Bringin’ the bacon to work

I like crispy pig meat as much as the next guy, but after a while it gets old. After a year or two it gets really old. Truth be told, I was never really crazy for the stuff.

It turns out my office is next door to a deli that dabbles in breakfast. I don’t really have an office anymore, so corral might be a better word. But wether they’re serving breakfast or lunch, they seem to conjure up a reason to serve up a steady diet of fried pig fat all day, much to my nose’s delight.

Yum! Can I get me some more!

I’ll have to ask Cheryl if my clothes smell like fast food when I get home.

I’ve heard that the sense of taste is related, if not in some cases tied, to the sense of smell. Which brings me to this half-baked idea/concern:

Is second hand smell of fried pig fat bad for you?

Bad taste and butchery

I get a little uncomfortable when people start talking about “trimming” trees. My reasons break down like this: any jackass with insurance and a chainsaw can get a licence to trim trees in Florida, and Floridians in general don’t seem to like trees. That’s what I gather from the results anyway.

I’m not against all forms or reasons for tree trimming. There are times when a tree needs to be trimmed for saftey’s sake, or for the tree’s health. But that’s not what’s happening here.

I work(ed) in a large office complex on the water (Tampa Bay) with a lot of trees. The shaded, peaceful walkways felt more like a park than a place of business. Between the waterfront and the quiet atmosphere, I thought the setting was darn near perfect.

That was before someone decided things needed to be “opened up.”

Now my office feels like it ought to be a crime scene. There are dozens of formerly magestic oaks giving little or no shade, resembling palm trees more than the full hardwoods they once were. Now they look like pieces of modern art. Tall trunks stripped of all their limbs with any reach, with narrow, broccoli spear tops dot my view. Shaded court yards are now reduced to air traps – solar collectors for Florida’s already hot sun. Now we can go out and cook… or more likely, the once vibrant centers of congregation and conversation will be abandoned.

People around me are oooing, and ahhhing over the new, open feeling. I feel like I’m the only one who sees the incredibly poor taste, or recognizes the crime taking place above our eyes.

Going back to my roots

I’m living life with Snow Leopard and iTunes 9. Fellow Apple fan-boys (or excuse me, girls) know what I’m talking about.

I’m giving the Genius Mixes a whirl in iTunes 9, and “Rock Mix 6” is a collection of music ripped from the CDs of my childhood. Yes, I’m one of those people: all my of CDs are ripped, roaring, and ready to go on my Mac.

It’s been a little while. I’m hanging with Huey. I wasn’t born until ’71, but I’m reminiscing about the Summer of ’69. Sammy’s still not driving 55. Love will find a way, but I’m not sure I want to know what the Big Generator is about. The kids are eating it up.

I’m enjoying it, in a guilty pleasure kind of way. Maybe it’s just the music from MY past, but it occurs to me the ’80s were the American Cheese of music history. We call it music. It’s popular and comes in handy, individually wrapped squares, but has little nutritional value.

None of this is fair of course. Every generation has its fluff and filler. Picking on the Reagan era is just so easy… so satisfying… on so many levels.