First of all, I think we all owe a huge debt of gratitude to Mel Gibson. In one fell swoop, he managed to raise the bar high on bad behavior. No matter how drunk and obnoxious you are, if you haven’t crossed the Gibson line, it is still OK. Talk about your sneaky subconscious — Gibson’s true colors flew brilliantly, without any compassion for the Christ.

I heard on the radio that Mel has turned to Nick Nolte for sobriety guidance, which is bizarre in and of itself, given the wealth of professional help available to them what can afford it. Maybe Mel was just happy his mug shot was far superior to Nick’s, who looked crazed, dazed, and altogether unfazed.

Lately I’ve been reading the short writings of one of my favorite authors, Tom Robbins. In this newest book, Tom has included a number of essays and pieces he wrote for a variety of magazines, many of them almost 30 years old. In one piece, apropos of almost nothing at all, he remarks that every man, woman and child on the planet passes gas an average of 14 times a day.

I laughed when I read it, but I can’t seem to forget it. I’ve started counting my own emissions — not all the time mind you — but enough to concern me. A friend of mine to whom I confessed this latest bizarre compulsion suggested if it didn’t stop soon, it would constitute a hobby and then I’d be obliged to start a flatulence blog of some sort. Holy musings! Why won’t it go away? I suspect Tom did his research on this, having started his writing career as a journalist. However I think his estimate may be a little high, although it it difficult to accurately assess since a number of hours in a day is spent in sleep, when one can’t count what one may be doing. Nevertheless, I could have lived out my remaining years without knowing this little ort, much less being semi-obsessed with it. I do wonder what could be done if all that energy could somehow be harnessed?

When I went grocery shopping recently, another of Tom’s essays prompted me to purchase a loaf of white bread, which I haven’t bought in at least 20 years. In the essay Tom and a friend are discussing what they would ask for as a last meal if they were condemned prisoners. Tom, who has had the advantage of world class eating in the best establishments, commented that nothing esoteric would be granted anyway so for him six slices of Wonder Bread, a jar of Hellmann’s mayonnaise, salt, pepper and tomatoes would do him just fine. He also lamented the relatively poor quality of tomatoes these days. As he lovingly described his construction of three succulent tomato sandwiches, my mouth started to water. I already had the Hellmann’s, but I needed white bread and tomatoes. I didn’t buy Wonder Bread, but instead freshly baked Publix white bread and some tomatoes that almost smelled right. It was close, but you just can’t go back in time to get those tomatoes from days gone by.

Another Baby Boomer friend pointed out we have only ourselves to blame for some foods not tasting as good as we remember. Since we Americans demand all things at all times, many fruits and vegetables that once were seasonal are now available year round. But it’s not the same. A true case of less being more.