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Random, non-judgmental thought prelude:

• The 7-Eleven had Corn Nuts buy one get one free.  Tasty snack, but somewhere, I imagine there are some pretty pissed-off, castrato ears of corn gingerly walking around.
• I’ve checked—my voice hasn’t grown any deeper.
• I’ve noticed the following safety hazard: I’ve nearly fallen to my face-planted death more from the “CAUTION! WET FLOOR!” sign than from the actual wet floor.  If the cleaning crew wouldn’t put the damn sign in the middle of the floor, where it impedes my size 15 feet, visiting the facilities would be a far safer experience.
• Memo to the drunk guy in the 7-Eleven last night: as gaggingly dense as your trailing cloud of Canoe was, the Bourbon was still plainly obvious on your breath.  It’s the 7-Eleven, for crying out loud: nobody expects you to be sober at 0130.  They get it.
• Memo to the other drunk guy: the County has determined that no beer can be sold after midnight.  No, this is not just on Fridays.  The County doesn’t have a different cut-off time for each day of the week.  Thank you, btw, for turning south out of the parking lot, and not north, where I was going.
• I watched three films over the weekend, JFK, Capote, and Wag the Dog.  Most films have decent acting, but these three? Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s performance as Truman Capote is one of the best I’ve ever seen.  He deserves his Oscar and every other award he won.  JFK had a stellar cast.  Kevin Costner was good as Jim Garrison, but everyone else just killed: Jack Lemmon, Joe Pesci, Walter Matthau, Kevin Bacon, Michael Rooker, John Candy, Sissy Spacek, and a zillion others.  Wag the Dog put Dustin Hoffman and Robert DeNiro together—both in top form—and added Anne Heche, who was surprisingly good.  Woody Harrelson has a funny extended cameo, and Willie Nelson and Denis Leary kick ass.
• I’ve always kind of had a crush on Sissy Spacek.
• We had a thunderstorm Friday that blew a giant air conditioner off the roof of my building. Nobody was maimed or crushed, thank God, but it left a giant hole in the roof.
• If we get a hurricane and they want me to work? They can kiss my ass.

Things on Tuesday:

Blech:

• Two of my friends have lost loved ones this past week.  The situations are very different, but the end result is the same: death sucks for those left behind.  I just hate that I can't say the perfect sentence to assuage their pain.  (I'm usually pretty good, but this is impossible)
• We have to move at work.  I love where I sit right now--I have my Punkin to my left, and work-wife Aimee behind me--but we have to move (we're getting more people, so our area's moving). 
  

• I'm weird, but I like summer in Florida.  I'll be sick of it by October, but the heat and perpetual moistness? I kinda like that.
  
• I have a job I like, and the people I'll be sitting with are awesome--not Punkin and Work-Wife awesome, but awesome enough.
• Corn Nuts for breakfast! (Who knew you could consume these things without beer?)
• There's gas in the USS Nimitz, my bills are paid, and I have enough Meow Mix brand cat fuel that Ana-Sofia Vargas and Wind won't be killing and eating me anytime soon.
• Stacey reports ten fingers (although one is sprained and splinted at the moment), ten toes, one belly button, and  a steady pulse.  I'm at 10-10-1-and steady as well
• Have a great week.
  

Once again, it's time to respond to a few letters from the voluminous Tom Zone Mailbag. 

Dear Tom,

I was just curious: are you Catholic? If not, I might have to change careers, which is hard to do at my age.

Sincerely,

Pope Benedict

Dear Pope Benedict,

No, I'm not Catholic, although I had a strange dream last night that I am actually a lapsed Catholic.  Either way, I don't think you can count me among your flock.  I do respect some of the things you do.  And your namesake eggs are spectacular, with or without a hangover.  Still, let women be priests if they want to, and lay off on the birth control ban.  Also, I think Target's hiring old guys.

Sincerely,

tom

Tom,

Les Paul's passing was truly sad.  Are there any other guitarists whose passing would truly sadden you?

Still mourning,

Johnny Guitar

Johnny,

I really want Keith Richards to live forever.  Really.   The man's been a cautionary tale for decades, and yet he still keeps going, like the Energizer Bunny, if the Energizer Bunny ran on Rebel Yell and ginger ale and snorted his own father's ashes.  The day he goes will absolutely suck-ass.

Did you know you're named after a weird Joan Crawford film? Just checking.

t

Tom,

We love your "Ten fingers, ten toes, one belly button, and a steady pulse" updates in Things on Tuesday.  But you haven't posted ToT in a couple weeks.  Did you grow an extra belly button? Lose toes? What about Stacey?

What  gives?

Help!

Nothing Better to Worry About

Dear NB,

Yes, I'm sorry I haven't posted my Things on Tuesday recently. Tuesdays typically find me very busy sleeping all day.  Happily, it's still the one belly button, and ten fingers and toes.  Pulse? Steady.  Stacey reports the proper number of digits and navels, although her brakes are shot on the Urban Assault Vehicle, so her pulse races when somebody stops short in front of her.  It probably stops briefly when this happens in the rain.

t

Tom,

With your weird-ass dreams and jovial madness, you're my personal bellwether for oddities.  What's the oddest thing you've seen recently?

Just curious,

Nutter

Dear Nutter,

Glad you asked.  There was a thunderstorm earlier, and I went out on my balcony to enjoy the rain falling on Lake Tom.  The rain abated, and there was a person walking on the sidewalk.  I couldn't tell if it was a woman in a black and gray halter top, or a hirsute shirtless guy with man-titties.  The person kept walking closer, and I switched back and forth.  Finally, the person turned to go toward the mailboxes.  It was a middle-aged guy with man-titties.  And a hairy back. 

At least, I'm 85% certain.  Either way, it was odd, and I really should wear my glasses more often.  (then again, not).

Hope that helps,

t

Tom,

HELP! I'm being eaten alive by small brownish mosquitoes every morning! Where do they come from? Hell itself? And what kind are they?

Sincerely,

Bloodless in Largo

BiL,

Do you have bromeliads?

t

Tom,

YES! However did you know?

Bloodless, but Impressed in Largo

BbIiL,

You have Wyeomyia vanduzeei breeding in your bromeliads.  They're harmless, but they are annoying.  Just flush your bromeliads' water cones regularly, or maybe put a drop of malathion in there.  Better yet, try not passing out on the front lawn every night.

t

Tom,

I'm scared.  The guy on the radio says President Obama wasn't born in the US.  What does that mean?

Terrified in Ruskin

Dear Dumbass,

It means you're drinking paint.  Please stop. 

He was born in Hawaii, which was a U.S. state at the time.  (It still is, btw, despite my odd sentence structure)  This means that Barack Obama is an actual American.  With all the lunatic assaults from the Birthers, I'm starting to wonder if he doesn't secretly wish he had been born someplace else, like Iceland. 

Either way, I look at it this way: he has the keys to both the nukes and Air Force One, and those are the only two reasons to be President. .  It's his gig.

t

  Tom,

What's the weirdest compliment you've gotten recently? I like to keep track of these things.

Sincerely,

A Fan

Dear Stalker,

An old HS friend and I chatted for a few hours online.  She told me she was going to bed about four times before she finally did.  I mocked her for this, of course.  Her response?

"You're addictive."

I love that.   Soon I'll be punitively taxed and banned in restaurants, like cigarettes or lapdances.

t

That's it from here.  Happy Wednesday. 

• First off, RIP Les Paul.  Les Paul didn’t invent rock & roll, but many of his innovations made it possible.  He invented multi-track recording and distortion, and perfected the solid-body electric guitar.  Look him up on YouTube, and check out his playing.  He was lightning fast and clean, and way ahead of his time.  He still played live well into his 90’s.  He was one of the greats, and he will be missed.
• Les Paul will be like Chuck Taylor, in that future generations will only know him for his namesake product; the Gibson Les Paul guitar.
• The irony is that lots of rock guitarists even today play Les Pauls while wearing Chuck Taylors.
• In my life, I’ve owned two Gibson Les Pauls: a 1976 Artisan (3 pickups, gold hardware, walnut finish, and an ebony fingerboard with mother-of-pearl inlays).  A few owners before me really annoyed his girlfriend.  Said girlfriend attacked this noble, lovely instrument with a screwdriver, gouging the crap out of it.  I could have forgiven her gouging her boyfriend with the screwdriver, but not this beautiful instrument.  My other was a 2005 Gibson Les Paul Studio, in the matte finish mahogany.  It had Gibson Burst-Bucker pickups.  Sadly, I ended up selling both of these so that I could pay bills.  Stoopid bills.
• In my life, I’ve only owned one pair of Converse Chuck Taylors (white with white laces).  I stopped wearing them because they were too narrow for my foot, which is roughly the size of New Mexico. 
• My Gibson Les Paul Artisan was a heavy beast, weighing in at 11.2 lbs.
• My Converse Chuck Taylors were decidedly lighter at 2.3 lbs.
• New Mexico weighs in at a chunky 3,673,764,000,000,000,000,000 kg, more when it’s on its period and retains water.
• For some reason, August has been Interweb Music Meme Month on Facebook.  I’ve had a few interesting ones, the latest of which was “The 15 Albums that Changed My Life.” At the conclusion of that one, I smugly noted that although I would likely think of some I’d have added to my honorable mention list, I was quite locked into my 15.
• I’d like to apologize to Rickie Lee Jones, whose eponymous debut clearly belonged on that list.  I bought it shortly before I left for college, and I eased into it.  Some albums, you buy and devour, like a stoned person wolfing down a bag of Krystals (or White Castles, depending on your region).  Others you savor, like a Werther’s Original Candy or vegemite (depending on your region).  Rickie Lee Jones’ world is the latter.  Her first album is rich with street images and poetry.  Yeah, her enunciation is frequently slurred, but so you’d expect from somebody singing “Now it’s J&B and me…”  I’ve been there; it’s a true dark night of the soul.  There are  dynamic images of being young and wild on the streets (“City will make you dirty, but you look alright, and you feel real pretty when he’s holding you tight”).  There’s love, and that aching void after separation (“When I reach across galaxies, I will miss your company.”).  And the title of the album’s final song rings so true to me: “After Hours (Twelve Bars Past Goodnight).” It’s a sad feeling, when the bar’s closing, and you’re finishing up that last drink, as the bartenders clean up, and the busboys put the chairs up on the tables.  You look back on your night, and there were other people and drinks and sharing and maybe laughter, but at the end, it’s just J&B and you.  You sip the watery dregs of your last drink, and walk out into the night.  Alone.
• The world in Rickie Lee Jones’ first album isn’t necessarily a happy one.  When I was a college freshman, I could relate to some of the happy images; the sadness and longing were blissfully unknown.  As my life has gone forward, I’ve met those images, some moreso than others.  It’s a beautiful album, phenomenally written and performed, with an all-star cast of musicians.  I still listen to it frequently, even when I’m happy. 
• Which I am today, mostly.  I’ve gone through a kind of funk recently, mainly because things are going well.  As counterintuitive as this sounds, it makes sense in Tomworld. When you’re used to battling, a peaceful lull can shock the system.  Life is good, and I’m grateful.  Ten fingers, ten toes, one belly button, and a steady pulse. 
• But I remember those nights, the long-ago dreary nights coming home from a bar, twelve bars past goodnight.  I’d walk into my apartment, feed the cat, mix a drink, and sit down in my favorite chair.
• On quite a few of those nights, I kicked off my Chuck Taylors, picked up my beat-up Les Paul Artisan, and played me some blues.
• Have a great weekend (and I’m sorry Rickie Lee).

Heathrowactually

I just rewatched one of my favorite films, "Love, Actually."  The movie starts and ends London's Heathrow airport, showing actual footage of actual families and friends reuniting at the gate.  It's indescribable the joy on their faces, a glowing blend of "it's great to see you again" and "thank God and physics you made it here alive."

Each of these reunions is a big deal, a seminal moment in the participants' relationship.  What I thought of was how different life would be if it were always like that when somebody important enters our life. 

(As Rickie Lee Jones sang, "You never know when you're making a memory."  Big truth from the Duchess of Coolsville)

I've met literally tons of people, and it's rare that there's an instant epiphany: This person will become VERY important in my life!

My friend Abby was like that.  She was just the part-timer who came in at midnight, relieving me after my show three nights a week.  She was nice and all, but I got along with almost all the part-timers.  A couple years later, I performed her wedding.  She came to see me in the hospital when I was sick, even though I didn't remember the visit (thanks Dilaudid, bock-bock), and we still talk regularly.  She and her husband came to my birthday dinner this year, and I'm sure they'll be at Thanksgiving Dinner as well, same as every year.

It just seems to me that our initial meeting should've been bigger, more of an event. 

Even more important, though, are the goodbyes.  I wish I knew how many times I've ended a conversation with "I'll talk to you later," and meant it, even though that would be the last time I'd talk to that person.  Sometimes, it's no big deal: we'll reconnect later on Facebook or via e-mail, and we'll reassure each other that the last however many years haven't dampened our mutual affection.  Other times, that's it.  "I'll talk to you later" or "I'll see you later" is our friendship's valedictory.  "I'll see you later" turns into a year or two or three, and then POUF, that person dies.  I'm not saying I'd change anything--if it's your time to go, it's your time to go--but if I had that foreknowledge, maybe I'd say something a little more meaningful.  "I hope to see you again soon, but since that might not happen, I want to thank you for being my friend, and wish you much happiness during your remaining days."

A common Filipino birthday wish is "Nawa'y pagpalain ka ng Diyos ng marami pang kaarawan," or "May God bless you with many more birthdays to come." It's a pretty big wish, really.  I wish I'd said that to some friends whose last birthdays I celebrated.  Or forgot, for that matter.

I've seen the same thing here in Voxland.  What started out as a single comment on a single post has turned into a beautiful friendship.  This has happened multiple times, and I'm grateful.  Who knows when that one "[this is good]" will plant a rich relationship?

I understand that life isn't like that.  We can't see the playbook.  We're driving without road maps.  We meet people without having any idea how that relationship will play out.  If we could see the future, maybe we wouldn't worry so much about some things; maybe we'd pay more attention to others. 

Surprisingly, I'm not melancholy or anything.  I've been in a good mood the past few days, and I still am.  (Long weekends have that effect on me)  Just seeing the absolute joy in those little airport reunions made me wish every meeting could be like that.  It makes it special. 

But it would cease to be special if it were commonplace.  Over the past four years, I've learned not to take the people in my life for granted. I'm pretty good about that, even if I don't stand there holding up signs with their names on them.  I guess my regret is for those I've missed, those friends and family who have slipped away quietly.  It would be cool if I could go back and give them a big international departures gate-type send-off.  And maybe I'd wish them that God would bless them with many more birthdays to come. 

Happy Thursday, my friend.  May you have years and years of happy Thursdays to come.

There.  I said it. 

The Proust Questionnaire has its origins in a parlor game popularized (though not devised) by Marcel Proust, the French essayist and novelist, who believed that, in answering these questions, an individual reveals his or her true nature. Here is the basic Proust Questionnaire.

1.What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Continuity--that things remain fairly constant.  Last year, I saw too many friends die, and I nearly joined them.  I saw too many friends lose jobs, move away, or otherwise change status.  A life with some continuity sounds like bliss.

2.What is your greatest fear?
Irrelevance and boredom, especially if I somehow end up mentally debilitated.

3.What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Fear and laziness--they go hand in hand with me.  I'm better at both of them than I used to be, but they are still big-time Tom bugaboos.

4.What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Arrogance, and the vile mistreatment thereby.

5.Which living person do you most admire?
My parents, the two most patient, kindest, least pretentious people I've ever known.

6.What is your greatest extravagance?
Eating out.  Again, I'm getting better--lack of funds helps this endeavor--but I still need to cook more at home (Shockingly, the bachelor batcave actually has a full kitchen!).

7. What is your current state of mind?
Contentedly pensive.

8.What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Popularity.  I admire people who are true to themselves, whether or not anyone else likes them (unless they're arrogant jackasses, of course).

9.On what occasion do you lie?
I really don't lie very often.

10.What do you most dislike about your appearance?
My general Hagrid size, and the fact that my head is the size of Saturn.

11.Which living person do you most despise?
I don't really despise anyone.  Beneath our skin, each of us has a small, hard-working pancreas.  I couldn't hate someone who has a pancreas, just unjudgmentally smoothing things along.  That said, some people deserve to be hit with baseball bats. 

12.What is the quality you most like in a man?
Humility--not being overly macho or aggressive. 

13.What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Confidence and sense of humor--being happy in her own skin, and able to laugh.

14.Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
Sadly, I use "like" far too frequently.  Nothing mars eloquence as egregiously as "like."  Well, or "shitfuck."

15.What or who is the greatest love of your life?
I don't think there is one greatest love of a life.  Each of my loves has been great in her own way.

16.When and where were you happiest?
Probably when I was 16 or 17.  Life was great, and I knew it: I enjoyed school, had lots of friends, lived in a nice house, played golf four times a week (and played well), and I was a decent guitarist.  I'm also happy today.  I had a decade or so where I despaired constantly, so I enjoy every day now.  It would be nice to be 17 again, though, and hit a straight 3-wood 340 yards.

17.Which talent would you most like to have?
I wish I could play piano.  I know music, but I am not a musician, and I damn sure can't play piano well.

18.If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
My shyness.

19.What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Surviving the last five years.

20.If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?
A coral reef: just hang out beneath the water, and watch the fishies swim by.  That, or I'd like to be one of those angels in "Wings of Desire," watching and listening to the still living, helping them perhaps with my unseen presence.

21.Where would you most like to live?
In a rainforest, or--more likely--somewhere within 15 miles of where I currently live.

22.What is your most treasured possession?
I don't have a lot of possessions.  If this place caught fire, I'd grab the cats and my Power Book.  That would be it.  Well, and I'd probably put on some pants.

23.What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
For me, it was five years ago, when my first thought upon awakening each day was, "Oh, shit. Not again!" My spirit was dead, but the flesh didn't follow.  So I got my spirit back.  Even when the flesh was dying the previous Christmas, it was 1000% better than when my spirit was dead.  Physical death would have been tolerable with a happy soul. 

24.What is your favorite occupation?
I would like to have been a newspaper columnist, in the mold of a Mike Royko, Russell Baker, etc. Those days are past, though, but I think it would have been rewarding: slinging words, being professionally erudite, making people laugh or cry, but always think.

25.What is your most marked characteristic?
I can read people, and I can usually talk to virtually anyone on their level. 

26.What do you most value in your friends?
Tolerance.  I'm not always easy to get close to, and I can be broody and cynical.  I love my friends, though.

27.Who are your favorite writers?
Graham Greene, Thomas Wolfe, P.J. O'Rourke, John Irving, Tom Robbins

28.Who is your hero of fiction?
Rick Blaine

29.Which historical figure do you most identify with?
I always felt kind of bad for Pontius Pilate.  He listened to the crowd, made a bad decision, and now certain religions have bad-mouthed him for 2000 years.  That's something that would happen to me.

30.Who are your heroes in real life?
Nurses and single moms.

31.What are your favorite names?
Bingo Pajama  (the jasmine dealer in "Jitterbug Perfume")
Bonanza Jellybean (cowgirl from "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues")
Urban Shocker (former major league pitcher)
Dick Butkus (you just know not to mess with him)

I typically like Samanthas, Kellys, Stacys, Heathers, Annies (but not always Anns), and most Jennifers.  I've had very good luck with them. 

Weird question.  Anyway.  That's it. 

I've been working like a kabillion extra hours the past few weeks, just trying to get ahead.  Or catch up.  Or something else entirely--I'm too frazzled and frappeed to know.  Anyway, herewith a few updates:

• Weird Dream #1 (prologue): As you know, my former partner in crime Ann Marie moved far, far away, specifically to South Park, as I call her new tiny California mountain town.  She sent me a picture of her new California driver's license, sort of a "Can you believe I actually live here now?" joke.  She's very happy, despite the hairy-legged hippie women who lead the Saturday library reading circle, reading to children books about commune life.  Okay, this is all reality.  The dream:
• Weird Dream #1 (really): Ann Marie and I were standing by our desks at Job #1, and she said something about how her husband was only "this tall" (her hand up to her breasts).  I said something suave like, "But you were made this tall for a reason" and kissed her.  Her face was just a little bit below mine. 
  
• It was a weird kiss, though, not at all romantic.  First off, we've never kissed, nor been tempted to do so.  A good partner-in-crime relationship transcends nookie.  Plus, she's happily married, and I respect that.  Secondly, she's just not that tall.  She must have been five-ten in this dream, then even taller with the high-heeled boots she was wearing.
  
• No, that's not some sort of ideation on my part: she did used to wear some high-heeled boots.  She probably only wears hemp Birkenstocks now, but back in the day... ;-) 
  
• Weird Dream #2: I was driving Carrie home from the airport, and we stopped at a little convenience store.  They had the new Minnie Mouse Florida Lottery scratch-off ticket, and I wanted to buy her one. (C is a big Minnie Mouse fan)  The girl behind the counter refused to sell me one unless I gave her my Social Security number.  Even though I saw this girl all the time--apparently, I'm a regular at this particular convenience store--I got very angry.  I asked why she needed my SSN, and she said it's because I might win up to a million bucks, so they'd need it for tax purposes.  I told her it was far more likely I wouldn't win shit, and that she didn't need my SSN for that.  She refused.  I wanted that damn ticket, but not enough to give out my SSN.  I huffed out and left, stealing a Diet Mountain Dew from the cooler en route.
• Things change.  This convenience store was at the corner of Swift and Wilkinson Roads in Sarasota, my hometown.  There is a small mechanic's shop there--or there used to be, at least--but I've never stopped there.  Swift and Wilkinson used to be tiny, quiet two-laned country roads.  Now Swift is a bustling traffic artery, and Wilkinson has been widened to four lanes. 
  
• My grandparents lived on Wilkinson.  Their house, which my grandfather built, sat on five acres of land.  The house and yard were two acres, I think, then there was a fenced-in pasture behind.  Now, it's a subdivision.  Their house is still there, but there are little cookie-cutter cinderblock starter homes all through their yard--where the orange grove and garden used to be--and the back pasture, where people used to board horses. 
  
• Things change. 
• I had some errands to run down Fourth Street here in Gomorrah today, and things had changed here.  Not the road itself--it was six lanes when I moved here 20 years ago, and it'll be six lanes when I die (or leave of my own volition)--but some of the businesses had changed. 
  
• Fourth Street had the bars I used to frequent--Bennigan's, Gamble's/Brophy's Dugout, Wannabee's--and the liquor stores I visited between bar stops.  There were places I always associate with my street, and they have changed.
  
• There are some places that are just perfect if you're drinking.  One of these was on Fourth: a combination Long John Silver's/KFC.  No combined fast-food joint I can imagine could provide more soothing, nutrient-negative grease  than this place.  One drive-thru, one endless choice of hangover-relief fried crap.  It's gone.  Now it's a freakin' Starbucks.
• Time was, this would have bothered me, but today, I'm more apt to visit a Starbucks than a KFC or a Long John Silver's anyway.
• Hap's Military Surplus? Not really a place I'd visit either drunk or sober, but I always liked that it was there.  One never knows when the need will arise for a set of jungle camouflage and a bayonet. Now, it's "Colors Coffehouse and Cafe."  Wha??? Could you make a bigger 180 than that?
  
• Hap, whoever he was, must be spinning in his military surplus grave somewhere.
• Then there's the Cow Store.  Okay, it's called The Farm Store, if you want to get technical.  It's a double drive-thru convenience store where you pay exorbitant prices not to have to get out of your car.  They have the basics--beer, cigarettes, milk, munchies, cat and dog fuel, bread, condoms, lottery tickets (no Minnie Mouse scratch-offs, though), and overpriced packets of medicines.  Need a bottle of NyQuil at 10:30 at night, but you feel too horrible to get out of your car? The Cow Store is your place.
• Anyway, I stopped there for a Diet Mountain Dew today.  Most things change; the Cow Store doesn't.
• However, adjacent to the Cow Store is a strange gypsy fortune-teller/crystal shop kind of store.  When I'd be returning from a long evening down Fourth at Wannabee's, this place freaked me out a bit.  In the window was a giant, red neon hand with an eye in the palm.  (shivers)  The gypsies, or whoever they were, have moved on. 
  
• The palm-reading/crystal store place is now gone.  Coming soon: a smoke shop. 
  
• I can only imagine the bong-peddlers insisted on retaining the neon eye-hand sign when they bought the joint.
• One last change.  Several years ago, Florida passed an amendment banning smoking in restaurants and some bars.  One last bastion of being able to smoke was the Family Billiard Center on Fourth, just north of the Cow Store.  They were proud of their status, even posting on their lighted sign, "Smokers still welcome here!" I never visited it when it was open.  It's been bought and remodeled.  What became of this unapologetic smoker's sanctuary?
• A damned health club.
  
• Things change.
  
• Also, weekends end.  I hope yours was a good one, and that you have a pleasant week.  Now let me hop in my Prius and go out for tofu.
  
• Just kidding.  You see, some things on Fourth Street will never change. 
  

Staceypunkin was born on July 27, which is just perfect for her.  Why?

Because Leo Durocher and A-Rod were born on July 27^th, and Stacey loves baseball.

Because Singaporean comic book artist Foo Swee Chin was born 7/27/77, and my Punkin is a wonderful colorer. 

Because Maya Rudolph and Bill Engval are also 7/27 babies, and Stacey loves to laugh, and makes me laugh.

Because legendary film critic Vincent Canby was born on July 27, and the girl is very picky about what movies she watches (maddeningly picky sometimes) ;-) .

Because actress/director Betty Thomas was born July 27^th, 1948; Ms Thomas directed “The Brady Bunch Movie,” and Stacey’s family is like about 10 Brady Bunches combined.

Because on July 27^th, 1987, RMS Titanic, Inc, began salvaging The Titanic, and Punkin would certainly never allow a shipwreck to litter her clean floors for 74 years.

Because July 27^th, 1949 saw the first flight of the DeHavilland Comet, the world’s first jet-powered passenger plane; S wants to travel and see mountains and snow.

Because Bugs Bunny made his first appearance on July 27^th, 1940, and Punkin loves cartoons.

Because on this date 143 years ago, Cyrus W. Field successfully installed the first trans-Atlantic telegraph cable; Stacey doesn’t send telegraph messages, but text messages.

Perhaps most of all, July 27^th is National Sleepy Head day in Finland.  Staceypunkin is frequently tired, because she’s so busy being awesome 24/7.  Happy Birthday, babe.  I hope this is your best year ever. 

Christmas Brunch in July

It’s hot, the mid-summer doldrums, and what could be more refreshing than  a little Christmas in July? Not the horrifying retail mayhem, and paper laceration-causing gift wrapping, but just a fleeting thought of cool December air, a tinge of wood smoke on the gentle breeze (or, in Canada, sub-zero temps and blizzard conditions), and some tasty Holiday comestibles. 

Some figgy pudding:  Farm Town has messed up my brain.  Seriously.  I love my little fake farm, and I relish the 15 or 20 minutes I spend each day running things.  The problem is, it’s really skewed my view of how agriculture works.  I have actually plowed a field. Really! Not only have I plowed a field with a  Gravely Tractor, I’ve even plowed a field with an archaic manual plow.  (In the interest of full and proper disclosure, I should note that by “field” I mean “small backyard garden” or, more likely, “a row of a small backyard garden.”)  It’s so much easier just to highlight the plow icon, then click on my blank field.  POUF! Instantly plowed field.  Nothing to it! Why do people expend all that back-breaking labor, sweating and becoming grimy, when all they have to do is click? Silly farmers.

Variety of Cheeses, courtesy of Maids a-Milking: It gets even worse.  I was driving to Clearwater Saturday afternoon, and one of the medians was planted with lovely bouganvillas, which were blooming bright fuschia.  All I could think was, “Those are ready to harvest.  Somebody should really click on them.” I’m a great farmer when it comes to clicking on things.

Roast Goose (no longer a-laying) with Chestnut (roasted on an open fire) stuffing: Semi-seriously, I wonder if future generations will have messed-up ideas of how agriculture works.  For example, on Morningwood Farms, I grow apples, oranges, mangoes, cherries, and bananas right next to each other.  (Holy shit, I'm growing my own Skittles!) I can grow rice next to potatoes, even though actual potatoes would drown in an actual rice paddy.  (Good thing I can grow cotton to soak up any residual mess)  I have cats running around my farm, and they never bother the baby chickens.  For that matter, I have cows running around my farm, and they never bother to take little cyber craps all over the place.  Thank God the Power Book doesn't have any sort of Odor-ama feature, where it could blast my olfactory senses with eau d'goat piss.   (Eau d'piss du goat? (Geaut?))

(Turtle) Dove Bars: Sorry, I may be calling it Christmas in July, but it's still July, and thus it's a perfect day for bananafish Dove Bars.  I heard on the radio that Prince has refused to allow his music to be used in Guitar Hero.  Why? Because His Royal Purple Badness thinks people who want to play his songs on guitar should get real guitars and play them.  God bless Prince.  Not to speak ill of the dead, but Prince was badder than Michael Jackson back in 1984, and he always will be.  Michael grabbed his cow-spotted crotch with his gloved hand, but Prince sang "Darling Nikki," "Jack U Off," and "Sexy Motherf***er."  The guy can play every instrument on the planet, write great songs, and yet manage not to be a complete freak.  He's definitely odd, but the guy's at least on the same planet as everyone else.  Plus, Prince gets huge-ass bonus points for referencing the hilarious Dave Chapelle bit making fun of him.  Other artists would've sued.  Prince stops in the middle of his Super Bowl halftime performance and mentions "pancakes" apropos of nothing.  Propz 2U, Prince.

Egg Nog (courtesy of French hens and my secret nog trees): The question that comes to my mind is, are we better off having some misguided expertise regarding a subject, or would we be better off remaining typically ignorant? Are we better off wandering through life not thinking about farms, or dabbling in a world where real-life horticultural knowledge is irrelevant in that particular game? Does playing Guitar Hero make you more of a musician than someone who just plays air guitar while driving, when neither of you has even held a real guitar? There are people out there in the ether who tweet every traffic jam and bowel movement they face each day, and change their Facebook status on a whim.  Will this ultimately replace conversation? Person A throws out a thought, and persons B through J comment on it.  I remember watching John McEnroe play Roscoe Tanner at Wimbledon one year, and they had all these amazingly long rallies.  It was enthralling.  So much of communication today is the tennis equivalent of hitting a ball against a garage door.  Sure, it requires a certain skill, but is it really playing tennis?

Morningwood Farms Special Roast Coffee (laced with B&B Cognac, for that authentic Christmasy touch): Sometimes I wonder if we're not living the Cliff's Notes version of life these days, forsaking deep, true understanding for a smattering of factoids.  I do that myself.  I want to be Dr. House and know everything, but I don't want to spend hours immersed in textbooks.  I love to write, to explore ideas, but I end up with about a one-paragraph attention span.  (Hey, it comes in handy on Sundays, I guess!)  Is it good or bad, this new world mindset?

A Mandatory Puck of Brandy-Soaked Fruitcake (followed by a cab ride home): It's neither good nor bad.  I think the rate of change increases much like our technology has.  Twenty years ago, people still carried Walkmans to play their cassettes.  My first computer 18 years ago had a blistering 16MHz clock speed, and a 100MB hard drive.  It didn't even have a modem.   Today? I'd feel like I were in prison if I had to use dial-up, and I freely admit that my 1.8 GHz PowerBook is obsolete.  I still love it, though.  What doesn't change are the basics: the bumps on the home keys, or the annoying hourglass icon (or the spinning pinwheel of death on a Mac).  Similarly, we may communicate differently today, and perhaps we are more superficial.  We're still humans, though, with the need for contact with others.  Maybe I don't visit my friends as often as I should, but I think of them when they leave me a chicken or a fig tree for my fake farm, or when I see their status change on Facebook.  I won't lament the death of cave paintings, not when I can download NASA's Astronomy Picture of the Day.  I won't pine too hard for the days when my hometown had four movie screens, not when I can download just about any film I want on demand.  And even though I once grew a sweet potato the size and shape of Richard Nixon's head, I haven't touched actual dirt in years.  That said, I dig my little fantasy farm, with coffee, cherries, and bananas growing in computer-generated harmony.  It relaxes me.  Plus, I have some beautiful flowers growing on Morningwood Farms, and I'm taking my girl out for a birthday dinner tonight. 

Pity that no matter how much I point and click, I can't find a way to get those damn flowers out of the computer.

Have a great Sunday. :-)

(Today's menu comes fresh from Morningwood Farms, my imaginary farm in Farm Town.  Sadly, I can't grow coffee, which is essential, so I'm having to outsource that, but everything else comes from my farm.)

• Freshly squeezed orange juice: R.I.P. Walter Cronkite.  I remember watching Walter Cronkite when I was a kid, and I always liked him.  When Dan Rather replaced him, my loyalty to the evening network news was forever untethered.  Cronkite was smart, hard-working, and fair.  He was scrupulous, even removing himself from campaign coverage when his presence sometimes overshadowed the candidates' presence.  Can you imagine a TV "journalist" doing that today? Nor can I.  The greatest tribute I've found to Uncle Walter was that Swedish and Dutch both have as their word for anchorman a variation of his name: Cronkeiter or Kronkeiter.  What better tribute is there than having your name turned into a regular noun?
• Strawberries and cream: The seminal moment in Walter Cronkite's career has to be his announcement that John F Kennedy had died in Dallas.  I wasn't alive then, but I can only imagine that when Walter took off his heavy black-framed glasses, choked back a sob, and wiped his eyes, the country absolutely fell apart grieving.  The great thing was, he didn't opinionize then.  He was only reporting the facts.  The facts were horrific, and he was upset.  For a few seconds he paused, then collected himself, and soldiered on.  This was a guy who waded ashore at D-Day, just to cover the story.  He was the one you'd want to tell you something horrible, just because he gave that vibe that it would ultimately be okay.
• Giganto Omelettes with your choice of pork product and cheese, and a mandatory side of bacon:  Easily the most mind-blowing, horrifying national crisis I can remember was 9/11.  I was horrified as I sat and watched CNN's coverage.  I couldn't turn away--literally, because my radio station was simulcasting CNN, and if I changed channel, we'd lose the feed.  I was scared, of course, and confused, and the talking heads were all rattled and hyperverbose.  Then, around 10pm, Garrick Utley came on.  Here was an old-school newsman, somebody I knew wouldn't let things fall apart on his watch.  He explained things, and I felt a little better.  I still went home, drank a fifth of bourbon, and wrote a really bad e-mail screed, but just having this guy I knew and trusted made a huge difference to me.
• Fresh cornbread or a selection of signature breads:  Not only do I lack linear thought in my blogposts, I kind of wander around when I'm perusing the Interwebs.  I watched some Walter Cronkite clips, and ended up watching two different JFK documentaries.  The thought hit me: Americans HATE Occam's Razor.  The simplified version of Occam's Razor is, "The simplest explanation that accounts for all the evidence is usually the best." The Warren Report was Occam's Razor.  Most Americans don't want Occam's Razor, but all of Occam's shaving kit, plus everything else in his carry-on bag.  For some reason, nobody wants to believe that one loon shot and killed the president, even though we can see video of John Hinckley nearly taking-out Ronald Reagan 18 years later.  It's no small irony that Uncle Walter interrupted "As the World Turns" to report JFK's death, since some of the proffered theories make soap opera plots look straightforward.
• Hash brown potato casserole, with cheese, diced ham, and onions:  (Okay, I brought in some imaginary onions too, since I don't technically grow them on my imaginary farm)  I'm not saying that Oswald shot JFK while acting 100% on his own, either.  I don't know for sure.  Nobody does.  I believe he shot JFK.  Why? He was a loon, complete with a rifle and opportunity.  Did he act alone? I don't know that either.  "JFK" is one of my favorite films, even though it's at least 50% complete fiction.  Damn, it's awesome fiction to watch, though.  It's Occam's Razor, though: the simplest theory is the best: Oswald was a loon, who had a perfect place from which to shoot.  He bought a gun.  He used it.  Done.  It's a pity, too, because Donald Sutherland was freakin' awesome as X, the character who was only an amalgamation of various people, with a generous dollop of pure fiction. 
• Fresh coconut cream, banana cream, or lemon meringue pie, or strawberry shortcake:    I've been watching "Dead Like Me" on hulu.com this week, and it got me wondering why I like this show so much.  I think it's because I like to the idea of living in "the real world," but also working in another world.  I felt like that when I was still in radio.  I won't bore you with ratings or anything, but I did consistently well in my target audience, even winning a handful of times.  Even though I could see data showing how many people listened, I could walk through the grocery store or 7-Eleven and nobody knew who I was.  It was sweet, sort of like being a ghost. 
• Choice of Morningwood Lemonade or a Bloody Mary, made with home-made, triple-distilled vodka, and fresh lemons and tomatoes, respectively:  Yeah, that came crashing down one night.  I'd gone out for a long drive, just to escape the city.  I stopped at a gas station maybe 60 miles from here, and was making small-talk with the proprietor.  He said my voice sounded familiar.  "You sound like that Tom guy on the jazz station." I smiled politely and agreed it was me.  He was all excited, so much so that he gave me my Diet Mountain Dew free.  It freaked me out a little, but that was okay.  It was a gorgeous night, and I had a free cold refreshing beverage.  Life could be much worse, even if I wasn't as invisible as I'd thought.
• Coffee from Dunkin Donuts:  It's hard to be invisible anymore.  I have friends here in real life, and I'm glad to have them.  Over the past nearly two years I've been Voxing, I realize that we can affect people all over the world, regardless of our location.  When terrorists bombed parts of Mumbai last fall, I read about it online, but I empathized with it through reading my Indian friends' blogs.  When Australia had rampant wildfires, it was one thing to see the story on a news site, but it struck home more when a friend posted snapshots of the smoke.  Sometimes, I'll try and remember how I first met a Gunderson Bee or Brown Suga or Lauri(e), and I find I can't.  But I remember their stories, the snippets of their lives, triumphs, tragedies, and--happily--the occasional kitty picture or fart joke.  It's a very different world than the one Walter Cronkite first covered.  We're simultaneously more anonymous and more exposed.  We're given more data, but I wonder if we really have any more facts.  Despite having learned some interesting life lessons along the way, I think I'm essentially still as clueless as I was when Uncle Walter signed-off in 1981.  The difference is that through this strange, miraculous technology, I'm able to share my cluelessness with people all over the planet.  And that's the way it is. 

Happy Sunday from Morningwood Farms.