October 2013 Update

As long as I can remember I’ve hated butter.  Nothing is less appetizing to me than seeing a greasy glob, or even worse, a liquefied pool, of butter adorning a morsel of food.  The smell of frying butter evokes waves of nausea deep within my core.  The shiny glaze of clarified butter on a stalk of broccoli instantly renders me incapable of ingesting the now offensive item.  This preference provides an opportunity for mischief for friends and family.  “Gee, let’s bury a shitload of butter in this dish and see if he notices.”  For some reason, if the noxious substance is sufficiently disguised, as in pie and cookies, I’m content.  It’s only when visible that I get such a visceral repulsion.

I credit my Dad for this aversion.  As a child I remember drinking a glass of milk and my Dad said, “I don't see how you can drink that stuff.”  Mom said something to the effect:  “Jesus Christ Charlie, do you think you could keep your deleterious dietary druthers to yourself?” It wasn’t too great a stretch to extend my newly acquired distaste for milk to all dairy products.

Once while Judy was carpooling Lucy and her friends when they were in junior high, she overheard Lucy tell the following story to her classmates:  “My Dad is so brave, he fought in Viet Nam, but he never, ever talks about it.” As further evidence of gallantry she continued, “Once we had dinner at my Aunt Maggie’s and she served chicken Kiev, the kind of dish that spurts a geyser of butter when pierced with a fork.  She had prepared it perfectly, so when the chicken breast was first cut it released an explosion forming a deep pool of liquefied butter on the plate.  My Dad hates butter, but he didn’t make a fuss and actually ate it.”  Later Judy explained to Lucy, “Your Dad wasn’t in Viet Nam which helps explain why he never talks about it.”  Lucy said, “Oh! No matter, it’s the butter bravery that counts.”

Earlier this summer I took Finn and Charlie, known collectively as the Bubbas by their sister, to First Watch for a tasty treat of waffles and blueberry pancakes.  As is my custom, I requested that no butter adorn my cakes.  The ever-helpful Charlie contributed even greater clarity to my order by firmly adding, "And no cheese either. Please."

I was running errands this morning and stopped at our local library.  I arrived a few minutes before they opened, so I waited with a handful of others and checked my emails.  I couldn't help but overhear the odd conversation of three haggard looking goofballs standing near me, one in his 40's, one in his 50's, and one in his 60's. 

Fiftyish guy, "You know I'm six foot tall."

Sixtyish guy, "That's odd, I'm 5'9", and I almost tower over you." (This was a true statement from my vantage point, as fiftyish guy appeared to be about 5'6")

Fortyish guy, "Well, if it makes you feel better, I say go with it."

Fiftyish guy was now getting testy, "I'm not joking.  I'm really 6' tall."

Sixtyish guy to the faux six-footer, "Do you have any idea how much an elephant weighs?"

Fiftyish guy, "Well that depends."

Sixtyish guy, "On what."

Fiftyish guy,  "Whether it's a baby or adult.  If it's an adult, the answer is 5,000 lbs., and they're decimating them for their ivory.  There might not be any more elephants before long.  It's tragic."

And then a nice lady came and opened the door to the library before I could garner any more useful tidbits from these gentlemen.

Lucy was shopping at the Country Club Plaza a few weeks ago with her three little ones in tow, twins Charlie and Finn (3), and Waverly (4).  Lucy was holding hands with each of the boys and said to Waverly, "Grab one of the brothers' hands."

Two black guys standing nearby said, "I thought she was talking about us."  And they laughed.

I had lunch with Albany John recently and he told me he was at a board meeting he was attending for Northwest Missouri University.  He was approached by an attorney that works with the board, and she asked him if were "the" Albany John.  When he replied in the affirmative, she asked him to autograph her copy of NNAOPP.  He reveled in his fame.

While attending a friend's 70th birthday party I met a young woman who was the celebrant's neighbor.  We chatted and she politely mentioned that she understood I had written a book.  I needed little encouragement to expand on that theme once given the slightest nod.  She then told me that she used to work for a publishing house doing PR work to help promote authors and their books.  She asked where she might find a copy of NNAOPP and told me she would check it out.

She then told me tales of woe in trying to get her clients to promote their work on radio talk shows and expanded, "You appear to have a functioning personality, which is not the norm with many of the writer's I've met.  I felt like I needed to be their ventriloquist to get them to talk in an interesting way about their book."  Unfortunately, she is now a full time Mom and doesn't take on lost causes.

I'm happy to report that I got my first hole in one at Falcon Ridge golf course.  It was a 115-yard par three to a green sticking partially into a lake.  It was a downhill shot that allowed our foursome to see the crisply hit orb hit the front of the green and roll into the cup.  All witnesses yelled with enthusiasm, and it was quite pleasing.

It's not too early to starting thinking about a Christmas gift or stocking stuffer for that special someone.  Copies of NNAOPP, second printing, are awaiting their new home.