flotsam and jetsam

• From the "The Crazy Shit you Remember" file: Brother Marky used to play baseball.  Quite well, actually.  Anyway, he had a Babe Ruth League game one Wednesday evening back in the day, and I rode to the ballpark with my parents.  My buddy Mike had just played a game before Mark's, and he was all excited to try out his new screwball.  Fernando Valenzuela was the new thing then, and he had a wicked screwgie.  Anyway, Mike and I were off throwing screwballs to each other.  It was a warm spring night, and the air smelled like a ballpark, one of nature's most perfect aromas--grass, clay, sweat, burgers cooking, peanut shells, dirt, and adrenaline.  The next morning at school, Mike and I were playing basketball with a bunch of our friends.  This jackass kid nobody liked tripped me when I was going for a lay-up, and I fell and broke the hell out of my right wrist.  The things you remember.
• I didn't like Fernando Valenzuela after that.
• I have always liked the Gin Blossoms, though.
• The Gin Blossoms' guitarist is Jesse Valenzuela.
• I don't know whether A) he's related to Fernando Valenzuela, or B) he can throw a screwball.
• Gin blossoms refer to the ruptured capillaries on the nose of one who drinks excessively (see: Fields, W.C.)
• The Gin Blossoms were formed in 1987 in Tempe.
• In 1987, I was in Tallahassee, and I didn't have any gin blossoms, although I could throw a pretty good screwball.
• Now, I have some gin blossoms; I like the proper noun Gin Blossoms, can't throw a screwball, and stopped drinking gin.
• Though you'd never know it from reading this blog.
• In honor of Independence Day, we've had a potluck type thing here at work.  As always, we're a bit dessert-heavy, with a couple of cheesecakes, an Italian Dream Cake, a fruit platter, a giganto birthday cake, a coconut custard pie, and other things my pancreas wouldn't allow me to examine. 
• One lady brought a huge crock pot full of Cuban black bean chili.  Woo-hoo!!! My plan was to eat about four bowls of that, then go home and create my own fireworks.
• Damn the luck, though, that masterful chili was all gone before I even got a spoonful.  However, big props to Linda for making the absolute greatest deviled eggs in the history of either the devil or eggs.
• Seriously, if Satan made these while preparing for a picnic, he'd call them Linda'd eggs in respectful tribute.
• Linda doesn't have any obvious gin blossoms.
• Her eggs, though.  OY!
• Okay, not her personal ova, but the deviled eggs she made.
• She said they were the easiest thing ever, containing horsey sauce, bacon, salt & pepper, and did I mention bacon?
• Adding bacon to eggs seems like a subtle perfecting of the existing chicken egg, and I mean no offense to chickens.  God forbid I offend the poultry-American community on Independence Day.  We damage human-poultry relations enough as it is.
• Another one from both the "Human-Poultry Relations Snafu" and "The Shit You Remember" files: One year, my family was in Ft Oglethorpe, Georgia, for Independence Day.  There was a big celebration in the Chickamauga National Battlefield.  My grandmother packed a picnic of fried severed chicken parts, Golden Flake potato chips, and Coca-Cola in those little 6.5 oz glass bottles.  The Chattanooga Symphony Orchestra played, and there were fireworks.  Being there on that blood-hallowed ground, Civil War cannons still scattered throughout verdant fields, eating that quintessentially Southern American meal while fireworks exploded and patriotic melodies soared, my patriotism swelled.
• My greatest fireworks experience was after the U-92 Tenth Anniversary Beach Blast, a big concert we staged on Clearwater Beach.  Predictably for an August concert, a giant thunderstorm came blasting through before the headliners were able to play, thus ruining our giant fireworks finale over the Gulf.  Well, here's the problem.  With all the lightning and ozone in the air (so the tetchy pyrotechnics guy said), the fireworks were unstable, and there was "No damn way (he was) driving them sumbitches back across the bridge in (his) truck.  That shit could explode at any time."  By this point, the crowd was gone, and Digger the promotions guy and I had taken down all our stuff.  Mike the Engineer, aka "Gorgonzola Monster Boy," asked Mr Tetchy 'Splosion Guy what we should do.  "Best thing is just blow the fuckers up." 
• I should mention that Mike the Engineer had given two weeks notice two weeks before that night.  He didn't really care if the lingering dozen or so station VIP's and sponsors snootily lolling about the hospitality tent would be scared.  In fact, all the better. 
• "Go right ahead!"
• The fireworks display was to have been twelve minutes long.  I know this, because I had spent a few hours Friday painstakingly editing together a 12 minute musical montage to accompany it.  The annoying station brass and sponsors didn't know what hit them, and somehow we'd neglected to give them a heads-up.  The 12-minutes worth of fireworks were launched and exploded in about 25 seconds. 
• The Apocalypse will have to work mighty hard to outdo this.  It was jarringly, violently beautiful, like nuclear explosions.
• Thank God I don't have any nuclear explosion stories to share.
• I should note that my buddy Mike from school and baseball is NOT Mike the Engineer, aka "Gorgonzola Monster Boy."
• My buddy Mike went on to coach high school baseball, and there are few greater motherlodes of colorful language than baseball people.  Their expressions transcend the narrow ballet of ball and bat, forging into every facet of life, including meteorology.  For example:

The Weather Channel: "There were heavy downpours."

Baseball people: "It rained like a cow pissing on a flat rock."

• That night, my buddy Mike would have told Gorgonzola Monster Boy Mike that "It's raining like piss from a boot."
• States I've been in: Florida, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Utah, Arizona, Arkansas, Tennessee, Kentucky, Colorado, California, Hawaii, Wyoming, Idaho, South Dakota, Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, Illinois, Missouri, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, District of Columbia, Indiana, and Michigan.
• Maybe Ohio, too: I'm not sure.
• Things change.  Many of the states I've been to were once fighting each other right on that Civil War battlefield where we had that picnic long ago.  My grandmother and grandfather are buried maybe fifteen miles north of there, in the Chattanooga National Cemetery. 
• The Chattanooga National Cemetery was established Christmas Day in 1863.  By 1870, more than 12,800 folks had taken up residence there, 4189 of whom were unknown.  There are actual German POWs buried there, too: 183 of them from World War 1 and World War 2. 
• Just to be clear, my grandfather was a World War 2 veteran from the United States Army, and NOT a German POW.
• The last time I was at the Chattanooga National Cemetery was when we buried my grandmother on April 1, 1993.  It was ridiculously cold (Baseball term: "Cold as a witch's tit"), and I'd left the houseful of mourners by myself, just so I could hot-box a few cigarettes before the funeral.  I parked next to this beautiful valley, and all at once it started to snow.  Just a tiny flurry that didn't stick to anything, but I smiled through my misery.  This was just how my grandmother would've said "howdy" when I was sneaking cigarettes before her funeral.
• Today there are over 43,000 bodies buried in the Chattanooga National Cemetery.  Watching over them since 1879 is a large monument erected by the State of Ohio.
• Ohio is next to Indiana, which is where my buddy Mike now lives.
• Ohio was also the home of a judge with the impressive name Kenesaw Mountain Landis.  Judge Landis was named after Kennesaw Mountain, from which his father and fellow Ohioan was shot during the Civil War. Landis pere was extremely pissed off that he left most of one leg in the shadow of Kennesaw Mountain, thus he named his son after it, just as sort of a sick memorial.
• I suppose it would be like me naming my son "Fournier's Gangrene Melancholy Socially Retarded Drunkard" (Biff, for short).  
• Anyway, Kenesaw Mountain Landis went on to be one of the most revered and influential baseball commissioners in history.  His biggest achievement was maintaining the game's integrity following the 1919 Black Sox Scandal. 
• His second? The phrase, "busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest."
• Happy Birthday America, and I hope everyone has a safe, happy weekend.

To Laurie, Arbed, Hazy, Chickleta, and all my other Canadian Vox friends I'm forgetting at the moment, Happy Canada Day!! From Newfoundland in the east to Vancouver Island in the west, from Ellesmere Island in the north to Sioux Falls, SD, in the south, here's to round bacon and strong beer!

Blech:

• New schedule means I'm no longer able to write Sunday Thought Brunch posts while being paid
• New schedule means no more work-wife, and severely limited Staceypunkin time
• I have a headache
• This guy sitting across the way is a mad tooth-sucker, and an unapologetic loud typer.
• My dishwasher is broken.  This doesn't bother me, for I don't object to washing dishes by hand (especially since I have so few), but because my dishwasher now randomly decides to spill water onto my floor.  Not cool there, Dishwasher.

Yum:

• My new schedule is more in synch with my natural circadian rhythms, meaning it doesn't involve waking up at 0525 anymore.
• Three days off each week.
• Still get to see work-wife and Staceypunkin some during the day
• Three nights off each week for extracurricular activity.
• Kelly, Senior Grade, brought me a dozen of the absolute best chocolate chip cookies in global cookie history.  Seriously.  Amazing.  I asked what was different about them, and she said it's because they're made with her love.
• Apparently, Kelly SG's love tastes a lot like molasses.
  
• Having a cat asleep on either side of me as I write this.
• I can still write Sunday Thought Brunch posts, even though it was cooler doing them on the clock. ;-)
• I have a job I like, and which usually pays at least most of the bills.
• The South Park Studios site, where you can watch all the episodes free, and build your own customized South Park avatar, like this:
• 

  South_Park_Avatar

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  Being able to go to sleep at a normal hour (around 0500), and not have to wake up at 0525 to go to work.
  
• Stacey reports ten fingers, ten toes, one belly button, and a steady pulse, despite the increasing snot pressure in her head (ie, she's getting a cold).
• Happily, I'm at 10-10-1 also, and I haven't caught her cold, yet. 
  
• Happy Tuesday.
  

I don't quite know how to finish that title. 

Genius? Sure.

Michael Jackson was a talent the likes of which we see maybe once or twice a century.  He could sing, and what he did for dancing made rhythm-challenged oafs like me cringe.  How could we ever compete with that?

It's funny how many people tried.  Back in the 80's, I remember seeing stupid people try and emulate Michael's dress, his look, even that inane one glove thing.  Fail.

But was that all he was?

"Thriller" caught lightning in a bottle, to be sure.  In the past 24 hours, I've read countless eulogies and remembrances about Michael Jackson.  I got text messages from friends who were toddlers back then, or not even born.  They grew up in a post-"Thriller" world, where MTV and radio weren't segregated like before. 

Was "Thriller" a work of genius? Sure.  I'd argue that it was equal parts Michael Jackson and Quincy Jones, who produced the record.  It had a sound, slick and dark, with post-disco dance beats and lush orchestration.  There were some good songs on "Bad," the follow-up, and a few hit-or-miss songs after that, but nothing he ever did touched "Thriller."

On the other ungloved hand, after "Thriller," Michael began falling apart.  The media loves apart-falling, and Michael went from undisputed genius to flawed genius to full-bore whacknut before "Thriller" was even ten years old.  It started with the little things--plastic surgery, the ever-lightening skin, the rumors of sleeping in a hyperbaric chamber, cavorting with Bubbles the chimp, and showing up at the Grammys with Emmanuel Lewis on his knee.  The 1990's were worse for Michael, freakwise.  His music wasn't selling in "Thriller" numbers, his face got creepier, his video persona more unstable, and we started hearing about little boys.  This decade saw Michael be evicted from his Neverland Ranch, and be arrested and tried on molestation charges.  He never recovered.

It sucks, really.  I remember seeing him on the Motown at the Apollo special, and...holy crap.  What can you say? He was just spectacular.  Even watching Martin Bashir's smear-you-mentary a few years ago, I saw something in the way he moved at one point that suggested that Apollo exuberance.  It's the way Gregory Hines moved, even when he was acting in "Law & Order," a hint that his limbs were more in tune to the Universe's music than ours are.  How far he fell to the frail, fright-masked freak walking into that courtroom a few years ago. 

I have to admit, I was never Michael Jackson's biggest fan.  I got sick of his overexposure, and while I appreciated the slick production and occasionally tasty groove ("Smooth Criminal," eg), I didn't feel any sort of link, the way I did when Prince was in his purple reign.  I was sad when Kurt Cobain killed himself, too, but I'd damaged my hearing blasting Nevermind in my truck. 

But Michael Jackson was different.  He seemed to be attracted to the publicity that imprisoned him.  He did ridiculous things--walking around with that stupid germ mask, or the countless plastic surgeries that left him so horrific--and always seemed to be fighting to recapture that "Thriller" status.  He wanted the worship and adulation.  He erected a statue of himself, for God's sake--he made himself his own graven image. 

Yeah, I admit he had a rough childhood.  His dad was a bastard, blah, blah, blah.  Lots of people have terrible childhoods, some 1000 times worse than Michael's.  People heal.  Seriously, what he spent on his Neverland Ranch's train alone could've bought him years of amazing therapy.  I have a hard time feeling that bad for somebody who blew hundreds of millions of dollars on gaudy crap while people I know are struggling to survive.  The $20 million he paid the first kid who charged him with molestation? That would feed and house a lot of people.  It's sad that Michael Jackson was screwed up in the head, so megalomaniacal that he thought he could get away with anything.

Sadder still, I'd lay even odds his toxicology report will read just like Elvis', a veritable PDR of uppers and downers and narcotics.  Somebody in MJ's party was said to have told a paramedic that Michael had gone into distress after an injection of Demerol.  Kurt Cobain will be remembered as a junkie for abusing heroin.  Michael's chemical abuses have had the good PR sense to be called "medicine" instead of "drugs."

Michael was a superstar among superstars, same as Elvis before him.  He had talent, and the camera loved him.  He'll always be remembered, same as Elvis.  Thing is, Elvis is generally remembered as the fat, Vegas version, not the lean, dangerous rebel of the late 50's.  I'm afraid Michael will befall the same fate.  In the same breath as "Thriller" will be whispers of "and THEN what happened to him? How sad."

How sad, indeed.  Sad for us, left wondering what he could have become had he focused more on his music, and less on his legend. 

R.I.P., Michael.  I hope you find what you need on the other side. 

Sometimes you're the bug (yuck):

• People here are sick.  Not in the pleasant, "telling Helen Keller jokes" way, but sick.  Work-wife Aimee is out sick again today; Staceypunkin has a migraine, and the lady over there -------------> has a really nasty cold. 
• I swear, the cold lady over there ----------------> sounds like somebody drinking clam chowder through a milkshake straw.
• Horrors! Saturday night at dinner? Somebody swooped down over our table and stole--STOLE, I tell you--my pepperoncini out of the giant salad bowl.  There were two of them.  One for Punkin and one for me.  She swears she didn't see anything.  I'm sure she's telling the truth, although she was awful burpy the rest of the night.
• The continued Venusian weather.
• I woke up ten minutes before my alarm went off.  I was having a great dream, too.

Sometimes you're the windshield (YAY!):

• I'm not sick at the moment, nor do I have a headache.
• When I finally did get to sleep, I had an epic dream.  It was spectacular.  I credit fresh garlic and having watched Alfred Hitchcock's "The Lady Vanishes" right before bed. I can't remember what happened, but I think Michael Redgrave was in it, and it involved a train. 
• Waking up with my right hand completely numb, but soon assessing that it's because Ana-Sofia Vargas was asleep on it.
• Thank God, those two were not the final two pepperoncinis on Earth; there will be other opportunities to get one before they're all gone.  I just have to eat more Wonka bars.
• Despite her migraine, Stacey reports 10 fingers, 10 toes, one belly-button, and a very steady pulse.
• Me, too: 10, 10, 1, steady.
• Have a great Tuesday

I'd call insomnia a succubus, but that would require me to be sleeping, and I'm not. 

It's hot here in the Sodom Gomorrah Metro Area:

Current conditions
As of 1:08 AM EDT at Tampa Knight Airport, Florida Clear Temperature: 88° Heat index: 105° Wind: WNW 7 mph Dewpoint: 81° Humidity: 79% Pressure: 29.74 in. (steady) Visibility: 10.0 miles

That's one o'clock in the morning, with a heat index of 105.  This sucks.  Thankfully, the bachelor batcave's climate control system is operating well to maintain optimum indoor conditions. 

It's okay.  I had Monday off as a holiday.   A friend at work is Wiccan, and thus to her Monday was a holiday: the Summer Solstice.  There would be very different solstices on other planets.  Venus wouldn't have any, since it manages to stand completely upright.  Uranus rolls through the solar system with its ass aimed at the sun perpetually, so it would always be solstice day in southern Uranus, whereas northern Uranusians would have a constant winter solstice.  If you were to find yourself on Uranus, you'd have far worse problems than worrying about which Solstice celebration outfit to wear from day to day. 

I slept a lot on Monday.  It was an action-packed weekend, at least by my standards, and I celebrated the solstice by napping much of the day.  I chatted with a few friends online, talked to my 'rents and Staceypunkin, and didn't have to leave my cave until after dark.  Gah.

In my mailbox today was my new Florida Driver's License.  Hooray.  I'm now able to go back to the Texas Cattle Company for my birthday steak.  I'm grateful though to my previous license.  Oh, I know it was just a card.   But a lot of stuff has happened since that hot August day four years ago when I got it.  I've driven a few thousand safe miles--each of them 100% sober--and I used that license to check into the hospital nearly two years ago.  The accompanying letter said to destroy my old license.  I don't think so.  I should build a shrine to the sonofabitch.

I should try and sleep again.  I've gone through two of my usual sleepytime cd's, and nothing.  There is no cool side to the pillow.  I guess I'll get bored soon enough and crash.  As for now, I'll leave you with the following spotter's guide, just in case you've been getting Audrey Hepburn and Paris Hilton confused.  Good night (I hope).

Audrey and paris

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Yesterday, I noted that Mary and Amory were married in Hawaii.  It was later pointed out to me that just below my heartfelt blessing to them was a poster with a, well, um, something that doesn’t have anything to do with marriage, we’ll say.  Plus, it’s illegal in several states.  Anyway, in honor of their wedding, today’s Sunday Thought Brunch is hosted by the Princeville Resort’s Café Hanalei.  We’ll sample some tasty brunch items, and go through a traditional Hawaiian wedding blessing.

Salad: Spicy Crab and Kimchee with Cucumber--Aloha Mai (May you always be surrounded with love):  Life will throw lots of curveballs your way.  I’ve dodged some good ones in my earthbound tenure.  The one thing that’s made the whole thing bearable is the support and love of family and friends.  Yesterday was a great day.  I had lunch with my friend Hope, which gave us a chance to catch up and laugh, then a laugh-filled dinner with Staceypunkin.  Years ago, during my personal Dark Ages, I isolated, eschewing the presence of family and friends.  Thank God, some people wouldn’t let me push them away completely.  May your lives be filled with laughter and love from a multitude of friends and family.

Chilled Seafood and Specialty Items: Peel & Eat Shrimp with Horseradish Spiked Cocktail Sauce--Ea Ea (Every breath you take is sweet and good):  One of the sad truths is that we are fragile animals, at least compared to things like rocks or redwood trees.  There will be bizarre things that arise here and there, and you may find yourself sick or in the hospital.  I hope your down-times are few and brief, and that you enjoy being fearfully and wonderfully made (to quote the psalmist) with 20, 20, 2, and steady (to paraphrase my ToT).

Entrée: Pancit Noodles with Crispy Asian Duck—Ike Pono (See, Know, Recognize Goodness in you, others, everything): Many moons ago, I was 18 years old.  (yes, the moon was really there that long ago.  Be nice) Anyway, my friend Cassie and I were standing outside the AMC Lenox in Atlanta, waiting to see a midnight movie.  This very punk-looking kid walked up.  He had the sneer, the Mohawk, a safety pin through his nostril, just a…well, a punk.  He approached, and I bristled a bit.  Until he spoke.  “Excuse me, sir.  Ma’am.  Could you please tell me what time it is?” “Um, yeah.  It’s ten till twelve.” “Thank you, sir.  I hope y’all have a great evening.” It was easy to misjudge this kid based on a stereotype.  Turns out he was really nice.  There’s a spark of goodness in almost all of us.  Sometimes, it’s hard to see through all the darkness. May you find that quality in everyone and everything you encounter.

Desserts: Fresh Crepes with a Variety of Fillings (vanilla ice cream with cherries)—Ola Mau Loa (May your lives be long):  This one is self explanatory, but I’ll quote the sage words Warren Zevon left us: “Enjoy every sandwich.” Sure, I think it’s important to enjoy every reuben and patty melt, but I think the greater lesson is to take pleasure in the little things: watching sunsets, holding hands, smelling the rain, hearing the ocean.  Of course food is important.  I mean, even werewolves in London enjoy Lee Hoo Fok’s beef chow mein.

Champagne:  Verve Cliquot--Uwehe E  (Be free from harm) :  Well, this one is also pretty easy.  I hope the Universe treats you kindly, and that nothing happens that would cause your car or homeowner’s insurance premiums to increase.  May you live without fear, and without reason to fear.

Fresh Kona Coffee: “I Ho’okahi kahi ke aloha ua mau.”     Be united as one, in love forever.

This last one’s simple.  Mary.  Amory. Together in love.  Forever. 

I’m sure the wedding was beautiful.  I hope your marriage is even moreso.

Happy weekend, everyone, and Happy Fathers Day to all dads.

(Just to be truly global, let's try and get as many different countries and US States to wish my little brother a happy burpday as possible.  So far, we have Canada (Laurie), Michigan (Lauri), and Kentucky (Mariser).  Chime in, and identify your state or country.  Thanks for your support.  Hot damn, this burg's jumpin' :-))

June is a busy month here.  We start off with my birthday on the 10th, followed by my parents' anniversary on the 12th, Fathers' Day, my Grandmother's Birthday on the 20th, my mom's birthday on the 22nd, and right there in the middle, Paul McCartney's Birthday on June 18th.

It is coincidental that Brother Mark was born on June 18th as well.  He's been an A #1 brother, too.  Like me, he hates having his picture taken--this is because (like our mother) he and I are decidedly unphotogenic--but Our Father, Who art a Shutterbug (hallowed be His Name), insisted, so we have this rare pic from my birthday dinner last Wednesday:

Tombstone2

In this picture, once again, Mark had backed me up, something he's been doing our whole life together.  The Texas Cattle Company Manager had just refused to give me my free birthday steak, and Marky shot him.  Right through the forehead.  Hey, if you're going to act all old West with your name and motif, then you'd better not act all surprised if people show up with big mustaches and shoot you for crawfishing on a deal. 

Or using words like "crawfish" as a verb.

Just one example of how (as they said in "Tombstone") "you always back your brother's play," involved a bottle of bourbon.  My grandfather was a sportswriter and bourbon aficionado (can you be the former without being the latter?), and whenever he visited, he'd purchase a bottle of bourbon at our local liquor store, enjoy a few cocktails during his stay, then leave the rest here for next time.  Well, he came down to cover the Super Bowl one year, and that was it--there was no next time.  So there was a largely full bottle of bourbon in the pantry.  My mom had a pumpkin pie recipe which called for one teaspoon of bourbon.  She would thus use a teaspoon of my grandfather's bourbon every Thanksgiving and Christmas when she made pumpkin pies.  In addition to certain verbal skills, I very definitely inherited the bourbon aficionado gene from my grandfather.  So late one Christmas Eve, ma and pa were nestled all snug in their bed, and little brother and I were pillaging the kitchen for roast beast and Lord knows what else, when I spied with my thirsty bloodshot eye a bottle of bourbon! Yay! Mark pointed out correctly that there was a finite, irreplaceable quantity of bourbon in the bottle.  I said, "Well, we could just say it evaporated." He rolled his eyes, and continued piling four pounds of leftovers on his sandwich. 

The next day, I heard my mom and brother banging around in the kitchen.  My mom asked my brother to get "Papaw's bourbon" out of the pantry.  I froze. 

"Boy, it looks like it's gone down a lot since last year."
"Yeah, it does.  But the cap is loose.  It probably evaporated."

God bless you, little brother!

Anyway, I could go on with other stories, but I won't.  Suffice to say, there are far more instances of him covering my ass than stabbing me in the back.  In the great brother algebra, that's the best you can hope for.  Thanks, #2.  And have a happy one. 

Here's one more picture from back when Our Father was teaching him how to drive.  (Sorry, little bro: the expression on dad's face is too priceless) ;-)

Tombstone_01

Yuck bucket:

• Extreme difficulty waking up this morning.  I was having a spectacular dream, and my right eye was still doing it's REM sleep happy dance.  Ana-Sofia Vargas nagged me awake though, bless her fuzzy heart.
• The economy right now sucking ass.  Too many friends are stressed and broke, or out of work.  Ramen futures must be skyrocketing.
• It's been really hot the past few days.  Yeah.  Duh.  I'm in the subtropics, so it's going to be hot, but the heat index last night was 89 at midnight.  Somebody has really dropped the ball with our daily rain.  Let's get with it, people.

Vat of yay:

• My friend Ann Marie had somebody close to her kidnapped. The kidnappers were really crazy, and made us do all sorts of bizarre errands before they'd release whomever it was.  We'd have to fly to Atlanta to drop off something, then fly back to Ft Myers (??) for further instructions.  Finally, we figured out that her husband was involved in the thing.  We got a tip that the kidnappers were going to be watching a DHL box in Sarasota, and we were there.  In the ensuing ambush, the cops asked if we'd like them to kick the shit out of the perps.  We said yes.  They commenced to kicking.
• The previous entry was a dream, btw.  That's a good thing, because I hate both flying and massive kidnapping plots.
• I talked to a friend of mine, and she was having a bad day.  She said she was using "Ten fingers, ten toes, one belly button, and a steady pulse" as a sustaining mantra.  I'm glad it could help her.
• The phrase came from when I was in ICU, and there really wasn't much I could count on.  I could see my fingers and toes, though, and looked over my shoulder and saw this:
• 

  Tom has a pulse
• I should mention that I also took great comfort from the Dilaudid pump (not pictured).
•  One side-effect of the tough times is that people seem to help each other more.  I help out my friends when I'm able. 
• No matter how hot it gets outside, it's always 72 degrees inside my cave.  It makes me grateful I have a cave, as well as sufficient resources to optimize its environment.
• The nesting yellow crested night herons' babies are leaving the nest.  Soon, Roberto the Cleaning Guy's war against bird droppings will be over.  If Wile E. Coyote had showed the same tenacity as Roberto, bless him, the Roadrunner would have been deep fried long ago.
• The friendly vampires of Florida Blood Services sent me a birthday e-card last Wednesday.  In honor of this, I shall donate another pint of concentrated liquid tom at 0915.  I brought the good stuff this morning.
• Staceypunkin reports 10 fingers, 10 toes, one lovely belly button, and a steady pulse.
• And for yet another Tuesday, my current inventory shows 10, 10, 1, and steady.

Today, we enjoy brunch at Jackson's Bistro on Harbor Island, Tampa. (Their motto: "Our Sunday brunch has a variety of items to please even the pickiest of eaters. From sushi to a chef attended omelette station, we offer over 60 items that include breakfast, lunch and delicious desserts. Join us Sundays between 10:30am to 2:30pm and enjoy brunch on the outdoor patio or in a cozy booth.")

• From the Continental Breakfast station, a ham, musrhroom and Swiss cheese omelet:  Wednesday was my birthday.  I don't mention this to guilt you into sending me a present, but just as a statement of fact.  My family has developed a tradition of celebrating my birthday at Texas Cattle Company, a truly lovely steakhouse which offers a free steak dinner on your birthday.  Yay for steak and YAY for free equals YAY-squared for free steak.  Yes, it's an exponential YAY, not an arithmetic yay.  Anyway, this tradition marks the tom-family summer reunion each year.  My parents' anniversary is on June 12th, so my brother always flies in from DC for steaks with me and to visit my parents, go fishing, and eat my mom's cooking.  So there we were, sitting at the Texas Cattle Company, seven of us: ma, pa, Brother Marky, honorary kid sister Abby and her husband, plus Punkin and me, when Nicki, our helpful and enthusiastic waitress, asked for my driver's license.  Well, sure: they have to confirm my identity and birthday before they throw a free steak my way.  Lo and behold, Nicki went off to confer with her manager.  I was DENIED! Epic FAIL!! My driver's license had expired in 2007.  The crazy thing is that I've been pulled over by the local gendarmerie since 2007.  They took my license, noted the expired status on the card, called it in, and found that my license was current.  See, I'd renewed my license back in 2007! It's current. It's just...well, the little card thing got lost in the mail.  Bottom line, I'm legal to drive.  My expired license is good enough for law enforcement, the people with guns and handcuffs and flashing lights, but NOT good enough for the Texas Cattle Company. 
• From the Sushi Station, featuring a variety of fresh sushi items, a smidge of smoked salmon: Honestly, I still love the Texas Cattle Company.  Nicki got her manager to write out a card giving me my free steak dinner when I show up with my valid license.  If I'd gotten pulled over without a license, I could go show the Clerk of the Court my valid license, and my ticket would be cleared.  Thus, to complete the loose syllogism, the Texas Cattle Company is as powerful and important as the entire judicial system.  And far tastier.  Almost everybody in our group got the 9 oz filet, which is made of buttery yum.  I ordered the T-Bone, which they have named the "Texas Cowgirl."  I like the filet, but this enabled me to say, "I'll do a Texas Cowgirl," which caused my brother to snort, nearly forcing iced tea out his nose.  Happily, my parents and Punkin, et al, missed it.  This place has amazing steaks, so Abby ordered seared tuna.  Abby has her own rules about things.  She's awesome, though: if I needed to adopt a younger sister, Abby was an A-number-one choice.  She has a great heart, good smarts, an excellent sense of humor, and tremendous papelbons. 
• From the Chef Attended Pasta Station: Linguini with clam sauce: A few years ago, Abby was working overnights at my station, and I was doing evenings.  We got to be very good friends.  One night, I'd been watching a baseball game, and I determined that the Red Sox ace closer--Jonathan Papelbon--was not only a great pitcher and hilarious character, but his name was a rather interesting euphemism for breasts.  Abby agreed, and I think she's the only one who still uses the phrase "papelbons" that way.  She's a sweetheart.  When she had emergency surgery a couple months ago, she was depressed, and I talked to her every night.  I did my best to prop her up, because she's one of my favorite people.  One night I called, and she was laughing in that humorless, resigned way people do at their wits' end.  She was laughcrying, "I changed my bandage."  "And?" "And my scar's all crooked!" To Abby, the whole "almost dying" thing paled next to the cattywampus horror that is her imperfect scar. I laughed myself nearly incontinent.  She laughed too, thank God.  It was funny.  At least to me.
• From the Chef-Attended Carving Station, a slice each of Honey Baked Ham and Roast Beef: One more Abby story.  When I was in St Anthony's ICU, Abby was recovering from a sprained ankle or some such nonsense.  She managed to limp up there one day to visit, even though she hates hospitals and was in great discomfort herself.  She stayed for 90 minutes, and we had a great conversation.  I was witty, upbeat, erudite, and a wealth of philosophical insight.  I also have absolutely no recollection of her visit.  None.  I asked her a few days later if she'd be able to come see me, and she replied, "You mean `again.' Come see you again." "(uncomfortable silence)" "YOU DON'T REMEMBER ME COMING UP THERE?" We laugh about it now.  Hell, I laughed about it back then, too.  God bless Dilaudid, Percocet & Associates, that's all I can say.  I'm happy to report that she and Bryan are still married, four years after I performed what must have been a verrrrrry surreal wedding ceremony before the assembled Hatfield and McCoy clans. 
• From the Salads, Displays, and Pastries, a scoop of potato salad and some cheese cubes: The Interwebs are abuzz with the David Letterman-Sarah Palin feudlet.  Governor Palin was in New York last week, and Letterman joked that she and her daughter attended a Yankees game.  "And during the seventh inning stretch, Alex Rodriguez knocked up Governor Palin's daughter." Sorry, I laughed.  It was comedy.  She got all indignant and huffed and bloviated on the Today Show about how Letterman is a "so-called comedian," blah-cubed.  The more indignant you get over something like that, the funnier the joke becomes.  Letterman wasn't suggesting that A-Rod should really have sex with your teenaged daughter.  He was mocking the fact that your other teenaged daughter turned-up preggers, while simumocking A-Rod for being a lothario.  It was a joke.  Deal with it, lady. 
• From the Dessert Station, Bananas Foster: Thanks to Kelly Bee, Laurie, IG, Brown Suga, and all who took their time and valuable Vox space to create happy birthday posts for me, as well as all of you who wished me Happy Birthday on IM,  PM,  FB, or wherever.  I swear, if one must barrel toward eternity, doing so with the absolute best, most wonderful friends and neighbors in the whole blogosphere eases the sting.
• From the Bar, chilled San Pellegrino with lime: Some people say age is relative.  I suppose this is true.  I'm now 5.5 years old Celsius, and 301 years old in dog years.  Most days, I feel like I'm somewhere right in the middle.
• With the check, a handful of palate-cleansing Jordan Almonds: Have a relaxing, recharging Sunday.