It’s ok everyone. He’ll be fine.
Keith Richards fell out of a palm tree in Fiji, landed on his head and was airlifted to New Zealand for precautionary measures.
I just want it known that the Squirrel Queen did not push him out of the tree.
I’m guessing the good news is he landed on his head.
The rock and roll legend has survived countless drug and drinking binges only to injure himself in a fall on the sand.
I’m imagining his coconut landing with a resounding thump reminiscent of the sound one gets when you drop a watermelon on pavement.
I don’t care what the calendar says, it must be summer now.
I’ve been bitten by a mosquito already.
I thought I might have a reprieve for another couple of weeks, but no.
Sitting in the dank fog at the ball park Thursday night covering a game, I felt a sudden twinge on my ankle.
Looking down, there it was. The evil blood sucker was partaking of my crimson nectar.
Yay, though, I triumphed and smote the infidel insect, leaving that disgusting black and red smear so familiar to anyone who spends an evening outdoors in the summer.
For the moment, oh so brief, I triumphed over nature.
Those times are so few.
Shopping with Newscoma today at Super WallyWorld, I took a step back in time.
We were trying to follow a list without throwing every this that and the other that caught our eye into the buggy. Unsuccessfully, I might add.
The number of items in our cart already well exceeded the number of “must haves” on our list.
That’s when my eye was attracted to a clear plastic bottle filled with a mint green condiment I hadn’t seen on shelves in ages.
We were strolling down the aisle, mustards to our left and ketchups to our right when we entered the Salad Dressing section.
That’s where I beheld the creamy creation I hadn’t espied in what seemed like decades. At the outskirts of the plethora of ranches and Italians and honey mustards and Paul Newman varieties, sat a glimpse of green. An unmistakable hint of herb-doused mayonaise glittering like an emerald in a bowl of rhinestones.
I actually had an audible intake of breath, such was my ecstatic state at my discovery. Stationed next to the latest fad salad dressing was an old, familiar friend – a bottle of Green Goddess salad dressing.
I couldn’t contain my glee and shared my find with Newscoma who had a similar childhood flashback and resulting reaction. We snatched it from the shelf and tossed it into our buggy. Then we grabbed a second bottle to carry home with us in case we’d just slipped through some worm hole and traveled back in time and would never find that slip in space if we returned to Aisle 7 on our next shopping trip.
After securing our second salad dressing, I suffered some momentary trepidation. What if it wasn’t as good as we remembered? What if our immature taste buds had deceived us oh so long ago?
What if our new ranch-drenched reality couldn’t handle the 70s splendiferous savoriness of the Goddess?
Cooler heads prevailed and we brought both bottles home and introduced the nieces to the spicy, creamy concoction.
By the way, it was as good as I remembered.
In a time before pre-packaged and pre-chopped and pre-washed raddichio and arugula and spring mixes, my grandmother used to keep a bottle in the fridge to use on lettuce she grew in her own garden. My parents were more of the Thousand Island ilk.
Just the sight of that light green dressing sent me back to another age and another home. Maybe I did travel through time for a moment.
Yes, it was well worth the purchase price to have an extra bottle of Green Goddess and the memories it induced on hand.
Oooh, she’s so clever. At least in her own head.
The self-imposed “sex symbol” of the Conservative movement will unleash another batch of her scribblings in early June. At least that’s what Drudge is dribbling about.
Ho hum. Until then, I guess we’ll just have to wonder whether it’s “Fair and Balanced.”
Considering the title will be “The Church of Liberalism – Godless” I’m guessing she’s on another oh-so not enlightening rant about what she believes that I believe.
The scrawny scribe has unsheathed her poison pen once again.
The worst news is this – it means she’ll have another excuse to make the talk show rounds and spew her own hatred.
Almost as scary as her rhetoric is that clavicle which looks like it could slice through sheet metal and a sternum that put fear into my heart. Take it from me, that’s not so sexy.
I’m sick and tired of seeing Barry Bonds’ big ol’ steroids-inflated head on tv. I’ll admit I prefer to watch ESPN over the Fox sports programming. I’m a junky for Sportscenter.
However, ESPN’s obsession with Barry Bonds has hit a new high, or should that be a new low.
Over the past few seasons, the network has dedicated one reporter to follow the Giants’ basher. Poor Pedro Gomez has been stuck trailing the surly slugger around trying to get a pertinent answer from the “clear” cream using jerk. He’s given us updates ad nauseum on Bonds’ balky knee and all the “No comments” and refusals to talk about the steroid issue.
Now the sports network has paid several million dollars to gain access to Bonds for a reality show – “Bonds on Bonds”.
Apparently even some of the folks at ESPN aren’t real happy with the network’s new reality show. The New York Times did a piece on several of the folks on camera and behind the scenes complaining about the integrity of the show since lots of $$$$ were forked over to gain access. Even a bit more fishy is a review of the show on ESPN’s web site which says we all should give it a chance. Read far enough into the piece and you’ll find out that the reviewer is a friend of one of the people producing the show.
I don’t ever plan on watching the show. If I want to see a head that size I’ll watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade with all its balloons. If I want to watch an ego that size, I’ll watch Simon Cowell on American Idol.
I’m so sick of watching him whine and cry about the media trailing him and the allegations swirling around his alleged steroid use.
It seems every two minutes on ESPN there is either a promo touting their inside access with him sitting on a couch bitching or at his locker bitching or, wait, just bitching about the media or a piece about Bonds and his sterling career and his chase for home run records. When he’s not bitching, he’s crying.
Oh yeah, let’s all feel sorry for the “sensitive” Barry and his trials and tribulations. Boo hoo.
It’s finally here.
I don’t count that lone Sunday night game on ESPN as the season opener. Nope, give me a day full of action on Monday. Game after game. That’s opening day.
Opening Day should be a national holiday. Kids should automatically be let out of school. Or at least radio broadcasts of games should be sent out over the school intercom so all the kiddies can be enthralled and learn to appreciate the best game in the world.
I love me some baseball.
I’m a diamond kind of squirrel.
I listened in to most of the Cardinals’ thrashing of the Phillies before I had to go cover a local high school game.
After seven innings of high school ball, I listened to a few at-bats of the Braves/Dodgers game on the way home. It was back to the hacienda to catch more MLB on TV. Mm hmm, can’t get enough of that nine-inning stuff. I scanned the box scores on the Internet to see how my fantasy dudes did today. Fair to middling.
All in all, my kind of day.
Happy April Fools Day to all from the Squirrel Queen. The nieces were going to punk the neighborhood with some pranks with the neighbor boys, but their mom caught wind of it and, in true Barney Fife fashion, nipped it in the bud.
Bear has pulled a number of April Fools jokes on Newscoma and me all day.
Oh, to be a first-grader again.
Hey, is that your refrigerator I hear running, you better go catch it.