Sapphire Blues

A friend of mine who lives in a gated community was upset that her neighbor painted his stucco house in an unapproved shade of mauve.

Agitated, she waved a crinkled declaration from her neighborhood association supporting her contention. It read: “We cannot and do not accept shades in the Pepto-Bismol color palette. Doing so causes nausea, indigestion and diarrhea. Be warned that you will be fined and required to repaint your house in an approved shade at your own expense. Failure to do so will result in legal action, including a two-day suspension of restroom privileges at our community swimming pool.”

The declaration was printed on a glorious shade of Buff Me Beige.

I thought it’d be helpful if I showed her some photos from my St. Thomas trip. “See?” I said. “Compared to the brilliant colors in St. Thomas, your neighbor’s color transgressions are really nothing to complain about. What’s the deal?”

I couldn’t expect my friend to understand. She was, after all, paying substantial quarterly association dues for something very precious to her: convention.

I know she’ll never visit St. Thomas.

She’ll never know a true sapphire blue.

Aunt Ruby And The Golden Hearts

Tara and I are still talking about the Red Fire Farm Festival held in Granby two days ago. Tara did everything she wanted to do except run in the Tomato Trot. The owners said dogs couldn’t enter, but to make up for it, they fixed her up a nice plate of whole heirloom tomatoes and she chomped on them like apples. What a mess, but she was one happy dog.

Me – well, I’ve never been a big tomato fan. I prefer cucumbers with the skins on, chilled of course. You should have seen all the tomato varieties, though: Brandywine, Green Zebra, Cherokee Purple, Anna Banana Russian, Aunt Ruby’s German Green, Dixie Giants, Faribo Golden Hearts.

I wonder who comes up with all these names. Have you ever gone in a grocery store and asked the produce manager for an Anna Banana Russian? I wonder what you’d get.

We never did meet Aunt Ruby or Faribo Golden Heart, but we did see the Gogosharies, Marglobes and Scarlet Toppers.

There’s something about a tomato festival that always seems to make humans cheery. Glad we went.

A JetBlue Breakthrough

JetBlue’s “All You Can Jet” promotion almost makes me want to trade my astral flights for an Airbus320.

What a first-class idea, JetBlue.

Since announcing its $599 “buffet-style” flying pass just a week ago, the airline with the tagline, “Happy Jetting,” has sold out of passes.

But marketing buzz hasn’t lost an inch of altitude. In fact, it’s gained a few thousand feet. A company spokesman attributes the promotion’s success to social media, namely Twitter.

As I could have predicted, the chicken-little industry experts are already chirping and posturing, asking if this hugely creative idea will really help JetBlue.

C’mon, chicken littles. JetBlue wanted to fill seats during a slow period and build some buzz. It’s a chance for them to win new customers, to show how fun and different they are. As long as they uphold their customer-service side of the deal, future promotions and profitability look promising.

Socializing a truly creative idea is such a breath of fresh air, isn’t it?

Don't Let The Sausage Contest Shrivel.

OK, I’m excited. Johnsonville, one of my most favorite companies in the whole wide world, launched its “Create Your Own Ville" contest on May 3, welcoming entries through July 31.

I thought it was the coolest idea. So on May 11, I entered myself in the Grillmeister category under the name “Anticipationville.”

That’s me up there, standing on my Big Green Egg grill, anticipating some juicy crunchy Johnsonville Brats sprinkled with onions, peppers and sharp cheddar.

Get it? Anticipationville? I was especially proud of my descriptive copy: “I’ve been waiting all my lives for this.”

So Johnsonville, what’s the deal? Here it is August 18, and the contest deadline was July 31. Couldn’t you do just a quick post and say, “Thanks to you, our brand awareness has skyrocketed but could you please be patient until we announce the winner?”

Oh, my. I’m sorry. Really sorry. I didn’t know I had to click on “Our Blog” over to the right of your contest’s homepage to see that winners would be announced on or about August 10.

I’m glad I’m curious by nature, or I would have missed it. Hope I win an Igloo.

That would be cool. You said around August 10^th?

Should Have Iced The Beer Down First

Today was hot enough to melt road stripes into mustard. I was thinking how awful it’d be for a car to break down in this heat, when sure enough, it happened. A dusty black sedan was stalled at a four-way intersection with no service station in sight.

And it was lunch hour.

The driver climbed out -- a nice-looking businessman but fuming, as were the folks behind him. He took off his tie, rolled up his sleeves and began pushing his car over to a corner parking lot. Drivers bumped their way around him in a sloppy version of the Texas Two Step.

Meanwhile, the traffic light turned from red to green to red. Twice.

For one group of passengers stuck at the light, the wait was unbearable. They were, after all, headed to the lake with two canoes strapped to their SUV, and they still needed to stop and get ice for their beer coolers. Two men, two women. Fit enough to be lifeguards.

That’s when their impatient driver had an epiphany. He knew just how to make the sweating businessman move faster. No, it wasn’t getting out to help. Or even offering to call for help.

He did what any enlightened jerk would do. He blasted his horn. Which inspired other drivers to join in, making for one grand, group-jerk hallelujah moment.

The traffic light turned from red to green to red for the third time.

I don’t know about you, but pushing a 4,000-pound car by yourself in just three light changes seems pretty reasonable to me.

Even heroic.

Too bad the convenience store where Horn Guy planned to buy his ice had shut down months ago. The owner couldn’t get any lender help.

Tara Goes To Tomato Land

Six days ago, a kind and noble friend of mine left her home on earth to join me on an astral flight. Her name is Tara. We are having a grand time, although I know her parents miss her terribly.

Tara was 16 when she said her goodbyes, but up here she feels like a puppy again. Since it’s her first astral flight ever, I thought we’d take some leisurely time to fly up to Massachusetts for the Red Fire Farm Tomato Festival on August 22. Not only will they have a 5K Tomato Trot field race (which Tara already says she wants to enter), but they’ll also have an incredible selection of award-winning tomatoes for everyone to taste.

Tara’s always loved tomatoes, especially if they're award-winning.

I don’t know about you, but it’s hard for me to believe a dog would chomp on a big ole heirloom tomato. I never saw Tara eat one on earth, but I have this vision of seeds and juice squishing out of her mouth and giving her a big tomato mustache.

Anyway, Tara and I will stop at all her favorite places along the way – parks, camping grounds, marinas and maybe a posh doggie spa or two. We won’t be able to take side trips too often, though, because most of the time she'll be stealing away to check on her parents.

Like she's doing right now.

The Elegance of Simple Kindness

I’m gliding over St. Armands Circle in Sarasota searching for my favorite scent in the whole wide world.

It’s coconut, of course - the cream form (although toasted runs a close second).

Just as I’m about to give up and head to Hawaii, a restaurant beckons: Tommy Bahama Tropical Café. I float in and watch the bartender whip up a tray of Kohala Coladas. Too bad my nonphysical form won’t allow me to drink, but I can smell, and the smell is exquisite.

I’m in cream-of-coconut heaven.

A couple nearby must be celebrating something special because orchids grace their table and white corkscrew ribbons are strewn everywhere. A sunburned waiter is lighting ivory candles. As always, my curiosity gets the best of me. I listen in.

“Today is our wedding anniversary and we’d love to take home a keepsake to remember the occasion,” the woman whispers to the waiter. “May we purchase this?”

She points to a small breadbasket that looks like plaited dark chocolate. It’s square and tightly woven, island exotic against the white linen tablecloth. The waiter picks it up and disappears.

Harlequin Cat is amazed. I’ve seen so many humans in my travels pick up “souvenirs” from restaurants and just waltz out with them.

This woman has offered to pay.

The waiter returns with a Tommy Bahama signature bag and places it on the table. Inside, the breadbasket, nestled in white tissue paper. ”Our gift,” he says.

So glad I stopped at Tommy’s. Life is good today.

Another Day Of Hoarding On Wall Street

This morning I made a smooth, picture-perfect astral landing on Wall Street and watched as preoccupied bankers scurried to their offices.

They did not have human heads.

Instead, they had squirrel heads that actually looked quite natural with their dark gray suits. I didn’t see any bushy tails, though. Guess they must have tucked those away somewhere.

Don’t ask me why I wasn’t shocked. Knowing that Wall Street’s biggest banks have “set aside” hundreds of billions of dollars for bonus pools despite receiving billions in taxpayer bailout money – well, let’s just say Harlequin Cat found the squirrel heads to be unremarkable.

After all, squirrels save more food than they really need.

They scatter-hoard just in case their first stash is found.

And they’re opportunists. If they see a bird feeder, they go nuts because they can eat until they’re full without touching their stockpiled supplies.

Wow. All those bird feeders -- the equivalent of high-frequency trading. No wonder the squirrel humans looked so happy today.

I didn’t mention squirrels have a brain the size of a walnut.

I’m not even going there.

Elliott And The Spider Girl

Before leaving the carnival, I stopped by to see Spider Girl. She was either quiescent or hadn’t put her makeup on yet because the tent flaps were pulled shut.

I watched as a disappointed boy stared up at her monster-size face, mesmerized by her penetrating gaze and by – well, the rest of her.

“Elliott!” his mother hollered. “She isn’t real anyway. Let’s go over to the Rainbow Chaser, now.”

I could hear Elliott weighing his choices.

Rainbow Chaser or Spider Girl?

“Elliott!”

Rainbow Chaser or Spider Girl?

As I flew away, Elliott was sliding down the Rainbow Chaser, creating a memory with a same-day expiration date.

What he’d never forget, though, is the Big What If -- the mysterious, twilight-zoney feel of almost meeting the Spider Girl.

I wonder how the silky threads of missed childhood adventures influence adult civility.

Rainbow Chaser or Spider Girl?