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Pardon My French, But Revisité

The crazy granny proudly pulled a tart cake from her greasy navel and declared it well-baked.      "Everything in my kitchen is low-fat except me." –anonymous      song recommendation: Mashed Potato Time by Dee Dee Sharp       Pardon My French, But Revisité      My older and much less attractive brother was telling me about a book he’s reading called No Green Bananas . Or something like that. To tell the truth, he talks so much I tend to tune him out. The point of the book is that life is short, so why buy green bananas when there is no guarantee you’ll be alive to eat them when they finally ripen? My first quibble with the book is how do you get 50,000 words out of what I just summarized in one sentence? I’ve run across similar books. I would name them, except that would take research and I'm not up for that kind of effort since, according to Green Bananas , there’s a good chance I’ll be dead before I...
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The Big Tree

   au pair in quagmire clears scuttlebutt with squeegee ends rigamarole    "Wherever you go, there you are." from the movie The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension    song recommendation: Cruisin' by Smokey Robinson    The Big Tree    I am driving my father to visit an old military friend a few cities away. On our way there he decides he wants to visit relatives who live somewhere in between, so I make a little detour to accommodate him. It's no big deal. I know how to get there and I know the area. In fact, we’re almost there. "Are you lost?" he asks me. I continue to drive down the street I'm on. I say nothing. Between you and me, I'm on the right street. Out of the corner of my eye I see him looking out up and down the street. Side to side. His head on a swivel. "I think you're lost," he tells me, his eyes bugging out. "I don't recognize anything." One funny thing about my father that I've not...
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Who Feeds The Dog?

  Every morning my father goes on his morning walk, rain or shine. Even the days he  doesn't  want to go, he'll go. Sometimes our conversations will go like this: "Man," he'll tell me, "I  really  don't feel like going on my walk this morning." "Why don't you take a break?" I'll ask him. "What?" "If you're not feeling good, why don't you give yourself a break?" "A break from what?" "From your walk." "From my what?" "From your walk." He'll pause. Think. Chew on the idea a bit. "Why would I want to do that?" he'll finally say. "I'm just saying, if you're not feeling good." "Who said I'm not feeling good?" "You told me that you didn't feel like going on your walk." "Yeah, but I didn't say I didn't feel good. I just said I didn't feel like going on my walk. That's not the same thing....
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Spud-Tacular!

T he obdurate oaf embarked on an oleaginous odyssey ostentatiously wearing his orgulous expression like a hat he forgot was upside down.     “Potatoes make fries, chips, and vodka. It’s like the other vegetables aren’t even trying.”--anonymous    song recommendation: Mashed Potato Time by Dee Dee Sharp    Spud-Tacular!    My father’s a potato-loving guy. I don't mean that in a love-that-dares-not-speaks-its-name kind of way. He just loves potatoes. To eat them, if I still haven't made my point clear. In fact, my father likes potatoes so much you would think he was Irish. However, unlike the Irish, he does eat other foods. He just likes potatoes. A lot.       Since I brought the Irish's eating preferences up, I've always wondered (and maybe one of you can tell me) how did the great Irish Potato Famine end up killing so many Irish men and women? I mean, was potatoes ALL they ate in Ireland? Didn't they have any other...
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