SAL COMES UP FOR AIR.
All of pi.
Well...those are all good guesses. But, in truth, the answer is 42.
Now that we've cleared the air on that one, let me tell you about my past month or so.
When we last parted ways, I had just turned 40. Many people have since asked me how it feels to be forty. Well...I can honestly say that it's a lot like being 39 and 11 months old; give or take a month.
Contrary to popular belief, age is NOT a state of mind. It's a state of body.
I'm feeling rather 17-ish from the mind down, so I greeted the arrival of middle-age last month with more amusement than panic.
My mind, however, *does* feel 40. I consider that a very good thing. Have you ever tried talking with a 20 year old?
And, so...in order to prove that a bit of fizz remains in this old can of Dr. Pepper (and also to ensure an adequate supply of grief counselors in case I ceased to believe the questionable assertions that I typed in the prior three paragraphs), I invited a bunch of friends (pictured above) over for the type of meal that has killed plenty of other people before the age of 40.
I dusted off The Salivator and made 15 lbs. of pulled pork--7.5 lbs. of which was stuffed into Zip-loc bags and carted-off to four separate homes when the party ended. As Big Mamma says, "Better to make too much, than not enough."
The party went well. The food turned out kinda great. And I had such a good time that my heart was doing hemidemisemiquavers for much of the afternoon. And that, my friends, occurred despite the fact that everything I drank that day would be properly classified as a depressant.
But alas, there was one tragic element to the party. Felix, my beloved uke, broke his A-string a few days earlier. This meant that there would be no musical accompaniment to my guests' singing of "Happy Birthday" unless I could somehow coax a replacement string from Spain's notoriously one-dimensional retail industry.
Why "one-dimensional?" Because the only product that you're 100% assured of finding at a Spanish store is cigarettes.
Needless to say, my guests sang a capella. But it wasn't a total loss. I did get to blow-out all forty cigarettes on the birthday cake.
Speaking of Felix, he has been repaired. I bought a set of replacement strings last week--IN CHICAGO!!!--and the passion between my hourglass-shaped lover and me burns brightly once again.
Hemidemisemiquavers are certainly more difficult when attempted with one's feet, but a piece of cake when compared with the earlobes.
And now for a picture of my beautiful daughter. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
She, by the way, is just a few short years away from having black belts in aikido, jiu-jitsu, muay thai boxing and another, as-yet undocumented martial art taught only to a select group of neckless yak herders living on a windswept mountaintop in southwest Bhutan. Bruce Lee had a pretty fast roundhouse kick, but my daughter...well, she will kick in hemidemisemiquavers.
So to any four or five year old boys out there reading this, heed my seven-year advance warning: Don't EVEN think about it! If she don't get you, I will.
My boss at Acme Low Carb Tongue-Depressors, Inc. recently forwarded me a Chicago Tribune article listing what each US presidential hopeful would like to do for a living were he/she not in politics.
Barack Obama would be an architect. John McCain, a foreign service diplomat. Mike Huckabee, a bass guitarist for a touring rock band [He gets my vote]. Tom Tancredo, president [Nice try, brown-noser...but I'm pretty sure that you'll have to settle for President of your local Moose Lodge instead.].
Hmmmm...what would I like to do for a living should this legal gig ever run dry? I was having trouble coming-up with an answer, until a friend in the midwest US sent me this photo:
An old school bus, a metal saw, and a smoker big enough to make Pulled Elephant.
I nearly wept with joy when I first laid eyes on this photo. And do you know what's the best thing about this set-up? If a customer should contract salmonella from your coleslaw, you and your smoker can be over the state line in a hemidemisemiquaver.
Acme called me over to Chicago for some meetings last week, and I didn't need them to ask twice.
It was a typically fabulous visit.
I saw friends and family. I jogged several times with my boss. I bought a stack of Nick Jr. DVDs at Borders and sun dresses at Target (Jeez...cotton products are so much cheaper in the US!!!) for my daughter. Hertz was kind enough to give me a Mustang convertible. My brother, Frankenfeet, was kind enough to deep-fry a turkey.
And best of all, I got to eat...
...Mexican food at Frontera Grill.
...Cajun food at Heaven on Seven.
Take THAT, Big Finn!!!