Imagine

So, today I was driving down I-20 and looked over to the iconic Sanger-Harris architecture at Hulen Mall, now occupied by Macy's (I'm not sure if I've ever been in a Macy's).  I know that most folks today have probably forgotten about Sanger-Harris, but it was a Dallas/Fort Worth staple in the'60s and '70s.  There was one in Plymouth Park in Irving when I was a kid, with three floors and a basement.

In the fall of 1980 as a sophomore in college, I worked as seasonal help in the cash office of Sanger's at North Hills Mall, as a second, part-time job.  I wanted to work on the sales floor, for commissions, but since I had money handling experience, they put me in the cash office, taking payments and processing credit apps. 

Driving home on FM 1938 the night of December 8, they played three John Lennon songs in a row, which I thought was peculiar.  Then the announcer came on and reported that Lennon had been shot dead outside of his New York apartment building.  I suppose it's axiomatic that events like that, and the attempt on President Ronald Wilson Reagan's life almost four months later, are seared into your memory such that you can remember exactly where you were when you heard the news.

I won't pander and say John was my favorite Beatle - I thought he was a bit too acerbic, and I didn't care for his wife (still don't - such an odd bird).  But I enjoyed the music, and his, with and without his mates, was possibly the most influential on my generation.  He had earned his place in the rock pantheon ("Pantheon the ground, pantheon the ground, lookin' like..."   Stop it!) and certainly did not deserve the fate that befell him.

Lennon would be 70 tomorrow.  I found this quote, supposedly attributed to him: "Rituals are important. Nowadays it's hip not to be married. I'm not interested in being hip."

Yeah we all shine on, like the moon, and the stars, and the sun.

Nostalgia crumbles

This morning, I noticed a salmon/coral-colored linen shirt I'd bought a couple of years ago (I say salmon/coral because, as a man, I don't really know what to call it - sort of orange-ish/pink?).  I'd been meaning to take it for alterations to have the collar converted to button-down (like Bob Newhart), because I just don't like it flapping around.  I got the shirt to wear for a nice summer evening, to complement some white linen drawstring trousers from the Neiman-Marcus Last Call, and sandals, with the crazy notion that such ensemble would make me look like Jay Ferguson of [one hit wonder] Thunder Island fame, and possibly, attractive to women, or at least one of same.

I've always liked the song Thunder Island (featuring slide guitar by Joe Walsh, and produced by Bill Szymczyk, who also...well, you know), and in my late teens, surmised from the album cover that Mr. Ferguson, with his not-quite-so-cheesy-as-a-'70s-porn-star moustache, and flowing hair, was able to garner all the hemp cord seashell necklaced chicks he could wish for.  Some serious lady action, I figured.

And maybe he did.

But, this morning, waiting at the YouTube station for a link a blogger had posted, the Crazy Thought Train Express hailed to me from the side platform, and I saw Jay Ferguson's name over there.  So I took a look.

And found this:


Oh, my!  You should see the version from Don Kirshner's Rock Concert - he looks like 'Weird' Al Yankovic!

Almost makes me say "The seventies?  I know not of the decade of which you speak..."

I guess it's a compliment

A lady that I had to share some discouraging news with this morning told me: "Thanks for not being a jerk."

At least she wasn't saying I was...


Edit: Wonder if I could get her statement notarized?

Some Days

This is how I felt Monday - woke up with an excruciating headache, took a 2 hour bath (fell asleep 3 times), was nauseous, had chills, went back to bed, finally got dressed around 4:00p and puttered around the house.

Tuesday, I went to the eye doctor and had a tiny sliver of metal removed from my eye, and returned to the office.  Possibly a welding/grinding mishap from a week ago or so.

The eye doctor was very pretty, but, alas (a fair bonny lass), married.

Forgive me, La Guapa...

I know that I, El Donaldo, do not have your superior recipes for chorizo y chalupas y enchiladas con guacamolé. But could it be that otra vez, jou are angry at something else, like jou know, jou found another grey hair and jou're PMS-ing and yust getting all peesed off and are looking to take it out on me, El Donaldo, porque I am convenient?

I'm yust sayin'...

Bésame mucho, baby.

The Donald goes to Sprouts

Although my mother has been telling me for two or three years to check out the Sprouts grocery store, I had never done so.  I mean, at my age, I'd hate to have to surrender my 'man card' for doing things my mother tells me to do.

Instead, I was helping a friend with some Mr. Fixit issues that his wife wanted done around their house (my own house probably feels neglected, since there is presently no Mrs. to lobby for fixits on its behalf, and I am more motivated to do projects: a) knowing someone will appreciate it, and b) with someone assisting - you armchair shrinks are free to psychoanalyze me on that).  And in the course of the home repairs, we were tasked with summoning up some groceries (as well as Mr. Jim's Pizza for the kids), which led to my first visit to Sprouts, in North Dallas.

Lo and behold, I found I liked it (I have tried Central Market a few times and can't quite get past the 'foodie' pretense and those asinine radio commercials, although I do like the café - have enjoyed it for brunch, Chamber of Commerce events, and the evening patio with live folksingers).  The store was mid-sized, lots of bulk bins, a good selection of produce, and plenty of esoteric items not found at the Kroger or Wal-Mart Neighborhood Grocery.

So this morning I decided to go to the Sprouts near my house, for some of my own shopping, in the process buying produce, bulk beans (7 bean soup blend), and some wild rice blend.  But what struck my fancy was in the wine section.

On PBS the last season or so, there's been a 'reality show' where several budding œnophiles-cum-vintners (minds out of the gutter, please) compete to launch their own brands of wine.  As I understand it, the TV contest, featuring wine industry experts, winnows about 16 wanna-be Paul/Paula Massons down to one who wins a production deal, or a golden corkscrew or somesuch.  It encompasses knowing the growing regions (types of grapes and soils they grow in), understanding the 'nose' of different wines, production methods, distribution, and marketing.  One of the dumber segments is the marketing part, where they have to come up with clever names and graphics for their products.

Which explains why one sees Mad Housewife, Elephant on a Tightrope, Fat Bastard, Frog Piss, and Puking Peccary on the labels of Chenin Blanc or Pinot Grigio (OK, I made up Puking Peccary, but the rest are real).

So, you can imagine my puzzlement at seeing a white bottled wine labeled Fünf in the wine display at Sprouts.  Having lived in a German-speaking country for a time, I immedidately recognized it as German for "Five" (as well as the fact that the word was superimposed over the number).  Hey, I gotta mind like a mousetrap. 

Back home, I googled the website, where the screw-off-bottle brand's marketing proclaimed the delightfulness of their Riesling,  "Because, after all, most fun starts at five o’clock, right?"

True enough, I suppose.

But I think it's because those in the know, know that Fünf is always followed by Sechs...

Not your father's (or mother's) Studebaker...

It seems someone purchased the rights to the Studebaker name and is making or made some SUVs in a plant in Cancun, Mexico.

Kinda looks like Johnny Cash smuggled parts of an Excursion, a 'Burban, and a Hummer out of the factory in his lunch box.

Not like the one I saw yesterday...

A Gran Turismo, from South Bend, Indiana (where the skies are so gray?)

I am just a little bit older than that car...