm

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Throw Me Something Mister!

The Mardi Gras, or Carnival season, begins on the Twelfth night following Christmas and ends on the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday. Mardi Gras originated from the pagan practices in ancient Rome. Christian religious leaders arriving in Rome felt it would be easier to adopt some of the local traditions instead of eliminating them all-together: more bees with honey than vinegar, so to speak.

In America, Mardi Gras began in 1699 when explorers Bienville and Iberville landed in what is now Louisiana, just south of New Orleans. This spot was named point du mardi gras and the celebration began. It wasn't until the 1740's that lavish balls were introduced to the festivities by then Louisiana governor Marquis de Vaudreuil. The first recorded parade took place in 1837 where masked citizens rode in carriages or on horseback under the glow of gaslight torches. The first recorded "throws" of beaded glass strands was in 1870. I know! I know! What a mess! And then Rex arrived! The King of Carnival. A Russian duke had the honor of being the very first King of Carnival in 1872. Later, Rex established the recognized colors of Mardi Gras: purple for justice, green for faith, and gold for power.

You might be thinking: What's so special about Carnival in Louisiana, after-all, other states celebrate Mardi Gras. This is true. Alabama, Mississippi, and even Washington DC have annual Mardi Gras celebrations, but Louisiana is the only state in which Fat Tuesday is a legal holiday and it has been since 1875.

Louisiana is notorious for its festivals, hosting in excess of 400 annually, but none bigger than Mardi Gras. In northwest Louisiana, you can attend a glitzy masquerade ball in Shreveport, catch trinkets on the streets of Baton Rouge at the Spanish Town parade, or head to the heart of Cajun country and chase chickens in Mamou, collectively celebrating Louisiana's biggest holiday. But, nowhere on earth is Mardi Gras celebrated bigger and better than on the streets of New Orleans.

More than one million people converge on the Crescent City every year to partake in Louisiana's biggest party. Hotel rooms are sold out months ahead, and the Friday before Fat Tuesday, the historical hotel, the Royal Sonesta, greases the poles along Bourbon Street to keep revelers from climbing to the balconies above the street. The numerous parades that roll through the French Quarter and greater New Orleans will cover more than 130 miles - that is farther than Baton Rouge is from Lake Charles. These parades contain more than 800 floats, 400 marching bands, 100 vehicles, 70 horses, and more than 20,000 float riders. The float riders will throw nearly 13,000 tons of beads to party-goers lining the streets, and I couldn't begin to venture a guess at the number of women willing to raise their shirts, exposing their bare breasts, for a prized string of plastic beads. Inevitably, some garish drunk fellow will try to cop a feel, resulting in the boyfriend smashing said drunk's head into one of the 500,000 King cakes sold during Carnival. It is rather silly to me. Why waste a perfectly good King cake over a pair of tatas?

Speaking of King cake: no trip to Louisiana during Carnival would be complete without sampling this wickedly delicious pastry. These seasonal cakes represent the king's bearing gifts to the Christ child, and are a cross between a cinnamon roll and a coffee cake. The braided dough is laced with cinnamon and topped with a poured sugar-icing, then adorned with purple, green, and gold color-infused sugar. Other delectable fillings have emerged over the years and include Bavarian cream, strawberry-cream cheese, and my favorite, pecan-praline. Traditionally, a tiny plastic baby representing Christ Jesus is hidden inside the cake. If you get the piece of cake with the hidden baby, you are obligated to purchase the next King cake or "throw" the next Mardi Gras party.

Throws! "Throw me somethin' mister!" Besides beads, plastic cups, and stuffed animals, a highly sought-after float throw are doubloons. These brightly-colored coins are stamped with the Carnival krewe's logo. Some doubloons, like those from the Krewe of Rex, are highly collectible. The only throw more coveted than doubloons are the Zulu coconuts. Yes, coconuts. This iconic krewe has a long, and at times, controversial history. So popular are these prized painted coconuts that Ebay sellers enjoy a thriving market on the sale of these gems. Sheila Stroup of The Times-Picayune wrote a great article last February about the Zulu coconuts. I have posted the link below.

I could ramble on and on about the wildest party in the United States that ends this year in Louisiana on February 9th! But, I have a fresh pot of Community coffee, and a 24-ounce iced King cake that require my attention. Join us in Louisiana for Mardi Gras! We will surely pass a good time, and we shall laissez les bons temps rouler - let the good times roll!

LINKS:
•   Sheila Stroup of The Times-Picayune - http://www.nola.com/mardigras/index.ssf/2015/02/zulu_coconuts_always_the_favor.html

King Cakes:
•   Randazzo's (Slidell) - https://www.kingcakes.com/index.php
•   Manny Randazzo King Cakes (New Orleans) - https://www.randazzokingcake.com/
•   Gambino's Bakery (New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Lafayette) - http://www.gambinos.com/Default.aspx

2016 Parade Schedules:
•   New Orleans - http://www.mardigrasneworleans.com/schedule.html
•   Baton Rouge - http://www.mardigras.com/parades/?location=baton-rouge

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 19, 2016, 11:20:29 am

http://reganoleary.com/

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 19, 2016, 11:00:00 am

http://reganoleary.com/

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on January 18, 2016, 03:14:13 pm

I know. Have a nice week!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 18, 2016, 12:11:17 pm

Thank you Clay!

Me too, Anne. Sadly, there is never enough time to see and do everything.

Have a wonderful week! :)

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on January 18, 2016, 04:21:34 am

That's such a shame, Regan. I hope you get the chance to go to Connemara too.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 17, 2016, 10:28:27 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 17, 2016, 08:53:05 pm

the magical Ireland:

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 17, 2016, 08:10:58 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 17, 2016, 08:10:21 pm

this is the Temple Bar in Dublin:

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 17, 2016, 07:36:17 pm

I'm sorry, sweet Ann, I didn't get to Connemara, but I hope to on my next trip across the pond.

Thank you Clay!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 17, 2016, 07:22:50 pm

Quote from: Regan OLeary on January 17, 2016, 05:58:16 pm

Come Stroll With Me Through The Emerald Isle

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this is sensational.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on January 17, 2016, 06:57:51 pm

"It's a long way to Tipperary." Have you got any photos of Connemara, please?

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 17, 2016, 05:58:16 pm

Come Stroll With Me Through The Emerald Isle

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 15, 2016, 10:20:38 pm

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 15, 2016, 04:50:53 pm

SOUTHERN SAYINGS

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I thought I would explain, and possibly de-mystify, some misconceptions about Southern sayings.

Yes, I say y'all, and I say it often. In the South, y'all can be singular or referring to a small group of people. All y'all is plural and typically refers to a group larger than five. I also say I reckon, as in: I reckon so, and fixin': I'm fixin' to start a pot of coffee. And, I will start that pot of coffee drectly, meaning I will get to it directly, as soon as I get back from seeing Mommanem: Mama and them.

I don't go to juke joints, which are rural bars, often owned by wonderfully vibrant characters who always have a story to make you chuckle. The reason I avoid the juke joints: because my husband would pitch a hissy-fit, or have a conniption, prompting him to say: "Eh! you'd be three sheets to the wind," or better yet: "Act like you got some raising!" Of course, that would lead to a falling out, or a disagreement, and I would go off half-cocked and say, "Ya don't know your ass from a hole in the ground," which is simply a way of saying: "You don't know what you are talking about."

I do piddle, but not often. I simply don't have time to waste messin' around, doing nothing - but I embrace the idea. I truly want to piddle more: maybe even get punished and sent to my room - but my husband and children won't let me go to my room. Probably because there is always something tore slap up! Things are never broken in the south, just tore slap up. And Mama's got to fix 'em.

Piddling makes me think of words like sorry, bad, and trifling. In the south, these words are very closely related, but there is a difference. Sorry is just plain lazy and worthless. Bad is the additional adjective you add to something that is already no good. Trifling, well that is just plain useless. If I were to say: "You're a trifling, sorry, bad-ugly cuss!" - yeah, it's not a compliment. Trust me! This is coming from a woman who can start an argument in an empty house!

I am not Cajun or Creole but know where the bayou's yat, I eat King cake, I appreciate langiappe, and I love the Big Easy, a.k.a. N'awlins. I do live in da Parish, I collect Doubloons, hurricanes make me think of Pat O'Brians instead of stocking up on batteries and water, and I know how to laissez les bon temps rouler (let the good times roll), when I pass a good time with my friends. I don't own a pirogue and no, I don't have alligators in my backyard. However, when asked, I have been known to spin a wild and colorful tale about my pet gators.

And finally, bless your heart! I am always tickled reading the online explanations for this southern phrase. For decades, southern women have said, "Bless your heart!" It is truly used to express concern, to show sorrow at hearing troubling news, or to console someone who has given their best effort only to be disappointed with the result. Contrary to the web searches you might find, it never implies insult or malice to the person it is directed to, even if that person isn't present in the conversation. For instance:

"He worked so hard to get that little girl's attention, and she treated him like a rotten sack of potatoes!"

"Oh, bless his heart!"

I find it amusing when the phrase is explained as an insult, such as, "screw you" or "you're stupid" because if you know southerners, particularly southern women, we don't mince words. If we want to express love and concern for your situation, we say, "bless your heart!". If we want to express our regret with your lack of intelligence, we say, "Oh, darlin', you're just a dumbass!"

I have only touched the tip of the iceberg; there are dozens of these southern colloquialisms that are humorous, sometimes sad, but always entertaining. Don't think for a moment that southerners who use these expressions are inferior or uneducated. It is simply a language of a colorful and unique heritage that is as intriguing as its people. From my neck of the woods, to yours! I wish you joie de vivre, the joy of living, and merci beaucoup!

See more at ReganOLeary.com

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 12, 2016, 09:08:09 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 12, 2016, 08:30:29 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 12, 2016, 08:22:04 pm

The Irish Flag and some Mardi Gras flare = Perfect!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 12, 2016, 07:55:54 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 12, 2016, 08:16:21 am

An excerpt from Closer To Home Chapter 18:

Badass Bane Shaw: On Leaving A Church Service

After the service, Shaw was listening to sweet little Mrs. Eileen and her mostly deaf husband, Mr. Harold, when he eyeballed Bronagh chatting with Martin. Martin leaned in and kissed Bronagh’s cheek. Martin was Shaw’s height, six foot, well dressed, and a nice looking man. Shaw watched Bronagh shake her head, disagreeing with Martin, as he stroked both of her arms with his hands. Martin turned and glared at Shaw. He looked at Martin long enough to let him know that he saw his glare, before turning his attention back to Mrs. Eileen.

Bronagh had mentioned her plans for a spring garden to Mrs. Eileen, and the sweet old lady insisted on giving Shaw some gardening tips. Shaw slipped her hand over his arm and turned her frail frame slightly so that he had a straight line of sight to Bronagh. He nodded politely and asked the appropriate questions, but he continued to watch Bronagh with Martin. Martin’s face was red. Bronagh’s body language suggested Martin was trying to convince her of something she thought impossible. She shook her head again and started to walk away. Martin grabbed her arm and she stopped and listened to him impatiently. Martin paused and glared at Shaw again before continuing to talk to Bronagh. She finally pulled away and walked directly to Shaw. He said goodbye to Mrs. Eileen and Mr. Harold, promising he would give them an update on the garden plans.

“Are you OK, darlin’?”

“Fine.”

After years of experience with hot-tempered women, Shaw had learned when a woman said “fine,” with a hard “f,” it meant nothing was truly fine, and it was wise to tread carefully in the quest to figure out what was really wrong. He’d also learned ignoring the hard “fine” was worse than exploring the problem. Men are stupid that way. They never learn. He knew this because he was incapable of learning much about women and their moods. Shaw finally learned about the hard “fine” after years of hearing it from different women, and because it was usually directed at him.

He watched Bronagh exit the church and spotted Martin making his way toward him. Shaw lingered until Martin was next to him matching his slow gait.

“She told me she’s in love with you,” Martin said.

Shaw nodded.

“She says you are good to her.”

“I try to be,” he answered.

“You’d better be,” he warned.

Shaw looked at Martin hard.

“I’m in love with her,” Martin said.

“I’m not surprised,” he said.

“Do you love her?”

Shaw shook his head in frustration. “What do you want from me, man?”

Shaw saw Marsh rise from his motorcycle seat. He’d been watching Martin and Shaw. Then, he saw Bronagh look at Marsh. She stopped half way to her car and looked back to see Martin and Shaw talking.

“I want you to give her up,” Martin said.

“That’s not happening.”

“I can give her more than you. We grew up together. We are alike. I know what she needs. I am what she needs,” he said.

“Then it’s too bad that she’s in love with me.”

Martin shook his head. “How long have you been seeing Bronagh?”

“A little more than two years.”

“I see the way you look at her. You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?”

Shaw stopped walking and looked at Martin. “I don’t know you, man. Is that any of your business?”

“I think you just answered my question. She comes to church here and sits through these sermons when the whole time she’s living in sin, with you?”

“Oh, absolutely!”

Shaw could see rage in his eyes, which is exactly the reaction he wanted.

“Unbelievable! My precious, Bronagh is having an affair,” Martin said, in a cavalier tone.

Shaw started to walk away, but he turned back to Martin.

“She’s not your Bronagh. And she’s not my wife, not yet. She makes her own choices and she always will. Something for you to think on, Martin, when she is my wife, you won’t put your hands on her like you did today. And to answer your question about my love for Bronagh? I’d kill for her. So, do you really think I give a **** about your self-righteous judgment?

Martin was indignant. “Self-righteous?”

Shaw stood a little closer and let Martin study his black eyes. “I see the way you look at her, too. You’re the one festering on the lust in your heart, friend. I’ll paraphrase it for you: ‘Anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery.’ Sin is sin, friend. Look it up Marty, it’s in one of the Gospels.” He started to walk away for the second time, but he couldn’t resist tuning-up this prick, just a little more. “Something else that might help you out. Talk to The Almighty about it, Martin. Trust me, it helps. I call out God’s name every time Bronagh rides my big dick!”

He turned and walked to Bronagh, put his arm around her neck and they walked the rest of the way to her car. He looked back at Martin as he opened the passenger door for Bronagh. Martin had taken notice of Marsh, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of Martin. Shaw walked to the driver’s side of the Cadillac and got in, as Marsh started his bike and revved the engine for good measure.

“What was that about?” Bronagh asked.

“Nothing much.” he said.

“You OK?”

“Fine.”

“Fine? Fine? Really?” Bronagh said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Marty and I just needed to clear the air.”

“Is it cleared?”

“Oh, yeah. Crystal clear,” he said with a smile and pulled out of the parking lot wondering why women couldn’t resolve the hard “fine” that easily.

Continue Reading: http://www.amazon.com/Closer-Home-Book-Crime-Drama-ebook/dp/B0157G0J8Y/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1452605875&sr=8-2&keywords=closer+to+home 4.5 STARS

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on January 12, 2016, 04:10:46 am

Thank you very much for your information, Regan. You're welcome.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 11, 2016, 06:09:18 pm

The Scotland slide is incredible! Some places I've seen an others I long to visit. Thank you Clay! There is a statue of Molly Malone in Dublin Ann - I'm still searching for my photo - she won't hide from me for long! Thank you for the comments. God Bless!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on January 11, 2016, 03:58:32 pm

It's definitely beautiful. I thought that was just a song & the story behind it Regan. That would be lovely. Clay has sent you such a nice piece of artwork sharing Scotland's beauty.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 11, 2016, 03:24:48 pm

here is a quick glimpse of sensational Scotland:

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 11, 2016, 02:49:24 pm

I'm so pleased you like the pictures. And, I did neglect to share Miss Molly Malone! I shall try to find her to add to the collection!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on January 11, 2016, 02:30:57 pm

Thank you very much for taking us to "Dublin's fair city where the girls are so pretty".

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 11, 2016, 02:28:42 pm

Quote from: Regan OLeary on January 11, 2016, 02:21:38 pm

Take A Walk With Me Through The Streets Of Lovely Dublin, Ireland

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absolutely stunning images. thanks for sharing.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 11, 2016, 02:21:38 pm

Take A Walk With Me Through The Streets Of Lovely Dublin, Ireland

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 11, 2016, 02:19:04 pm

;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 11, 2016, 02:18:12 pm

Now, that is wickedly cool friend!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 11, 2016, 01:14:33 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 11, 2016, 01:13:45 pm

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 11, 2016, 01:13:02 pm

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 11, 2016, 01:12:41 pm

Quote from: Regan OLeary on January 11, 2016, 12:08:01 pm

An excerpt from Closer To Home Chapter 7

Bronagh lived in a four-bedroom modified Acadian-style house in a small town between Baton Rouge and New Orleans that sat in the middle of 41 acres of wooded land. There was a large backyard with a swimming pool that adjoined a big pasture with a barn.

Bronagh invited her family from Shaw Sound Studios as well as her children and some of their friends to a New Year’s Eve party. Marsh and Shaw rode out to Bronagh’s house Wednesday morning around 11:00 a.m., where they found Caitlyn and her busy in the kitchen. Bronagh was stirring a large pot on the stove, what would become a shrimp and corn soup for supper. Shaw pulled her away from the stove and kissed her.

“God! You smell good!”

“I missed you,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Doesn’t look like you’ve had time to miss me.”

As usual, she had prepared an outrageous amount of food, the extent of which Shaw discovered when she asked Marsh and him to double check the stock in the small bar in the pool house. Marsh smiled at Shaw as they walked through the French doors into the back yard. They liked those kinds of household tasks that inevitably Bronagh would save for them to do.

The stainless-steel refrigerator in the pool house was full of meat and cheese trays, condiments, platters of appetizers, soft drinks, mixers, and beer. An assortment of fresh poboy buns were stacked in covered containers on the table, along with a commercial-sized chafing dish that they assumed would be full of the soup Bronagh was cooking. Marsh inventoried the hard liquor behind the small bar while Shaw walked out of the pool house to inspect the bonfire near the edge of the back yard.

“What do you think?” Caitlyn asked, standing beside him at the bonfire.

“Not too shabby. Who built it?” he asked.

“Mama.”
“She did not!”

“Yes, she did. Mama and Daddy built bonfires every year since I can remember. The only years she’s missed have been since Daddy died. Something else you’ve resurrected in Mom,” Caitlyn said.

“Unbelievable! Is there anything your mum doesn’t do well?”

“Her income taxes,” Caitlyn answered, laughing. “And she sucks at throwing a baseball.”

Shaw walked back to the house, through the French doors, and into the kitchen. He moved Bronagh backward into the edge of the countertop and leaned into her, staring into her eyes. “I’m impressed with your bonfire.” He ran his hands up her back underneath her shirt.

“What are you doing? Shaw, don’t you see I’m busy?”

“Do you have time to busy yourself with me in the bedroom? I want you.”

“Can’t you wait until later this evening?”

“I can, but I don’t want to. I’ve missed you,” he answered, then kissed her. Her response told him that she missed him, too. She pulled his long hair through her fingers and sucked the back of his neck hard.

“Come with me sweetheart,” she said, stroking his groin. “I’ll take you where you want to go.”

“Oh! Hell, yes!” he moaned.

Bronagh moved around him to the stove and turned off the heat under the soup. She took his hand and led him to her bedroom. She pushed Shaw against the closed bedroom door and unbuckled his jeans. Bronagh wedged her hands inside his pants, grasped his bare hips, and kissed his chest. She moved him to the edge of the bed where Shaw kicked off his boots and peeled away his clothes while Bronagh stripped bare.

“Oh, I missed you, baby,” she said, admiring his ****.

Shaw reached for her. “Come here!”

She climbed onto his lap and decisively loved him with a skill that far exceeded her ability to throw a baseball or even build a bonfire.

fascinating excerpt.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 11, 2016, 12:08:01 pm

An excerpt from Closer To Home Chapter 7

Bronagh lived in a four-bedroom modified Acadian-style house in a small town between Baton Rouge and New Orleans that sat in the middle of 41 acres of wooded land. There was a large backyard with a swimming pool that adjoined a big pasture with a barn.

Bronagh invited her family from Shaw Sound Studios as well as her children and some of their friends to a New Year’s Eve party. Marsh and Shaw rode out to Bronagh’s house Wednesday morning around 11:00 a.m., where they found Caitlyn and her busy in the kitchen. Bronagh was stirring a large pot on the stove, what would become a shrimp and corn soup for supper. Shaw pulled her away from the stove and kissed her.

“God! You smell good!”

“I missed you,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Doesn’t look like you’ve had time to miss me.”

As usual, she had prepared an outrageous amount of food, the extent of which Shaw discovered when she asked Marsh and him to double check the stock in the small bar in the pool house. Marsh smiled at Shaw as they walked through the French doors into the back yard. They liked those kinds of household tasks that inevitably Bronagh would save for them to do.

The stainless-steel refrigerator in the pool house was full of meat and cheese trays, condiments, platters of appetizers, soft drinks, mixers, and beer. An assortment of fresh poboy buns were stacked in covered containers on the table, along with a commercial-sized chafing dish that they assumed would be full of the soup Bronagh was cooking. Marsh inventoried the hard liquor behind the small bar while Shaw walked out of the pool house to inspect the bonfire near the edge of the back yard.

“What do you think?” Caitlyn asked, standing beside him at the bonfire.

“Not too shabby. Who built it?” he asked.

“Mama.”
“She did not!”

“Yes, she did. Mama and Daddy built bonfires every year since I can remember. The only years she’s missed have been since Daddy died. Something else you’ve resurrected in Mom,” Caitlyn said.

“Unbelievable! Is there anything your mum doesn’t do well?”

“Her income taxes,” Caitlyn answered, laughing. “And she sucks at throwing a baseball.”

Shaw walked back to the house, through the French doors, and into the kitchen. He moved Bronagh backward into the edge of the countertop and leaned into her, staring into her eyes. “I’m impressed with your bonfire.” He ran his hands up her back underneath her shirt.

“What are you doing? Shaw, don’t you see I’m busy?”

“Do you have time to busy yourself with me in the bedroom? I want you.”

“Can’t you wait until later this evening?”

“I can, but I don’t want to. I’ve missed you,” he answered, then kissed her. Her response told him that she missed him, too. She pulled his long hair through her fingers and sucked the back of his neck hard.

“Come with me sweetheart,” she said, stroking his groin. “I’ll take you where you want to go.”

“Oh! Hell, yes!” he moaned.

Bronagh moved around him to the stove and turned off the heat under the soup. She took his hand and led him to her bedroom. She pushed Shaw against the closed bedroom door and unbuckled his jeans. Bronagh wedged her hands inside his pants, grasped his bare hips, and kissed his chest. She moved him to the edge of the bed where Shaw kicked off his boots and peeled away his clothes while Bronagh stripped bare.

“Oh, I missed you, baby,” she said, admiring his ****.

Shaw reached for her. “Come here!”

She climbed onto his lap and decisively loved him with a skill that far exceeded her ability to throw a baseball or even build a bonfire.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 10, 2016, 08:58:15 pm

Most Lovely! Thank you kindly, Sir!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 10, 2016, 08:33:57 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 10, 2016, 08:33:22 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 09, 2016, 10:24:46 pm

Quote from: Regan OLeary on January 08, 2016, 02:35:09 pm

Come With Me To Scotland

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magnificent Scotland.

thanks for sharing.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on January 09, 2016, 09:45:13 am

Good Morning to you! That's great. Have a nice weekend!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 09, 2016, 09:04:38 am

Thank you for the billboards!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 09, 2016, 08:39:59 am

The Soundtrack from Closer To Home

Recently a reader, who had just finished reading Closer To Home, asked me how many songs I featured in the novel. To be honest, I didn't know. I simply included artists and songs that were relevant to the story line. But her questions made me wonder, so I compiled a list in order of appearance - I call it: "The Soundtrack" : 19 artists featuring 29 songs - I hope you enjoy.

Artist Featured Song Title

Chuck Mangione "Please Stay The Night"

Chicago "Just You 'N' Me"

Eagles "Witchy Woman"

Eagles "Desperado"

Foreigner "Urgent"

Foreigner "Dirty White Boy"

Foghat "I Just Want To Make Love To You"

Foghat "Slow Ride"

Grand Funk Railroad "I'm Your Captain/Closer To Home" *

Boston "Feeling Satisfied"

Chicago "25 or 6 to 4"

Heart "Dog and Butterfly"

Chicago "Make Me Smile" **

Chicago "25 or 6 to 4"

Chicago "Colour My World"

Peter Frampton "I'm In You"

Joe Crocker "A Whiter Shade Of Pale"

Aerosmith "I Don't Want To Miss A Thing"

Warren Zevon "Werewolves Of London"

Commodores "Sail On"

Scorpions "Rock You Like A Hurricane"

Scorpions "The Rhythm of Love"

Air Supply "All Out of Love"

Little River Band "Cool Change"

Chicago "Beginnings"

Chicago "Questions 67 and 68"

Iron Maiden "Fear The Dark"

Joan Baez "Sad-Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands"

Joan Baez "Diamonds And Rust"

Nazareth "Hair Of The Dog"

* The name-sake of Closer To Home and the first side of the dual-meaning of the title

** Ballet For A Girl In Buchannon (Make Me Smile) by James "Jimmy Trombone" Pankow

Yes, Chicago occupies 7 of those 29 spaces. It is my personal tribute to the great guitarist Terry Kath and to my brother, Mark.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 09, 2016, 08:28:51 am

Good morning (afternoon for you),
I intend to make reservations for the tattoo for my next visit to Edinburgh. And, a horse race in Ireland - that's on my bucket list!
Wishing you a wonderful weekend!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on January 09, 2016, 08:10:36 am

The Edinburgh tattoo is absolutely fantastic. It's much better live than on T.V.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 08, 2016, 09:33:48 pm

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 08, 2016, 09:32:45 pm

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 08, 2016, 09:31:45 pm

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 08, 2016, 09:12:26 pm

Sadly, I've missed the Tattoo every time. Next time I'm over, we shall sit down to a cup of tea, or a pint - perhaps a whisky!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on January 08, 2016, 06:18:52 pm

It's nice talking to you too. I've got Irish ancestry too. I've been all over the Highlands of Scotland & to Edinburgh & Glasgow as well as Perth. Most of my ancestors came from Dunoon. I've seen the Edinburgh tattoo live twice which is absolutely fantastic. I find the Glaswegians very friendly. You're welcome.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 08, 2016, 04:22:36 pm

Hello, I'm Regan O'Leary

I was born and raised in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, spending a great deal of my childhood along the Louisiana Gulf coast. I am a lover of music, a freelance writer and researcher, and I enjoy reading, fishing, and traveling at home and abroad. I still resides in South Louisiana with my husband and three children. Closer To Home is my debut novel.

Let's Get Connected:

Twitter - https://twitter.com/Regan_OLeary
Facebook Fan Page - https://www.facebook.com/R-OLearys-Bane-Shaw-893670180688533/
Email - ReganOLearyPublishing@gmail.com

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 08, 2016, 04:19:35 pm

It's so good to meet you. I've traveled to Scotland 3 times and hope to hop across the pond again soon. I'm Scots-Irish so I adore both lands. Scotland is indeed beautiful, especially The Highlands, and Edinburgh is as elegant as Glasgow is rebellious.

I'll be posting some pics of Ireland soon! Stay tuned. Thanks for connecting with me!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: EquineAnn on January 08, 2016, 03:49:03 pm

I'd love to. I've been many times. I was born, educated & live in England but have so many more Scottish than English ancestors, characteristics, tastes & ways I feel more Scottish than English. Most of my ancestors moved away from Scotland during the struggles of Argyll. Scotland is a very beautiful place.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 08, 2016, 02:35:09 pm

Come With Me To Scotland

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 05, 2016, 11:11:25 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 05, 2016, 04:18:07 pm

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 05, 2016, 04:17:39 pm

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 05, 2016, 04:16:57 pm

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 05, 2016, 04:16:16 pm

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 05, 2016, 08:24:31 am

Thank you for taking the time to get to know my characters. They are loyal and diverse and home in the confines of the Camelot library :)

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 04, 2016, 12:11:37 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 04, 2016, 12:11:23 pm

Quote from: Regan OLeary on January 04, 2016, 11:52:37 am

(https://www.camelotfantasies.com/proxy.php?request=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.kiltswihae.co.uk%2Fekmps%2Fshops%2Fkiltswihae%2Fimages%2Fstag-horn-and-celtic-knot-sgian-dubh-6326-p.jpg&hash=be7a7aaf73ef23e3042c0e2880db4c3fac060407)

Bane Shaw's sgian dubh! A thoughtful and lovely gift from my friends at Abbeyhorn! A real treasure!

Sgian Dubh, pronounced Skee-An Doo from the Gaelic meaning black knife or hidden knife originated in the Scottish Highlands, and was hand-fashioned using stag horn. It's early purposes: for eating, for cutting food and material, and for protection. Today, it serves as part of the traditional Scottish attire, customarily tucked into the kilt hose.

An excellent source for authentic sgain dubh: Abbeyhorn Ltd. http://www.abbeyhorn.co.uk

fascinating.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 04, 2016, 11:52:37 am

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Bane Shaw's sgian dubh! A thoughtful and lovely gift from my friends at Abbeyhorn! A real treasure!

Sgian Dubh, pronounced Skee-An Doo from the Gaelic meaning black knife or hidden knife originated in the Scottish Highlands, and was hand-fashioned using stag horn. It's early purposes: for eating, for cutting food and material, and for protection. Today, it serves as part of the traditional Scottish attire, customarily tucked into the kilt hose.

An excellent source for authentic sgain dubh: Abbeyhorn Ltd. http://www.abbeyhorn.co.uk

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 04, 2016, 10:56:37 am

Meet Grace Doucet in CLOSER TO HOME

Grace was Shaw's Office Manager and a brilliant accountant. She and Garrett had been married for twenty-two years and had no children. Shaw was always amused by Grace. She and Bronagh had been best friend since elementary school and was Bronagh's polar-opposite. Grace had a suntanned-complexion, short blonde hair, and she was spunky and high-strung. She had a flair for fashion, and she adored boisterous jewelry and wild footwear. Her husband, Garrett, was a mechanical engineer at an oil refinery in Baton Rouge, and he reminded Shaw of the stereo-typical strong, silent, southern gentlemen.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 04, 2016, 10:51:42 am

Meet Billy "Morse Code" Morrissey in CLOSER TO HOME

William "Billy" Morrissey had worked with Shaw at Soho Sound, and he was also part of the team that relocated to New York to set up SSNY. He was Shaw's hire at Soho Sound. He abandoned New York and followed Shaw to Louisiana and was now his tech guy. Billy had grown up in County Kilkenny, Ireland and was seven years Shaw's junior. He had a more privileged life in Gowran than Shaw had ever known in Glasgow, raised in a middle class home, and educated at the prestigious Trinity College in Dublin. He was smart and a technical miracle worker, able to manipulate anything electronic at his pleasure, and command computerized technology with ease, earning him the nickname, "Morse Code," at Soho Sound. Shaw rarely called him that anymore, unless he was trying to twist him up. He simply called him Billy. He was one of Shaw's closest friends.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 03, 2016, 10:20:23 pm

Meet Bronagh Stewart in Closer To Home
December 1, 2015 at 2:06pm

Bronagh lived out of town, but she was going to be in Baton Rouge for some Christmas shopping and to meet Grace for the evening. Bronagh planned to spend the night with Grace and her husband, Garrett. Grace was certain Shaw would fall head over heels for her friend. Not likely, he had told himself. He liked being a bachelor, especially at his age. He got tail when he wanted it, lived his life as he pleased, and he had a loving group of employees that were, for all intents and purposes, his family. They had taken him in as their own, a crude and conceited Scotsman who simply loved music and had made a good living doing what he loved. Except for some ancient, painful baggage that he had long ago buried, he was very happy with his life.

It was a little after 7:00 p.m. when Grace brought her friend into Charley's Pub to meet him. Shaw was an arrogant bastard, and he knew it; selfish, too. He learned it was truly a gaffe to take that egotistical attitude into this arranged get-together. Bronagh, a fifth-generation Louisianan, whose ancestors had sailed from Dublin, Ireland, with a proud history, was an old-South girl: well-mannered and well-bred. She came from “old money,” a term he had learned since moving to south Louisiana. Knowing that much about her still didn’t prepare him for the woman he was about to meet.

Joe Garrison was the owner of Charley's Pub, and a trusted friend. He would let Shaw behind the bar occasionally, so he could relive his Glasgow beginnings as a bartender. Tonight, it gave him a great advantage to watch Grace and her friend. Bronagh was Shaw's age, he guessed, maybe a little younger. She wore gray slacks, a black and gray blouse, and a black, leather Harley Davidson jacket. She stood about 5'6", with long legs and a pretty smile. She had long, black hair, a fair complexion, and black eyes. God, he thought, she's Irish, except for those eyes— elegant, but sexy; pure-dead brilliant.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 03, 2016, 09:17:23 pm

Meet MARSH ELLIS in Closer To Home

Shaw purchased the musical equipment from a man who would later become his best friend. Marsh owned a music store that Billy and he wandered into one day after eating lunch at a nearby café. Marsh was teaching bass guitar to a fifteen-year-old boy when Billy and Shaw walked into his shop. Marsh had long, dark brown hair, green eyes, and a beard and mustache, which surprised Shaw once he noticed the eagle, globe, and anchor Marine Corps tattoo on his left bicep. His build and features reminded Shaw of an old-world Viking. Marsh was tall, long-limbed, with a broad chest and narrow hips. He wore a braided leather wristband, a gold chain around his neck, and a gold Marine Corps ring on his right hand.

Billy and Shaw browsed through his inventory as Marsh continued the lesson. Near the end of the lesson, Shaw sat at the front counter engrossed in the jam session he and his student were having. Shaw was captivated by Marsh's ability to simultaneously play lead and rhythm on one guitar. No one can do that, he thought. Marsh turned out to be the most talented musician Shaw would ever meet.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 03, 2016, 09:04:58 pm

An excerpt from Chapter 16: Bronagh's love for Shaw:

During the next few weeks, this is how they lived. Shaw never left Bronagh’s side, which he loved because he didn’t have to experience nights away from her like they had practiced in the past. Marsh or Billy, usually Marsh, accompanied Bronagh and Shaw everywhere. They spent some weekends at Bronagh’s house, but most weekends in Baton Rouge. Karen and King ran the studio with Billy and Marsh helping out part-time when they weren’t with Bronagh and Shaw.
Their lives eventually went back to normal. Mike Allen had seemingly disappeared. He hadn’t been back to Charley’s Pub. Biloxi was a bust, Billy and King having found no sign of him in Mississippi. None of his local haunts panned out, either. In the following weeks, Mr. Allen finally became a fading memory of a very bad night.
That didn’t mean things didn’t get shaggy from time to time. It was early March and Grace and Karen were planning to go shopping with Bronagh.
“Aye, right! Not happening,” Shaw told them.
“I’m sick of sitting around this warehouse week after week,” Bronagh protested. “I want to go shopping and have lunch with my friends.”
“Bane, we all have a job here, Bronagh doesn’t,” Grace said. “She needs to get out of that little apartment and out of this warehouse.”
“I won’t let you girls go shopping alone.”
“You are being ridiculous, Bane,” Karen said.
“No! I’m not!”
“Then, you’ll just have to come along with us because we want some new shoes and some girl time,” Bronagh said. Grace and Karen laughed at Shaw’s expression.
Bright and not so early Saturday morning, they all met at the studio, and Marsh, Billy, and Shaw followed the girls to the mall for some “much-needed shoe shopping.”
Shaw had never understood women and their shoes. He appreciated nice clothes. He had a closet full of clothes for every occasion. He was a clothes horse, according to King, who always razzed him when he dressed to go out with Bronagh.
“You’re a narcissistic fashionmanista, cabrón. Hell, man, you dress better than my girls,” he’d say. He had boots, several pairs, a couple of dress loafers, but he would never understand a woman’s obsession for so many bloody shoes.
The girls were laughing and having a great time, but Shaw couldn’t, and he didn’t want to remember the last time he had been shopping with women at a mall. He hated it. And he hated that Marsh and Billy were having to endure it, too. They didn’t like it either, but Shaw’s attitude was the worst. He cussed and complained the entire time. For God’s sake, he thought. We could be on the golf course. It felt ridiculous to follow the girls from store to store. They drew odious looks from store associates and customers as Marsh, Billy and Shaw sat around the women’s departments dressed in their biker gear while these three beautiful women spent endless hours trying on shoes and clothes. Shaw was obnoxious, propping his boots on the seats in the shoe departments or pulling two chairs out of the ladies’ dressing room, one to sit on and one for his feet. Misery.
Marsh finally pulled him aside. “Bane, you need to lighten up.”
“This sucks. I would rather be fishing, and I hate fishing,” he said.
“You want to leave them alone? Do you really want to risk that?”
“No!”
Marsh patted his back. “Relax, brother, no matter how bad or long the day, the evening does come.”
Marsh walked over to the women and took several shopping bags to carry for them. He looked over at Shaw with his ‘Bama-boy grin, and Shaw knew he had done it just to tick him off.
“You ‘Bama, prick. I hate that Southern gentlemen bullshit of yours,” he said.
Bronagh asked Marsh if she could take Shaw to one more store. “Just a few minutes, Marsh. It’s right over there,” she said. She pointed at a small boutique store, and Marsh reluctantly agreed.
“I’ll keep him safe, I promise, Marsh,” she said.
She was in such a good mood, he couldn’t resist her. He knew she would have pouted until she got what she wanted anyway.
Bronagh grabbed Shaw’s hand and kissed his cheek. “Last store, I promise.” She then dragged him through yet another store where she picked out a few things to try on while he again leaned against the wall by the dressing room. He heard Bronagh call to him.
“Shaw, come look at this.”
The only employee in the boutique was an older woman who smiled at him. “Go look at her dress, dear,” she said. “There’s no one else back there.” Great, he thought and nodded at the woman simply to be polite, but he was thoroughly annoyed.
“What?” he growled at Bronagh, as she opened her dressing room door. She held up a dress to her body that was still on the hanger. It looked like something his mum wore a decade ago to his da’s funeral.
“Are you shitting me?” he said. “Get dressed! Let’s go!”
“Keep your voice down, Shaw,” she scolded, then moved the dress away from her body. He looked at her, took two steps backward, and slammed into a dressing room door across the hall. She was wearing a piece of black-lace lingerie. He hesitated, then stepped forward into her dressing room, closing the door behind him. He couldn’t keep his hands off of her mostly exposed hips and breasts. He pushed her gently against the mirror.
“God, woman, what are you doing to me?”
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“**** beautiful!”
“Should I take it home?”
“Absolutely,” he moaned. He pressed against her and kissed her madly. She pulled at his hair and stroked the side of his face, then she pulled open his shirt and kissed his neck near his collar bone, bringing blood to the surface of his skin.
“Bronagh, what are you doing to me?”
“Trying to make you happy, sweetheart.”
Shaw swept his hands over her body, aching to consume her. He pressed into her and kissed her fiercely still running his hands over her breasts.
“Oh God! Oh, Phillip, we have to stop,” she protested, but her excitement mounted.
“You don’t want me to stop, darlin’.” And he didn’t stop. He groped her roughly and pressed his **** against her body.
“And, you say you never try to twist me up?” he whispered into her ear.
“No. This time I am trying to twist you up. You’ve been miserable all day,” she whispered back.
“More than ever, woman, you’ve got to let me in,” he begged.
She closed her eyes and, trembling beneath his touch, she kissed him roughly, biting his bottom lip. “Oh, Phillip, wait,” she moaned. She walked him backward to the opposite mirror in the dressing room, slid the panties down her legs and stepped out of them as she pushed herself into him. She kissed him passionately as she unzipped his jeans and placed him inside her.
Shaw grabbed the back of her thighs and picked her up. He pulled her deeply into him as she wrapped her legs around him and cried out in a whisper. He watched, in the dressing room mirrors, as his girl made love to him. Another hit and run.
The store associate eyed Shaw suspiciously when he walked out of the dressing room, and he resumed leaning against the back wall. He held up two fingers. “Two dresses,” he said. “I had to help with the zippers.” She smiled and nodded. They left the store after Bronagh purchased a slightly used, pure-dead brilliant, piece of lingerie and a brown skirt. They met up with Grace and Karen, and Marsh and Billy. As the girls loaded their packages into the trunk of Bronagh’s car, Shaw smiled at the little, light-gray bag that Bronagh put in with the others.
He grinned at Bronagh. “Let’s eat. I’m starving!” The men mounted their bikes and Shaw slapped Marsh on the shoulder. “I love shoe shopping, brother.”
He seemed confused by Shaw’s comment and sudden mood change. Then he said, “You’ve got to be fricking kidding me!”
Shaw smiled, started his bike, and revved the engine as he rode out ahead of the Cadillac.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 03, 2016, 08:50:50 pm

truly awesome Regan.

I enjoyed reading it. thank you so much for sharing your incredible book.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 03, 2016, 08:48:10 pm

Meet Bane Shaw: self-proclaimed womanizing, arrogant, bad ass. Please enjoy Chapter One of Closer To Home.

It was the spring of 1985 when the tattooist yanked Shaw’s flask from his mouth then handed him a bottle of water, as he continued inking a date into the banner that draped over the existing dagger tattoo on his shoulder blade. The tattoo was an exact replica of the dagger Shaw carried with him at all times. The deer-antler handle bolstered a four-inch blade that his great, great grandfather crafted after tracking and killing a stag in the Scottish Highland’s Cairngorm Mountains. Shaw carried the sgian dubh, or hidden knife, under his armpit in the sleeve lining of his coat, since it was illegal to carry a weapon in Scotland. It was the very same dagger he had used just hours before to slit open the throat of the seventeen year old Bridgeton gang member who’d sliced his brother’s neck from ear to ear five days earlier in the perilous streets of Glasgow. The sgian dubh dagger tattoo was only three days old, an emblem to honor his brother and a reminder of the first murder Shaw ever committed. Having sought after and carried out his revenge for Jack’s murder, the date of his death inked into his shoulder blade completed the tattoo. This shop would be Shaw’s last stop before taking the train from Glasgow down to London.
The tattooist handed him a mirror and his flask. He took a long draw of whisky as he nodded at the reflection of his shoulder blade in the mirror, “Jack April 13, 1985.” Shaw left the shop, stepped into a misty, wind-driven rain, threw a bag over his left shoulder and walked to the train station. He was only nineteen years old.
He was born, Phillip Douglas Shaw, and was raised in Drumchapel, Glasgow, Scotland. “The Drum,” as it was affectionately called by its residents, was a post-war housing scheme built in the 1950s by the Glasgow City Council to relocate 30,000 or so families from Glasgow’s suburbs in an effort to ease the pains of overpopulation. Drumchapel was considered a new town, and he always thought of his community, his home, as separate and unique. His mum always told him that their family was fortunate to have drawn a winning ticket to move from the slums of Maryhill in the north of Glasgow to Drumchapel in the west.

Shaw’s parents were hard working, faithful people without dreams for themselves, or at least that is what he always believed. Their dreams were small, and only for their three boys. Shaw was the middle boy, and he believed he would become one of his father’s biggest disappointments. He grew up on Howgate Avenue with his mum and da, Alva Gail and John Aaran Shaw, his older brother, John Aaran “Jack,” Jr., and baby brother, Collin Michael. They lived in a gray, roughcast, 4-in-a-block tenement facing Drumchapel Park. His father was a Glasgow police officer, like his father before him, and his mother worked as a cabinet polisher at the Singer Sewing Factory in neighboring Clydebank until it closed in 1979; she later worked for Clydebank Co-op for a number of years.
Shaw never thought of his family as poor. They were like most everyone else in the Drum; no one was wealthy. But, they didn’t want for anything that he specifically remembered. His parents made decent wages, and Drumchapel promised a community free from the inner-city crowding of his mum’s upbringing in Maryhill. They even had a small yard that held a clothesline and a modest garden.
By all accounts, he had a happy childhood. Jack and Shaw grappled and scrapped with each other constantly. They played games of rounders in the park, kirby in the street, found mischief where they could, and they both dreamed of bigger lives. At the end of each week, Jack and Shaw would go with their mum to the laundry and the market, keeping an eye on Collin for her, then helping her tote their wares back through Drumchapel Park to their house. Shaw remembered resisting the urge to race Jack to play on the rocket at the Hecla Avenue end of the park. He also remembered the look his mum gave her boys that told she’d switch their rear ends if they abandoned their packages to run off and play.
Shaw’s father was a rigid man, inflexible in his views of his family and of the world around him. Shaw didn’t know whether it was his da’s upbringing, or the time he spent as a cop in the most dangerous city in Scotland that made him so stubborn. He was also a passionate man, which revealed itself in his joy of storytelling over a glass of whisky, his unending love for his wife, or in his unrestrained temper that could rise as abruptly as a storm. Shaw would learn in time that he was more like his father than either of his other two sons.
Jack was two years older than Shaw, a rebel dreamer with a tender heart and, like most teenage boys, he began challenging his father when he was thirteen. Unfortunately, Jack never outgrew the father-son authority struggle. He was in and out of trouble with the police, and Shaw always believed he took some measure of satisfaction in being a true source of embarrassment for their police officer father. Jack’s final act of defiance was when he began running with a local gang in the Drum, the PGB, or Peel Glen Boys, resulting in a number of “not proven” verdicts from the Scottish judicial system. Jack’s PGB affiliation would be his downfall and ultimately lead to his father’s death.
Collin was four years younger than Shaw, with his father’s good looks and playful smile. John adored Collin, unlike his two older sons. Collin was a practical child with the same small dreams his parents had. Shaw loved his little brother, but at times he felt sorry for him. He never shared the connection with Collin that he felt with Jack. As Collin grew, his sensible nature limited him to a life never far from the Drum. He became a welder at the Yarrows Shipbuilders and married Catherine Morrison from neighboring Scotstoun. Collin’s complacency was, without a doubt, what appealed to his father and was probably why John always favored him over Jack and Shaw.
Shaw was born on July 4, 1965. He was a free spirited, mischievous and happy child. He learned to love music at an early age. His mum had a pretty voice and sang out loud every day. Shaw would sit with her in the kitchen and listen to her hum and sing old Celtic songs. His mum bought him a boxed record player for his fourth Christmas and he played storybook albums with dramatic background music. At a fairly young age, he realized he was much more interested in the music than the story. Shaw spent much of his younger years in a local music shop where the owner let him tinker with the instruments on the sales displays. Any money he had never stayed long in his pocket; while his friends spent their money on Dandy comics, Shaw was always buying an album or the latest music magazine. By the age of ten, he knew music would be a driving force in his life, and at that particular age, he dreamt of being a rock star. As he grew older, his musical aspirations wouldn’t change, but they would become more realistic.
The week he turned eighteen, he got a job bartending at The Rigg just to support his music habit. The Rigg was the public bar of the Hill’s Hotel. Shaw considered himself funny because he could always elicit a laugh from his regular customers. In reality, he was simply a smartass, but apparently, a funny smartass. The job was fun, and it was always interesting working in one of the roughest public houses in Drumchapel. Bartending at night at The Rigg sometimes required breaking up fights, especially during football matches between Rangers and Celtic, an Old Firm Glasgow rivalry based more on religious bigotry than football. The manager of The Rigg gave Shaw his nickname, “Bane,” because, more times than not, anyone he had to throw out of the pub left with a broken bone.
The Rigg was a jagged pub known far and wide for its vicious bar fights. There were regular stabbings and even a couple of murders. He was fourteen when the fighting spilled into the streets around the Hill’s Hotel after the infamous 1980 Scottish Cup final when Celtic brought home the trophy. Jack was a huge Celtic fan and proudly wore their green and white colors to support the team, and he absolutely prized the brawling associated with every game.
Shaw finally realized his hopes to disk jockey at a local lounge when he landed a part-time job at The Golden Garter, which was adjacent to the Hill’s Hotel. The Golden Garter was the dancing
nightspot in Drumchapel. He stayed engrossed in the music he played and loved it when the local patrons shouted out requests for him to play. It was always one big party for Shaw. It was what he was born to do.
His father hated the path he had chosen. His idea of success was for Shaw to marry some local snatch and raise babies on a starving man’s salary. Shaw believed he was simply an outlet for his father, a place to deposit the disappointment he had for Jack, and then, ultimately, a place to deposit the blame for his death. He told Shaw he was worthless and no good for chasing musical dreams and for running with that George Fleming.
George was a close friend who worked for the largest record distribution company in Scotland. George always passed on early promotional and demo records to Shaw. The manager of The Golden Garter learned that he was playing tunes before they ever became hits, which made Shaw a favorite disk jockey among the local patrons.
Early in April of 1985, Shaw convinced Jack to go with him to a Sauchiehall Street nightclub to see a southern rock band from the States. Jack’s pride and loyalty to his PGB crew, his love of the Celtic football team, and his mostly unpracticed Catholic faith, permitted him—at least in his mind—to boldly wear his colors. They were attacked leaving the concert, one block from the club. A kid, no more than seventeen, grabbed Jack from behind and cut his throat, severing his carotid artery. Shaw was simply beaten to the ground. He watched Jack crumble to the street before he could crawl over to his brother. Shaw remembered hearing the taunts and laughter from their attackers echo off the neighboring buildings, calling them Fenian schemies, but he made sure to memorize the face of the blue-nose bastard who cut his brother. When Shaw did reach Jack, he held him as he bled out in his arms. He emptied Jack’s pants pockets, and to this day, carries the keychain crafted from the stone bottle top of a Grolsch lager bottle. Shaw believed his father never forgave him for Jack’s death, since it was his idea to go to the concert. He assumed his da never paused to consider that maybe Jack’s arrogance and untouchable attitude played a role in their attack.
Jack was murdered by a rival gang, a member of the Billy Boys, a Protestant crew from Bridgeton, Glasgow and notoriousRangers fans. Shaw sought after and got revenge for Jack’s death before he left The Drum, and Scotland, forever. His mum suffered the worst, losing two sons within days of each other. She told Shaw she understood, but he knew her heart was broken and that Collin would be all she and his da had left. Nonetheless, on April, 18, 1985, he took the train from Glasgow down to London with very little money in his pocket.
He walked into Soho Sound Studios, which lay just off Golden Square, threw down an unreleased demo, and asked for a job. He was told they weren’t hiring.
“Play the record,” Shaw insisted.
A young prick, Andy, a few years older than him said, “I’ll play the record, but I’m not hiring you.”
“We’ll see,” Shaw quipped.
Andy laughed as he put the record on a turntable. Shaw watched his smug, bored expression disappear as “Money For Nothing” played from the speakers. Andy looked at him and said, “This hasn’t been released, yet.”
“Aye. I know. I have two more in my bag, Madonna and Duran Duran. Too bad you’re not hiring,” he said and turned and left Andy’s office.
Shaw knew unreleased demos wouldn’t help Andy, or anyone else at Soho Sound, but Andy stopped him at the front door and offered him an entry-level position where Shaw would shadow programmers and engineers in the London studio.
They walked back to Andy’s office. “You’re a ballsy, twit,” he said.
“I try.”
“Where’d you get the demo?”
“I have resources.”
“You’re a smartass, too!”
“Absolutely,” Shaw said.
George’s demos and Shaw’s arrogance got Andy’s attention that day. He liked Shaw’s ingenuity; they’ve been friends ever since. That entry-level shot was all he needed to realize his dreams in the music industry. Shaw worked for Soho Sound for eleven years until, in 1996, he agreed to move to the States to help establish a secondary studio in New York City.
Shaw set up and ran SSNY for three years before deciding to make another move, a move to the less radical, less populated environment of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He chose Baton Rouge after reading several articles about proposed legislation to allow tax incentives for movie production companies that filmed in Louisiana.
Over the years, he had saved a good deal of money, as he had no family to support. Shaw scheduled a week of vacation, flew to Baton Rouge and spent the week scouting properties in the downtown area.
Over the previous two decades, revitalization efforts to improve the downtown Baton Rouge economy met with some success and some failure. In the mid-eighties, $28 million was spent to open a marketplace named Catfish Town on the banks of the Mississippi River. The July 4th festival opening drew over a quarter million people into the downtown area, but, within eighteen months, Catfish Town was abandoned. In 1994, the Catfish Town marketplace became the atrium for a riverboat casino.
Shaw calculated that if the Louisiana legislature passed the tax incentive programs, the Bayou State would triple film productions. South Louisiana, which had already earned the moniker Hollywood South, steeped in film tradition from the early movies of Tarzan of the Apes, to the classics, Easy Rider and Hush…Hush Sweet Charlotte, in addition to the more recent block-busters Steel Magnolias and Interview With The Vampire, needed a proper sound studio. There were only a couple of small sound studios in Baton Rouge, but none like he envisioned.
With the help of the Federal and State Historic Rehabilitation Tax credits, the tax increment financing, and other economic growth incentives, he found an abandoned warehouse in downtown Baton Rouge. Because the downtown economy continued to dwindle, he learned he could purchase the warehouse for a song and finally realize his dream. He flew back to New York, packed up his apartment, and turned in his two weeks’ notice at SSNY. In the Fall of 1999, Shaw moved to Baton Rouge and bought the property because he knew the boom would happen. And it did. Shaw Sound Studios was born.
He took his time learning the city. Louisiana had parishes, not counties. There was a heavy Cajun French influence among the residents of Baton Rouge as well as other predominant cultures including Spanish, Irish and Italian. There were churches of every denomination within blocks of each other. He found it refreshing to walk along streets where Catholics and Protestants mingled and worshiped together without conflict. And, unlike his life in New York, faith and religion held a priority with Louisianans, regardless of their beliefs. He learned the area around his warehouse was surrounded by two universities and some slum areas with crime-ridden neighborhoods just blocks from his new investment. Welcome home, he told himself, thinking about his old hometown of Drumchapel.
William “Billy” Morrissey had worked with Shaw at Soho Sound, and he was also part of the team that relocated to New York to set up SSNY. He was Shaw’s hire at Soho Sound. He abandoned New York and followed Shaw to Louisiana and was now his tech guy. Billy had grown up in County Kilkenny, Ireland and was seven years Shaw’s junior. He had a more privileged life in Gowran than Shaw had ever known in Glasgow, raised in a middle class home, and educated at the prestigious Trinity College in Dublin. He was smart and a technical miracle worker, able to manipulate anything electronic at his pleasure, and command computerized technology with ease, earning him the nickname, “Morse Code,” at Soho Sound. Shaw rarely called him that anymore, unless he was trying to twist him up. He simply called him Billy. He was one of Shaw’s closest friends.
Billy and Shaw lived in the barren warehouse for months as Shaw got funding together to renovate the warehouse and build a studio out front. Once it was built, it was a state-of-the-art sound studio with multiple recording dens specializing in studio recordings, sound design, sound animation, voiceovers, mixing and dubbing, and audio post-production. Shaw’s loft apartment was built upstairs on the west side of the warehouse. In addition to the large executive offices in the studio, the warehouse also held additional office space, an employee kitchen and lounge, and an inventory of every imaginable musical instrument.
Shaw purchased the musical equipment from a man who would later become his best friend. Marsh owned a music store that Billy and he wandered into one day after eating lunch at a nearby café. Marsh was teaching bass guitar to a fifteen-year-old boy when Billy and Shaw walked into his shop. Marsh had long, dark brown hair, green eyes, and a beard and mustache, which surprised Shaw once he noticed the eagle, globe, and anchor Marine Corps tattoo on his left bicep. His build and features reminded Shaw of an old-world Viking. Marsh was tall, long-limbed, with a broad chest and narrow hips. He wore a braided leather wristband, a gold chain around his neck, and a gold Marine Corps ring on his right hand.
Billy and Shaw browsed through his inventory as Marsh continued the lesson. Near the end of the lesson, Shaw sat at the front counter engrossed in the jam session he and his student were having. Shaw was captivated by Marsh’s ability to simultaneously play lead and rhythm on one guitar. No one can do that, he thought. Marsh turned out to be the most talented musician Shaw would ever meet.

To Continue Reading Closer To Home: http://www.amazon.com/Closer-Home-Book-Crime-Drama-ebook/dp/B0157G0J8Y/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1451875663&sr=8-2&keywords=Closer+to+home

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 03, 2016, 07:07:40 pm

Quote from: Regan OLeary on January 03, 2016, 06:01:25 pm

I'm Regan O'Leary, author of the Bane Shaw series. I was born and raised in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, growing up in the rural southeast part of East Baton Rouge parish. I attended public school, which, although was unequaled to a private school education, was certainly a better educational system than today's children have. I was very fortunate to attend and graduate from Baton Rouge Magnet High School, #Bulldogs, where I met and was alumni with some of the most brilliant, quirky, and diverse teenagers hailing from all corners of East Baton Rouge Parish. BRHS was a liberal minded institution without indoctrination and it was an ideal setting for a rebel teenage girl who put out just enough academic effort to keep her GPA in a comfortably safe-zone to maintain my enrollment status at the college-prep school. None-the-less, it was four of the best years of my life accompanied with my hotrod 'Stang, a rock & roll band, and scandalous behavior that included, but wasn't limited to drag racing down River Road. God is merciful and good as I should have crashed and burned long before my eighteenth birthday.

I grew up in "the country". It wasn't a ranch, although we raised cattle, and it wasn't a farm, despite the large garden in the back pasture that was planted spring and fall. It was just home. I ran bare-footed everywhere I went, year round, except into the grocery store and the like, as my mother said that it was nasty and she would have beaten me within an inch of my life for acting like 'poor white trash'. Every summer morning was spent in the garden, watering, picking, hoeing, then shelling, snapping, and shucking all preparing for the pressure cooker - rations for the ever-coming winter. Hell, I didn't know people bought jelly at the grocery store until my late teens: ignorance is bliss.

My brothers and I climbed Gum trees, had gumball fights, walked in the woods eating more blackberries than the bucket ever knew, and we did chores: loads of chores. It's how you lived.

No cell phones: a large rotary dial in the kitchen; no video games: I was out of high school before I ever touched an Atari; and no cablevision: but we never missed Billy Graham's Crusade, Miss America pageants, and John Wayne films, along with the accompanying snack of homemade ice cream or dill pickles - yes, home-canned cucumbers.

And we fished. From the time I could hold a rod and reel I was saltwater fishing. I remember tenting on the beaches of Elmer's Island or the Grand Isle state park. After some years my parents purchased a second-hand travel trailer then eventually a lot on a bay side street in the center of seven-mile barrier island of Grand Isle. We spent many weekends fishing the inland bay and the front of the island for speckled trout and redfish. The best trips in my memory are those that took us offshore. We spent an hour or so fishing inland for bait fish then set our sights, and the bow of the boat, toward the oil rigs.

It's a magical journey crossing choppy passes to break free into the open Gulf and sail to a place where land has fallen from sight. More thrilling is the feel of a monster fish at the end of the heavy gear, wondering what beast God had allowed to snatch your line. But even more appealing is the smell of the salt, the wind whipping your hair to madness, the gulls' song, and the insignificance one feels floating on the surface of a tremendous body of water that, below her surface, is home to a myriad of life.
I believe the enchantment of being on the water is best summed up in Henry David Thoreau's infamous quote: "Many go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after".

One particular frightening recollection was a day fishing with friends at the sulfur rig, that seemingly lay on the surface of the green Gulf waters. Sadly, the rig is long since gone. It was a beast, stretching the equivalent of a city block. Watching a worker on a smoke break at the top of the platform, which required you to look straight up to the sky, drop his cigarette into the Gulf between our two boats. He was shouting, which was pointless over the loud moans of the rig, and pointing at the ocean. We finally looked into the water between our vessels to where he was desperately pointing. A 25-foot hammerhead shark had surfaced between our two boats - no wonder we weren't catching any fish!

Stay tuned. I hope to take you on a wonderful journey around Baton Rouge and south Louisiana. Peace and God Bless.

it is a pleasure to learn more about you Regan. thank you for taking the time to tell your story.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 03, 2016, 06:30:12 pm

Phillip "Bane" Shaw, a native of Scotland, is the arrogant and impetuous owner of Shaw Sound Studios in Hollywood South. Shaw has a thriving business, loyal friends, and a captivating relationship with Bronagh Stewart, a woman with whom he is wholly in love and who altogether completes him; a woman he thought didn't exist. The compelling desire Bronagh and he share, and their seemingly flawless relationship bring about contentment Bane has never known, despite the mildly petulant, ever-present thoughts of the murders he committed in Glasgow years before. Shaw's idyllic life is threatened, not only by the secrets of his past, but also of Bronagh's, when Bronagh's psychopathic ex-husband reenters her life. Will this monster succeed in visiting upon her, again, unimaginable violence?

Closer To Home is a psychological suspense thriller that challenges the reader to consider their own notion of love, obsession and revenge. Exactly how far would you go to protect those precious to you?

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 03, 2016, 06:01:25 pm

I'm Regan O'Leary, author of the Bane Shaw series. I was born and raised in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, growing up in the rural southeast part of East Baton Rouge parish. I attended public school, which, although was unequaled to a private school education, was certainly a better educational system than today's children have. I was very fortunate to attend and graduate from Baton Rouge Magnet High School, #Bulldogs, where I met and was alumni with some of the most brilliant, quirky, and diverse teenagers hailing from all corners of East Baton Rouge Parish. BRHS was a liberal minded institution without indoctrination and it was an ideal setting for a rebel teenage girl who put out just enough academic effort to keep her GPA in a comfortably safe-zone to maintain my enrollment status at the college-prep school. None-the-less, it was four of the best years of my life accompanied with my hotrod 'Stang, a rock & roll band, and scandalous behavior that included, but wasn't limited to drag racing down River Road. God is merciful and good as I should have crashed and burned long before my eighteenth birthday.

I grew up in "the country". It wasn't a ranch, although we raised cattle, and it wasn't a farm, despite the large garden in the back pasture that was planted spring and fall. It was just home. I ran bare-footed everywhere I went, year round, except into the grocery store and the like, as my mother said that it was nasty and she would have beaten me within an inch of my life for acting like 'poor white trash'. Every summer morning was spent in the garden, watering, picking, hoeing, then shelling, snapping, and shucking all preparing for the pressure cooker - rations for the ever-coming winter. Hell, I didn't know people bought jelly at the grocery store until my late teens: ignorance is bliss.

My brothers and I climbed Gum trees, had gumball fights, walked in the woods eating more blackberries than the bucket ever knew, and we did chores: loads of chores. It's how you lived.

No cell phones: a large rotary dial in the kitchen; no video games: I was out of high school before I ever touched an Atari; and no cablevision: but we never missed Billy Graham's Crusade, Miss America pageants, and John Wayne films, along with the accompanying snack of homemade ice cream or dill pickles - yes, home-canned cucumbers.

And we fished. From the time I could hold a rod and reel I was saltwater fishing. I remember tenting on the beaches of Elmer's Island or the Grand Isle state park. After some years my parents purchased a second-hand travel trailer then eventually a lot on a bay side street in the center of seven-mile barrier island of Grand Isle. We spent many weekends fishing the inland bay and the front of the island for speckled trout and redfish. The best trips in my memory are those that took us offshore. We spent an hour or so fishing inland for bait fish then set our sights, and the bow of the boat, toward the oil rigs.

It's a magical journey crossing choppy passes to break free into the open Gulf and sail to a place where land has fallen from sight. More thrilling is the feel of a monster fish at the end of the heavy gear, wondering what beast God had allowed to snatch your line. But even more appealing is the smell of the salt, the wind whipping your hair to madness, the gulls' song, and the insignificance one feels floating on the surface of a tremendous body of water that, below her surface, is home to a myriad of life.
I believe the enchantment of being on the water is best summed up in Henry David Thoreau's infamous quote: "Many go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after".

One particular frightening recollection was a day fishing with friends at the sulfur rig, that seemingly lay on the surface of the green Gulf waters. Sadly, the rig is long since gone. It was a beast, stretching the equivalent of a city block. Watching a worker on a smoke break at the top of the platform, which required you to look straight up to the sky, drop his cigarette into the Gulf between our two boats. He was shouting, which was pointless over the loud moans of the rig, and pointing at the ocean. We finally looked into the water between our vessels to where he was desperately pointing. A 25-foot hammerhead shark had surfaced between our two boats - no wonder we weren't catching any fish!

Stay tuned. I hope to take you on a wonderful journey around Baton Rouge and south Louisiana. Peace and God Bless.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 03, 2016, 05:52:59 pm

Regan O'Leary was born and raised in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, spending a great deal of her childhood along the Louisiana Gulf coast. She is a freelance writer and researcher, and she enjoys reading, fishing, and traveling at home and abroad. She still resides in South Louisiana with her husband and three children. This is her debut novel.

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 01, 2016, 09:13:46 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on January 01, 2016, 08:05:17 pm

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Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Regan OLeary on January 01, 2016, 06:35:04 pm

Thank you! Glad to be a part of Camelot!

Title: Re: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on December 31, 2015, 10:46:41 pm

Welcome to Camelot.

Title: The Regan OLeary Global Center
Post by: Clay Death on December 31, 2015, 10:45:40 pm

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Hello, I'm Regan O'Leary

I was born and raised in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, spending a great deal of my childhood along the Louisiana Gulf coast. I am a lover of music, a freelance writer and researcher, and I enjoy reading, fishing, and traveling at home and abroad. I still resides in South Louisiana with my husband and three children. Closer To Home is my debut novel.

Let's Get Connected:

Twitter - https://twitter.com/Regan_OLeary
Facebook Fan Page - https://www.facebook.com/R-OLearys-Bane-Shaw-893670180688533/
Email - ReganOLearyPublishing@gmail.com

http://reganoleary.com/

I'm Regan O'Leary, author of the Bane Shaw series. I was born and raised in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, growing up in the rural southeast part of East Baton Rouge parish. I attended public school, which, although was unequaled to a private school education, was certainly a better educational system than today's children have. I was very fortunate to attend and graduate from Baton Rouge Magnet High School, #Bulldogs, where I met and was alumni with some of the most brilliant, quirky, and diverse teenagers hailing from all corners of East Baton Rouge Parish. BRHS was a liberal minded institution without indoctrination and it was an ideal setting for a rebel teenage girl who put out just enough academic effort to keep her GPA in a comfortably safe-zone to maintain my enrollment status at the college-prep school. None-the-less, it was four of the best years of my life accompanied with my hotrod 'Stang, a rock & roll band, and scandalous behavior that included, but wasn't limited to drag racing down River Road. God is merciful and good as I should have crashed and burned long before my eighteenth birthday.

I grew up in "the country". It wasn't a ranch, although we raised cattle, and it wasn't a farm, despite the large garden in the back pasture that was planted spring and fall. It was just home. I ran bare-footed everywhere I went, year round, except into the grocery store and the like, as my mother said that it was nasty and she would have beaten me within an inch of my life for acting like 'poor white trash'. Every summer morning was spent in the garden, watering, picking, hoeing, then shelling, snapping, and shucking all preparing for the pressure cooker - rations for the ever-coming winter. Hell, I didn't know people bought jelly at the grocery store until my late teens: ignorance is bliss.

My brothers and I climbed Gum trees, had gumball fights, walked in the woods eating more blackberries than the bucket ever knew, and we did chores: loads of chores. It's how you lived.

No cell phones: a large rotary dial in the kitchen; no video games: I was out of high school before I ever touched an Atari; and no cablevision: but we never missed Billy Graham's Crusade, Miss America pageants, and John Wayne films, along with the accompanying snack of homemade ice cream or dill pickles - yes, home-canned cucumbers.

And we fished. From the time I could hold a rod and reel I was saltwater fishing. I remember tenting on the beaches of Elmer's Island or the Grand Isle state park. After some years my parents purchased a second-hand travel trailer then eventually a lot on a bay side street in the center of seven-mile barrier island of Grand Isle. We spent many weekends fishing the inland bay and the front of the island for speckled trout and redfish. The best trips in my memory are those that took us offshore. We spent an hour or so fishing inland for bait fish then set our sights, and the bow of the boat, toward the oil rigs.

It's a magical journey crossing choppy passes to break free into the open Gulf and sail to a place where land has fallen from sight. More thrilling is the feel of a monster fish at the end of the heavy gear, wondering what beast God had allowed to snatch your line. But even more appealing is the smell of the salt, the wind whipping your hair to madness, the gulls' song, and the insignificance one feels floating on the surface of a tremendous body of water that, below her surface, is home to a myriad of life.
I believe the enchantment of being on the water is best summed up in Henry David Thoreau's infamous quote: "Many go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after".

One particular frightening recollection was a day fishing with friends at the sulfur rig, that seemingly lay on the surface of the green Gulf waters. Sadly, the rig is long since gone. It was a beast, stretching the equivalent of a city block. Watching a worker on a smoke break at the top of the platform, which required you to look straight up to the sky, drop his cigarette into the Gulf between our two boats. He was shouting, which was pointless over the loud moans of the rig, and pointing at the ocean. We finally looked into the water between our vessels to where he was desperately pointing. A 25-foot hammerhead shark had surfaced between our two boats - no wonder we weren't catching any fish!

Stay tuned. I hope to take you on a wonderful journey around Baton Rouge and south Louisiana. Peace and God Bless.

http://reganoleary.com/