Harvest Time

Tomatoes are red

Peppers are green

Zucchini is phalic

Aww yeah penis joke.

Its harvest time here on Wait . . . Dad? Farms, time to lace up those old hiking boots and start reaping what I've been sowing.

Its also "Media Depravation Week" as part of my artist rehabilitation program. It's a twelve step program designed to rekindle the creative universe around me, a fitness plan for egomaniacs. This is week four, which is sort of like detox for distractaholics, which means for the next seven days I get to read nothing but street signs, urgent emails, and restaurant menus. No books, magazines, crossword puzzles, or fantasy football articles. No television, internet or video games. I can listen to music, but I have to actually listen to it. No background noise.

We'll see how long it lasts.

I can take a lot of naps.

A lot of naps.

But today is all about playing out doors.

I took the monkey to the archery range, I went out and harvested arm load of vegetables and fruits, and I may go for a nice relaxing bike ride depending upon how long my nap lasts. Later, we'll head to the mom's for swimming and food and relaxing in the spa.

The fruits and vegetables are looking (and tasting) good. I'm actually here at the table munching on cherry tomatoes.

I may or may not be making salsa later this afternoon. Depending if I can find time between naps and bike rides.

The album is officially out at the printers.

150 copies should land on my door by August 1st.

It'll hit Amazon, and iTunes, and CD Baby, and a plethora of other stuff later in the month.

I'll keep you posted.

Har, dee, har, har.

The website will launch, the YouTube videos will launch, and a collection of these essay's will launch as well.

I'm putting together a band.

We will be an "Indie Pop Power Trio" if anybody asks.

Cause they'll always ask.

And we will be pretty awesome, if anybody asks.

I'll keep you posted.

So its harvest time. Where Farmer Wait . . . Dad?, who has watched the garden of his soul grow and grow and grow, and wither and die and grow some more. He has planted in the wrong spots, watered at the wrong time and has been baffled by his own decisions (who eats figs?). But setting all that aside, lets just hope that this other garden is as tasty and bountiful as these cherry tomatoes.

Or as hot as the jalepenos.

Or as zesty as this italian arugula.

Or as dirty as a bag of zucchini.

Aww yeah, penis joke.

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