Seeds the Day

A little garden got planted by me this week next to the backyard patio, and it has promise. The garden is as colorful as a Jackson Pollock painting thanks to tomatoes, yellow peppers, strawberries, lettuce and even a sunflower for flash.

However, a total city boy am I, as evidenced by a corn-growing incident two years ago. A small plot got planted and grew fabulously – 10 feet tall – but the city boy in me didn’t know that there is corn for human consumption and there is corn for cattle.

I mistakenly planted cattle corn from seeds purchased at the local co-op, and cattle corn is so hard that it can’t be eaten by humans. Bulls and cows eat the entire ear – cob and all – by crushing and chewing everything with their powerful jaws and teeth.

That was a big growing mistake, but it won’t be my last. Gardening to me is odd but interesting. It’s kind of like banjo music, but I don’t know beans about banjo music.

Sweet Slaughters

My all-boy Andrew has me watching animal slaughter TV shows, and I must admit that the violence is riveting. Sharks, hawks, bears and cheetahs overcoming their prey is blood-pumping action, but there’s nothing like the savagery of crocodiles to get my juices jumping.

We watched two nights ago a strange, annual pilgrimage of thousands of antelopes that eventually arrive at a narrow river in Africa, then cross it to access vegetation on the other side. Only one problem: Waiting underneath the water’s surface are hundreds of ravenous crocodiles that want nothing more than to rip apart a helpless antelope or two or 50, then blissfully gorge on the meaty beasts.

Ticketmaster should sell tickets to this thing, for spectators to see it live. I would pay $300 for a couple of front-row seats to witness this astonishing spectacle of nature. It sure beats growing cattle corn.

Novel Approach

No word yet on two scripts I’ve mailed, although another agent in Hollywood asked yesterday for the first 50 pages, so I’ll head to the post office after I e-mail this blog to my niece to post. I’m surprising myself by not getting too high or too low with any of this publishing process. Must be the Libra in me.

Mac and Gak

I had a nice meal with family and friends a few weeks ago at Applebee’s, and probably sampled eight or nine different foods thanks to many appetizers we all ordered from the menu.

Once the waitress brought a dozen appetizers to our table of 10, the conversation oddly turned to foods in the world that we don’t like, and it was eventually my turn to answer.

“There’s only one food I don’t like,” I said. “I like broccoli, cauliflower, liver, limburger cheese – bring it all on. But I can’t eat macaroni and cheese. I just can’t, and I won’t eat it for the rest of my life.”

Oh, the dirty looks I got. I felt like a fat kid in dodgeball with everyone ready to throw.

“I love mac and cheese – what’s wrong with you?” barked one guest.

“Everyone in the world loves mac and cheese – yeah, what’s with you?” chimed another.

My dislike stems from eating mac and cheese basically every day as a starving college student, and the only thing that got me through was smothering the gooey, yellow mess with packet after packet of ketchup. I promised myself that once I graduated from college and made anything of myself, I would never eat mac and cheese again.

I haven’t to this day and maybe it’s mushroomed to a psychological thing, because even the smell bothers me now.

No Panama

I heard yesterday that Prince recently sold out 21 consecutive concert nights at the 15,000-seat Los Angeles Forum. Good luck ever doing that, Justin Bieber.

I once attended a great concert and a horrible concert all in the same night, and with the same band. I drove from Detroit to Cleveland to catch my all-time favorite rock band – Van Halen – and my anticipation level was through the roof once I made my way to a fourth-row seat.

But the entire 2-hour show featured VH playing none of their mega-hits. I never heard Panama, Jump, Hot for Teacher, Runnin’ With the Devil, Dance the Night Away – nothing.

I eventually found out that the concert was a promo for their new album coming out a week later, and everyone in the audience seemed to know about it ahead of time except me.

But still – a Van Halen concert without Panama or Jump? That’s like going to a Hanson concert and they don’t play MMMBop.

Mac and Gak

I had a nice meal with family and friends a few weeks ago at Applebee’s, and probably sampled eight or nine different foods thanks to many appetizers we all ordered from the menu.

Once the waitress brought a dozen appetizers to our table of 10, the conversation oddly turned to foods in the world that we don’t like, and it was eventually my turn to answer.

“There’s only one food I don’t like,” I said. “I like broccoli, cauliflower, liver, limburger cheese – bring it all on. But I can’t eat macaroni and cheese. I just can’t, and I won’t eat it for the rest of my life.”

Oh, the dirty looks I got. I felt like a fat kid in dodgeball with everyone ready to throw.

“I love mac and cheese – what’s wrong with you?” barked one guest.

“Everyone in the world loves mac and cheese – yeah, what’s with you?” chimed another.

My dislike stems from eating mac and cheese basically every day as a starving college student, and the only thing that got me through was smothering the gooey, yellow mess with packet after packet of ketchup. I promised myself that once I graduated from college and made anything of myself, I would never eat mac and cheese again.

I haven’t to this day and maybe it’s mushroomed to a psychological thing, because even the smell bothers me now.

No Panama

I heard yesterday that Prince recently sold out 21 consecutive concert nights at the 15,000-seat Los Angeles Forum. Good luck ever doing that, Justin Bieber.

I once attended a great concert and a horrible concert all in the same night, and with the same band. I drove from Detroit to Cleveland to catch my all-time favorite rock band – Van Halen – and my anticipation level was through the roof once I made my way to a fourth-row seat.

But the entire 2-hour show featured VH playing none of their mega-hits. I never heard Panama, Jump, Hot for Teacher, Runnin’ With the Devil, Dance the Night Away – nothing.

I eventually found out that the concert was a promo for their new album coming out a week later, and everyone in the audience seemed to know about it ahead of time except me.

But still – a Van Halen concert without Panama or Jump? That’s like going to a Hanson concert and they don’t play MMMBop.

Dad Sad

This week I’ve been as miserable as a dog in the rain, thinking about my deceased father.

My dad passed away May 7 one year ago today, plus his birthday was May 4, so I’ve been sad much of this week. But I don’t want to bring anyone down, so I’m not going to blog today.

“I hope Papa has a happy birthday today in heaven with Jesus,” my six-year-old, Jenna, softly told me the morning of May 4.

“I wish I could visit Papa in heaven for just one day and play – just him and me,” added Andrew, my seven-year-old.

Then first thing this morning, Jenna approached me in the kitchen.

“Daddy, can we go to Target and get a balloon that we can take outside and let go, so it goes up to Papa?”

I’m heading right now to Target with Jenna, and just can’t blog today. Although, maybe I just did.

Miss ya, Dad.

1-1 in the 9th

I’m not going political or religious with the whole Usama bin Laden thing, because it’s already been done to death. Pun intended and good riddance, UBL.

But thought I’d point out a bit of irony regarding how I heard the great news on Sunday. Some of you might have had the same experience watching ESPN’s Sunday Night Baseball game between the New York Mets and Philadelphia.

Ironically, it was New York and Pennsylvania that were two of the three 9/11 terrorism sites, with D.C. being the other. When the 45,000 Philadelphia fans at Sunday’s ballgame started receiving the UBL news via texts and tweets in the 9th inning, they spontaneously stood and began cheering “USA, USA” over and over again with unbridled glee and pride.

But besides the NY-Pennsylvania irony, also ironic was the score of the game at that moment. It was 1-1 in the 9th – or 9/11.

445 and Losing

Here’s to a friend of mine who six months ago was 445 pounds and is now 290. Up until late 2010, he would just joke to me about his steadily increasing heft.

“When I read about the dangers of overeating, I gave up reading,” he once quipped.

“If I can’t eat in heaven, I’m not going,” he joked another time.

I saw him last week for the first time in three years and he’s starting to look healthy again. Good luck on that ultimate goal of 222.5 pounds – thereby losing 222.5 pounds, or exactly half your starting weight.

It’s This Sunday

To guys mostly, since guys are known for occasionally forgetting important dates – don’t forget that Mother’s Day is this Sunday. I totally messed up a past Mother’s Day by forgetting to buy a card or gift, and not even remembering a phone call to Mom. I mention this because it happened about five years ago, and I think my mother finally stopped crying…yesterday.

Jolly Good

Hear ye, hear ye: Announcing the arrival of Lord Richard Tweets of Alger along with Lady Edith Dinky of Roxborough and Lady Alice Tootsie of Sweetgum.

Those are people I know whose names have been changed to that of royalty, in honor of yesterday's British wedding of William and Kate. To get your own royal name, you first take the name “Lord” or “Lady” depending if you're a man or woman, then choose a grandparent's first name, the name of your first pet, and finally the street where you grew up. I would be Lord Sylvester Skippy of Englehardt.

Blimey

Wife Jenny was up at 3 a.m. yesterday to take in all the oohs and aahs associated with watching the fairy tale wedding, and I awoke at 6:15 a.m. in time to see the couple walk out of Westminster Abbey. I saw Kate's impressive dress and the carriage ride through the streets of London as the couple waved to millions of admiring Brits. I must admit, seeing the galloping gray horses and the men in bright red military uniforms and the queen in her yellow outfit and all the English citizens proudly waving flags – the 15 minutes I watched was pretty cool.

Royal Barf Bag

Perhaps some of the more interesting aspects of this royal extravaganza were the quick facts and odd news items associated with it. For example, Kate Middleton opted for traditional vows but did not say she would “obey” her husband, and 18 people in London were arrested during the ceremony for offenses ranging from breach of the peace to weapons possession. And a glassware company in China manufactured hundreds of mugs bearing the likenesses of the royal couple – except that Prince Harry was pictured next to Kate instead of Prince William.

General Electric introduced full-size refrigerators with both doors covered with a huge likeness of William and Kate hugging, while the cheapest gift I heard about was a wedding sick bag that sold for $5. Meanwhile, supposedly the most popular selling of all the wedding-inspired products has been royal wedding condoms, with the couple's faces emblazoned on the front of the cardboard package – nowhere else.

Book Update

Oh, my book. Two days ago, I mailed my entire manuscript to someone I know in Nashville who will give it to her friend who knows a couple of publishers, and I also mailed the first 50 pages of my script to an agent in Los Angeles who requested it. Nothing promised by anyone but at least there’s activity. Tally ho.

Grandpa Asked

I was alone at home yesterday when the doorbell rang, and was surprised to see my grandfather standing on the front porch.

I was surprised because he’s dead.

“I have some things to ask you, Kevin,” he said.

“C’mon in, Grandpa,” I said.

He took a seat on the living room couch.

“So, I hear your son Andrew is playing baseball,” Grandpa said. “How old is he now?”

“He’s seven,” I answered.

“How’s he doin’ in baseball?” Grandpa asked.

“He wasn’t very good at first but he’s comin’ around,” I said. “He’s catching the ball much better and he’s finally starting to hit. He mostly hits dribblers but in his last game, he slammed a line drive over the third baseman’s head for a solid double. It was the first time he’s ever ripped the ball, and he was beaming with joy.”

“You, yourself, were smiling while you were telling me that,” Grandpa said.

“Oh, I was a happy dad just seeing how happy Andrew was,” I said. “Honestly, I was happier for Andrew at that moment than at any time when I was playing baseball, and I had some great times playing ball.”

Then Grandpa changed the subject.

“So, I hear you wrote a book?” he asked.

“Yes, it was an undertaking but I enjoyed it,” I said.

“What if it sells?” he asked. “Say you become a published author and you end up writing six or seven books. That’ll probably make you some money, but what would you do with that money?”

“Y’know, my friend Marcus and I were talking at work a couple weeks ago about that exact subject, and we both said that if we each somehow land in a pile of money someday, we’d both give most of it away to hopefully make a difference in this world,” I answered.

“What specifically would you do with your money?” Grandpa asked.

“I’d donate much of it to Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital and St. Jude’s Hospital, to help kids who have been given a rough start in life,” I answered.

Suddenly, Grandpa got up from the couch and walked to the front door.

“Where ya goin’?” I asked.

“I have other people to see,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you’re doin’ alright. I think you are.”