Archive for September, 2008

Monday Night Mental Chex Mix

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on September 30, 2008 by tom
  • I went in and worked 4 hours of overtime Monday night, just for giggles and time-and-a-half.  Ann Marie, my partner in mayhem, told me she reserved Monday night for catching up on my Vox.  Instead, tonight, she had me there.
  • That's good, because I hadn't written my usual Sunday night Mental Chex mix.
  • I mention this only because Ann Marie had a giant bag of actual Chex Mix in her drawer.  It's not bad, as prepackaged snack food goes (I'd never give up Sun Chips for it), but my mom used to make the most spectacular Chex mix in the world.  I don't remember her recipe, but in the soft-focus ideation of my memory, it involved gravy.
  • Gravy makes things better.  Roast pork egg foo yung without gravy is just a bland omelet with lots of crap in it, sort of like one of those infernal Christmas fruitcakes.
  • As that orangeish gravy redeems egg foo yung, dumping lots of brandy on a fruitcake makes it palatable.
  • Unlike brandy, egg foo yung gravy is not flammable. 
  • Speaking of Ann Marie's Chex Mix in her drawer, my drawers please me, for that is where I keep my squishy magnetic Canadian beaver:

  • Having a squishy beaver on my drawer is just freakin' comedy carte blanche.  Apparently, some people use the word "beaver" in a biometaphorical connotation.
  • That said, I've never seen one of the metaphorical beavers with flat tails.  (fur and teeth…well, I won't go there)
  • The cleaning person had a horrible squeaking wheel on her garbage can.  I swear, you could hear that damn thing for a quarter mile.  It was horrible: loud as hell and high-pitched, like chalk on Satan's blackboard. 
  • We had a fire alarm at work.  The fire alarm wasn't as loud as that damn squeaking wheel. 
  • I made time and a half for sitting outside during the fire alarm incident.  This makes it 50% more profitable than a fire alarm would've been Sunday. 
  • I should figure out a way to cause the fire alarm to go off more often. 
  • Not really.
  • Ana-Sofia Vargas and Wind are getting along quite well, although I fear Srta Vargas sends mixed messages.  The other night, she came up to Wind, sniffed his face, licked him briefly, then bitch-slapped him before sauntering out of the room.  She doesn't saunter, except to make a point.  Wind looked up at me, and I swear he rolled his eyes.
  • They do get along, though.

  • The above picture was taken while I was online.  Wind was passed out on his back, and Ana-Sofia Vargas was curled up on my pillow.  When I turned the camera light on to take the picture, she glared at me.  Wind didn't move.
  • Pound for pound, Chex Mix is less expensive than Purina ONE cat fuel.  Less nutritious and tasty as well.
  • Ana-Sofia Vargas has always been a fan of Meow Mix Brand Cat Fuel.  Wind enjoys Meow Mix Brand Cat Fuel as well, but holy Bast, something in it makes him fart more than my little brother, both in volume and noxiousness.  That's saying something.
  • I've lived in the same apartment for ten years now.  In nine or ten hours, I'll sign a lease for an eleventh.  I like it.  It's a good size, close to everything I need–work, stores, etc–but mainly, I love living on the shore of Lake Tom.  There's something awesome about my little lake, about the birds and the otter, the various fishes, even the "Beware of Alligators" sign.  I love watching the ebb and flow of the water level as we go through the seasons.  I see the ebb and flow of life, too.  The ducks and moorhens mate and raise their young.  Various herons, egrets, and ibises patrol the shores, looking for food.  Every now and then, an osprey or a pelican swoop down and grab a fish, perhaps one of the tilapia who nest along my shore.  
  • I've seen lots of people come and go as well.  Couples shacked up here.  The woman downstairs had her boyfriend move out 3 years ago.  Colette and Ryan got married then moved away.  I fell in love with Lt Catherine, USCG, from downstairs, then she got transferred to Michigan.  I was in such a bad state that I wouldn't have been good for her anyway, although she was here when Chynna across the hall killed herself.  That was sad to me, especially since it pointed out the stupidity of the behavior I was exhibiting myself.  It still took a few years before I stopped.
  • I nearly died a couple times here, once because of my chronic stupidity, once from a disease only 6000 people worldwide have had since 1990. 
  • Ironically, I spent a month in the hospital being treated for each of them.
  • The nutbin (sorry, "rehab") had MUCH better food and Ativan, although the other hospital gave me narcotics.
  • Narcotic pain meds are far more entertaining when you don't need them to relieve pain.  I had an IV drip of Dilaudid, for cripes sakes, and I didn't even enjoy Dark Side of the Moon. 
  • I was never happier in my life than the day I finally climbed back up my stairs to this apartment eight months ago.  I couldn't stand for very long, but I kept going out on my balcony, leaning against the ledge, looking out over Lake Tom.  I remember it rained, as it's doing now.  The salt marsh between here and Tampa Bay will reek with fecundity tomorrow, but it's relaxing and peaceful tonight.
  • Perhaps the most soothing, relaxing sound I know is rain falling on my lake.
  • Too bad that damn squeaky garbage can wheel destroyed my hearing.
  • Have a great week!

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Smart advice for a more peaceful weekend

Posted in Uncategorized on September 27, 2008 by tom

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Where everybody knew my name once

Posted in Uncategorized on September 26, 2008 by tom
Brophy's Dugout Sports Pub

Brophy's is kind of a dive. However, it's a dive bar that has interesting characters roll in and out of its doors almost every day. At night, the party is turned up and all sorts of people show up for a good, raucous time.  Bar food is served and smoking is more than welcome. Live bands play on most weekends — call for details.
There's a sort of secret society among regular drinkers.  The Shriners have their fezzes, the Masons their rings, and maybe we drunks only have gin blossoms and eye bags, but it's the same thing.

When I was first hired at the Wave 102.5 many, many moons ago, the engineer and the music director used to take me downstairs to Brophy's.  It was called Gamble's then, and the owner was a young guy named Tom Brophy.  Anyway, McGyver and Donnie B and I would sit in our booth, and we'd drink beer and commiserate about how horrible things were at the station.  I was 22, and I was absolutely thrilled to be working in major market radio.  The studios they bitched about looked like sci-fi heaven to me, but they bought me beer, and I listened supportively.  That was the beginning of the circle of beer: McGyver and Donnie B paid for my beers, because I was young and broke at the time.

Years later, I'd moved up into a pretty good job, and I took a young, high-strung news guy down to Gamble's to drink.  We all went there, almost every night.  We'd drink our beer and relax, joke around and complain.  Gradually, I came to know the staff and many of the other regulars, and I started going there on non-work nights.  My friends and I would go there for lunch most days.  It was close and cheap, and the food was amazingly good.  Especially Fridays: grouper sandwich day.  Still, the best grouper sandwich I've ever had.

Tom Brophy was the owner and proprietor, and he worked about 800 hours a week.  He'd be there for the lunch crowd, then wander back in about 9 to help close.  Gamble's/Brophy's was a little raucous.  I fell in love a few times in "my booth," with a soul-mate coworker, a Canadian summer intern, with Sherry the barmaid.  Tom Brophy was one of the nicest, most cheerful guys I've ever met.  If you were a regular, he'd let you pay your bill with a personal check–I know, right? Allowing drunks to write checks?–and if you were a little short till payday, he'd let you run a tab.  He knew we'd pay him first thing come payday.  He knew we'd pay him, then sit there and spend more.

Tommy loved being Irish, and he went all out on St Patrick's Day.  They opened at 9 AM, and everybody started drinking.  Green beer, sure, but Tommy and Sherry used to spend each March 16th night whipping up green Jell-O shots.  Gamble's was only licensed to sell beer and wine, so they gave the shots away to us regulars.  I'm a big guy who drank a lot–my tolerance was pretty damn high–but two giant Hacker-Pshorr drafts and five Jell-O shots, and I was cake. 

When I moved to another station, I switched bars.  It was hard to leave the crowd there, but our new bar was right next to the new station, plus they served liquor.  Yay.  Lots of the ensuing decade is blurry, but I remember running into my Gamble's family in odd places.  I'd be at Bennigan's drinking vodka with my new bar friends, and Tom Brophy would pop in for a beer.  I always bought him one.   I owed him.

Eventually, I moved to another station in the same building as before.  I'd get off the air at midnight, and I'd be in my booth by ten past.  I'd have a few beers and chill, order a sandwich to go, then return to my cave to drink whiskey.  "Interesting characters?" Oh, sure.  They were there late-night.  WE were there late-night.  Sometimes, Tommy and Sherry would drive across the bridge to Tampa, where bars stayed open till 0300.  The Green Iguana was right across the Gandy Bridge, one of the straightest roadways in Florida, thank God.  Because the Iguana staff knew Tommy and Sherry, they'd close at 0300, then lock the doors and drink with us.  Again, they couldn't sell alcohol after 3, but they could–and did–give it away. 

One night, after I'd imploded sufficiently that I stopped going to bars, I was without a car and wanted a drink.  I took a cab to Brophy's, and Sherry was there.  We hugged and kissed, and she asked if I wanted to go get a drink, "a drink" meaning shots and liquor, not just beer.  She drove me to Dave's Aqua Lounge and Liquors.  We sat at the bar, catching up, and she asked me about some of my old friends, the gang I used to drink with at Gamble's years ago.  "C's married with a kid; E's married with five daughters; CC's married with a kid.  They've all moved away.  What about Drunk and Insane Erich, Tommy the Cook, and Bud Light Dave?"

She looked at me sadly.  "Erich passed out with a lit cigarette, and burned to death.  Tommy the Cook drowned in Aruba, and Bud Light Dave got liver cancer and died."


Another time, I was on a date and ran into Molly the barmaid at this other bar down Fourth Street.  We caught up a little.  She had to get back to her boyfriend, and I had to get back to whatever girl I was with.  I remember Molly's name, and that Juan the Ecuadorian was our bartender (there was also a Juan the Puerto Rican in our society), and that Juan made these amazingly powerful shots called "Key Wests." I drank one pint of Bass Ale, and four shots.  Of course, his shots would fill an iced tea glass.  He didn't charge extra–and he was heavy on the 151 Bacardi component–because he knew I'd tip him exorbitantly.  After all, we were friends from Brophy's.  And Bennigan's.  And Lord only knows how many other bars. 

OH! And it was Halloween! I remember that now.  Molly was dressed as a belly dancer/gypsy kind of thing, and she wasn't wearing a bra.  I kept looking at her tiny naked breasts beneath that blue silk, and she kissed me goodbye on the mouth.  It pissed off her boyfriend and my date.  I remember that. 

I couldn't tell you what girl I was with or how or when I got home, but I remember my bar people.  I remember those almost delicious Key Wests–like fruit juice, but with a malathion and jet fuel finish.  I can't remember the point to my being there.

Last night, I stopped by the 7-Eleven after work to buy some barbecue sauce.  They had a crew in there stocking, and I overheard one lady say something about, "He was really young.  All the Brophy's people are in shock."

Aw, fuck.  Not again.

I asked who'd died.

Tom Brophy was 45 years old, just a few years older than I.  He had a sudden heart attack two weeks ago, and he was dead before he hit the floor.  He left two kids behind, and a jillion people like me who are sickened by the news. 

I haven't set foot in Brophy's since I quit drinking, nearly 3.5 years ago.  I don't go to bars.  I don't risk it.  I don't trust myself, nor should I. 

During my bar years, I saw lots of cautionary tales.  People like Drunk and Insane Erich, who was completely 'faced by sundown each night.  He was a mess.  I saw lots of people who'd lost control, and I vowed never to become one of them.  I don't think anyone ever intends to.  I did, whether I wanted to or not. 

Tom Brophy wasn't.  He drank here and there, but I never saw him drunk–well, only on St Patty's Day or when they hosted a golf tournament.  He was a really nice guy, one of the few in the pantheon of bar owners.  I think he just did it because he loved his people, the same way Oskar loved the theater in "Fanny and Alexander."  Just not in Swedish, and without subtitles.

For me, the hardest part of the last 24 hours has been trying to remember more of my times at Gamble's.  I remember sitting there in my booth, reading "Tropic of Cancer" and "The Naked Lunch" while I drank.  I remember leaning against the pool table, kissing various girls, or making out in the parking lot.  I remember how Tommy would lead a pack of us down to Dirty Moe's Oyster Boat to do shots before returning to our beers.  I remember the daily lunch specials: Monday was burger day; Tuesday and Thursday chicken sandwiches or chicken salad; Wednesday was wings; Friday, the aforepraised grouper sandwich–truly the reason the Creator invented both the grouper and tartar sauce.  Gamble's/Brophy's had awesome food, so I don't feel remiss in toasting his memory with a Philly Cheesesteak and a Coke Zero instead of Jameson's Irish Whiskey or one of those pretty, yet deadly, green Jell-O shots.

Every day, I'm grateful I survived my bad decade with enough intact synapses to function.  It's a miracle I can remember what I do, and a blessing perhaps that I don't remember more.

In looking back, mostly I remember Tom Brophy's smile, and that he always made me feel comfortable and welcome there, even if I'd bounced a check to him or behaved like a complete jackass. 

I wish I could remember more, but his smile–that's enough.

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Guy recipe

Posted in Uncategorized on September 23, 2008 by tom

A great guy recipe:

1- pork roast or bunch of pork ribs
2- bags of fresh sauerkraut

Put pork in Crock Pot.  Dump kraut on top.  Replace lid.  Turn Crock Pot on.  Go to work.  Come home. Remove lid.  Eat.*

Meat: yes
Green Vegetables: none
Fiber: a little
Belch factor: 9/10
Flatulence indicator: 8.2/10
Yummy: yes
Good with beer: absolutely
Number of dishes to wash: 1 pot, 1 lid

*-note: eat the food in the Crock Pot.  Do NOT eat the lid.

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Sunday night Mental Chex Mix

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on September 22, 2008 by tom
  • What separates mankind from other mammals is the ability to make, distribute, and appreciate ice cream.  Chimps can eat, drive cars, murder, etc, but they don't make ice cream.  Savages.
  • Speaking of which, I appreciate Cherry Garcia–the Ben & Jerry flavor named after the dead Grateful Dead genius–FAR more than I ever liked the Dead's music.
  • I realized something: man is really the only mammal that scares me, even though I wouldn't really want a bunch of bats or bears or giraffes living in my house.
  • Actually, there was one non-human mammal who scared the hell out of me once (not counting Dick Cheney, of course).  Way back in my mosquito control tech days, I walked out of one swamp, and there was a giant bobcat standing maybe 30 yards from my truck.  He didn't look especially scared of me.
  • Oh, and there was one other incident in that same swamp.  I was walking into the trees, and there was a horrible rustling in the underbrush.  I was convinced it was either an anaconda or that bobcat ready to attack.  Turns out, it was a baby armadillo.  It was cute, once my heart started beating again.
  • I was in a rowboat once when an alligator swam underneath the boat, rocking it.  I 'bout shit.
  • OH! And along that same lake, a Florida Cottonmouth slithered over my right foot.  I was so freaked out that I beat it to death with my three iron.
  • One of the most fascinating examples of nature's cruel beauty was that alligator–we named it Izod, for obvious reasons–eating a bird one afternoon.  I saw Izod gliding slowly toward a pair of egrets, who were wading in the shallows.  Then I saw Izod descend silently.  About every four feet, one small bubble rose to the surface as he neared the shore.  Then, there was an explosion of awesome violence as Izod popped out of the water, grabbed one of the egrets in one giant bite, then a brief splashing frenzy, and then nothingness.  Just a few orphaned feathers where that egret had been standing. 
  • I will not mess with alligators to this day. 
  • I've been watching "Bones" on  I love the show, because it combines mysteries, beautiful women, science geek stuff, and some really funny interplay between Zooey Deschanel's big sister and the guy formerly known as Angel (ref: Emily Deschanel and David Boreanaz). 
  • R.I.P. Yankee Stadium.  I'm sorry I never made it to see you.
  • Zooey Deschanel has the most beautiful blue eyes, so much so that I named my blue Fender Stratocaster after her.  Sadly, I sold Zooey, because her neck was too small.  She was purty, though.
  • It seems sadly ironic that this government will spend countless billions of dollars to bail out poorly run banks and mortgage companies, but they wouldn't do shit to help me pay my rent if I ran short.  The salaries and bonuses the banks' CEO's had could pay off dozens of typical American homes' mortgages. 
  • I think it would only be fitting if the top executives of the bailed-out companies were evicted from their homes, and forced to live on the streets with their families. 
  • In winter.
  • With Salvation Army clothes–no Gore-Tex LL Bean parkas and duck boots.
  • I'm sad that David Foster Wallace committed suicide.  He was a great writer, based on the limited amount I've read, and he seemed like somebody I know well, maybe a little like me.  Check out his account of John McCain's 2000 campaign, written for Rolling Stone.  Thanks, Mariser, for the link.
  • It saddens me when somebody vibrant and creative commits suicide, especially when it's someone whose work I admire.  I'm thinking of Bradley Delp and RIchard Jeni, at the moment.  I know the Abyss can suck the life out of you–I hate it too–but I can't wrap my head around ending it.
  • Although, one of the interesting dualities of my bad hospital winter, where I came reeeeeeally close to having my ticket punched, is that I no longer fear death at all.
  • The other duality is that I really appreciate life.
  • And ice cream.
  • Have a great week.

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Not just another Meme: The Proust Questionnaire

Posted in Uncategorized on September 20, 2008 by tom

(Stolen, with thanks, from Lightchaser (who wrote the intro).  Well, and from Proust, of course, who made it famous, even though he didn't invent the questions)

Proust filled this out twice, once at 13, again at 20. I wonder what differences he noted in his personality and what he made of them.

Because this questionnaire is actually important to anyone seeking to understand what they are made of, my answers are as follows. Read if you like, and borrow the questions if you will, but I write this primarily as a chronicle for myself.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Warren Zevon said it best on David Letterman's show.  Zevon was dying of cancer, and Letterman asked whether he had any great wisdom.  Zevon replied, "Enjoy every sandwich."  If I can enjoy the most mundane things–a ham sandwich, eg–I think I'm doing okay.

What is your greatest fear?
Discovery, then implosion.  I feel like my entire life has been a tenuously built house of cards, and that eventually, my ruse will be exposed, and my world will implode into itself.  I nearly imploded once, and I try to be better, but the fear is still there.

What historical figure do you most identify with?
Probably Robert E. Lee.  Toward the end of the Civil War, his forces were ragtag and battered, his supplies gone, but he still kept going as best he could.  I just hope I keep battling to the best of my abilities, in good times and even when all seems lost, and then have the grace to surrender honorably.  (note: I'm not one of those Confederate apologists with a rebel flag in my pickup truck window.  Our local PBS station keeps rerunning Ken Burns' "The Civil War" late night, and I keep it on in the background.  I've never really considered this question, but Gen. Lee fits.  At least tonight.)

Which living person do you most admire?
My parents.  They are the two best, most generous people I know of.  They have always practiced what they preached.  It's distressingly rare to find somebody who does that unerringly.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Laziness, first, followed by fearfullness, and my insecure megalomania.  I think I probably know best, but I'm too damn scared and lazy to do anything.  I'm only half exaggerating.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

What is your greatest extravagance?
Eating out instead of cooking for myself.

What is your favourite journey?
Driving home from my grandparents' old house in Ft Oglethorpe, Georgia.  Ft O is a world I love, a small town in the shadow of Lookout Mountain.  It's surrounded by Civil War battlefields and forests.  My mother's ancestors are buried there.  It's a hilly, slow, less crowded world than my own.  From there, you drive through low mountains and hills till you reach the gigantic sprawl of Atlanta.  It takes an hour or so to traverse one end to the other.  After that, the hills gradually thin out, then you hit Florida, land of my father's family.  I probably have relatives buried in each county I drive through–more of my past.  Then I hit Tampa, and I return to my life.  My bustle, my streets, my warm, sultry salt-kissed air.  It's a long day's journey, both mileage wise and mentally and spiritually.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Loyalty, when it's used to excuse misbehavior. 

For what fault do you have the greatest tolerance?
Misguided generosity.  Some people develop generosity into an ego-boost, doing good things for positive reinforcement (accolades, eg, or recognition).  It's annoying, but at the end of the day, their fault makes the world better.

On what occasion do you lie?

To spare someone's feelings, assuming it's no big deal.  "Do you like my new ring?" "Um, sure.  It's lovely." Then again, with the concept of Clintonian Truth, I'm not really lying: "I DO like your new ring, in that your new ring–even though I think it's hideous–makes you happy, and I want you to be happy.  Plus, you didn't ask me whether I thought your ring was pretty." Lots of half-truths and little twists, but I don't lie on big things, not anymore.  I spent way too many years living a lie.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?
I have always been too heavy.  I was 10 lbs 15 oz when I was born, and I grew from there.

Which living person do you most despise?
People with misguided zealotry, who use doctrine and ideas as justification for horrible acts in an effort to force others to believe as they do.  How many millions have died because some jackass lead a pogrom or started a war, just because of ideology?

 Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
"You've GOT to be shittin' me!'

What is your greatest regret?
I try not to think about this one.  If I'd changed anything along the way–marrying my college gf, becoming an orthopedic surgeon, hell choosing paper over plastic–I wouldn't be where I am today.  I enjoy my life now.  I'm grateful for that, for I know far too many people who are miserable.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Words: reading them, writing them, hearing them, speaking them.  Also Christina Ricci (both lovely words).

Which talent would you most like to have?
I am a good enough musician to appreciate how bad a musician I am.  I would love to have the skill and talent of a Keith Emerson or a Jeff Beck.

What is your current state of mind?
Content, serene, ready for a nap.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

Surviving, with an intact sense of humor.

If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what would it be?
A pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas.  (Sorry.  I love that Eliot line)  I honestly don't have an answer for this.  If reincarnation is real, I wonder what the previous Tom answered.  I doubt this was it.

If you could choose what to come back as, what would it be?
Same clown, different circus.

What is your most treasured possession?
My Power Book.  I don't have many possessions–I neither need nor covet very much–but this little device has my words, my music, a couple nice movies, etc.  I only pick that because the cats would smother me in my sleep if I called them "possessions."

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

Waking up, and having your first thought be, "Not again."  I was there.  It sucked.

Where would you like to live?
I honestly believe that if I won the lottery, I'd move about five miles away.  I'd get a little house on Passe-a-Grille Beach, and a cabin in the mountains for when I have to evacuate.

What is your favourite occupation?
Learning about people and things that interest me.   The other night, I was enraptured by an entomology study reporting how an Aedes taeniorhynchus was found in Oklahoma back in 1971.  (It's a salt marsh mosquito, for crying out loud, why was it there?) But if I try to read about another blood-sucking pest–Dick Cheney, eg–my eyes glaze over.  And I'd never download a picture of Cheney.  The taeniorhynchus? You bet.

What is your most marked characteristic?

Ability to engage nearly anybody on his or her level.  .

What is the quality you most like in a man?
Restraint: not behaving as if he were in a frat house after a big game.  (unless, of course, he is in a frat house after a big game)

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Self-acceptance: not obsessing about appearance (physical and otherwise), and being happy the way she is.

What do you most value in your friends?
Versatility and steadfastness: I like that my friends are there in good and bad times, and they are always my allies, full of love and humor.

Who are your favourite writers?

James Ellroy, Milan Kundera, J.D. Salinger, Graham Greene.

Who are your favourite poets?
T.S. Eliot, first.  Burns, Yeats, Dylan Thomas, Robert Browning, e.e. cummings, secondarily.

Who is your favourite hero of fiction?
Owen Meany.  He spent his whole life building up to one tragic, selfless moment, and when it came, he embraced it.

Who are your heroes in real life?
Nurses.  Almost all of the nurses I had during my hospital month were kind and cheerful, no matter how overworked they were (very), how unpleasant their duties were (sometimes pretty bad), or how scared-grumpy-frustrated I was (sometimes exceedingly).

What are your favourite names?
Ones that fit their owners well.  If Helen Thomas were named "Jessica Alba," the name wouldn't be so beautiful.

What is it that you most dislike?.

Obsession with image, when people do ridiculous things to fit-in, rather than doing what comes naturally to them.

How would you like to die?

What is your favourite motto/quote?
E lascia pur grattar dov'e la rogna. ("And let them go ahead and scratch where it itches," from Dante, The Divine Comedy)

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In Further Gastronomic News

Posted in Uncategorized on September 19, 2008 by tom

Headline from the Telegraph, U.K.:

Swiss restaurant to serve meals cooked with human breast milk

My only question: do women with breast implants excrete Coffee-Mate instead?

(lap up the story here)

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