Party lunch at the Cincinnati airport

A bit over a week ago, I went with a colleague on a one-day trip to and from Cincinnati.  On the way back, we stopped at a chili place in the airport because, hey, chili mac.

Indeed, it was tasty, though I may have overdone it with the hot sauce.

Click an image to see a larger version.

The chili was lurking under the spaghetti in the classic style.

While in line for this special treat, we couldn't help but notice this ad from the same fast food stand.

What I like to imagine is what it would take for me to be at the airport, walking by this stand, and suddenly need a giant box of 10 "Coneys" (which proved to be hot dogs smothered in cheese and chili).  Maybe a call from home that we've been invaded by a gang of young men?  Maybe just the worst stress day in history and a sudden and overwhelming urge to eat myself into sickness?

Whatever the cause, I have to admit that I would love to come strolling into, say, PT carrying a giant box of 10 Coneys and saying, sorry, they're all for me.

That would not be a productive day. 

My next two band names

Funky Freckle, a retro-disco band

Oyster Goblet, a group that blends sea shanties with goth riffs

What a double bill!

How to pay $4 for a soda at Walgreens

You start, as I did the other day, with a need for another Coke Zero.  At the start of each weeklong trip, I buy a two-liter Coke Zero at some relatively cheap outlet and use it for soda in my room as I work at night.  Most weeks, I leave a little when I check out.  This trip, though, was a day longer than normal and included even more super late nights than normal, so I ran out of Coke Zero on Friday morning.

No problem, I thought; I'll just run to the nearby Walgreens, where I bought the first bottle, and pick up a 20 oz. smaller bottle.

When I arrived at the store, though, I decided that wasn't going to be enough, so I better pick up two 20 oz. bottles.  Two of those, though, cost $3.00, while a two-liter container was only $1.99.  I opted for the cheaper option, though I felt vaguely guilty about how much I'd probably end up throwing out.

At the register, the woman checking me out asked if I'd like to donate a dollar to a childrens' hospital charity.  That seemed like a good idea, so I said, yes.

When the bill came, it was for $3.15 after tax.  That left me with 85 cents in change, and I avoid carrying change on the road, so I donated the 85 cents to the charity as well.

And walked out with my four-dollar soda.

Good intentions meet tempting reality--and lose

I had so much work to do tonight that I wanted to make dinner quick.  I had asked a local colleague for his favorite quickie burger joint, and he had suggested Mooyah.  A Mooyah restaurant was within ten minutes of the hotel, so I set out to get a bacon cheeseburger (my typical burger order) and a side salad.

Once in the restaurant, though, I noticed this laminated addition to the Mooyah standard menu.

Click an image to see a larger version.

Note the second entry from the bottom in the right column:  The Hamburdog.

We're talking crack to an addict here.  Sure, it has a patty, and cheese, and bacon, but it also has a hot dog--as a topping!  Not to mention fried onion strings and jalapenos.

Oh, I had to taste this slab of American weirdness.  ("Slab of American Weirdness," by the way, is both my next band name and what I may put on a shirt and ask everyone who meets me to call me.  It could happen.)

Anyway, I still tried to hold to the shreds of my resolve by ordering it with a side salad.

Minutes later, this dish appeared.

I honestly did not know the burger came with fries.

The little cup does not contain dressing; no, it, too, preys on my weaknesses by being a chile-spiced queso.  Damn, but it was good on those fries.

Back to the burger.  Check out the side view of this beast.

Though I knew I would regret it, I had to pop the top on this baby and give it a look.

Oh, Lord, forgive me:  that is even sexier than it is disgusting.

Yeah, I ate every bite of it, and it was mighty damn fine.

I expect to pay for it later, but right now, I have no regrets.  Screw the good intentions; I, Slab of American Weirdness, devoured The Hamburdog.

Why I don't take selfies: A story in four pictures

Quite a few readers of this blog have bugged me over the years to post more pictures of myself, particularly when I'm in interesting places or at fancy restaurants.  Earlier tonight, as I was enjoying a delicious meal at Pau Qui's new(ish) place, Kuneho, I recalled these messages as I stared at my mocktail umbrella drink.

Click an image to see a larger version.

The umbrella spoke to me.  I thought, hey, I'd look quite jaunty with that in my hair.

I then realized I have such short hair that I'd have to settle for putting the umbrella behind my ear, but I figured that would do just fine.

So I took this first selfie.

Now, please understand that this is my expression as I'm eating a wonderful dinner.  Despite how I look, I am in this moment rather happy.

I stared at the image on my phone and thought, hmmm, that's not the happiest expression, nor is it the most awake look.  Perhaps it's my eyes, I thought, which appear entirely too small here!

Upon which realization I shot this next pic.

One glance at this one was enough to tell me that I now looked slightly more menacing.  Again, though, for no clear reason I fixated on my eyes, which still seemed too small.

Time for another shot.

The best thing I can say about this one is that I achieved the goal of not having such small eyes.  Unfortunately, I did so at the cost of looking like a serial killer who's just broken out of maximum security and has been off his meds for about a month, living in the wild by scooping up road kill and eating it raw, bones and all.

At this point, wisdom prevailed, and I stopped taking selfies.

I think you will agree with me on two points:

1. I should not take selfies.
2. I rock an umbrella behind my ear.

Okay, maybe you will agree with me on only one of those.

Overheard at dinner

"Don't worry. Everything's okay. I'm just having visions."

The odd part is, I was the one who said it.

And it was all true.

But in a good way.

Holden spurns Fur Holden

What cruel rejection is this, that Fur Holden, a creature born of the mighty dog himself, should suffer such willful inattention at the hands of his creator.

Fur Holden, lacking legs, could only hold his ground until breezes or grasping arms or Swiffers hastened his departure from this short, cold life.

Yes, I am watching you

and, yes, I am everywhere, so don't you start doing anything bad.

Don't make me come there and shut down your party.

My room won't obey me

I like to keep my hotel rooms cold.  I usually opt for 65 to 67 degrees Fahrenheit, which is as low as most U.S. hotels will let you take the room.  I work very late, and the cold helps keep me from falling asleep.  Plus, it's fantastic to sleep under heavy covers in a cold room.

This room has apparently decided it wants to be warmer.  I set it to 65, and it chills to that lovely temperature--for a while.  An hour or two later, I notice I'm warm and comfortable, when I should be cold and uncomfortable.  I check the thermostat.  The room is now 70.  Yes, I verified how the HVAC controls work, and I even had a maintenance guy check that I was doing the right thing.  This room just will not obey me.

I look forward to returning to my usual hotel on my next Austin trip.

Another lesson I didn't need to learn

Staring at your face in a hotel bathroom's magnifying mirror when you're exhausted after an eighteen-hour work day will never lead to anything good.

Special bonus clothing blog

I am definitely no expert in the science, construction, or marketing of clothing, but to the best of my knowledge, it's time for this sock

Click the image to see a larger version--if you dare.

to head to the great sock drawer in the sky.

That said, I admire its grit and dedication, and I retire it with reluctance.

Back to your regularly scheduled blog.

Moving away from socks

For most of my life, I have worn socks and sneakers of one sort or another.  Sneakers are generally efficient, useful shoes, ready to support you in normal day-to-day functions and game for running or other, more active endeavors.  Socks are important to stop the sneakers from rotting and because, well, my mother told me I had to wear socks.

Lately, though, I've found myself moving away from socks and from lacing up shoes.

It started with boat shoes while vacationing at the beach.  Once I found a comfy brand, I discovered the joy and efficiency of simply slipping on the shoes and being ready to go.  I wouldn't use them for exercising, but for most of what I do each day, they are great.  Over time, I started wearing them to work as well, because they pass general muster and are so efficient to use.

Last year, against my own previous judgment, I tried on a pair of Uggs and found that I loved them.  I had feared my feet would quickly grow too hot, but they don't.  I again reaped the time savings of not having to put on socks and lace up shoes, but this time in the colder months.  They also generally pass at work, though I wouldn't wear them--or boat shoes--to client sites or when we had client visitors.

I'm still going to wear sneakers--or dressy sneaker-like shoes--regularly, but my experiences with and time savings from boat shoes and Uggs are going to make them ever more frequent parts of my wardrobe.

The acorn doesn't fall very far from the Christmas tree

I have a pretty sick sense of humor, though I do try to contain it here on the blog.  It's no surprise, then, that Scott's humor can turn rather odd.  Tonight, he showed me two gifts he had wrapped for me.

In the first, he was simply being silly.

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No, for those wondering, "Scooter" is not a nickname of his; he was just having fun here.

On the second gift, he started out being too lazy to repeat the full first tag, and then the family sense of humor surfaced.

I laughed so hard when I saw this that I almost pulled a rib.

That's my boy.

What every well-dressed moviegoer is wearing this season

Oh, I am indeed a faithful follower of fashion.

Click the image to see a larger version.

Nothing says high fashion like sparkly ears and a three-year-old windbreaker.

Several folks who've seen this photo have debated whether this is my normal (a k a "I will kill you") or my mildly annoyed (a k a "I will kill you slowly"s) smile.  I think it correctly shows that I'm about as happy as a man with glittery ears can be.

The weather is behaving irrationally

and so to retaliate, I have decided, at least while at home, to dress equally irrationally.

If you really want to see a larger version of this image, 

click on it--but don't blame me.

This outfit is bound to teach the weather a lesson.

By the way, don't think I don't know what you're thinking.  I do:  all sexy, all the time.

Oh, yeah, that's me.

A peek inside my head

I walk into the restroom at work today, and as the door closes, the Beatles begin singing "Ticket To Ride" on the building's music system that feeds our bathrooms.

I pause a second to let the music flow over and into me, and in that moment...

...I am a kid again, going into the Florida theater in St. Petersburg on a Saturday afternoon for the RC Cola six-bottle-cap movie extravaganza--cartoons and a double feature.  I'm about to see Help for the first time.

John Lennon is singing that I've got to hide my love away, and I ache with pain even as I realize that I have no real clue what love is, I just know that I better hide mine away, because every time I smile at a girl she reacts like she's eaten a bug.

I'm sixteen and my first love has dumped me because I loved her too much, and I don't understand how that is possible, how can I love someone and not love them that much?

I'm myself again, and I know I'm less intense now, and I wonder for a spring sigh of an instant if sixteen-year-old me didn't learn that lesson too well.

I shake my head, because I'm at work, I'm late to present at a vision meeting, and I have to focus on that task, not love, not the Beatles, not "Ticket To Ride," not what I lost, not any of that.



It's late now, and I'm playing the Help album.  Alone in my office, the music transporting me and melting away the years, it all comes back to me, and my heart aches again, aches so much I fear my chest might split, though I can't even list all that it aches for.

I am a mad, hairy beast

It's 4:45 in the morning.  I've been working since about eleven, and I have still more work to do.  On a bathroom break I noticed again what a hairy beast I have become.

I figured you'd want to see.

Click the image to see a larger version.

Why, you might ask, have I let myself become this hairy?

See if you can guess the reason(s).

I am this hairy because

1. I've heard the ladies like the hairy man.
2. I'm auditioning for the role of James "Bucky" Yeti in the local production of It's an Abominable Life.
3. I've been crazy busy at work.
4. I've learned that you can stave off hunger for hours by plucking and chewing beard hairs.
5. I haven't felt like shaving or trimming my beard.
6. All of the above.
7. None of the above.

Hint:  This is not an easy quiz.

Cher is haunting my bathroom

Okay, it's not my bathroom, it's the men's restroom in my company's office building, and it's not Cher personally, it's her music, but still.  Two nights in a row, I've walked into the restroom, and Cher has been singing.

The first night it was her 1998 Auto-tuned hit, "Believe."

Tonight, it was her cover of Marc Cohn's wonderful "Walking In Memphis"--a cover that's pretty darn good.

What does this mean?  I haven't a clue, but surely it can't be a coincidence.  Surely not.

I know that if Cher is singing again Wednesday night, I'm going to have to find out who's deejaying that bathroom.

Something is afoot.

Five signs that your neck is too big

5.  NFL players whistle in awe and ask what neck-training regimen you follow.

4.  Small children wonder aloud how your head stays on without a neck.

3.  No dress shirt's collar will close unless you start with a garment five sizes bigger than what you wear and have the tent tailored into something that fits your body.

2.  ENT specialists demand triple-time if they have to work on it.

1.  European assassins have to bring garrote extenders when they come to kill you.

Pondering dental etiquette

I have to go to the dentist tomorrow for my semi-annual (more or less) teeth-cleaning appointment.  I do not enjoy time in the dental chair; never have, never will.  In anticipation of these trips, odd ideas often creep around in my head.  Today's concerns dental etiquette, specifically whether I should shave before the appointment.

My beard hair grows reasonably quickly, but I hate to shave.  That's why I wore a full beard for many years, and it's why I shave most of my face only occasionally.  As a result of my intermittent shaving strategy, however, my face mutates rapidly from smooth to rough to fine-grain sandpaper to coarse-grain sandpaper to whatever you call something that you could use to rub the slime and barnacles from the hull of a boat that's spent the last three years at the bottom of a particularly murky intracoastal waterway.

I'm currently at the fine-grain sandpaper stage; by morning, I'll be coarse-grain.

Do I shave before I go?

On the one hand, doing so seems considerate, and I do not mean to be rude to my dental hygienist.  (Never be rude to anyone wielding sharp instruments and poking around in your maw.)  On the other hand, she wears gloves and so may not give a damn.

You may consider shaving to be a task of no cost, but given that I have to do it in the morning, when I am a bear of little brain, and that it leaves parts of my face looking like someone's been slapping me around with chunks of poison ivy for half an hour, I do not enjoy it at all.

And so my brain spins round and round.