Tomato Nation

My freshman year at university, I received an unusual call in my dorm room. I had just written my first published piece as a college student, an analysis of campus jargon for the alternative paper – the one that was always getting sanctioned for running Tom of Finland art and porno stills on the back page, though by the time I ascended to the EIC chair they’d more or less given up trying to discipline us.

Dear Sars, I was surprised and delighted to learn that there’s new Vine material when I checked in recently for the annual 9/11 essay. Yay! I used to LIVE for Vine day. You have no idea. So, thing one: welcome back, Vine! Years ago you answered a question of mine about a boy. You gave me good advice I finally followed two years later. I would like to say I learned my lesson and never settled again! I could make a whole country album about the stupid shit I did in pursuit of love.

Hey. I don’t know what we do now either. I DO know that we’ll need each other going forward, as we always have, for support, mutual aid, and information on where to get high-quality wide-calf boots now that yours have gotten discontinued or tariffed out of existence. Also cat pictures. Here’s one now! This is Frankie, the current foster cat. As of this writing, he still needs a forever home, so head to @bookstorecats on Instagram to apply if you’re that home.

First of all, welcome back! I kept TN in my bookmark bar hoping you’d be back. :-) The question is about a book that might be a fever dream. I read this book more than 20 years ago, and it was probably not a new book at the time. In my head, I thought that it was a Dean Koontz book and that it was in the compilation of his with Watchers. I love Watchers. I’ve read it multiple times. The other two books I probably only read 1x each.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a lonely girl in possession of a library card must be in want of a twin. The child who spends a lot of time in books also spends a lot of time thinking about the lost or secret twin she must have – “must have” meaning surely has, but “must have” in the sense of “needs,” also – that mirror child who loves her, IS her, holds her hand always. The M&M boys. Every story is trying to do one of two things: reflect the world; or perfect the world.

Thanks to Reader Gretchen, I have more Bob Uecker-iana than some Brewers fans: multiple bobbles, a Uecker Magic 8 Ball, and an old-school alarm clock that ticks so loudly I had to banish it from my office because it was audible on podcasts. I always loved Ueck, going back to the Miller Lite ad days, and I kept listening to him — and Vin Scully — as long as I could via the MLB app, the voices of summer that kept such good company. He loved baseball; he loved talking about it.

Let’s think about something else for a minute, besides how we’re all going to come down with something called yaws probably. I’ve got two reading recs and a question. Let’s start with the question. When you wake up, and there’s a substance in the corner of your eye… What do you call that stuff? Trying to determine whether gesturing at a loved one’s face and saying “you have sleep in your eye” was specific to my family, a regionalism, which regionalism, etc.

“New York Groove” To the left and to the right / Buildings towering to the sky, it’s outta sight / In the dead of night I can’t decide whether it’s surprising that “New York Groove” is in that many true-crime documentaries; or that it’s not in more true-crime documentaries. I do know that dropping a key change at just over a minute into the track is the rock equivalent of not waiting for the light to change before crossing. Perfect, no notes.

Dear Sars, Welcome back! Dear cracking dry hands season, not so much. I’m here to ask you/the readers about a product I could swear I saw mentioned on the Vine ages ago, but I can’t find it…and in my mind I keep thinking it’s called “Wegovy” but obviously that’s not it. Do you have any clue what I’m talking about? Did I hallucinate that letter? Either way, can you guys recommend some hand cream/balms that are NOT Bag Balm because I hate the smell of that stuff.

Almost 20 years ago, at the end of my freshman year of college, I wrote to you from some long-lost email address as “Bad Judge of Character.” I just wanted to say thank you for your rightfully blunt advice, which I followed. “These people could not care less about your feelings if they were dead and in the ground” was a wakeup call I needed to hear.