6 posts tagged “sunday brunch”

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.

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.

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.

(Yesterday was the 4th anniversary of my last hangover.  Today, I salute the dear, departed Clock Restaurant, which had the most awesome hangover breakfast ever, the Paul Bunyan.  There are bigger breakfasts, and there are more expensive breakfasts, but the Paul Bunyan was perfectly balanced with grease, easily digestable carbohydrates, and protein, plus the Clock had the best iced tea.)

• The Three Eggs, any way you want them: I've written about dreams frequently in my blob (and I thank you for your indulgence).  One thing I've noticed is that when I'm tired--say, during my work week wherein I wake up at 0525--my dreams are more impressionable.  Last week, I had a dream with coral and scarlet king snakes.  This could be easily interpreted using standard dream imagery.  In my case, I chalk it up to having visited a site called "The Most Colorful Snakes in the World" shortly before bedtime.  The other night, I read an essay about "Singin' in the Rain" and Gene Kelly.  In my dream, I was sitting with Punkin, watching them film a stage version of "Singin' in the Rain," and I kept telling her, "This isn't right. They aren't doing `Make 'Em Laugh," and they forgot the big `Gotta Dance' thing."  Cyd Charisse was pissed, too. You do not want a woman with legs that long to be mad at you.         
• The Large Smoked Kielbasa: There's a "Singin' in the Rain" story that surely must be apocryphal, but it bears cutting and pasting from IMDB.com:  Filming of the Cyd Charisse dance number had to be stopped for several hours after it was discovered that her pubic hair was visible through her costume. When the problem was finally fixed, the film's costume designer Walter Plunkett said, "It's OK, guys, we've finally got Cyd's crotch licked."
  
• The Home Fries, Hash Browns, or Grits: One benefit of Job One is the presence of models.  One of them walked in ahead of me the other day, and I noticed one thing.  She was as tall as I am.  I'm six-four; she must have been six-one plus three-inch heels (I was in flats that day).  What I noticed though is that her legs came up to roughly my xyphoid process.  Former MLB pitcher Dwight Gooden was like that, although he didn't look nearly as hot in tight jeans and do-me pumps.
• The Biscuit and Sausage Gravy: I think certain people should be required to attend a one-day seminar wherein they read Snopes.com and watch "Mythbusters." Seriously, stop sending me e-mails telling me they've removed "In God We Trust" from the new dollar coins (It's on the edge), or that Microsoft will send me free stuff for forwarding e-mails (they won't), or that a duck's quack doesn't echo (it does, too!).  There's enough douchebaggery in this world without people believing (and forwarding) every crackpot idea they receive. (And Madelyn Murray O'Hair is NOT trying to get "God" removed from TV.  She's been dead almost 20 years.  Let your sphincters unpucker, willya??)
• The Giganto Glass of Iced Tea: R.I.P. David Carradine.  I hate to say, but I'd rather be thought guilty of having hanged myself in a Bangkok hotel room than be thought guilty of dying during autoerotic asphyxiation in a Bangkok hotel room.  What an undignified way to go, with a cord around your neck and your bidness in your hands.  We'll miss you Grasshopper.  Say hi to Michael Hutchence.

• Have a spectacular Sunday. :-)

• The English Muffin: Craig Ferguson frequently jokes that "Brunch is the only openly gay meal." I don't know whether this is true, but it cracks me up.
• The poached egg: R.I.P. Wayman Tisdale.  Wayman was a basketball legend, one of the greatest college players ever, who went on to have an excellent pro career.  I met him when he'd retired from basketball, and become a jazz/R&B bassist, quite a good one at that.  My station had him in concert at Mahaffey Theater, a classy 1500 seat venue.  I took Diana, a fun, very short woman full of good comedy and rhythm.  I say she was short, meaning she was 5'2, I think.  I'm 6'4, so we made a cute couple.  We were backstage, enjoying adult beverages and green room buffet food, when Wayman walked by.  Diana and I went out and met him.  Wayman was 6'9 or 6'10.  Huge.  I don't look up to many people, either physically or metaphorically.  This guy was a giant in both ways, with a giant heart and an amazingly humble personality.  We talked for five minutes or so, and Diana kept giggling at how tall Wayman was.  He laughed good-naturedly.  Then he went onstage, and tore.  It.  Up.  Fantastic talent.  The big Fender Precision Bass looked like a mandolin in his hands, and he had the whole joint dancing.  Even me.  And this Crackerboy don't dance.  Wayman Tisdale was one of the good guys.  I'm glad I had the chance to meet him, and I mourn that he lost his battle with bone cancer Friday at age 44.  I don't know whether Heaven was recruiting a power forward, a funk bassist, or just a really nice guy.  Regardless of the reason, they got one of the best.
• The Canadian Bacon: When I used to drive long distances late at night, one of my favorite things to see were the glowing red beacons on radio and TV towers.  They never quite went all the way out between blinks.  They gave me perspective.  I could see a big tower from several miles out, watch it loom larger as I approached it, then slowly move away behind me.  They seemed to me very warm and sentinal-like.  Over the past 20 years, you see more towers with strobes, either the obnoxious white ones or the obnoxious red ones.  There's no peace in them, nothing organic and soothing.  The old beacons warmed like good whiskey; the new ones jangle like meth.  Yuck. 
•  The Hollandaise Sauce: I really think they should put the "e" in judgment.  It doesn't look right.  I mean, a judg doesn't issue a judgment, a judge does.  This is why people hate each other.
• The Hash Brown Potatoes: Kelly Senior Grade and I came up with a new concept or term or something: food feng shui.  This explains why you have to dip the McNugget into the hot mustard sauce before the sweet & sour instead of the reverse.  Certain combinations of food please the Universe; others don't.  You have been warned.
• The Sprig of Parsley: Summer is the time of year where big changes tend to occur in my life.  If there's either falling apart or getting-it-together to be done, it's going to be in the summer.  Summer is always an adventure.  We've had three gigantic thunderstorms over the past four evenings.  The Summer of Awesome is here.  Climb aboard for the ride of your life. 
• The Mimosa: It pleases me that various of my neighbors have adopted both "Ten fingers, ten toes, one belly button, and a steady pulse" and "Well, it's better than a gangrenous nardsack" as descriptions of their states of blessedness.  Were I to be pecked to death by the giant heron outside, my time on this planet would not have been wasted.
• The Cup of Coffee: Have yourself a merry little Sunday.