ime just whizzes by. Seems like it wasn't so long ago that I was interviewing Elliot James. It was just this past November that Elliot and I got together... that session was only two moons ago. And speaking of the moon, back in 1982, Cher and Nicholas Cage starred in Moonstruck, which film critic Roger Ebert called an enchanting, fine comedy.

Cher and Nicholas teamed up to portray a widow and a baker who found passion and love as they rushed into each other's arms. The magic of the moonbeams seem to make the world even more magical to the lovers. In fact, the moon had an impact on all the characters in the movie. I seem to recall Dean Martin crooning his signature song...

When the moon hits your eye, like a big-a pizza pie, that's amore!

But readers, the column before your eyes is in BEhavior, and we like to keep the topics limited to expansive bosoms and the reactions that follow after one sees a bosom of that magnitude.

There is a bakery in my neighborhood. It's been there more than a few years. Its unusual name, Ecce Panis, means behold the bread. I never so much as set foot into this charming bakery until recently. When I returned from my vacation to Asia in mid-November, I took an extra day off to help myself get rid of the jetlag. Asia is on the other side of the world, and Hong Kong is 12 time zones away. I didn't expect to be able to go into the office on the day after returning. So I was home and around the neighborhood. That is, my body was around the neighborhood but my internal clock was still running on Hong Kong time.

In the middle of the day, as I was approaching the bakeshop and fighting the urge to sleep, the door opened and a woman came out into the street with a broom. She was wearing a pewter gray cable-stitched wool turtleneck sweater, black jeans, boots, and an apron. I was struck by the proverbial moonbeams, even though it was broad daylight. Immediately I was frozen, unable to move any of my muscles, whatsoever, excepting those muscles that governed my optical powers.

There was an extraordinary chest beneath that cable stitching. And although I did not know it factually, there had to be a powerful foundation garment supporting those massive breasts. I managed to extract a small address book from my jacket pocket, and carefully wrote down the location, even though I live only around the corner. I needed a diversionary action to justify my inaction while the lady baker swept the sidewalk before the storefront.

Front and center in my mind for that moment were those staggeringly enormous breasts. After standing there a few moments watching their unbelievable motion as she made quick work of the sweeping, I found I still did not have a game plan. But it didn't matter, she turned towards me, noticed me, smiled, and deftly turned and entered the shop.

I spent the rest of the day fighting and ultimately losing the battle with the sleep demons. Ah, but my dreams were grand, filled with visions of mighty cables stretched to their limits. The following morning, I went in to the office, but the magnificently full-breasted lady baker was not there as I passed the bakeshop on the way to the bus.

The weekend began the next day. I did not know ahead of time that this Saturday would be a watershed day in my life. I made it my business to visit the bakery early in the day Saturday. I greeted the lady baker, an amazing vision today in a black tee shirt, blue jeans, and again, a starched white apron. Her hair was up today, and there was powder marks on her arms, and I could see splashes of powdered sugar on her boots. Her apron was projecting way out in front of her as her astoundingly large bustline pushed its way into my line of vision.

I purchased a pair of raisin and cinnamon Danish and a large coffee to take away. This was not a sit-down type of shop. I was open and friendly and not too obvious that I was simply stunned by her amazing tits. On this day, I was able to get an idea about the size of her bra: I could see the width of the band when she turned to get the pastries from the shelf behind her, and was able to count either four or five hooks. I gave her my most engaging smile, and went into a mild bit of neighborly conversation. It was just 7:45 in the morning.

All day I walked around in a kind of daze. My thoughts focused only on those incredibly huge knockers. I imagined them in my grasp, hanging over my face, or thrusting heavily against my chest, or my face. I imagined her astride me as we made passionate love, or I thought of how immense those breasts might be as they filled my hands.

It was a day of longing and a day of numerous erections. It was a long day. My game plan was to see her as she closed the shop down for the evening. But I was sadly disappointed to find that she opened the shop on Saturdays, but was not around at 7:30 PM when they shut down for the evening.

We pick up the story a week later. There was an intervening chat with her on Wednesday, but I had an assignment to work on, and a number of phone calls to make to touch base with clients and friends, so Wednesday evening was not an option for me, to say nothing of her own plans. But this much was certain: I could not --and would not-- let another encounter pass by without even making a run at her.

On Saturday morning I decided to just go for it. This morning, she had on a white tee shirt and I could easily discern a huge white lace bra beneath it. You couldn't miss it. So I smiled and asked for my double Danish and coffee, milk, no sugar, and... "Are you free this evening after work?"

"Thought you'd never ask," she said.

So that was more than five weeks ago. Nowadays, I know the difference between powdered sugar, sugar, confectioner's sugar. I know all about yeast, and baking powder, and flour. And one more thing, I can now tell you, proudly, that her bra has five hooks. And I can open it with my eyes closed.

And the best thing of all, is that when she and I are close, very close, and she is in the mood for a solid spot of heavy breathing. The words Ecce Panis float before me... and I translate them not as Behold the Bread. Instead these words take on a new meaning: behold the breasts. And even stranger is this: Nicholas Cage's baker in the movie Moonstruck and my baker with the immense bosom both have the same name: Ronnie. And you thought that the moon was just the moon! Well, lads, the moon is the maker of magic, even if sometimes it is a pizza pie, or even an Apple Danish with raisins. And if you aren't buying into that, well, that's a good reason for me to say that's amore. Sorry; I meant to say, Mai Pehn Rai...