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One thing that separates Robert Plant from the rest of us, besides his incredible singing ability, is the fact that he can’t stop talking about love, while the rest of us can.
I’ve always wondered about this. Why can’t he stop talking about love? What happened to cause the condition in the first place? Is there a name for the disorder? I’m guessing it’s treatable, otherwise, when I saw him on Letterman a few years back, he wouldn’t have been able to stop talking about it, yet as I recall he did stop talking about it a lot. But man, what a struggle it must have been in the 1970s when, for sure, he just couldn’t stop talking about love.
I believe this subject deserves to be explored in a book, which I’m strongly considering writing. I’m thinking it should be titled something like “Plant Love” so that gardeners’ husbands might inadvertently order the book at the last minute for Mother’s Day (surprise, honey!). I have to check to see if there is already a book called “Plant Love.” Hang on.
I’m back. Amazon tells me there’s no such book. There is, however, “CARGO PlantLove Celebrity Lipstick” (sounds awesome!). Still, I think I’m safe. So the book: I’ll pretend to be the writer and then you guys pretend to read it. No, you don’t have to actually read it! (But, sorry, you do have to buy it.) Here’s the pitch to publishers I’m working on:
- Chapter 1: Among the rarest conditions known to man.
- Chapter 2: What’s it called again (in plain English, not latin!)?
- Chapter 3: Tangential Detour: Latin phraseology is a pain!
- Chapter 4: Robert Plant’s Teen Years - First signs of trouble concerning talking about love.
- Chapter 5: “Mama, let me pump your gas” and other lyrics caused by the affliction.
- Chapter 6: Union of Concerned Moms start street rumbles over government inaction.
- Chapter 7: Other members of Led Zeppelin grow concerned.
- Chapter 8: John Bonham is driven to drink from the all that "talking about love" stuff.
- Chapter 9: I don’t get to see the band in Buffalo, NY and how I’ve coped since then.
Obviously, there’s room for some tweaking, but I think this would make a great book!
Last Friday, I got an e-mail from MLB: “You’ve been chosen! Get a magazine, blanket & bonus gifts.” I don’t get chosen for things very often – or so I thought! A review of my e-mail shows that I’ve been chosen by MLB six times in the last 2 or so years. Always, they want to give me my free gifts. They apparently have a glut of blankets and magazines and assume (incorrectly) that I don’t have the same. Just look under my desk and you’ll see the pile of New Yorkers and Harpers I can’t get through, as well as pristine issues of Rolling Stone, thanks to a subscription I never asked for, which I am constantly threatened with losing if I don’t act now. As for blankets, I have retained several generations of these hand-me-downs in bins for when I one day paint the interior walls of my house and need drop cloths. But wait, MLB is offering unspecified “bonus gifts”? How do I not take that deal?
On a recent sunny Thursday, making use of a vacation day and finding myself out in the suburbs on a bicycle, the landscape morphs from village gridlock, to leafy suburbia, to pastoral countryside, all in the town of Wellesley. Horses in a nearby field canter along of their own volition, apparently as pleased by the mid-70 degree sunshine and dry air as my wife and I are. Soon, we come upon the Elm Bank Reservation, where the Massachusetts Horticultural Society claims its home. An investigation of the gardens leads us to a mansion at the far end, which is falling into a state of disrepair, its windows and dormers appearing not to have seen a scraper or paint brush in decades. No sign betrays a hint of the structure’s history or current occupants, not even something vaguely aloof, like “Private Property.” A compact car of some humble make sits out front, decidedly unstately and yet at home before the mansion’s peeling paint and crumbling brickwork. One assumes the interior is no less decrepit. The Massachusetts Horticultural Society's website reveals tidbits more of the property’s history, but doesn’t say if descendants of the Cheney-Baltzell family are to blame for the building’s decay, dressing in ghoulish outfits and haunting the place like so many evil Scooby-Doo characters in order to scare off nearby tradespeople, who might otherwise be hired to give it a proper facelift.
You may be surprised to learn that, as of the posting of this blog entry, this website still has no official vacuum cleaner. Have plenty of companies sent signals about wanting one of their models to have that designation? Maybe. I wouldn’t know because I haven’t yet taken a course in how to read signals from vacuum cleaner manufacturers, who are notorious for using complicated signals that no one can interpret. Another possibility is that my lawyers have set up lots of bizarre hurdles for vacuum cleaner manufacturers to jump through before one of their models can become the official vacuum cleaner of this website, so they don’t even bother to send signals. For example, my lawyers are unwilling to enter agreements with any manufacturer that has the letter E in its name. Why? Because my lawyers are people with a bizarre need to erect outlandish hoops for vacuum cleaner manufacturers to jump through, just to see if they really are committed to being on our team. My lead counsel has pointed out that if, say, Hoover really wanted one of their top-of-the-line models to become our official vacuum cleaner, the firm could remove the E in Hoover and end up with“Hoovr,” which is sounds exactly the same, so what’s the big deal? Meanwhile, I have noted that if you take the two E’s out of “Meile” you get “Mil”. And my lawyers are like, so what?