Intelligence in Texas?

Yes, there is. No offense to Texans, of course; I have known many smart people from the Lone Star State. My best friend Constance is living in Texas (though she's not from there) and she's quite smart. On a recent layover through Dallas, though, I looked over to a familiar looking gentleman who was sitting alone, reading a copy of Atlantic Monthly. I didn't want to "out him" as being a celebrity-ish guy in a common area, so instead of loudly asking him if he was THE Ronald Reagan, Jr., I just asked quietly if he was "Ron." After comfirming that he indeed was, we went on to have a great conversation about Prop 8, gay rights and the supreme court before I had mercy on him and let him get back to his reading. An interesting, warm and friendly guy, not the least bit put off by my wanting to give thanks for being a sound, articulate person on the airwaves.

We had a great Thanksgiving, speaking of Thanks. Good food, family and, the next day, lots of holiday lights made their ways up onto the eaves of our house. We dug out all of our blue LED bulbs that we picked up for 1/2 price last year and, after picking up a 13 foot tree for our living room, decked the whole thing out in atomic glare bulbs. If you've never seen LED bulbs, gaze with caution, my friends. Our living room now looks like the inner core of a nuclear power plant and I imagine that the skylights our house can be seen from the space station. We were watching "The Amazing Race" (goodbye Toni and Dallas--I'm sad to see you go. Especially you, Dallas...) and by the end of the hour my eyes were burning. I couldn't tell if it was the long day, the stress of a high-octane tv show or the seared retinas I was suffering due to the lazer lights. Oh well. At least we're using 80% less electricity.

The Charmin Guy

I read that Dick Wilson, the man who played Mr. Whipple ("Please don't squeeze the Charmin!") passed away just before Thanksgiving. I remember myself as a kid, watching him as he shamefully, yet gleefully, ducked 'round the corner and squeezed the hell out of a toilet paper package after having chastised some woman for doing the same. Sure, he was being hypocritical, but I think even then I had a spot of sympathy for him. This poor man, an uncontrollable urge that to him seemed so inappropriate and socially unacceptable yet he JUST COULDN'T STOP HIMSELF. With the Larry Craigs and the Richard Curtises and the Mark Foleys of today, it makes Mr. Whipple's addiction seem so cute. "Please," I wanted to say even then, "buy yourself some Charmin, take it home and squeeze until you can squeeze no more." Actually, I remember Dick Wilson playing a character with an altogether different kind of addiction. Do you recall the latter-stage alcoholic constantly witness to Samantha Stevens' witchcraft on "Bewitched?" That was him. And just like many drunks I have known, he'd swear off the booze after having watched Sam appear/disappear/float/morph, then he'd toddle away down the sidewalk trying to convince himself that it had all been a hallucination. But a few episodes later, there he'd be again, stumbling out of a bar, car keys in hand.

Thanksgiving was a quiet affair at our house. Our neighbors, he of the sliced thumb and his partner, were to join us for turkey and fixin's. Yet, while awaiting tendon reattatchment surgery the night before Thanksgiving, a sharp pain in the side alerted him that something additional was wrong. Sure enough, it was an appendicitis. And not a moment too soon. So, in a sense, the slicing was a GOOD thing, since he might have had the attack and chalked it up to indigestion. Two surgeries later, he's on the road to recovery and has the late turkey, ironically named "THANKSGIVING" to thank for it all.