Actually, I never really possessed this record until I was much older.  It was always at my grandparents’ house, where I could listen to it on visits.  And since I visited so often, and since I loved Sesame Street so much, I have heard this album more times than I could ever count.  Of course, I got older, and though I never forgot that this record existed, I only thought of it occasionally.  Then, a couple years ago, my grandmother gave it to me as a Christmas present.

As you can see from the cover, the Sesame Street Book and Record “contains [a] 24 page illustrated book”, and a “full color poster [is] included”.  Most of that stuff is long gone from my copy.  I have three or four pages from the book inside the gatefold jacket, and the vinyl album itself isn’t even in a sleeve.  Naturally, the disc is in fairly bad shape, with plenty of pops, and a couple skips on side two.

But, aside from the magical nostalgic quality, what I can appreciate about this record even as an adult are the songs.  They’re clever, sweet, and performed in a surprisingly unadorned style when compared to what is popular today.  The little kids sound like little kids, and not children mimicking Aretha Franklin.  Susan’s a little bit soulful on “I’ve Got Two” and “Nearly Missed”, and the backing band gets pretty funky in “Up and Down”, but you never forget that it’s a record for children.  “What Are Kids Called”, “Somebody Come and Play”, and “J-Jump” are especially sweet.  “Number 5″, “I Love Trash”, and “Rubber Duckie” are lots of fun, and “Green” is a quality song.  I seem to recall “People in Your Neighborhood” being a favorite.

I don’t know if I would have admitted it at the time, but the Sesame Street Book and Record was my favorite album until I was a teenager.

Shortly after high school, I began avidly watching Late Night with Conan O’Brien.  It was the wackiest show around, and it perfectly reflected the sense of humor my friends shared.  I spent years staying up until 1:30 in the morning watching that show.  In one episode, Conan talked about (fictional) guests he wouldn’t have back.  One was named “Johnny Airhorn”, and he had a helmet with two airhorns mounted on either side.  Whenever Conan would try to ask him a question or say anything, Johnny Airhorn would blast his horns in deafening fashion. Unfortunately, these old clips are impossible to find.

Miraculously, one of my favorites is on YouTube.  I’ve posted it before, but it’s a perfect example of what Conan does so well.  The premise alone is insane, and the execution is perfect.

Tonight is the premiere of The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien.  Andy Richter is back, Max will be there, and my hopes are high.

This house stands in a neighborhood we used to call the “Emo Ghetto”, since it was–and still is–home to some of Gainesville’s skinniest and tightest-pants-wearing hipsters.  You never knew who you’d run into hanging out there.  A fellow whom I recognized as Jeff’s neighbor was there, and with him was a girl I had never seen before.  She was dressed rather fancifully and wore sunglasses.  We didn’t speak that day, but 1,701 days later–four years ago today–we were married.

Then I heard the driver say something–first to his companion, then to me–that both dispelled my fear and surprised me.  “My father planted that tree”, he said, pointing to one of the cedars in the front yard.  The man, who appeared to be middle aged, got out of the van, introduced himself, and told me his parents lived in this house when he was born.  For the next several minutes, in a very animated fashion, he told me stories about he and his brother and father, and what the house was like when he lived here, until his teen years.  He described the inside when he lived here (“the back room [which I now call the middle room] had a built-in wall bookshelf”; “there were parquet floors” [there still are]), and told me stories about how he and his brother used to play in the yard and on the great live oak, which, of course, is much older than the neighborhood.  He told me a few things I had already surmised (our foyer used to be a screened porch; there used to be a building on the slab in our back yard), but I was thrilled to have the opportunity to ask some questions I’ve wanted answered for years.  The square cut out of the slab in the back was where his father had a brick barbecue grill, until he and his brother broke it down with a hammer when he was seven.  The house used to be green.  The bathroom tile isn’t original because his father ripped up the floor to replace a pipe.  Before the Hewetts’ house was built, the block to the west was an empty field.  He told me that for most of his childhood the house had two bedrooms, but eventually they built a small room behind the kitchen.  So, I know now that something preceded the dining room and guest room that stand today.

This man seemed so thrilled to be sharing these memories, and I felt extremely privileged to be hearing them.  I think a lot about all the places I once called home.  I’ve even driven past a few of them just like this fellow did tonight.  I’ve never met any occupants of my former homes, but I would like to think they care for these places as much as I did, and still do.

I know a beautiful old song about a man who visits the house where he grew up, and meets the family that now lives there.  He shares his memories with them and it makes him happy, but he realizes that a house is “a hotel at best”.  Just as my new friend was “a guest” in this house, so too may I be.  Just as this house means something very special to him, it means something special to me.  And some day, ages and ages hence, I may drive slowly past it, and remember everything it means to me.

Until this afternoon, Gainesville had a wonderful old soda fountain at Wise’s Drug Store on University Avenue, downtown.  It had been open for over seventy years, and was the kind of place where sassy ladies with names like Gladys would give you a hard time if you asked for a “hamburger with cheese” or didn’t know the difference between an ice cream float and a vanilla soda.  I had been going to Wise’s for as long as I’ve lived in Gainesville.  They made the best vanilla milkshakes anywhere, and served them with a spoon, and always gave you the excess in the stainless steel cup they mixed it in.  You could get malt added if you wanted, but I like things for their thingness, so I kept it simple.

Earlier this month it was announced that Wise’s would be closing.  They’ll still keep a drive-through pharmacy on SW 4th Avenue, but the soda fountain is no more.

As a dyed in the wool nostalgist, this is a sad occasion for me.  Clearly, soda fountains aren’t as common as they once were, especially ones still located inside drug stores where you could buy a hot water bottle and a shaving brush one aisle over.  Moreover, Wise’s closing means a significant site of Dana Heritage is now lost. I ate at that counter with many close friends over the years, some of whom have moved far away or with whom I have lost touch.  I shared many memorable moments there with my one true love.  On special occasions when Mrs. Hill would have an afternoon off, we’d have lunch together there at the counter.  And I know many others will miss Wise’s.  I even have two close friends who went to Wise’s directly after getting married last year in the courthouse downtown.  Since the closing was announced there have been long lines to eat, and while we were there this afternoon I could see some people weeping.

The economy being what it is, the building will probably sit empty for a while.  Eventually it’ll become a bar or club, or, more accurately, a series of bars and clubs that last a year or less each.

What a sad day.

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• I began classes at the University of Florida.  This is remarkable, because had I waited any longer the window would have closed on me, probably forever.  The University announced this year that they were changing their admissions policy for transfer students.  Unlike other universities in Florida, UF doesn’t have to admit students with transfer degrees from community colleges.  They can pick and choose.  And when the average GPA for entering freshmen at UF is over 4.0, there is little incentive for them to take people like me.  I got in just under the wire.  School is challenging, but rewarding.  I feel very grateful to be where I am.
• This year I became active in a roller debry league.  I am not a skater, of course, but I spent a lot of time with the girls who are skaters, and contributed to the league in my own small way.
• I did lots of traveling in 2008.  In January I spent a weekend in Daytona Beach at the wedding of my closest friends; in June I spent almost a week in Chicago, which is surely one of the world’s great cities; in early August I spent several days in Hilton Head, South Carolina, which I didn’t care much for as a place, but can now say I’ve seen; went to Savannah twice; had a great weekend in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, which is a delightful little town; had an incredibly memorable week in Washington, DC, where I saw a million amazing things.
• I made lots of new friends, and reconnected with many old friends on Facebook.  I saw Burt twice.
• I got myself an amazing Fender Telecaster, which is ideal in nearly every way.
• I continued my incredible no-vomiting streak.
• I paid off all of my credit card debt.
• I watched lots of Olympics on TV.
• I became the last person I know to buy a laptop computer, and it’s changed my life.
• I discovered Samuel Johnson, which also changed my life.
• I had several photographs published in books, magazines, and even the website of the Wall Street Journal.
• I ate an astonishing amount of Hungry Howie’s pizza.
• I perfected the grilled cheese sandwich (the secret ingredient is salt).
• I read: Emma; Persuasion; Oroonoko; Wuthering Heights; Lady Audley’s Secret; Evelina; Robinson Crusoe; Roxana; Oliver Twist; The Monk; Clarissa; Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and tons of poetry.
• I saw Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band in concert; they played “Jungleland”.

So long, 2008.  You were good to me.  As I do every year, I close with the Stephen Foster sentiment that has become my credo: Hard Times Come Again No More.

I was as enthusiastic about baseball then as I have ever been in my life.  My dad and I played catch every evening until it was too dark to see the ball.  We lived 400 miles from the closest major league baseball team, but I thought about the sport constantly.  I played little league ball in a park right on the shore of Old Tampa Bay, and at night it was refreshing to be by the water.  The park is still there, but the baseball diamond is long gone.  I played several different positions, but I remember being in the outfield mostly.  I usually could make contact with the ball, even if I wasn’t an especially powerful batter.  I remember a kid on my team hit a homerun over the fence once and I was amazed.  It seemed like it went a mile, though I am sure it wasn’t more than 200 feet.

When I was little I did manage to see a few major league games at Fulton County Stadium in Atlanta.  I distinctly remember seeing the Cubs vs. Braves ca. 1985.  And I got to see lots of spring training and minor league games close to home.  My dad would get us box seats, and we’d watch the Reds at Al Lopez Field in Tampa (here’s a neat film of that park from 1984); the Phillies at Jack Russell Stadium in Clearwater; the Blue Jays at Grant Field in Dunedin; and, best of all, the Cardinals at Al Lang Field in St. Petersburg.  It wasn’t expensive, and you could get close to the action.  Plus, since the crowds were sparser, you could sometimes snag a foul ball that landed in your vicinity.

When I was young I didn’t have much hope that a major league team would move to our area for regular season play.  Every few years there would be talk that an existing team would move to St. Petersburg or Tampa, but the truth was that these teams were really just using us to get leverage in their home towns to get new stadiums.  Then, in the late 1980s, St. Pete, against the advice of MLB, built a dome.  I remember going on opening day, March 3, 1990, when it was called the Florida Suncoast Dome.  There was then no indication that baseball would come to town.  It took eight years before the Devil Rays took the field.  Even then, the dome required extensive renovations.  I remember there being a good deal of outrage that a park built for baseball was so unsuited for the sport.  It was very poorly designed. But I have been to several games at what is now called Tropicana Field, and though the building is soulless–like a giant warehouse–it’s comfortable and clean.  Wrigley Field is magical, but it’s small and you are really crowded in there.  When somebody in your row needs to get out you have to stand up. That happens every minute and a half. And The Trop is a good value.  When I went last season, tickets were $5 and parking was free.  You were even allowed to bring certain outside food, though I opted for the concession stand.  It was just depressing to see such small crowds.

But now we are in a new age.  Tonight the Rays will face the Red Sox for the American League title.  I am nervous, of course, but hopeful.  The Rays have played so well, and if they get off on the right foot, Boston won’t get the energy from the fans like they would at Fenway, and will be less likely to stage a big comeback like they did on Thursday night.

So, the boy who never thought there’d be big league ball in his town will tonight watch his home team take on a storied and favored opponent.  (I know the Red Sox are favored by the radio and television and newspaper covereage this series has received.)  I’ll watch the game on TV, of course, but if I could be there I’d look a lot like the other boys in the bleachers:  I’d have a wide-eyed expression of amazement at being witness to the most perfect sport, and I’d be wearing the baseball glove that my father gave me 23 years ago today.

On that day, the 50th anniversary of the allied invasion of Europe, Miriam was in Normandy on a class trip.

It was the last day of my junior year of high school. I distinctly recall my English teacher, Mr. Marks, writing “D-Day” on the chalk board. I also remember one of the jocks in the class casually calling me “a freak”. I had never thought of myself as being different from anyone else. I also recall that the girl with whom I was obsessed (and over whom had suffered considerable angst) asked a guy I considered a close friend whether he and I would be hanging out over the summer. My feelings were hurt when, without hesitation and sounding almost offended, he said, “no!” I had never felt less popular.