Except None Of Mine Have Buck Teeth (That I Can See)

Tow Maters.

For those of you who haven't been following the ongoing drama of your Pope's garden, all one of it, I planted my Tow Mater back on April 4th of this year, which you can do if you live, as I do, in the warm climes of Southern California, specifically in the San Fernando Valley, part of the city of Greater Los Angeles, as well as the porn capital of the world, two dubious distinctions at best.

I won't bore you with a long soliloquy today on the pleasures and benefits of urban gardening, except to say that I am proud, as any father should be on this Father's Day, 2012, of my Tow Mater. Thanks, God, for blessing me with this miracle of vegetables.

FYI, my daughter sent me a copy of a wonderful cookbook (I never in my wildest dreams thought I would ever see the day that I would be receiving cookbooks as gifts...and liking them) called "The Tomato Cookbook" by Roy F. Guste, Jr. It only showed up yesterday, so I haven't had a chance to really peruse the recipes, but the ones I've read so far sound delicious. I can hardly wait to get started. Thanks, sweety, it's a great gift.

Not as good as being your Dad, but very good.

(Oh, that "Pope" thing back there in the first paragraph? Yeah, that's a gig I took on a little over a year ago; you can check out the explanation at the top of this page (up) to learn about my ascent into high-stakes Popehood. Welcome to the All John All The Time World Church, which has its headquarters in the aforementioned San Fernando Valley. A third dubious distinction for the SFV, or as those of us who reside here refer to it, the 818. It's a local joke.)

Back to the Tow Maters: as you can see, my plant has one partially ripe Tow Mater hanging on its vines currently, with a veritable shitload to follow; at last count there were 20 or so incipient ripe Tow Maters. There are bacon, lettuce and Tow Mater sandwiches coming, plus gallons of Tow Mater sauce, some Tow Maters Stuffed With Chicken And Mushrooms (one of the recipes in my new cookbook, and FYI, this is only the second cookbook I've ever owned, and I have no idea where the first one is located), probably a batch or two of Tow Mater Grits (another recipe) and just oddles of Tow Mater and Jalapeno salsa.

I am so pumped...which isn't easy when you're my age.

Speaking of my age, I had a immediate reminder of my age (I recently celebrated the 29th anniversary of my 32nd birthday) a few days ago when, during the second round of the current NBA playoffs, I called a friend to inquire if he intended to view the televised game that evening between the Miami Heat and the Indiana Pacers. My question to him was thus:

"Hey, are you watching the Hate Peacers game tonight?"

Inadvertently.

It just came out like that; as my Uncle Fred used to say, my tongue got in the way of my eyeteeth and I couldn't see a thing I was saying. It reminded me of that radio announcer from back in the 20's, who, while doing an live on-air advertisement for a Hoover vacuum cleaner tells his audience, in spate of excitement, that "ladies everywhere are trying the new Heever Clooner".

Hate Peacers.

Old age, creeping in under the guise of the wisdom of years; it's insidious.

I've decided, apropos of nothing, to start another rock band; I'm calling it I Have Something On My Leg.

I just thought that would be a great name for a rock band: I Have Something On My Leg.

Or maybe Tow Mater and His Plump Romas.

(For those of you who are horticulturally challenged, a "Roma" is a type of Tow Mater.)

(My garden is not a Roma-type Tow Mater; I just liked how it sounded.)

Thank you, God, for my Tow Mater, my incredibly beautiful, and thoughtful, daughter, my grandsons, my favorite (and only, to speak of dubious distinctions) son-in-law, my friends and family, and all your blessings, and a very happy Father's Day to all of you who qualify.

Love and Tow Mater soup,

PJTT

copyright 2012 Krissongs Inc.

One Guy To Another, Nice Job

(Another blast from the past; today's post originally appeared on my blog back on 2/19. Enjoy.)

 

The subject of today's post is a little, how can I say, ahh, disgusting, so if you're squeamish about bodily functions and gross smells and sounds, you know, all the things that guys love and crack up over, you might want to go back to Facebook or wherever.

For those of you who follow my blog regularly (all several of you), my boon companion, best buddy and official canine of the All John All The Time World Church, of which I am the Popester, is a 13 year-old Golden Retriever and all around good guy, commonly and affectionately known as the Harley Dog (see picture <--, oops, sorry -->). Harley has been with me for seven years now, and he's more fun than a couple of midgets, a pogo stick and a pound of Parkay margarine. In the winter, we live together here in LA (pronounced LAH) and in the off-season months we fly off to the Sargasso Sea in the official atomic powered rocket ship of the Pope of the AJATTWC, the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short, to our summer home on the island of Snacilbuper (pronounced SNACK-ILL-BUPER), which is Republicans backwards, (and which now that I think of it, is pretty much how most Republicans, and most Democrats for that matter, seem to do things these days), where we walk the beach, throw sticks, chase balls, belch and fart a lot and do a lot of other gross guy stuff.

As much fun as the Harley Dog is, and he can make me laugh like very few people I know, he does have his, how can I say, less than finer moments; he doesn't drool very much, but his breath could repulse an iguana, and he has a habit of licking areas on his big, furry self that I am unable to lick on myself, causing me a great deal of envy.

The worst thing about Harley is his occasional bouts of, okay, this is where it starts to get icky, flatulence. Its not often, at least the really bad stuff, but often enough, like say, once a week or so, when, all of a sudden, whoa, and tears start to come to my eyes, and the people downstairs from me start complaining, and sometimes the LAFD shows up, thinking there's a gas main leak somewhere; it gets pretty gritty, I gotta' tell you.

For the life of me I can't figure out what causes it; he eats the same, dry food every day, I NEVER give him table scraps because he already weighs a 100 pounds as it is, so unless gulping the air here in LA is the causative factor, I don't get it.

I rolled over in bed this morning, about 2:00am, a) because, like every night about that time, I had to pee, and b) my ENTIRE apartment was enveloped in this miasma, which was palpable, this ungodly smell, emanating from my dog's nether regions. It literally woke me up from a sound sleep. You'll pardon my being a little gross here, but the aroma was pungent, thick almost, like cheese that's gone bad or that wet towel you left in your gym bag at the bottom of your closet and forgot about until three months later. I mean, it was nasty. And although he doesn't say much, I always get the impression, like most guys after they've wafted a good one, that Harley is kind of smug and proud of himself.

Now, being a typical disgusting male pig person, I fart with some frequency, but I've noticed as I've gotten older that it's mostly just wind, and little aroma. I mean, on a good day I can toot the first eight bars of the "1812 Overture" but the paint stays on the walls and there's no lawsuits involved. Besides, it just the two of us, so who cares. (My Dad, like most Dads I suspect, had his little "fart ritual"; sitting in his chair in the living room, he'd lift up one cheek, let'er rip, and then look at my Mom and go, "Ooops, that slipped", which, of course, disgusted my mother to no end and cracked me up, both of which I'm sure my Dad thought were good reasons to continue doing it. As is so often the case, the acorn did not fall far from the tree.)

But not the Harley Dog, no tooting of classics for him; he is the embodiment of the old joke about being SBD: silent but deadly.

Harley came to live with me when I was well into my '50s, having spent the first six years of his life with my daughter; it's a long story of how he made the sojourn from the flatlands of Illinois to the sun-drenched San Fernando Valley, and I won't bore you with it, (now don't get all sentimental, he didn't run the whole way out here, he came in a cage in the cargo hold of an airplane) but Harley was my first, and only ever, pet. (Mom and Dad didn't know from pets.) So while I was intellectually aware that animals, particularly dogs, emit methane gas, but it's one thing to know about something, and it's another to experience it first hand, much like reading about an elephant in a book and then seeing one of those big bastards up close for the first time; it's just not the same. (Robert Heinlein, the famous science fiction writer, once remarked in one of his books that a mouse was as much of a biological miracle as an elephant, but didn't have near the visual impact.)

I had no idea how bad dog flatulence could be; I just never was exposed to it previously, so the first time Harley let loose, I was surprised, and I hate to say it, but again, being a typical "guy", I was a little impressed. I mean, all that odor from simple dry dog food, hey, one guy to another, that's a great job. I gave Harley a fist bump and we laughed our asses off. Once my eyes stopped tearing up. (I'll never forget the time, about a week after I got him, that he walked over to where I was sitting, looked me in the eye and yarked up everything he'd eaten that day, for no apparent reason, other than to baptize me and his new home, I guess. That was almost seven years ago, and he's never done it again since.)

Okay, enough gross-outs about dog farts; I promise tomorrow's post will deal with some subject that's a little more genteel, although at this point I have no idea what that subject will be. I have to close now; there's a committee of my neighbors at my front door and they want to talk to me about the horrendous odor emanating from my apartment. In the meantime, my partner is lying on the floor, with a smug look on his furry face; who me?

Love and eberts,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.