Jerry Brown just emailed me again. He didn’t ask me for money this time (for what, I can’t figure out, since he isn’t a declared candidate for anything). Here’s what he had to say:

Dear Lee

As Anne and I get ready for Thanksgiving tomorrow, many fond memories of past family gatherings come to mind.  It is on these occasions that my father would often share stories of his family, particularly his grandfather who came across the plains and over the Sierras to Sacramento in 1852.  In those days, the challenges were enormous and of a type we can barely imagine.

Today we face entirely different challenges.  Whether they are bigger or smaller, I can’t say. But I do know that California is still a state of imagination and boundless possibility.  Our pioneering spirit is very much alive and will enable us to handle any of our problems, however daunting they may now appear.

As you take time to enjoy Thanksgiving with your own family and reflect on the year that is drawing to a close, you can take renewed encouragement from the courage and achievements that have made California such a unique and wonderful place.

My best wishes to you and your family.

With respect,

Jerry Brown

I’ve always rather liked Jerry, and I appreciate these emails. So I responded thusly:

Jerry,

Are you running for something?

Because I might consider supporting you if I knew you were running for something.

Perhaps governor? Because there are no Democrats declared in that race. Kind of embarrassing.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Lee

I’ll let you know what he says.

“The Road” represents one possible end for mankind. Here’s another.

I’d like to install a pet door downstairs to accommodate my dog so that she can chase that squirrel with abandon and without needing me to jump up let her out every other minute.

I’m confident I’ll do a better job than this.

Yesterday when I went out to my car there was so much dirt layered atop it that I thought an undertaker had been by with a shovel. Before the paranoia could really get cranking, I crossed the street and looked at my neighbor’s car:  same thing. Indeed, every car on the street looked like the victim of the latest Biblical plague:  airborne dirt. Later, a service writer at the Ford dealership told me that it had been on the news:  Some vicious wind had come whistling through the valley last night and deposited dirt everywhere. (And no, it wasn’t anyone at TMZ.com.)

Just now I took my dog for a bike ride. (Well, I pedal, she runs alongside.) There was so much grit in the air I felt like I was in one of those asteroid disaster movies.  Since 1988, southern California has had earthquakes, mud slides, deluges, drought, riots, and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Now this.

This year, for the first time in a long time, I’m not cooking Thanksgiving dinner and neither is my wife. Some years I do the turkey and all the fixings, especially if the holiday falls between two of her graveyard shifts or if she’s out of town with our kids (in which case I invite strange assemblages of acquaintances, as in this episode recounted this time last year). Other years she does it. This year we’re going to a nice restaurant instead. It was her idea, and it’s one I like a lot.

Her other idea is that after our Thanksgiving dinner at the nice restaurant, the five of us can go to the movies. She scanned the listings to see what’s playing. “We can go see ‘The Fantastic Mr. Fox,'” she said. “Or, we can take the kids to see” and she named this movie. Given the subject matter, I’m not sure it’s the right choice for a feast holiday.

This rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody” leaves me feeling all fuzzy.

Lou Dobbs may run for President.

In other news, there’s still no Democrat running for governor of California.

Overheard tonight, as my 7-year-old and his 11-year-old sister came across a television commercial for the new teen vampire movie:

Him:  “Why doesn’t he die? He’s a vampire. Vampires can’t be out in sunlight.”

Her:  “I don’t know. He just doesn’t.”

Him:  “Why not?”

Her:  “I don’t know. I know one way to kill them for sure. Rip them apart into pieces. They did that in the first movie.”

Him:  “Why don’t they use acid? That would work.”

Her:  No response.

Him:  “Why don’t they use acid?”

Her:  No response.

Him:  “EMMA!!!!! Why don’t they use acid?”

Her:  “I DON’T KNOW!!!!”

Later, he told me that he had “a plan to put an end to her diabolical ways.”

According to a news story on MSNBC.com, “Tiny insect brains can solve big problems.“

If you’d like to see what “The Prisoner” really looks like, click here.

The new one doesn’t even have cool theme music, let alone Patrick McGoohan’s penetrating glare (which I practiced for hours back in high school).