amy in alabama

down the rabbit hole

"The realization that we are ALL (you, me) going to die and the attending DISBELIEF - isn't that the central premise of EVERYTHING?" - Maira Kalman, The Principles of Uncertainty

The August chapter "Heaven on Earth" of Kalman's NYTimes illustrated blog column cum book floats this simple, sober question above a painting of a frowning rabbit wearing red & white striped socks and brown laced shoes.

Did those rabbits on Charlie Thompson's farm know they were headed for the dinner plate? Is that why the first rabbit was so tough when Uncle Dennis fried it for supper? Did it freeze-up at the realization of imminent death? Did he make a bad joke to the others as Charlie grabbed him by the ears and set him in the bucket, suddenly regretting not having made a more sentimental departure? Adrenalin coursing through his veins might cause the muscles to tense and toughen, no?

I'd been looking for locally raised fresh rabbit for a while - asked around and got a tip from Chris at Cox Butcher on CR 16. He said Charlie, out in Lexington, ten minutes from Tennessee, raises them, dresses them, and leaves them in a freezer on his porch. If he isn't home to handle the sale himself buyers are trusted to leave the money in a bucket. When Dennis emailed a couple weeks ago that he and Aunt Marsha were coming from Georgia for a couple days visit I knew this was my excuse for finally making the trip. And we lucked out that Thursday. Charlie was home and out of frozen rabbits. We got four freshly dressed with the experience of watching Charlie clean them.

Standing twenty feet away, carrying a conversation with Charlie about his goats, his chickens, his job at the paper mill, his ideas for a better agrarian lifestyle (he referenced Joel Salantin), a childhood ditty floated through my mind: little bunny Foo Foo hoppin' through the forest, pickin' up the field mice and boppin' 'em on the head.

There was a quick knock on the skull, neck to the tree stump, swift axe severing head from body, then the skinning. I adopted Charlie's declamation of preference for cleaning rabbit over chicken any day. Although I've never cleaned a rabbit, the easier process was apparent, namely, no feathers to pluck!

"Slaughterhouse junkie," my sister calls me. First chickens last fall, then hogs, now the furries. I was surprised she ate with such enthusiasm - the owner of several bunnies as a child - she even ate the fried livers. When those gorgeous maroon glands fell out in Charlie's agile hands our eyes grew wide and Charlie asked,"did you want the - ?"  "Yes!" Dennis and I answered in unison.

The goal is always to assuage my appetite for delicacies I can't easily hail a cab to a stylish metropolitan eatery to obtain. I have to prepare them at home. My mind has been Pollanized (The Omnivore's Dilemma) with the belief that I should know, whenever possible, exactly where my family's food is coming from, and that it should be, whenever possible, locally and naturally sourced. Culminating to a perfect experience, I shared this adventure, this meal, with my Mother & Sister, Aunt & Uncle, Sister's boyfriend Willie, and good friends Michelle & Jennifer. For three hours we gathered in the kitchen, on the deck, and around the table, laughing and telling stories, sharing our lives, and enjoying each other's company. That's the whole point - to suspend the disbelief, forget the inevitable, if only for a few, tangible happy hours.

Add fried oysters from the Gulf via Lash Seafood in Rogersville, grilled zucchini from the garden with shredded parmesan, and Dennis's famous steamed shrimp (Alabama gulf) a la Fourth of July, fried rabbit livers to die for - perfectly cooked, tender and delicate, easily the best I've ever had, and a feast was upon us. Never mind recipes. We Griffitts aren't big recipe followers or writers, but maneuver along instinct and expectation, always working toward that ideal in our heads. When the fried rabbit proved tough, Dennis simmered it in gravy, which tasted even better a couple days later. Next rabbit (naturally there are two more in the freezer) I'm thinking carrot-rabbit stew. I have a memory of a lunch with an old winemaker in Salta, Argentina. I'm going for that flavor, aiming to reproduce the memory, and will ultimately be satisfied with creating a new one.

the offal angle

After a recent trip to Atlanta with friend Michelle, I bragged to my sister about the rich meal of offal we enjoyed at Holeman & Finch Public House. Like a child on Christmas morning I listed the dishes in which we indulged:

"There was chicken liver pate with apple cider jelly and steak tartare and rabbit livers and sweetbreads and beef marrow and - "

"Yuck," she said.

What is the philosophy behind eating offal? Why do some of us drool for it while others dry heave at the thought? In the beginning people ate offal because it was wasteful not to. Every part of the animal was used. I suppose as society has evolved and life made easier (both moot points) through the advent of supermarkets and fast food we have allowed ourselves to turn up our noses at feet, cocks combs, and brains as sustenance. That leaves the rare old Asian man to his virility enhancing tiger penises and the foodie to his never ending search for the most awe inspiring offal preparations.

Friend Phoebe Damrosch shares in Service Included: Four-Star Secrets of an Eavesdropping Waiter an evening with fellow waiters from Thomas Keller's Per Se  restaurant in Manhattan where the group aims to seek out the best bone marrow in the city. I agree with their conclusion, Blue Ribbon on Sullivan Street serves a superior marrow to both Landmarc and Crispo, although I prefer the dish at Blue Ribbon Bakery on Downing - the sauce slightly more delicate, a background to the silky, mouth melting marrow rather than the star. 

offal |ˈôfəl; ˈäfəl| noun the entrails and internal organs of an animal used as food. • refuse or waste material. • decomposing animal flesh.

If offal is to a foodie what skinny jeans are to a hipster, or a Malaysian walkingstick to an entomologist - both necessary and all pride when discovered - then surely many chefs aspire to turn livers and stomach linings into something they can serve, sell, and send away full bellied patrons declaring, "I just had the most incredible meal!" As an amateur cook I took great pride when I recently served a red wine marinated venison roast at a party and a guest commented, "I love that beef roast" to which I confessed it was actually deer. "Wow," she said. "I don't even like venison but I want more of that." Turning people on is what food is all about, sustenance being only the very start.

I belong to the tribes of pleasure and pride. The simplicity of a sauteed sweetbread to perfection, a gift from God anyway you look at it, lies in the natural existence of the cow and her due course. Taking what has been provided, sprinkling a dash of innovation and a pinch of sensory nicety, and creating a meal that assuages both emotionally and physically is art. Pride resides for preparer and eater alike. For creator and discoverer pleasure is inherent.

poetry practice

Friend, fellow writer, and UNA professor of writing, Rob Koch, and I lead writing workshops through the Lauderdale County Public Library several Saturdays a year. Today we had a small group, as many of our high school age patrons are on vacation. So we did little critiquing and a lot of playing - with forms. 

We flipped through Lewis Turco's The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics and selected first the Epithalamon form: A B A A B B with four feet, three feet, four, four, four, and three. All the A's must rhyme and all the B's must rhyme and the last two lines must end in the same word, albeit the sixth and final line has only three feet, six syllables where the previous line has four and eight, respectively. Each foot in each line consists of one unaccented word followed by an accented word then an unaccented word and so forth, alternating accented/unaccented throughout the poem. Lost? Bored? Try this - inspired by my recent trip to the slaughterhouse:

My feet grow colder, blocks of ice

while a hog's life is taken

next door, losing his game of dice.

But it's not for me to think twice.

I watch for the love of bacon;

only, for the bacon.

Next we tried a looser form, no rhyming. The Katauta form originated in Japan and follows a 5, 7, 7 - five syllables, seven syllables, seven syllables. The first line makes a statement and the following two answer the call with the turn directly after the first line. This is fun, if not exactly on the mark.

I don't want to clean,

but the house is damn filthy.

And there goes my Saturday.

I can not clean now.

For my hunger is too great.

Please, let the clock strike twelve noon.

Blood sugar is dropping.

Help me please, before I die.

Melodrama is rising.

Sometimes the point is simply to play - no judgement, no goal, but for the sheer enjoyment of words and their possibilities.

a perfect july 4th

There have been few family Fourths in my adult life. I've spent them on New York rooftops, Long Island beaches, France, Italy, Argentina - which is say, I did not really celebrate. But this year the family was together, my youngest sister home from Prague, and a few close friends, harmonious and relaxed, just like a TV family, only cousin Bryant and his family were missing.

Uncle Dennis and Aunt Marsha live on a winding, hard packed Georgia red dirt road in a house Marsha's great grandfather built in 1909. This year celebrates its 100th birthday. I spent summers and major holidays in this house, in the woods across the road, ivy covered ground that felt like a different planet, my boy cousins shooting squirrels, leading the way to various dares and risks I had not yet tried. At night the tall windows, no curtains to soften them, showed me a darkness that did not exist in the street lamp lined suburban streets of my city home. I tried not to think about Children of the Corn on those nights.

Now my sisters and I are grown, my three boy cousins are men with young children of their own. We descended on the open space, flanked by peach trees in full harvest, pecan trees, and cherry trees, a dozen children running about. At 3 o'clock Uncle Dennis started serving the first of a long menu of small feasts. Spicy steamed shrimp and homemade corn tortilla chips - I have absolutely never tasted better - BBQ sandwiches to die for, squash casserole, smoked chicken wings (Dennis boasts a full smoke house kitchen out back, his haven, a space of comfort.) Later there was grilled shrimp, grilled corn in the husk, and portobellos off the grill, homemade cole slaw, Grandmother Griffitts' (my grandmother) Refrigerator Pickles, hot dogs for the kids - I really wanted one but ran out of room - cake, pie...some of us were still eating at 10 p.m.

We played baseball, corn hole - a beanbag tossing game that got it's name from filling a sock with dried corn kernels, tying it up and tossing for points, and we watched a spectacular fireworks show my cousins put together. Down the road, and another across the peach orchard, distant firework displays lit up small parts of the sky. I drew "Mable & Bunny" the next morning, the day's finale still bright in my mind. It was a perfect July 4th.

I've included some recipes below - most are written by Uncle Dennis, the last I improvised on the directions, but the ingredients and quantities came from Grandmother. Keep in mind Dennis does not keep exact recipes so all quantities and times are ballpark figures. Keep a close watch and season to taste.

Spicy Steamed Shrimp:

5 lbs shrimp, preferably wild caught local (these were Georgia coast)

rough chop 4 or 5 celery stalks, one large onion, and one bell pepper. 

*If you have to thaw your shrimp first, be sure to drain them. The idea here is to keep them as dry as possible. 

Mix veggies and shrimp, pour in a little extra virgin olive oil and toss some more. 

Now add approx 1/3 to 1/2 cup Tony Chachere's More Spice Seasoning  - add a 1/2 cup of Tony's Original Cajun Seasoning if desired - and make sure everything has a light coat of seasoning. Place your pot on the fire (medium high on a big burner, wide open on a smaller one) for maybe 3-4 minutes then stir (or toss the whole pot) to mix those shrimp that are cooking on the bottom with those on top. You will need to do this again after every 2 minutes until the shrimp are just underdone. Do not over cook them because they continue to cook during steaming. Now pour off all the liquid you possibly can, you will be surprised at how much you have considering you started with none. Cover the pot and let them sit for maybe 10-15 minutes. Pour off the liquid again and eat a few........or as many as you like! BTW, the veggies are good too!

Uncle Dennis refuses to give up his BBQ sauce recipe, calling it, G Deddy's Blackmarket Bar-B-Que  - "So good you'll swear it's illegal".

Grilled Corn:

Snip the silks off and hope it doesn't have any worms. Place it, unshucked, on the grill on medium heat. Turn it after about 15 minutes and let it cook a total of about 30 - 45 minutes. The time will be determined by how hot your grill is. For the best flavor pull the shucks back (the silks will go away with them) and using the still attached shucks as a handle dip the corn in pure melted butter. With this method, as opposed to boiling, the silks fall off with no effort and the corn cooks in it's own juices and steam.

Grandmother Griffitts’ Refrigerator Pickles (or Overnight Pickles):

8 cups sliced, unpeeled (or peel if you prefer) cucumbers

2 cups sliced onion

1tbsp salt

1 ½ cups vinegar

2 tsp celery seed

2 tsp mustard seed

2 cups sugar

*This is the only direction I got from Grandmother, except to put the mixture in the fridge for a few hours – she usually makes them the day before. Mix the vinegar, salt, sugar, celery and mustard seed in a mason jar, tighten the lid, and shake what your momma gave you until everything has dissolved and blended. Pour this over the sliced cukes and onions in a Tupperware (or whatever you’re going to serve them in), cover, and sit in the fridge for 4 to 8 hours. 

Download July 4th Recipes

                                           

slaughterhouse-16

"Did you feel any pathos," Susan asked. 

I was telling her about my morning with Cox Butcher on County Road 16 in Florence where I witnessed a hog slaughter - head shot, throat cut, no suffering - the massive carcass pushed along the winding rail above our heads, gutted - intestines slopped to the floor in one graceful movement - washed, and sent to rest in the meat locker before processing: bone-in chops, boston butt, cutlets...

I had to stop and think a moment. I had not considered the pathos I felt, the momentary disappointment in watching a living thing die - momentary only because I forced reason to the front: I love bacon, pork chops, BBQ. 

The idea was not an original one, spend a few hours with my butcher to learn the cuts, the technique in carving a roast. Mark Bittman suggests doing so in How To Cook Everything. But that part came later, when I'd seen enough method and slipped out of the warm, iron-air slaughter area and into the cold, steel-tabled carving room next door. The witnessing slaughter part of this idea came from Michael Pollan and his book, The Omnivore's Dilemma. I decided to see exactly how this all worked, how that mouthwatering, rich pork belly with the crispy outside and tender, butter-like inside made it's way to my plate. The cook and foodie in me felt a responsibility. I'd killed and gutted chickens before and this experience seemed a natural progression.  

Thank you to Adam & Renee Cox, owners of Cox Butcher Shop, for allowing me to sit in. And thank you to their USDA meat inspector, who took the time to show me what lymph nodes look like and where a parasite could bore a solid hole in the liver. 

And yes, there was a little pathos, watching that last hog lay face down in the blood of those before him, his front legs bent in natural surrender, his hinds stubborn, knees locked, ass up, as if they might turn around and walk out. 

                                    "Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt" 

                                         - Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Slaughterhouse-Five

And the sale is: local ingredients, naturally raised. These hogs come from good stock, Lauderdale County grown. I'm told they lived a good life, no hormones, no steroids, and wandered freely, like Adam's cows grazing behind the shop. He doesn't add preservatives when he packages and everything in the case is fresh. I buy beef and lamb from Adam, and pay the processing fee on venison in the fall when lucky hunters bring home more than they can handle. Chris, Adam's part time butcher who showed me the ropes around a side of beef, suggested I come back during deer season. "It's a whole other ball game," he said. 

Thank you to Chris for showing me how to move a knife with the grain, how an inch thick of meat around the outside of a ribeye defines the cut - present or not - and the trick to tough cuts sold as cutlets: extra trip or two through the tenderizer and you get a cube steak that will just about melt in your mouth.

And while I feel a little smarter with a knife and beef shoulder, and a tad familiar with the efficient job of preparing a hog, I think I'll leave this one to the professionals. I'm sticking to cooking and eating.

a blogger not blogging

I started this blog as an online portfolio to show interested editors of various publications I might query for freelance work. It's supposed to be a practice in discipline and writing. I haven't posted in a month. Clearly the process is working.

Truth be told I haven't written much of anything in weeks, other than a few journal entries. I've done a little drawing and very little reading. I've just been so busy with the garden and chasing my red broiler chickens around the yard, watching them get fat and happy on natural feed. I'm starting up a business with a friend - a part time project certain to bring in money. Writers not writing, especially, need an income. I witnessed a hog slaughter and learned to carve a side of beef. I've been cooking up a storm, following other's recipes and creating my own. I've worked the Master Gardner helpline and fought the japanese beetles threatening my garden - an ongoing battle of wits and soapy water. 

The next few weeks aren't looking any calmer: party to plan, parties to attend, more gardening, more cooking, copywriting deadline, fuel the new business. And through all of this the ideas continue to flow. It's all I can do to jot down the tune, so to speak, and file it away on my desk, worktable, nightstand, or in my purse. 

Natalie Chanin, friend and ardent blogger, never mind she's an internationally known designer with a substantial, growing following (my current numbers cap at three), she blogs nearly every day. And ten years ago, she recently told me, despite everything that should have been or could have been, she started doing exactly what she felt drawn to do: she sewed. Everyday. 

In a recent blog post Natalie shared a link to Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love, discussing creativity . Gilbert reminded me of the ancient Greek belief in genius. A person could not be a genius, but could have a genius - a spirit, a muse, a daemon, who worked with the artist, the writer, the performer, to create. She says, in having a partner, the creator can share the huge responsibility of creating. Perhaps it also holds the creator accountable. We have to show up and do our part, do the work. 

It suddenly dawned on me, my genius is working a lot harder than I am.

So I'm crossing off projects, postponing others, and working to make time to do the work. How fortunate I am to have been blessed with an active, prolific genius. She's standing here now, tapping her toe, giving me that look.

Riley signs higher alcohol wine bill - Zins are back

Last Fall Shoals Magazine published an article I wrote titled The Problem with Zinfandel: Why We Can't Get America's Sweethearts in the Shoals. Now we can. Governor Bob Riley signed the Senate approved bill May 14th raising the legal alcohol levels in wine sold in Alabama to 16.5% from the previous 14.9%. This bill opens the door for higher alcohol wines, primarily California wines including Zinfandel, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Syrah, among others winegrowers find reach elevated ripeness levels, thus producing high alcohol wines. 

See the AP release below:

Gov. Bob Riley signs bill allowing stronger wine in Alabama

Posted by Associated Press May 14, 2009 5:35 PM

MONTGOMERY -- Gov. Bob Riley has signed legislation that allows stronger wine to be sold in Alabama.

 

The Legislature passed the wine bill last week. The governor's communications director, Jeff Emerson, said Riley signed it into law today.

It raises the alcohol level for table wine from 14.9 percent by volume to 16.5 percent. The bill sponsored by Republican Sen. Steve French of Birmingham provides that the stronger wine can't be sold in convenience stores. But it could be sold in all other businesses that normally sell wine.

book review:

The Battle for Wine and Love: or How I Saved the World from Parkerization by Alice Feiring

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is the wine companion to Michael Pollan's "The Omnivore's Dilemma."

Feiring goes into great detail the difference between technologically made wine and naturally made wine. While consumers become more aware of how their food is grown, processed, packaged, and shipped, most are still oblivious to the ways winemakers, especially New Word winemakers, can manipulate to an excessive degree. I like the idea of listing all ingredients on a label, just as with food:

Grapes, 90% cabernet Sauvignon, 6% Merlot, 4% Syrah (although the label will read Cab Sav)

Industrial Yeast, Genetically Modified strain: ML01

Tannin powder

Tartaric Acid powder

Enzymes

Glycerin

Gelatin

Velcorin microbial

Sulfur

OR

Organically Grown Grapes

Wild or Natural yeast (found both on the grapes and in the cellar)

 As Feiring states, "just be honest."

For anyone who claims to care where their food comes from, this is an absolute must. Wine and food are inseparable partners, demanding an equal integrity.

A personal note: As a former wine industry member, this book took me down a short memory lane - wineries I've been to (with thick black mold growing on the cellar walls), wines I've loved, my first taste of La Tache, that 1976 Lopez de Heredia on my 30th birthday (a winery now run by two sisters), and various characters both disguised (not to me!) and obvious. I really enjoyed this.

View all my reviews.

Tick Envy

Tick Envy

by Amy C Collins

 

            I was on my way out the door to pick up my sister, thought I’d pee and primp first. Pulling my pants up I noticed something that wasn’t there before. A tick, small and grey, had buried its head in my crotch, along the crook where the leg bone is connected to the hipbone.

            I’d been warned the previous afternoon by my neighbor, Carol, that the ticks were back, that she had found two already. I was thinking of the dogs then, examining a red place on the Dachshund’s chest.

            “Oh, that’s just where the collar rubbed her skin. Or else it’s a hickey from the Papillion.”

 

I had forgotten the strides in personal growth and mental strength achieved last summer. I had come full circle with the tick issue. At first I was terrified, disgusted and helpless by the thought of a tick, much less a live one on my person. My eyes caught glimpses of them in the mirror, saw phantom ticks, moles playing tricks, moving across my body. I learned from my mother that ticks aren’t so bad, just little spiders that happen to suck blood. She works in the ER, and assured me our area has a very low occurrence of Lyme Disease and Rocky Mountain Fever.

“All you do,” she said, “is swab the little bastards with rubbing alcohol until they get sleepy with suffocation, then twist them off.” By late August I was picking them off like a girl in a field of Dandelions. Grab, twist, drown in alcohol, move on. I conducted thorough tick checks every time I came in the house. Was brave about it. Guess I lost that learned bravado. This first tick of the season really freaked me out.

 

            “Mom,” I called down the stairs. “How do you get a tick out? I mean he’s already got his head in there!” I’d forgotten the procedure.

            “Just swab it with alcohol and it’ll let go,” she called up.

            I stumbled across the bathroom to the closet, fumbled for the alcohol, a cotton ball, and dabbed the fucker, isopropyl dripping down my inside thigh.

            “Damn it.” I said out loud. “Let go fucker.”

            “MOM! He’s not letting go! How much alcohol am I supposed to use?”

            No answer.

            “MOM!”

            “I don’t know. Enough until it lets go.”

            “How the hell did he get here? This is so bizarre!”

            “They like warm, hairy places,” she called up.

            “But it’s not like I was running around with my pants off. Ahhh, he won’t fucking let go!”

            I dabbed and dabbed and pinched with my fingertips and pulled, but he wouldn’t let go. I was terrified of pinching off the body, leaving the head inside, sucking away to no end.

            “Mom?”

            “When I get the energy I’ll come up there and pull it out,” she called up. I held back tears. “This has to be menstural,” I thought. I soaked another cotton ball, wrung it out over the tick like a mini waterfall, or Armageddon flood.

           

A text message from my sister came through:

 

            “wat r u doing”

            “waiting for mom to get the energy to remove this tick from my crotch”

            “wow”

 

            Mom came upstairs, passed the open bathroom door without speaking or glancing my way. She’d been home from a ten-hour shift maybe five minutes when I first discovered the beast. I tried a different approach. I cooed to the tick. “Please let go little guy. My blood isn’t even that tasty. Wouldn’t you like a nice swim in this intoxicant I poured for you?”

When she came back I had my leg stretched over the counter, sprawled, head down. I was whispering to my groin.

“Show me,” she said.

“He’s right in my crotch.”

“I can see that.”

She had a long pair of stainless steel tweezers in her hand, leaned in, flipped it around a bit.

            “It’s not moving,” she said.

            “Not much. But I didn’t want to twist the head off.”

            She clamped the tweezers down, pulled it out, studied it.

            “Did you get the head? Are all eight legs there?”

            “I can’t see.”

            I bent over her shoulder.

            “I think I can see all the parts. I guess if I get a fever, then I can worry.”

            “I’ll tell you when to worry,” she said.

 

            I pulled my pants on, first swabbing thoroughly the place where he’d settled in, just to be sure, just incase a foot was left behind. Two deep breaths and I headed down the stairs to get my sister. “I’ll go,” mom said. “You start dinner.” We were in the kitchen now. She stood in the door, keys in hand. “My day started with an old black man with a tick in his arm, wanted me to pull it out.” I stood still, recovering, empathizing. Without irony she finished, “his tick was much bigger than yours.”

           

           

           

 

 

don't h8 me cuz i'm *twittered*

For all who have been waiting with bated breath, the new computer has arrived. Same as the last one, a little more hard drive space and a slightly different keyboard. No more numbers lock. There goes my aspirations for part time number crunching.

OMG LOL & btw I totally h8ed the movie last night but brad pitt is so hot. beers @7 & FYI I'm loving this sandwich!

With only 116 characters, counting spaces, I'm able to give kudos to some unknown fellow twitterer's joke, critique a film, expound on an actors abilities (physical), and make plans for the evening, all while indulging in a sandwich on Twitter, the latest in social networking. News travels fast these days and I hear in the publishing world editors change houses and decisions are made so quickly it's near impossible to keep up with, or was. Those on the newswire attach links, images, and even video to move the word along. I can imagine the free and easy service aids the tech world as much as Hollywood. I hear Wall Street has started it's own, highly guarded network called Warble where in-the-knows can peck out rumors and suspicions of who's going to jail and who's headed for Skid Row (although I have not confirmed this information).

I love the Guardian's take on Twitter. They're re-writing their archives and it's damn hilarious.

From an April 1, 2009 article by Rio Palof for the Guardian online:

From the archive

Highlights from the Guardian's Twitterised news archive

1927
OMG first successful transatlantic air flight wow, pretty cool! Boring day
otherwise *sigh*

1940
W Churchill giving speech NOW - "we shall fight on the beaches ... we shall never surrender" check YouTube later for the rest

1961
Listening 2 new band "The Beatles"

1989 
Berlin Wall falls! Majority view of Twitterers = it's a historic moment! What do you think??? Have your say

1997
RT@mohammedalfayed: FYI NeilHamilton, Harrods boss offering £££ 4 questions in House of Commons! Check it out

And thank you to the New York Times for showing me just how broad my twitter networking can reach. The Celebrity Twitter Ecosystem made me realize just how many of my favorite celebs are on twitter, posting all day, many of them making conversation, presumably with someone else, I can't follow. But that doesn't stop me from feeling a little bit closer to them, like we really are friends. Demi Moore keeps me up to date with all things she and Ashton, complete with pics, and Snoop Dogg always remembers to give a shout out to his "hungry twizzles" (I fell a gin and juice break coming on - oh shizzle), Martha Stewart thinks Seth Myers is cuter than Jonathon Rys Myers, and Ellen, dear old Ellen always keeps me laughing. 

Of course not all my friends are famous, but those other guys, some local, some in far off places, are just as dear to me and I'm so fortunate to keep in close touch with them! I like to keep in touch by posting my incredibly entertaining and insightful blog entires. Boo-ya (and a double snap)! 

Meanwhile, I'm thinking of writing my first novel right onto to Twitter. 140 characters a day and I'm golden. It's the next thing in self-publishing. Daily installments with nail bitting action will surely keep the fans attention. What do you think Bessie will do tomorrow? Will she kill her best friend's lover out of jealousy or eat a doughnut? I can't hardly stand it!!

Stay Tuned!