I recently read a great article in Slate magazine about the demise of the Florida Citrus industry. Now, this is important to me because I like fresh, squeezed orange juice every morning. Where I live, I pay an average of $9.00 per bag of oranges; I buy 3 bags a week.

Thanks to the article, here is where it gets interesting. In 2003, the Florida orange industry produced 242 million boxes, with 90 pounds of oranges per box. This year, the forecast is 12 million boxes of oranges, a 95% decline. Again, thanks to the article, the reasons for this are various bacterial issues, and more than anything else, land sold for real estate. I’ve driven through these endless real estate plots with catchy titles like “Valencia Acres” and my favorite, “Corkscrew Grove”.

Since I don’t like processed orange juice, oranges will eventually be priced out of my budget. However, there was a ray of sunshine at Costco here when it had a gigantic delivery of fresh oranges marked down to $3.00 a bag. I bought 3 bags. When I went back for another load, they were $7.00 a bag; now they are back up. Maybe next year they will be less expensive. At least I don’t smoke and worry about the price of tobacco.

Many years ago, I purchased this phenomenal “laptop.” It is a 17″ Dell Studio model, weighing around 12 pounds. Hardly laptop material; however, it’s pink, which is (and was) a rare color.

This computer was beautiful; the screen resolution and the keyboard were excellent. It was before it’s time, for sure.

Over the years, I tried everything to extend the life of this companion. At this point, it’s helpless to continue propping it up for another minute. So, later this afternoon, I’m heading to her resting place, and it’s gone forever.

We sure had a fantastic run.

 When I drive around, I always wish everyone had an American Flag to display. Hey, US Government, here’s an idea. Set aside a tiny portion of our annual Government Budget to distribute flags from our Post Office locations to any citizen who wants one. Free. Help yourself to one, compliments of your United States Federal Government.

I love going out in the morning to raise my flag for the day. I return in the evening to take it down and carefully roll it to store for the next day. Here in the South, you see a lot of American Flags flying, from large ones above car dealers to the small ones affixed to the back of a motorcycle. No matter the size, it’s our flag, and it’s everyone’s right to display it. Let everyone share this pride.

As a kid, I had a radio resembling this one beside my bed. Every night I’d turn it on (it had some wheezing sounds at first), and the dial would lite up. I’d begin to turn the dial and listen to different stations until my mom would finally come in and say, for the hundredth time, “Turn that thing off.”

My radio was a magic carpet. There weren’t many radio stations at the time, but I listened to music and classic programs, like Inner Sanctum, Straight Arrow, and my favorite, The Lucky Lager Dancetime Hour. My radio enabled me to imagine how the actors looked, and the scenes could be anything I wanted.

A super radio program called “Hawaii Calls” featured Webley Edwards. Wow, what a name. He hosted and played a wide range of Hawaiian music (which fit right in with my love for pineapple juice). He brought the sounds of Hawaii right into my bedroom on Vallejo Street. When I first visited Honolulu, I could see and smell everything I had imagined it to be. Thanks to that small, fantastic radio, I was introduced to a world far beyond ours. Who knew then I’d explore and enjoy so many places, experiences, and people in areas I could only imagine existed as a child.

Sorry, Mom, I’ve never actually turned off the radio in my mind.

Long before I became a platinum Pan American Airlines cardholder, I was an accomplished street pilot. I lived on Vallejo Street in San Francisco, which was perfect for launching objects into the air.

I earned a sense of fame for crashing the most airplanes in the neighborhood—a somewhat questionable but amusing distinction. Luckily, the replacements only cost 10 cents. I don’t doubt that there are many, many street pilots on this site. Hey, it was cheap entertainment.

Four years ago, a close personal friend of mine committed suicide. Recently, for the first time, I learned how he died. It was like a thunderbolt when I heard the news, and I was stunned beyond belief. He was an esteemed physician, a proud father, a great husband, and a brother to me. We saw each other nearly daily; I lived nearby and shared dinners, laughs, and good and bad wine with him.

He was multi-talented. Born in China to missionary doctors, he spoke Chinese like fish peddlers, and he treated every patient with empathy and professionalism. His talents in the kitchen were well-known. He would invite his friends to weekend get-togethers at the drop of a hat. He once threw a party to celebrate the purchase of a brand-new 15-inch television set that cost a fortune at the time.

My memories of our time together blend into a years-long moving video. Today, I’ll pay tribute to his honor and pray for eternal rest. Be well, dear friend.

Recently, I listened to a wonderful podcast and a clip from This American Life about preschool children constantly tattling on each other. I didn’t realize this was such a big deal, but when I asked my daughter, who is a preschool teacher, she told me it was a huge part of the class.

With the parents’ and preschool staff’s permission, a journalist set up an old red wall phone in the classroom that recorded the children’s voices. He placed a sign over the phone that read “Tattle Phone” and recorded a message thanking the children for calling and asking them to “Tell the Whole Story” of their complaint. The kids absolutely loved it; the phone was ringing off the hook all day long.

The comments are truly delightful; I especially love two from young girls. One softly asked about a boy: “Who farted in my face?” and quickly added, “And the worst part was he didn’t say he was sorry.” Another girl started with, “Thank you for taking my call. I have to go now,” and about an hour later, called again to say, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry I had to go.” Children are wonderfully honest, unafraid to share what’s on their minds. We can all learn something from these charming stories in “Tales from the Tattle Phone.”

Yesterday, I shared my thoughts on shampoo, and I think it’s only fair we hear from Old Spice as well. Honestly, I can’t think of a single man who hasn’t used Old Spice aftershave lotion. Chances are, if you’re in a room with 100 guys, someone will smell it.

It was probably the top-selling aftershave—or close to it. And let’s not forget, every young boy eager to impress girls would douse himself in it for a dance or a date. I still use it myself, even though the glass bottles are no longer available, and it’s no longer manufactured by the same company. But whenever I walk into a meeting or a room, I can still feel that confident vibe of Old Spice over any new, less memorable foreign aftershave.