No more styrofoam strawberries

Cam has all this great music, groups I never would have even heard of.  He knows how to put himself in the way of it.  He brings a lot home from his work.

Once a few days after I came here, Cam went out early and brought back some strawberries, fresh, from the farmers' market.  I didn't like strawberries much, but I wasn't going to say that to someone who went out first thing in the morning to buy me food.  So I tried one.

I hadn't realized until right then that the reason I didn't like strawberries was that I'd never been given one worth eating before.  These were like a whole different species.

"They're called Brown Sugar," Cam said, pleased at my expression.  "All the farmers have different names for their fruit."

I'd been eating plastic all my life, and after that I couldn't go back to it.  Once you have a piece of good bread or real fruit, you can't go back to bubble wrap.

It was the same with the music he brought to me.  I thought I'd listened to pretty decent stuff, and some of it still sounded all right.  I'm not a snob or a purist or anything.  I don't know enough about music to be able to judge like that, and I don't want to judge anyway.  Music is hard enough to make, and if a piece gives someone pleasure, I'm not going to try to talk him out of it.

But now I just can't stand anything that sounds canned.  It sounds like that ravioli in a tin tastes.  A little off.  Fake.  Too smooth -- there's no body to it.

Cam's got an even lower tolerance.  If something comes on the radio that sounds just a little too pop for him, he'll get this pained look on his face, like he needs to go to the dentist or something. "Oh, my favorite," he says.  "Boys In The Sync."