In response to scanning the radio on my way home from breakfast:

While I admit freely that I have had "fun" during many nights, at no point have I ever felt compelled to "Wang Chung tonight," either alone or with "everybody."  However, I will agree with Mr Osbourne that I have gone off the rails on a crazy train.  Then again, if you know me at all, that's certainly no revelation.

Alarming trend: I've received the same e-mail from four different people in the past 24 hours. 

It's worth a shot!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- anna.swelung@ ericsson.com Ericsson T18 & R320 laptop promotion I DID check Snopes - it IS legit ... They're trying to match a recent deal by Nokia!

• I'm sure it IS TRUE! And if you forward it to 30 people, Papa Johns will automatically deliver two free extra large pizzas to your door! If you forward it to 40 people, your property taxes will be paid for the next three years, courtesy of a fund put together by Bill Gates, Starbucks, and Applebee's restaurants.  For 50 people--just FIFTY PEOPLE--any person of your choosing will be either cured from or given the ailment of your choice.   If you send this on to 60 people, Jessica Alba will come into your living room during the sporting event of your choice, do a striptease, then mount you in whatever sexual position you desire.  For 70 people, Jessica Alba will bring a friend--male, female, or shemale--and they will have sex in a pool of your choice of Jello, olive oil, or sausage gravy, before taking you into the shower, washing you down with luxurious  pomegranate shower creme, rubbing you with fragrant oils, then engaging you in a three-way that will make your toes explode and your eyebrows singe.  For 80 people, President Obama will launch one Tomahawk missile wherever you want it to go.  Kid next door playing his stereo too loud? Boss pissing you off? Forward this to 80 people, and have them blown up! Forward this to 90 people, and you will be given the reins of a TV network, which you can program with whatever shows you want at whatever time you want.  Just send this to 100 people, and a Frenchman will ring your doorbell and hand you the keys to this:
• 

  Bugatti_Veyron_Hermes_right_front
  YES! Your own $1.5 million, 1001 horsepower Bugatti Veyron.  IT'S 100% TRUE! I looked it up on Snopes! And CNN reported it, and it was in USA Today, and my friend's aunt's cousin works with somebody who did this, and today, she's wheeling around at 254 mph, launching missiles at her enemies, while she computes on her new Sony Ericsson computer, and enjoys aftertingles from being massaged and mounted by Jessica Alba and a transsexual Thai stripper named Jasmine, who smelled of frangipani blossoms and Papa John's Italian Meats Trio!
  
• IT'S WORTH A SHOT!!!!!
• And it's worth the paper it's printed on.  Sadly, you can forward this e-mail to everyone you know, and all you'll get are rabid forwards from your more sheeplike friends, and rueful headshakes from the rest of us.
• Snopes.com debunks it as a fraud, by the way.  Let the smoke clear from that bombshell.
  
• The happiest mammal in Pinellas County this afternoon is--(sfx: drumroll, while Jessica Alba prints the envelope on my new computer)--Ana-Sofia Vargas!! (sfx: cheers and meowing)
• Seriously, she's had her winter coat for the past month or more, and it's been in the 90's every day.  We just had our first real cold front go through, and our high today is only 65 or so.  I've had the sliding-glass door open for the past 48 hours, and she sits out in the cool air, lording it over the unfortunate, unfurred masses below, then bounds in here to my bedroom and tells me everything she saw.  
  
• She's a judgmental little thing--I'll say that for her. 
  
• I love the word "puppet."  I just read Christopher Moore's excellent novel, "Dirty Work," and one of the characters used the word "fuck-puppet" to describe certain high-class mistress-types who hang out in gyms all day.  I laughed every time I read that word, but upon reflection, I think it was because of the "puppet" component, not the f-bomb.
• I have been an absolute jackass as far as Vox goes the past few months.  I haven't written much, and I haven't read much.  I've lost track of what's going on in my neighbors' lives.  That said, I have resolved to do NaBloPoMo in November.  That's short for National Blog Posting Month.  I did it last year, and by God, I'm going to do it again this year.  Many of my posts last November were weak, but I want to get back to writing more. 
  
• Even if my farms and my island will suffer as a result.  ;-)
• Another thing I want to do is write more about my wonderful experiences when I almost died and was in the hospital for five weeks.  It feels like something I need to expand beyond the couple posts I've done.  What I'll probably do is set up a different Vox site, and restrict it to Friends only.  If you would like access, shoot me a PM, and I'll add you.
  
• Thanks for all your good wishes/prayers/etc for Eliza last Sunday.  Sadly, the donor lungs had a spot of infection on them, and were thus unusable.  Somebody else got a heart out of the ordeal, which is miraculous in itself.  Eliza (and Sara, et al) are still left waiting.  I'll keep you updated if I hear anything more.
  
• Life here is good: ten fingers, ten toes, one belly button, a steady pulse, and two cats yin-yanged on the bed beside me.  Hope things are good for you too.
  
• Happy Sunday.
  

Sara's sister, Eliza's Aunt Mindy, sent this to my e-mail.  It bears passing on:

Sara asks that as you pray for us, you also pray for the donor's family, who were kind enough to give something so precious so that Eliza will have a new life.  I can't find the words right now to convey how thankful we are.

Hi.  Please send your prayers, good thoughts, healing vibes, white light--whatever you do--to Eliza H.  She's 17 years-old, and I worked with her mother, Sara, back in Tallahassee.  Eliza was born with numerous congenital heart defects, and wasn't supposed to live to her first birthday.  She's an extraordinary young woman, and she's a fighter.  Today, the doctors at Shands Hospital in Gainesville, Florida, found her a donor.  Eliza is scheduled for her transplant at 8pm tonight. 

Please, say one, concentrate, cross your fingers, light a candle--whatever.  Thanks, and happy Sunday!

(Happy Friday!)

TWO OLD MEN DECIDED THEY WERE CLOSE TO THEIR LAST DAYS 
AND DECIDED TO HAVE A LAST NIGHT ON THE TOWN. 
AFTER A FEW DRINKS THEY END UP AT THE LOCAL BROTHEL. 

THE MADAM TAKES ONE LOOK AT THE TWO OLD GEEZERS AND WHISPERS TO HER MANAGER, "GO UP TO THE FIRST TWO BEDROOMS AND PUT AN INFLATED DOLL IN EACH BED. 
THESE TWO ARE SO OLD AND DRUNK, I'M NOT WASTING TWO OF MY GIRLS ON THEM. THEY WON'T KNOW THE DIFFERENCE." 

THE MANAGER DOES AS HE IS TOLD AND THE TWO OLD 
MEN GO UPSTAIRS AND TAKE CARE OF THEIR BUSINESS. 

AS THEY ARE WALKING HOME THE FIRST MAN SAYS, "YOU 
KNOW, I THINK MY GIRL WAS DEAD!" 
"DEAD?" SAYS HIS FRIEND, "WHY DO YOU SAY THAT?" 
"WELL, SHE NEVER MOVED OR MADE A SOUND ALL THE TIME I WAS LOVING HER." 

HIS FRIEND SAYS, "COULD BE WORSE--I THINK MINE WAS A WITCH." 
"A WITCH ??. . WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU SAY THAT?" 

"WELL, I WAS MAKING LOVE TO HER, KISSING HER ON THE NECK, AND I GAVE HER A LITTLE BITE, THEN SHE FARTED AND FLEW OUT THE WINDOW... TAKING MY TEETH WITH HER!!"

• From the weird dream file: I was imprisoned in Nazi Germany, although (thank God) not in one of the concentration camps.  Apparently, I was incarcerated for something dumb, like drunk & disorderly conduct, or peeing on a dumpster.  Anyway, I was in a special prison in Hitler's personal tent compound.  Hitler, a lonely maniac, kept calling me to his office tent to talk about movies.  He liked that I was conversant with Leni Riefenstahl's work, and he really liked the film version of "Die Bleichstrommel," even though it wouldn't come out till 40 years after he died.  I got along with him fine, but I was working against him, stealing food and movie passes from his office and passing them out to my fellow prisoners.
• I didn't feel bad for my subterfuge and theft.  I mean, I liked talking film with the guy--and his office tent was warmer than my prison tent--but I certainly disliked all the Hitlery things he did. 
• But he had pralines, which I love, and which I stole and gave to my fellow prisoners.
• Disclaimer: There is no historical documentation that Hitler ever ate a praline, much less stocked them in his office tent.  Hitler didn't seem like a praline kind of guy.
• Wednesday, I had to travel the mile to my local Winn-Dixie supermarket.  People visit their supermarkets every day, and yet I HATE going to the store.  It's too big and bright and crowded.  And yet, they have some great things, like pre-made meatloafs.  So I was headed to the store, and the oldies station inexplicably--and completely without provocation--played Olivia Newton-John's, "I Honestly Love You."  Gah!
• So I'm walking down the pre-made meatloaf aisle, and what does the "Winn-Dixie Radio" muzak thing play? Olivia Newton-John's "Please Mister Please." GAH, again!
• Ironically, "Please Mister Please" figures in the film "Primary Colors," which stars Olivia Newton-John's "Grease" co-star John Travolta. 
• Even more ironically, John Travolta is a Scientologist.  Tom Cruise is a Scientologist.  Mr Cruise recently starred in the film "Valkyrie," about a plot to kill my former dream captor and film buddy, Adolf Hitler.
• Okay, that's a stretch even for me.
• So I had my pre-made meatloaf, a bottle of Diet store-brand Chek Cola (which I prefer to Diet Pepsi), and some cat fuel, and I was ready to check out.  Both of the checkout lanes were busy, so I went to the customer service counter.  On a shelf behind the customer service lady were three displays: condoms, cigarettes, and Clint Eastwood DVD's. It seemed an odd trifecta of awesome.  I asked her why these three items were together, and she said "I guess people just like to steal cigarettes, condoms, and Clint Eastwood movies."
• Sounds like a helluva date to me. 
• Her answer displeased me for its lack of imagination.  Seriously.  It's so rare the Universe throws you a hanging comedy curveball, and I gave her one.  And she responds with that? Bah.
• Her senses were probably addled by the dreadful Olivia Newton-John song.
• I watched a movie the other night--I forget which one (which movie, not which night (although...))--and there was a certificate in the credits showing that the American Humane Society had monitored filming, and no animals were harmed.  Great! I'm all for animals not being harmed, unless they're being converted to pre-made meatloaf.  The thing is, there had been people blown to bits, stabbed, burned, beaten--you name it--but there was no such disclaimer certifying that the actors hadn't been harmed. 
• I guess most people know that actors are acting, and they aren't being shot with real bullets, but then we do live in a world that requires "Warning: Contains Peanuts" notices on bags of peanuts.  Also, people shoot and beat and blow up each other all the time, but the most talked-about newspaper story this past week was that a golden retriever was eaten by an alligator.
• Okay, that is sad.  Golden retrievers are great dogs.  Even a bad golden retriever--my brother calls my parents' short bus dog a "golden non-retriever"--is preferable company to most humans. 
• Alligators are certainly not good company, although they really don't do very much except lay in the sun.
• There's a new Facebook app called "Island Paradise," wherein you have your own little island, and you plant things and hang-out with whatever animals you buy or are given.  The most disturbing thing about this game is that your "friends" can visit your island and STEAL from you! Seriously. What kind of low-life steals a friend's yams, or absconds with a pint of ill-gotten goat milk?
• I think there should be a Facebook app called "Scumbag Trailer Park." You could have your own meth lab, knocked-up girlfriend, pet python, pit bull, and rusted Chevy up on blocks.  Lord only knows what unsavory things your "friends" (and, doubtless, obnoxious relatives) would be able to do to your trailer.  "Your friend Bob visited your trailer in Scumbag Trailer Park, and shot your prize fighting cock after mounting your girlfriend.  Click HERE to visit Bob's trailer, and shoot his dog."
• It's a good thing I can't design apps, or Facebook would be a verrrrrry different place.
• Hope all is well with you, heading into this weekend, and that you--as I--have 10 fingers, 10 toes, one belly button, and a steady pulse.

One thing about life in Florida: the summer seems endless.  We're "officially" four days into autumn, and it's a steamy 90 degrees, our daily afternoon thunderstorm just adding to our seasonally omnipresent humidity.  I talked to somebody in Utah yesterday.  She was expecting 90 tomorrow, and snow on Wednesday.  Not here.

Tallahassee actually got some decent winter weather, at least compared to the Tampa Bay Area.  When I was in college, I actually had to make sure to have antifreeze in my radiator--quite a novelty for a kid from this subtropical "paradise."

One late summer many moons ago, I was in college, working for WBGM, FM-99--Tallahassee's Favorite Radio Station! That was our slogan, and the ratings bore that out. 

Anyway, one Sunday, I was working my mid-day shift--10a to 3p--when my program director hotlined me.  "I hope you like the Beach Boys." I did.  Good thing, too, for I was told I had to squire our contest winners out on "A Night on the Town with the Beach Boys."

This was a promotion we did, wherein people would call in to win concert tickets, then one grand prize winner would receive a pair of tickets, plus limo service, dinner, and backstage passes, all accompanied by an air personality.  Sweet deal for the winners.  Sweet deal, too, for the jock selected to host.

It was a perfect late-summer Tallahassee day, warm temps, glorious sunshine.  A giant stretch limo pulled-up to Osceola Hall.  I got in, and directed the driver to the AXO house, where my girlfriend Sarah lived.  We were giddy, 19 years old and riding in a giganto limo, enjoying the novelty of smooching while frenzied traffic passed outside our tinted windows.  We found our winner's house, and she and her girlfriend came out to join us. 

They were in their late 20's, with sort of an MFA student vibe, very granola and non hair product-using.  Our limo marshmallowed us to a trendy restaurant, The Pink Flamingo.  We ordered drinks--lots of drinks, with umbrellas and lots of vodka and rum and juice--plus appetizers, and a nice entree each.  I signed the check importantly, left a big tip, then we headed back to the limo.  It made perfect sense to have this behemoth go to a liquor store.  How our driver got this huge Cadillac through the drive thru lane, I'll never know, but he did.  A fifth of Crown, a big bottle of Diet 7-Up and four cups of ice later, we were imbibing our way down North Monroe Street toward the Leon County Civic Center.

It's almost a cliche among drunken limo passengers to open the sunroof and stand up in traffic, rather like a generalissimo reviewing his subjects.  We did that.  It was cool, toasting traffic with our very brown cocktails.

I got our tickets and backstage passes from the will-call window, and we quickly found our seats. 

I should admit here that the Beach Boys aren't my favorite band ever, but I liked (and still like) a lot of their music.  Also, I don't give a crap about surfing or California or the beach or cars, for that matter, which eliminates a lot of their songs from my "like" file.  But their harmonies are pure, and their upbeat music makes me happy.

Oh, and did it make us happy as buzzed as we were.  Even if you're not a huge Beach Boys fan, odds are you know lyrics to lots of their music.  And when you're drunk, and it's really loud, everybody can sing along--the tight five-part harmonies ensure everyone hits a note.   We had a ball at the show, probably 90 minutes of hits and fun. 

When the concert ended, we stuck our passes to our shirts and went backstage.  The Beach Boys' road manager told us the after-party had been moved to Calico Jack's, and we could go there if we wanted to--our passes would gain us admission.  By then, it was getting late, and everyone's adrenaline (and alcohol) was fading.  The winner and her girlfriend just wanted to go home, and Sarah had an early class the next morning.  We got in our limo, and the driver took home our winner and her girlfriend first.  They thanked us for a great night.  Sarah and I drained weary slugs from the Crown bottle as we headed back to the AXO house.  We didn't say much.  We were tired and hoarse from singing. She said she'd had far more fun than she'd anticipated, and told me I had a great falsetto.  I told her she sang well too, and that she looked beautiful.  We kissed as the limo crept down Park Avenue.  She asked if she could keep the purple Crown Royal bag as a souvenir.  I gave it to her, kissed her good night again, and the driver and I waited to see that she made it inside safely.

It was a quiet ride home, my ringing ears the only noise I could hear in the limo.  I thanked the driver for his patience and skill, and tipped him $20.  My buddy Tim spotted me getting out of the limo.  He whooped at me, and when I got upstairs greeted me with a beer.  I guess it was a novelty to have your fellow dorm rat get driven around in a sweet, two-tone gray stretch Cadillac.

My favorite Beach Boys song that long-ago late summer night was "Surfer Girl." It's inane, I admit: I don't surf, nor does my girlfriend, and a "woody" means something wholly different today.  I remember swaying back and forth as we sang that night: "So I say from me to you/I will make your dreams come true.  Do you love me? Do you surfer..." There's a long pause the last time through.  Sarah grabbed my arm and looked up at me with her big brown doe eyes.  "Girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl (surfer girl, my little surfer girl)."

On my way to work this afternoon, I was playing scan roulette on the radio.  The oldies station was coming out of a jingle.  When I heard the first strains of "Surfer Girl," I flashed back to that moment, to those eyes, to being 19 and booze-giddy and having a perfect falsetto.  I flashed back to a warm late summer Tallahassee night, to late cicadas buzzing in the trees, to buttery leather seats, and that naive sense of immortality intrinsic to whiskey-fortified 19 year-old boys.  I'm many moons older now, and two of the Beach Boys we saw that night are dead.  Also dead? My clear, perfect falsetto.  As I drove the USS Nimitz (my truck) down 28th Street, I laughed at the croak that came out.  Then I accepted that a lot has happened since that night--lots of alcohol and cigarettes and life.  I kept my smile, and switched down to the baritone part, "Do you love me? Do you surfer"--I  wondered briefly where Sarah is today, not wistfully, but just hoping she that still smiles and sings when she hears this song on the radio--"Girl (surfer girl, my little surfer girl; girl surfer girl, my little surfer girl)..."

(The Tom Zone legal department has been busy since my last post.  The following are certainly heartfelt, even if they are mandated by legal wranglings on three continents (and if you have to pee all the time, you're incontinent--shouldn't it be ONcontinent, since you're piddling ON the continent? (and shouldn't it be "inyourpants" instead of incontinent anyway, since that's where you end up dribbling?)))

First off, I'd like to apologize to those with bladder control issues.  There is nothing funny about uncontrollable urination.  Deep is the heartbreak caused when you can't trust a laugh or a sneeze.  Again, I'm sorry for making light of this most serious problem.  

I understand if you're pissed. 

(repeat the above apology for that bad joke as well)

From our Australian legal department, I offer most-heartfelt regrets to those whose lives I ruined by pointing out the gender differences between airplanes.  Apparently, it wasn't obvious to everyone that boy planes have engines on their wings, while girl planes have tail-mounted engines.  I've been told that this revelation has forever tainted the way some people look at jetliners: even though the thought is unwanted and unwelcome, there it is.  Not everyone has the same twisted view as I do, and I'm sorry if I took your normal view and skewed it.  It was not my intention.  It would be as bad as if I'd pointed out that all Toyota Camrys of this configuration...

1996-2001_Toyota_Camry_Gracia_(XV20)_sedan_rear

...are named Herman.

Okay, I'm now told we have to apologize to Toyota, Toyota Camry owners, and people named Herman.

Next up, we have Red Lobster, who were victimized by a potential bad novel line equating "that whore Cecile" as causing a character's "junk" to smell like "The Mariner Platter at Red Lobster." Per our legal department, "Red Lobster is a fine, dependable seafood restaurant.  Their food is tasty and well-prepared, and does not smell like whore.  Try the Admiral's Feast, featuring Walt’s Favorite Shrimp, bay scallops, clam strips and flounder fried to a golden brown,  including a fresh salad, and your choice of fresh broccoli, home-style mashed potatoes, wild rice pilaf, baked potato or fries seasoned with sea salt.  All this for only $16.95. Please visit www.redlobster.com for the location nearest you. Red Lobster: Cecile's whore junk can only dream of smelling this good! "

Also, apologies to Cecile.  Cecile is a fine, dependable woman, and her junk does not smell like a fried seafood platter.  Please visit www.cecilethewhore.com for her current corner.

Next, heartfelt apologies to the Creator for the things humanity has done to both seafood and Cecile's equipment in the name of comfort food and bargain-basement nookie.

Finally, to my former partner-in-crime, Ann Marie, (the lovely and fragrant) Ellen, and everyone else who has scolded me for my rather dribbling output of late, I thank you for your patience, and I promise to resume a steady stream of demented blathering. 

Enjoy the remainder of your Sunday. 

Sincerely,

The Tom Zone Legal Department, Esqs

Your result for The Undead Fiend Test ...

Zombie

Aaargh! Braaaiiins!

• It's the SPRINT TO THE FINISH for my Saturday night shift, and I have been incredibly remiss about voxing.  Ergo, I shall smack out as many thoughts as I can in the next 75 minutes (not that I'm counting).
• The worst line in recent fiction has to be, "Don't lie to me.  I can tell you were with that whore Cecile, because your junk smells like the Mariner's Platter at Red Lobster."
• I didn't really read this anywhere, but if I had, it really would be terrible. 
• Honestly, I don't know where that line came from.  Certainly not from Cecile.
• For years, I've inadvertantly seen jetliners as having gender based on their engine placement. 
• Boy plane:
  

  Boy plane
• Girl plane:
  

  Girl plane
• I've been taking a home Interweb sabbatical, meaning I'll use the net at work, but not at home.  One result of this is that I have read about a novel a night.  One result of THAT is that I've had some bizarre dreams. 
•  Last night, I had one that I was dating Mary Lou Retton, who was a champion ice skater (not a gymnast), and she and I were flying to Australia with my grandmother.  We flew on a giant 747-Tom (which is like a regular 747, except that the interior looks more like a sofa and recliner showroom, and--apparently--this 747 travels on Interstate highways).  At one point back in the USA, Mary Lou and I were driving down SR 20 outside Tallahassee, and we encountered a giant mountain of garbage on the road.  Try as I might, I just couldn't maneuver the USS Nimitz over the garbage mountain.  I remember thinking, as I sat there, wheels spinning futilely, "Well, THIS is a hella obvious dream image!"
• I've met Mary Lou Retton, by the way.  Somewhere, there is (or was) a picture of Mary Lou and I smiling together.  She's a good 20 inches shorter than I am.  I wish I had that pic.
• She was very nice in person (and in my dream), although she was a lot sexier as an ice skater than a gymnast. 
• She'd probably tell you I'm a lot sexier in my dream than in the U-92 lobby.
• Knowing that no-see-ums are genus Culecoides doesn't make their bites suck any less. 
• Like airplanes, mosquito gender is determined by whether the engines are on the wings or aft, next to the tail.
• Okay, that's not completely true.  You can tell gender because female mosquitoes have the last three abdominal segments inverted, which is where eggs are produced. 
• And they shave their legs.
• Not really. 
• The hairiest legs I've ever seen on a female were on a Psorophora ciliata who was sucking a quart of blood from my leg.
• The second-hairiest were on this girl named Anna H, whom I dated for a week and a half at FSU. 
• (This space left free for your own hairy-legged female/sucking comments:                                                                                                                                          )
• Thank you for your participation.
• It's been crazy here, but I'm pleased to report, 10 fingers, 10 toes, one belly button, and a steady pulse.
• Alas, I seem to have run out of workday.  Have a great and safe Labor Day Weekend.

I flew with Ted Kennedy once.  It was a Delta shuttle between Washington, DC (National), and Boston.  I was going up to spend a week with my friend Dave, and The Senator was probably going home for the weekend.  There we were, the man some people call the most powerful Senator ever and little old nobody me, sitting in the same Boeing 727. 

That's it.  That's all the story.  He was in first class, of course, and I was back in steerage.  The curtain was drawn between the two cabins, and I never even saw him.  I did snap this picture, though, before we left DCA:

Tom and teddy