Back in the 80s, I remember hearing an off colour joke about Michael Jackson once.  "What did Brooke Shields' gynecologist find?  Michael's Jackson's other glove." At least there was no question whether Brooke was Billie Jean or his lover.  In case, as Jackson himself confirmed, "the kid is not mine." He even moon walked to prove his point, and there's no refuting the walk. I myself once took a test from a doctor names Paterniti.  Afterwards, I swore I was not the father.  I wondered if I had been inappropriate, but I was reassured the joke was OK, but she probably wouldn't get it because of the language barrier. Before Billie Jean, there never was a question that bull fighters and politicians were sidesteppers, and even when the latter weren't sidestepping they kept you stepping like some kind of Philadelphia dancer climbing some Stairway to the Stars .  But between rodeo cowboys and toreadors, you earn your bread from the subtle...

I know a man who is the grandson of a barrel maker, the son of a a boiler maker, the father of a flint knapper, the grandfather of a mixed martial arts fighter, and the great-grandfather of a precious little thing whose name means "so be it". I'll give you a hint.  His name is not Bojangles, although his eldest son has a name that resembles the famous tap dancer's. For those familiar with my blog (see Islands in the Stream), it may be of interest to note that people riding on the fame of Bojangles also got into fried chicken.  It wasn't just Kenny Rogers. But back to the man I know.  He stoked his Bucket a Day with anthracite coal, and inhaled lead dust from the local paint factories. He keeps a whiskey barrel made of oak staves in his garage. He also has a moving barrel (ex Philadelphia Quartz), with an address in married student housing that used to contain industrial chemicals and now houses cast iron toys (a red ice wagon and yellow fire engine...