Dispatches from Tanganyika

Vegetable Rights & Peace

2009-07-06T01:51:24Z

I am turning into such a fucking hippie. I just signed up for the local paid recycling plan, since Nagin's wonderful recovery plan for the city hasn't managed to include the resumption of curbside recycling in nearly four years, and I bought a copy of Mother Earth News today. Well, dammit, I want a decent gardening magazine, and most of the ones on the market seem geared toward either morons (three different stories on How To Water) or yuppies more interested in landscaping than gardening per se (Planning Your Perfect Pergola). Not all that impressed with Mother Earth so far either, though. Any suggestions, txtriffidranch?

Soldier Flies

2009-07-05T05:19:16Z

I've been composting for several weeks now in one of those big black plastic bins designed especially for the purpose. It's fun (and compulsive, as I scour the kitchen and yard for compostables that might be going to waste). When I was about 12, my mom had an open compost pile that was always full of these segmented maggoty-looking things that disgusted me to the point of fascination. I'd stare at them and think, "What if you had to stick your hand in there?" Now they are present in large numbers in my own compost pile, and I learned that they are soldier fly larvae (I don't advise clicking that link if you dislike squirmy things), which are not only harmless but such excellent composters that they sometimes drive earthworms right out of the pile. And now I can stick my hand in there, not just without fear, but without even being particularly grossed out. After all, they work for me.

They're also said to make excellent bait, should I ever wish to take up my short-lived fishing habit again, but that seems pretty cold-blooded: "Here, turn my kitchen and garden waste into compost. Thanks! Now I'm going to reward you by sticking a hook through your body and feeding you to a speckled trout!" Ah well; specks probably wouldn't hit them anyway, and ain't nuttin worth eatin but trout.

[ETA: The adult soldier fly is a predator and gardener's ally, so this is an excellent bug all around.]

Shady Grove

2009-07-03T21:50:08Z

My latest gardening project is a small, shady grove at the back of the yard -- near the giant tiki head, if you remember the geography from my Flickr photo sets -- whose entrance will be marked by banana trees and Carara ginger. (Yes, I know these plants need sun, and will get it -- they'll be providing part of the shade, that which isn't already provided by the scrubby trees and brush I've left covering the rear quarter of the yard as bird habitat.) I cleared and mulched the whole area, planted asparagus ferns, and arranged lots of container plants -- mostly bromeliads, as well as one tiny jade tree I hope will grow mighty.

The only frustrating thing is that this all happened too fast. I got the idea a few weeks ago and figured I could begin implementing it gradually and lazily, as befits summer gardening. Then I realized I had better go ahead and get those banana trees and gingers in the ground if I wanted them to get a really good head start before winter. I had a burst of energy this week despite pretty bad sciatica, and now, before I know it, the project is practically done. Of course I can keep adding details forever -- I have a broken granite pot that begs for some creeping herb or other, and an empty bracket for a hanging basket, and lots of fence space for art, and eventually I dream of having a stone bench -- but overall it was not the leisurely project I thought it would be. I've always had trouble not throwing myself into things.

[Please note: Because my Assbook is still out of commission and I've kinda gotten used to the witty repartee we enjoyed there, I have temporarily opened this journal to comments from friends. Sorry, I know I have a lot of friends reading who aren't LJ "friends," but I don't feel like dealing with trolls and anyway you can still comment on prime_liquor or one of my other groups. I don't have e-mail notification for comments, so don't go commenting on old entries and expect me to see it. Caveat emptor. Quid pro quo. My name has been Kevin; please enjoy your meal.]

Wherefore Art Thou, Assbook?

2009-07-03T02:38:17Z

My Facebook account has been disabled, and I have no idea why. Is there something wrong with the site, or do I just suck so bad that even Facebook doesn't want me? My last status update was, " ... is worried about my hypothalamus. If my brain is worrying about my brain, does that make me meta?" I don't think that violates any FB TOS ...

(Actually, come to think of it, my Amazon Connect page recently disappeared too. I didn't care enough at the the time to try to find out why, but this is clearly a conspiracy!)

Conversation Over Coffee

2009-07-03T02:20:28Z

PZB: ...blah blah blah blah blah Stephanie Meyer.

CdB: Uh-huh.

PZB: You don't know who that is, do you?

CdB: Who?

PZB: Twilight?

CdB: What?

PZB: Edward?

CdB: Who?

PZB: Sparkly?

CdB: Huh?

PZB: You don't have any idea at all what I'm talking about?

CdB: No.

PZB: Oh, I love you. I love you so much. You are the most wonderful man in the world.

Green Goddess 4th of July Persian Party & Menu

2009-07-03T01:41:07Z

Just wanted to mention that Chris is doing something really cool at the Green Goddess for the Independence Day of the Colonialist Power (a.k.a. the 4th of July): they've rented the penthouse apartment on the fourth floor of their building and will be serving a Persian buffet in honor of the people's struggle for independence in Iran. As Chris points out in his entry, "This will be a private RSVP party, and the only way to find out how to attend, with a lush Persian banquet, a clear view of the fireworks display on the Mississippi River during the night of Independence Day, and a preview of a few of our creative cocktails soon to be available at The Green Goddess, only happens if you get an email invitation from us. The only way to score an invitation is to ask me for one on our website email listing for your chef correspondent." Or you can just call for reservations at (504) 301-3347. There's a reason he is being all 007 about this, but I'm not allowed to say it here.

He will also be running a Persian tasting menu all this week and probably next week too. Here's the drool-inducing part of the post:

Our 4th of July Tasting Menu, to Persia and her people,
Let us remember their courage this Summer 2009

Chilled Cucumber Soup (for Rumi)
Blended with Yogurt and Sumac,
Finished with “Snow” from Lemon Balm,
Crenshaw Melon, & Pimm’s #1 $8

Shamsi’s Refreshment
Watermelon Juice, Izze Sparkling Pomegranate & a Big Sour Cherry Ice Cube $8

A Fragrant Slice of Koukouye,
A Persian Frittata redolent with herbs, &
Homemade Havashu Naan Flatbread $9

A Pair of Stuffed Vegetables
Eggplant filled with Roasted Red Peppers and Pomegranate,
Swiss Chard Dolma filled with Zeresk Pilaf of Barberries, Basmati Rice,
Saffron, Ivory Lentils, Pistachios, and Black Lemon $15

Peach-Passion Fruit Tea with Green Cardamom $4

Oasis Sweetmeat
Medjool Date stuffed with Rose-Scented Almond Filling $8

Pistachio Gelato in a “Nest”
Shredded Phyllo, Orange Blossom Water,
Saffron, & Candied Yuzu Peel $9

Tasting Menu $54 (including drink pairings)

The Last Time I Wore A Dress (Was Today)

2009-07-02T01:40:03Z

Last night I had occasion to send "Enough Rope" to a gay couple from my OLGC rosary group. Rereading the essay, thinking about it and my other, somewhat less serious gender essay "Cocksucker Suit" (published in Greg Herren & Paul Willis' anthology Love, Bourbon Street), I came to a realization that I hadn't ever really admitted to myself before:

I like wearing dresses.

Mentally and emotionally I identify as male and always will, but the older I get, the more fluid my feelings on gender seem to become. It makes me happy that terms like "genderqueer" are used in casual online conversation. It makes me realize that when I put on a nice dress and shoes, fix my sacrum-length hair, and generally get all done up, it doesn't make me feel female; it just makes me feel sharp, the same way I feel when I wear my ~~cock~~seersucker suit and Stacy Adams boys' alligator loafers. I don't wear much makeup, but I do like me some jewelry. Most of the time my style of dress resembles supergee's timeless description of his own fashion sense -- "garish and slovenly" -- but when I want to look nice, I don't care what gender my clothes are. I did for a while in 2004 and 2005, going through a phase where I wasn't at all comfortable wearing women's clothes or jewelry, but then in '05 there was this certain little event, and after that I found that I had bigger things to worry about than whether wearing a dress made me less manly. And everybody knows that most men in New Orleans, gay or straight, have at least one dress in their closet anyway.

Evil Confession

2009-07-01T19:56:43Z

For nearly two years I could not look at my Authors Guild bulletins at all, and would throw them in the trash as soon as they came. Now their headlines grow increasingly desperate (Spring 2009 issue: "Can This Industry be Saved?"; "The Future of Publishing"; "Keeping Calm in Changing Times" ... ), and I have to confess that I enjoy little thrills of schadenfreude as I flip through it. Not about the misfortunes of writers; I could never enjoy the fact that writers and books have fallen on hard times, but when I think of the incompetent 22-year-old assistant editors and publicists crying because they've lost their benefits package, I must admit I come a little more alive inside.

(From the "Along Publishers Row" column -- and please note that all the Guild's missing apostrophes are sic:

A cartoon by David Sipress in The New Yorker shows a smiling editor behind her desk. Across from her, an author looks shocked as the editor says, "We'd like to publish it, do nothing to promote it, and watch it disappear from the shelves in less than a month.")

Ah, kiddies, I am a bitter old publishing buzzard for sure.

A Popsicle You Can't Refuse

2009-07-01T18:47:29Z

An ice cream truck just went by playing the theme from The Godfather. That is so wrong, yet so New Orleans.

Crazy Creative Writing

2009-07-01T04:49:52Z

Here's a true one-of-a-kind item: a hand-written piece of perversion by yours truly!

Auction description:

In 1989, Ian McDowell (MORDRED'S CURSE, MERLIN'S GIFT, "Geraldine" in Poppy Z. Brite's LOVE IN VEIN) wrote CRAZY CREATIVE WRITING: STORY STARTERS AND WORD BANKS, a reproducable workbook for teachers of grades 1-4, which was published in 1995 by Carson-Dellosa, an educational pubilshing company based in Greensboro, NC. The book consisted of 30 "Story Starters" -- that is, the first paragraphs of stories, such as "Donna was in her room, playing a game on her computer. Suddenly, a big fat toad hopped out from under the bed and jumped on the monitor. "Give me a kiss, Cute Stuff," it said. "I'm a prince." The reader was then instructed to WRITE WHAT HAPPENED NEXT on the ruled lines following the first paragraph, and use as many words as possible from the provided "Word Bank" while doing so. Each Story Starter was accompanied by an illustration and 12-16 blank lines on which to write, as well as the aforementioned Word Bank.

I'm Ian and will stop talking about myself in the third person now. In the later 90s, I started pestering various professional writer friends to complete a page in one of my contributor's copies of this book. Quite a few complied. NEIL GAIMAN took the story of the Frog Prince described above. POPPY Z. BRITE took the story of Abe, the boy who'd always wanted to join the army, in a VERY perverse direction. Caitlin R. Kiernan wrote a lovely mini-story about Hannah, who woke up one day to find she'd turned into a horrible monster. Kelly Link wrote about Julia and her rapidly expanding cat, turning it into a mini-epic. Other contributors included Mehitobel Wilson, Phillip Nutman, Rain Graves, and Rachel Manija Brown.

The stories are short, but they're original pieces of fiction which will never be published anywhere (I'm pretty sure they can't be, as the begining of each story, the part I wrote, was Work-for-Hire and presumably still owned by Carson-Dellosa, who would not be pleased with the decidedly adult direction some of these authors took the material). Neil Gaiman's, for instance, is 150 words long, and like most of the other contributions, imaginative and laugh-out-loud funny. Each contribution is in the author's own hand writing. You can't have a more limited edition, or a more unique collectable (and yes, I know "more unique" is a barbarism) than this.

Here's a link to the item, which unfortunately isn't mine because it should sell for a mint! Ian's a pal, though, and this really is a nifty thing, so I thought I'd mention it.

The Hunger

2009-06-30T21:12:27Z

In case any completists were wondering, this is NOT the season of the short-lived anthology TV series The Hunger that includes "The Dream Sentinel," their rather loose adaptation of my short story "The Sixth Sentinel." Mine was on Season 2, hosted by David Bowie (which was pretty much the only cool thing about it), as was an adaptation of a story by faustfatale. I do gather from mentions of Season 2 in the reviews that it may be released eventually.

Flotsam & Jetsam

2009-06-30T00:44:38Z

If I didn't know faustfatale and I were destined to be BFF before, I realized it when I found out we had both enthusiastically bought and read the wonderful book Washed Up: The Curious History of Flotsam and Jetsam by Skye Moody, though others scoffed at our "goofy" reading. But right now I use the phrase because I have many little skritty bits of subjects to write about, nothing worth a full entry. Chris and I have booked our 20th anniversary trip to Amsterdam, our second-favorite city in the world, which makes me very happy. We'll be there for our actual anniversary (November 5, Guy Fawkes' Day) and for Museumnacht, a wonderful event we stumbled across on our last trip in 2000.

Gardening goes well; as you know if you read me on Facebook (hey, don't be shy; I'll friend anybody except ex-stalkers), the milkweed I planted attracted a monarch butterfly, the first I've ever seen in my garden! Actually, I made a whole little butterfly garden with purple and white coneflowers, black-eyed Susans, and Queen Anne's lace as well as lots of milkweed, a Golden Trumpet esperanza, & three kinds of salvia nearby. I also have a big passionflower vine for the Gulf fritillaries and plenty of parsley and fennel for the black swallowtails. I found a caterpillar on each one, and I'm betting our black swallowtails from this spring came back and laid their eggs here. We got grandworms!

Later this week I must return to my doctor and discuss whether the ~~Vilify~~ Abilify is actually, er, abilifying me any. I have kept a log of possible side effects which I present to you here:

Overall -- increased use of -pams; intermittent twitch in eyelids (though this is something I've had off and on for years)

6/21 -- bug crawling sensations (I did spend a lot of time in the garden that day and once there really was a bug on me)

6/22 -- a weird euphoria in the AM but it went away

6/25 -- could not concentrate on reading; jumped from one book to another unable to settle on one (this virtually never happens to me -- I finally gave up and read some Carson McCullers, as it's almost impossible not to become absorbed in "The Ballad of the Sad Cafe")

6/26 -- major mood crash; feeling of utter futility & hopelessness -- lasted about 12 hours

6/27 -- still no appetite; price of meds is actually raising my stress level

6/27 (11:30 pm) -- sudden dizziness & extreme nausea -- lasted 20-30 minutes (?), then headache

And that is my flotsam and jetsam for today.

Green Goddess Thanks

2009-06-24T20:59:39Z

I've been meaning for a while to write an entry thanking everyone who has helped Chris with The Green Goddess. He's not only far happier than he was during his period of unemployment; he's even happier than he was at the Delachaise, because now he gets to be the asshole. (He isn't one, but that's how we often describe one of the perks and pitfalls of owning your own restaurant: "You've been working for assholes all your life, now you get to be the asshole." Did I use that somewhere in the Liquor books? Probably.) Anyway, though I've said many times that I never wanted to own a restaurant or be married to a restaurant owner again, you don't try to keep the people you love from doing what they love, and though I'm a little alarmed by the sudden precariousness of our lives, I do see that he is happy. So thanks to all of you -- investors, customers, those who've provided good word of mouth, those who liked Chris' food enough to keep him encouraged during the rough months, and a particular tip of the hat to Neil, the restaurant's uncle.

(Re: Neil's comment from the linked entry, "Poppy was too nervous to talk to me that first time for reasons I've never been able to figure out, so I chatted to Chris," I've told him before that I was embarrassed to talk to him because I hadn't read any of his work at the time and I thought he would be offended. Now, of course, I know he wouldn't have minded. As I said to him at the dinner where we discussed this, "I've read it now. It's very good!")

snork

2009-06-22T03:04:51Z

My trashy summer reading has mostly consisted of Harlan Coben thrillers. I like his characters (especially Win in the Myron Bolitar books) and he tells a ripping good yarn (if sometimes one I feel I could map out with a flowchart before I've read it), but, bless his heart, he's not much of a stylist and occasionally gets very clunky, which judging from his copyright dates is likely the result of writing very fast. I liked this bit from One False Move:

Dear Mr. Slaughter:

We are in receipt of your letters and are aware of
your constant communications with this office. As
explained to you in person, the matter you are
asking about is confidential. We ask you to kindly
stop contacting us. Your behavior is fast approaching
harassment.

Sincerely,
Thomas Kincaid

"Do you know what he's talking about?" Myron asked.

She hesitated. "No," she said slowly. "But that name -- Thomas Kincaid -- it rings a bell. I just can't place it."

Hee hee hee ...

(Yeah, I know the Painter of Light spells his last name Kinkade, but I am easily amused.)

Abilified

2009-06-19T02:11:58Z

So I went to see my doctor about the Cymbalta's troublesome habit of fucking off to the corner bar three or four days a week. I thought she'd increase my dosage, but instead she convinced me to try some new "mood stabilizer" called Abilify (who gets paid to think of these names?). When I picked up the prescription, I learned that, were I to work up to the recommended daily dosage, it would cost $426 a month. CONTACT YOUR DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY if the fact that your crazy pills are costing your family the price of a dinner for two at the French Laundry causes you to experience violent mood swings, feelings of worthlessness, or thoughts of harming yourself. God damn my stupid brain anyway. I am utterly respectful of mental illnesses and emotional disorders in others, but when it comes to myself, I am practically a Scientologist: "There's nothing wrong with you that a good kick in the ass wouldn't cure! Why can't you quit whining? If you just make up your mind that you're going to be OK, you will be. You make me sick, ya big pussy."

Alas, my inner Scientologist has failed to convert me.

Seriously, there is a history of depression in my family and I have certainly struggled with it before, but I wasn't on any psychiatric drugs before the failure of the federal levee system, and I was doing OK. It seems to me that things in my brain should have returned to that level of OK-ness by now, and it pisses me off that they haven't. Can catastrophic events permanently change your brain chemistry?

I hate even talking about this shit, but I decided in 2005 that I would try to maintain a certain level of candor in this journal in order to give readers a realistic picture of one New Orleanian whose life was torn apart by Katrina and its aftermath. Other than some very nice cucumbers and mint currently being served at The Green Goddess, that picture is really all I have to offer the public world right now, so there you go.

So Sue Me

2009-06-18T02:44:33Z

In case anyone thought otherwise, yesterday's entry was just a bit of silliness; I do not actually judge my characters by the Mary Sue Litmus Test. As greygirlbeast pointed out in a couple of recent entries, the Mary Sue concept is stupid and essentially meaningless outside the context of fanfic. A reader commented on prime_liquor, "I love Lost Souls, but each and every character leans heavily on the Mary Sue level!" Well, maybe not each and every one -- the fun of being, say, Wallace or Ann escapes me -- but every writer puts varying amounts of himself into every character, especially the characters he likes best, and in youthful works like Lost Souls I think it just shows more.

I will say that my feelings about fanfic have changed drastically over the past couple of years. This may have something to do with not writing and publishing, or possibly just with gaining some kind of perspective on life in general. I still don't want to read fanfic or slash, and I still think anyone who would try to make unauthorized money from another writer's creations is a morally and creatively bankrupt scumsucker (hello, Potato Falls or whatever that stupid "controversial" fanfic novel is called), but it is now hard for me to recall why I once saw it as this huge invasion if someone liked my characters well enough to want to make up more stories about them and publish said stories on a free website where maybe 15 people would read them. The older I get, the more I realize that I have not always chosen my crusades carefully enough.

Mary Sue

2009-06-16T20:08:06Z

I took the Mary Sue Litmus Test for my earliest and most recent "autobiographical" characters. (I use "autobiographical" not to suggest that the characters' lives have resembled mine in any way, but because they were the characters I most identified with/felt I resembled while writing the stories in question.)

Nothing from Lost Souls:

Your Mary Sue Score: 100 (71 points or more: Irredeemable-Sue. You're going to have to start over, my friend. I know you want to keep writing, but no. Just no.)

Rickey from the Liquor novels:

Your Mary Sue Score: 39 (36-55 points: Mary-Sue. Your character needs some work in order to be believable. But despair not; you should still be able to salvage her with a little effort. Don't give up.)

So apparently I've been guilty of Suedom my entire career, but I have improved some.

ATTENTION DAVE HAMMOND

2009-06-15T17:24:27Z

No, not the evil waiter in D*U*C*K, but the guy who won the auction to have that character named after him. Despite the millions of eBay items you have so kindly bought from me, I cannot presently find your e-mail address, so this is just to let you know that, after an inexcusable delay, the signed ARC of Lost Souls from the person in New York is now on its way to you. Everyone else, please excuse the interruption.

WWL Interview

2009-06-14T01:02:09Z

So here's me on teewee today. You have to watch a Ronnie Lamarque commercial first, but he's amusing; Chris and I once saw him dining at the late, lamented Hong Kong Restaurant & Lounge at the lake (a tiki paradise if ever there was one); we were starstruck and wanted to go over to his table and sing his jingle, "Bridgin' the gap! Ooo, ooo, ooo!", but ultimately we did not. And speaking of starstruck, at WWL-TV today I actually got to shake the hand of Jim Henderson, voice of the Saints!!!

Anyway. Yeah. There I am. Thank God Alden Hagardorn from St. Henry's was there to do most of the talking, but I did manage to hit all the points we OLGC people wanted to hit. I look pale and tired, but please bear in mind that ninety minutes before airtime I was huddled under the covers crying and going "No! No!" Given that, and with the help of my good friends Cheron, Harold, Alden, and -Pam, I think it went OK.

Ding Dong, The Wicked Witch Is Dead

2009-06-13T02:26:43Z

Inventory: Cymbalta-failure crazy, check. Agony-inducing catch in the back, check. Garden despair, check. Sciatica flareup, check. Aimless self-weariness, check. Out of cookie-cutter-but-addictive Harlan Coben novels, check. Another New Orleans summer, no more pretending there might be one more nice cool spell, check. H*rr*c*n* season, check.

All this, and I gotta go be on TV tomorrow too. I don't want to, am in no shape to -- I'm as stiff as a board and as tranked as Kathleen Blanco after the levees failed -- but my OLGC peeps need one of the parishioners arrested in the Epiphany raid to go on and talk about the new archbishop. I've been feeling sufficiently useless of late that it is hard to say no to comrades-in-arms who want my help. I'll be on WWL, maybe on the 6:00 or 10:00 broadcast, maybe on Dennis Woltering's Sunday morning show, dunno yet. [Edit: Just learned I'll be live on the 6:00 PM broadcast. Eek!]

Did you catch those three lovely little words in the midst of my whinging? Yes! The new archbishop. Hughes finally officially retired today. So long, Alfie, don't let the door hitya where the good Lord splitya. No, I won't say that on TV. I'll talk about how we are heartened by the fact that Bishop Aymond has already extended an olive branch to us, saying he wants to enter into discussions with parishioners of closed churches, and that he is a native New Orleanian. I try not to be snobby that way, because many great transplants have entered New Orleans' essential heart as fully as any native, but Hughes never seemed to know or care about the rich history and traditions of Catholic New Orleans. Aymond will have grown up steeped in them, which gives us hope.

Flirting With Connectivity

2009-06-12T19:18:05Z

I still feel a certain aversion to the Internet (nothing in particular caused this; it just happens periodically), but I really do want to get back to reading my LJ friends list soon, as I miss y'all and am apt to wonder at odd moments, just to give a couple of examples, "What's txtriffidranch growing these days?" or "What Cthulhoid horror has greygirlbeast photographed on the beach lately?" My dad gave me a nice, new, comfy, not-yet-clawed-to-death desk chair, so I really have no excuse not to just sit here and catch up once in a while. Well, except for this damn catch in my back that still won't let go, but I'm trying to move around some and work it out.

Oh, and I think I hate growing tomatoes. More on that later.

Wah

2009-06-12T05:21:25Z

I have simultaneous Cymbalta failure, garden burnout, bad sciatica, and a catch in my back from bending over to harvest mint that leaves me unable to do much of anything but lie on a heating pad.

All together now:

SUCKS TO BE YOU, DOC!!!

Please Keep Him

2009-06-09T02:52:59Z

I always thought the people who had "THANKS, HOUSTON" bumper stickers* on their cars after the federal levee failure were racist assholes, and I still do, but today I just have to say:

THANKS, CHINA

*as in, "Thanks for taking black people out of New Orleans"

Drive-By Update

2009-06-05T03:16:50Z

I've got to get into the habit of at least checking e-mail and posting here occasionally, otherwise I'll miss important happenings and people will get disgusted with me. But I can't help it; lately I feel like doing, not talking and most definitely not writing. The tomatoes take up much of my time; if kids are more trouble than tomato plants, I honestly don't see how parents stand it. Had a bout with the monstrously cute but dangerously voracious tomato hornworm; made an infusion of basil that (mixed with a little oil and dish soap) seems to repel them. Am also growing roses now, which terrifies me because I know that rose people are crazy.

Happy Birthday to Me (One Day Late)

2009-05-27T00:29:24Z

I had a lovely, relaxed day with Chris. Over coffee he gave me a mushy card and a crazy Indonesian mask, whose picture I will have to post soon. Then we had lunch at Piccadilly Cafeteria (From "Crown of Thorns": [Dr. Brite] wouldn't take himself anywhere nice; he'd drive out to the Piccadilly Cafeteria on Jefferson Highway and have a Spartan four-vegetable plate, poking sadly at his corn niblets while some poor fucker played the hits of the forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies on a Hammond organ. There would be a smattering of other lonely souls in booths around the room's bleak perimeter, and inevitably some old bat would be celebrating her ninetieth. The organist would segue from "It's A Wonderful World" to "Happy Birthday," trolling for a tip. Altogether, it was about the most depressing thing Hank could think of. I happen to like it better than self-righteous young Hank, including the corn niblets) and Chris treated me to a shopping spree at Lowe's, where I got my romantic hose reel, exactly what I wanted. I watered the whole garden with it today and I love it; it will be my poor old back's friend.

We didn't feel like going back out later, so Chris fixed us steaks and twice-baked potatoes and birthday cake. That's what a man likes to eat! Now I don't feel so bad about forgetting Steak & A Blowjob Day this year.

Still later in the evening, I lamented that I was now 42 and still didn't have the answer. Chris looked up and said offhandedly, "Maybe it's just love." Exactly like him to cut through the Gordian knot of life, the universe, and everything in four words!