Things That Go Pop In The Night

I love the 4th of July for many reasons. It's the day after my birthday. I never have to get up to go to work the next day (that is...unless the 4th falls on a Sunday). It's a time where you spend time with family and friends. And its a time where everyone seems to have a good time.

It's the last reason that I am considering eliminating from my list of all the reasons why I love the holday.

I love fireworks. I love how they've really become pretty sophisticated over the years, when drawing your name in the sky with a sparkler, or lighting a charcoal "worm" or smoke bomb was a pretty cool deal. Now...they're pretty much lame. Not having bought fireworks lately, I don't even know if they make the latter, but rather these complicated fountain things, with complicated names that didn't really translate well to English when they were shipped over from China. I mean, what the hell does White Lotus In Black Hawk Transistor Happiness really mean anyhow....?

Anyhow, it seems anymore that there needs to be more lift, more bang, more pizzazz, more fire, etc., anymore for any teenager or adult to even remotely be interested in them. I would tend to agree as well. And, in addition, it seems that teenagers and adults feel the need to start immediately after Memorial Day, and have the festivities last later and later in the evening, reaching its apex about the first of July, where it seems bangs last until 3 am.

People in my neighborhood seem to have been following this practice as of late, and it's really getting out of hand. I like fireworks like any other person, but at 3 am, I don't find them very festive, especially if I've not imbibed in some sort of alcoholic libation, and have to get up early the next morning. Shutting the windows doesn't help. You still hear them, especially with the screechy ones.

I'm open to suggestions as to how to deal with this, and probably will migrate to some "Jackass" type of practical joke on the people, which may result in filing an insurance claim or lawsuit against me. So I sit, counting to 2342, keeping my emotions in check.

Or perhaps I should get that brick of Black Cat firecrackers, find the bastards' home, and light them off on their front porch...at 6 a.m., a time where I happen to be rarin' to go...

Porto San Giuseppe

Yesterday, I realized that I am on the last end of my annual Florida vacation. I really love it down here, as I love the surroundings, the area, the pace of life (although sometimes a bit overly slow)and especially the weather. I've never been here during the summer or during a hurricane season, but I'm certain that all things considered, this is a fine place to be.

In the morning, we ventured to Apalachicola's downtown area, where there is a myriad of different places to shop, eat, and see, as the city was founded as a harbor in the early 1800's, and the market place reflects a lot of that old charm. We visited a flower shop by mistake, as it was a former sea sponge warehouse that housed an antique store, that now housed a flower shop. In entering the store, it said that it was a flower shop and gift store. From what we saw however, it was a very, VERY basic flower shop. Wherever the gifts were, they were probably on backorder, for as far as I could tell, there were no "gifty" type things anywhere to be found. As we walked into the store, the owner was very chipper and polite in asking us if we could be helped. When we said we were looking for the antique shop, however, we were quickly shooed out of the store with a flurry of directions. Apparently that woman's been asked the same question more than once.

I am not one for antiques at all. I suspect that it has everything to do with how antique shops smell. They just smell old, musty, and dank. Normally this kind of a shop wouldn't be one that I would seek out. However, this particular shop sells some of the best hand-made soap (made from goat's milk) that I have ever used in my entire life.

Being redirected to "the Hayes House" back in town, we ventured to where this antique store was relocated, and browsed through all of the wares they had to offer.
Upon buying a dozen bars of soap, we headed for our next stop, "The Owl Cafe" Cooking Shop, and proceeded to get some really cool kitchen stuff, a seafood cookbook, some shrimp de-veiners, and spices.

We decided to head back to the beach house, where we'd be able to sit in the sun for a few hours before having to decide what we were going to have for supper.

My mom suggested our dinner destination, "Joe Mama's Wood Oven Pizza" in central Port St. Joe, Florida. When we first arrived, there weren't a lot of cars out front in the street, and in looking from the front of the restaurant (which had dark tinted glass), it didn't look like it was open.

After further review, we did see lights on in the restaurant, and decided to give it a try. We were greeted by a very friendly young woman that understood our confusion when we said we couldn't tell if the restaurant was open or not as it was so dark. We were seated, and our server came over, took our drink order and let us decide on the type of pizza we would like to try.

The great thing we noticed was that almost every table in the restaurant was full of diners, and that it truly did have the wood burning stove in the kitchen, similar to the wood ovens my mom and I experienced when we were in Rome, Florence, and Torino. We were both excited to anticipate having REAL Italian pizza. My mom ordered the pizza margherita, which had garlic, tomato, basil, and mozzarella. I opted for the Quatro, which had fresh mozzarella, basil, cured ham, and tomato.

In a matter of minutes, out came the pizzas from our server, and sure enough, they were identical to the pizzas we had in Italy. After the first taste, we knew one thing: this pizzeria is a complete WINNER. Wood stoves have a different way of cooking, and give pizza crusts (or for that matter, the whole pizza) a more rustic, earthy taste and texture, and the crust was amazing!

It truly was an experience reminiscent of past travels to Italy, and was a great way to end the evening. Next time, I hope to try the pizza with the arugula..it looked really interesting!

Fresher Than Preferred

The weather in Florida has been spectacular all week. No clouds seem to be anywhere nearby, and the temperature has been anywhere from 78-83 degrees. Doesn't get any better than that.

I have had several opportunities to walk along the beach, both around the beach house and nearby where there's a lighthouse. We have seen many types of seabirds, shells, dolphins, and some lizards. We have been able to see fishing boats way off in the horizon, catching fish or shrimp.

Nothing is better than fresh seafood from the Gulf of Mexico. In this area, there are many different restaurants to be able to try tuna, grouper, shrimp, bay scallops, oysters, and any other type of seafood you can imagine. We've tried many over the last several years in coming down to Cape San Blas and Port St. Joe, Florida.

Tonight we were hungry. My mom and I decided that we would venture to a place that we've gone to 2 or three times in the past. It's in the harbor at Port St. Joe, and it's called the Dockside Cafe. I don't think any time we've gone there where the service has been anything to write home about, and some of the servers just do their jobs. This isn't an issue, since the food has been good, and usually comes promptly.

I have no idea if our experience today was an exception or what. Walking into the restaurant, normally someone at least greets you at the door, even if you are asked to seat yourselves. We opted to sit out on the patio, where there was a nice breeze, and wasn't quite so stuffy. As we walked to the table, we passed by about 3 to 4 different workers, none of whom bothered to say hello, or even acknowledge we were there. I have no idea if they were short of help, but from what I saw of the patron to server ratio, this was certainly not the case.

We ordered our beers (which were probably the only things that were served promptly) and ordered the food. I opted for a shrimp basket with fries, and my mom ordered their blackened grouper with steamed vegetables.

After waiting approximately 20 minutes for our food to be served (and by now, our drinks were getting lighter), we finally got the food. While the server was chipper, the food was anything but.

I asked my mom how her food was, and the best part of her meal was the steamed vegetables on her plate, as her blackened grouper was somewhat fishy. I've never had fishy tasting grouper before. This was a first.

I ate about 4 of my 10 fried shrimp, which looked done on the outside, but upon closer examination, realized that they were extremely fresh: fresh off the boat, breaded, and fresh on my plate. While they were de-veined (thank goodness), the remaining shrimp on my plate were all translucent, and not the normal cooked white color that shrimp SHOULD be.

No amount of tartar or cocktail sauce would have improved the freshest food on my plate. I had to check the menu to make sure that we didn't end up in a sushi bar, as opposed to a seafood cafe.

Unfortunately, my criticism of my food to my server fell upon deaf ears, even after showing her my uncooked shrimp and giving her a cooking lesson on what cooked shrimp should look like. The only remedy was for the server to go back and get more shrimp for me. This was not an option for me. I respectfully declined. There was no offer to take the price of my dinner (at an overpriced $10.99) off the bill.

Freshly ingrained in our minds, her lack of empathy or care resulted in a less than stellar tip, which really shouldn't have been her fault. Oh well, our indifference matched what we experienced.

Dockside Cafe and Grill in Port St. Joe, Florida was a severe disappointment both from the quality of the food, and the quality of the service, which is a shame when we've seen many restaurants in the area in previous years that had fantastic food, fantastic service, but went out of business. If they don't pay attention to these types of things in future, this restaurant, too, won't last long either.

We certainly won't be coming back any time soon.

The Birds

I've come to the conclusion that I really like the beach. I like the ocean. I like the sand. I like the sun. I like how warm it is. Yesterday, for the first time since I was like 10 years old, I flew a kite on the beach. I had gotten a really cool kite that I had seen in a magazine, shaped in the outline of a shark. The kite is about 7 feet long, and as you look up at it from the sky, all you can see is the outline of this black shark, with its mouth open displaying a huge set of sharp, pointy teeth.

The seabirds didn't quite know what to think about this new avian friend in the sky. Most of them avoided it, but many of the seabirds that flew by, looked at it, squawked a bit, and then went on their merry way. It was relatively easy to fly, and again, was a perfect way to spend part of the afternoon. After all, yesterday was quite sunny and 81.

Afterward, my mom and I decided that we needed to go into town to get a few things from the grocery store. On the way, the Florida Highway Department must be in the process of doing several different projects, two of which happen to be from where we are staying, into Port St. Joe. At one point there was a flagman directing traffic around a blind curve on the highway. Either he was half-heartedly into his job, or was just slow to react (after all, this is the South), it seemed to take forever to get past the construction area. We ended up getting stuck behind a huge dump truck full of sand and whatnot, and what seemed to be a full load from the onset of his departure, turned out to be significantly less, as most of what he was hauling in the back was either leaking out, or being blown out by the wind.

I was tempted to flip the guy the bird.

Anyhow, we ended up getting the things we needed, toodled around the downtown area of Port St. Joe, and then headed back. Unfortunately for the city's economy, several businesses have closed shop or gone out of business. The economy has hit this area of Florida really hard, only to be exacerbated by new government restrictions on oyster fishing and protection, which is the livelihood of practically EVERYTHING down here.

Anyhow, in the evening, we ventured to Apalachicola to Boss Oyster Company for supper. I had a hankering for bay scallops, and last night's dinner was no disappointment. We were able to sit outside overlooking Apalachicola Bay and the inlet to the river, directly next to the wharf where several shrimping and fishing boats stood anchored, waiting for the next day's catch to commence.

While we were sitting on the patio outside, the menagerie of seabirds was a sight to behold. In two cases, the diners sitting on the patio opted to move inside, as there were several instances where there were hundreds of seagulls swarming around the area. My sister-in-law, who is no ornithologist, would have been as anxious as a cat laying in a room full of rocking chairs.

What was fascinating was how the restaurant had devised an interesting way to keep the birds from landing on the patio, by executing an intricate and random weaving of heavy test fish line in and out of the tables, canopies over the tables, and back overhead to the building. Apparently during the day, these fishing lines are shiny. By dinner time, they aren't, which makes the birds aggressive (seeing everyone eat nearby). By nighttime, birds go home to roost. Seagulls, for some reason don't like shiny fish lines, and therefore stay away, thus preventing unexpected surprises during dinner.

I was convinced I was pooped on twice during dinner.

At one point during dinner, my mom asked the server whether or not she had a B-B gun handy, as my mom informed her that it would be kind of fun to shoot at the seagulls. My mom then asked if there is any law against shooting seabirds. From the look on the server's face, she was taken aback, and then added "not to my knowledge. Wouldn't that be fun!" I am convinced my mother is Annie Oakley reincarnated.

Checking each other out to make sure there was no incendiary damages, my mom and I headed back to the beach house, and ended up enjoying a glass of this stuff called "Coco Vine," which is a libation that combines red wine with Dutch chocolate. It tastes like chocolate milk on ice and was quite tasty. And after thinking about how on earth someone would have thought to put chocolate and wine together, I then realized that this came from Holland. Someone must have had the munchies after smoking the reefer, and thought that such a concoction would be interesting.

Well, it's a winner.

The other thing I thought about after getting back was, all the people in the movie "The Birds" had to do to save themselves was to string a ton of heavy test fish line all over the city and over their homes, and it would have kept any deadly flying reptiles away...except at dinner time.

Apparently they didn't consult Boss Oyster company before making the movie.

A Pilferer Among Us

Today has been a beautiful, sunny, breezy day at the beach house. We had the opportunity to lie out on the beach, on the deck, and take in some beautiful sun. Not wanting to get burned, we decided to get cleaned up and dressed and head into town, as we needed to get some swivel hooks for a kite I have.

The kite is a really cool diamond frame kite that is about 7 feet long, jet black in the form of a shark. I'm very excited to be able to fly it while I'm down here, and hopefully get some pictures of it in action. The swivel hooks we needed were to be able to attach the kite to the line.

So my mom and I decided we would head into Port St. Joe, go to the fishing/sporting store just in town, get the swivel hooks, and then head back, picking up some gulf shrimp on our way home. When we got back, my mom made the observation that some of the sandcastle materials were missing. These materials consisted of two large 5 gallon Blains Farm and Fleet buckets, 4 red rectangular block makers, and several assorted sand toys that my nieces played with while they were here.

I couldn't quite figure out what had happened, since I wasn't that observant when I got here. All afternoon we wondered what had happened to all of the sandcastle tools, and my mom was convinced that someone took them.

Getting back to the beach house, I took it upon myself to look all around the house, and all around outside. The first deduction that I made was that I thought that maybe the wind took the buckets and the things inside them and spilled them over into the neighbor's yard. As I looked along the east side of the neighbors' home at 728 Treasure Drive, Port St. Joe, Florida, I didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

That is until I looked over at their ground level patio, to see the bottom of some white buckets, and some rectangular red plastic blocks sitting in the shower stall next door, at 278 Treasure Dr., Port St. Joe, Florida.

Whoever lives or stays at the house on 278 Treasure Drive in Port St. Joe Florida, had moved the white buckets, the red rectangular brick makers, and all of my nieces' sand toys, and placed them in their outside shower stall either while we were gone, or while my mom picked me up at the airport yesterday. Apparently they thought that my mom, my brother and sister-in-law, and my nieces had left, and decided to help themselves to our things without asking.

Needless to say, being the shy unassertive person I am, I walked over to the house, unlatched the door to the outdoor shower, collected the buckets, the red brick makers, and my nieces' sand castle toys, and brought them back to where they belonged.

I have no idea if the people staying at 278 Treasure Dr., Port St. Joe, Florida have done this before, or if they have done this to other visitors' things, but one thing's for certain. The owners of the house we're staying in, as well as the rental agency we procured the house through, will be getting a nice note from me, notifying each that there are pilferers in the neighborhood, and that they happen to be staying next door.

Florida 2010

This morning has been an interesting morning. I got up in plenty of time to make it to the plane, by getting up at 3 a.m., which to any normal human being who isn’t still partying at that hour, is just ugly.

I will say one thing however. It was really handy to have the hotel right across the street from terminal 2 at O’Hare. Terminal 2 happens to be the same terminal that houses the airline I took today, which turned out to be a good thing, since it was about 29 degrees this morning. Having to pack lightly (only taking a carry-on bag and not checking any luggage), my wardrobe options were severely limited, and only consisted of shorts, flip-flops, and a t-shirt. Apparently I didn’t plan ahead very well.

I breezed by ticketing and security, which now that I look back at it today was probably a first. I also made it to the gate with plenty of time to spare, enabling me to be able to get my morning jolt of coffee, and start gawking at people.
Much like the bus depot yesterday, people watching in the airport is a favorite of mine. It’s also, in my honest opinion, has to be any sociologist’s dream.

The first character I ran across today was a man that had to be carted up to the gate in a wheelchair. From where the ticketing counter was, the security gate, and ultimately the final boarding gate, this was quite a hike. On the way, and immediately inside the Delta concourse, the McDonalds restaurant was a beacon to just about everyone passing through security. What didn’t make sense to me was that upon getting to the gate, the man got out of the wheelchair, sat down at the gate, and then immediately got up again and left. I wasn’t paying much attention to him, but several minutes later, this same “disabled” man came back with two coffees and some breakfast food.

I’m usually pretty sympathetic to any poor soul needing additional assistance. But
this man was a complete opportunist.

Speaking of breakfast sandwiches, I also observed one young guy consume more McDonalds’ breakfast food at one sitting than I have ever seen before in my life. As I was sitting near the fake paraplegic, I watched, in amazement and horror, this young 25-ish male consume 3 to 4 breakfast sandwiches, 4 hash browns, and two trays of pancakes and sausage. I could feel my arteries clogging just watching the guy.

After watching the human garbage disposal for a while, and gagging in the process, there was another woman with very curly fake blonde hair prancing around the gate area. For lack of a name, I called her Curly Sue. With severe and dramatic facial makeup, big circular oversized Hollywood sunglasses, and a huge head (attached to a rotund body) of blond curly hair, she passed by where several people were sitting, including me, with her faux-alligator fire engine red roll-along carry on bag. With no regard for the other bags that people had sitting by them, Curly Sue traipsed through a myriad of bags, pulling her red reptilian bag behind her. When she approached a bag jam of bags, she proceeded to keep pulling, bumping, pulling, nudging, and bumping all of the other bags surrounding the path in which she wished her bag to roll through, hoping someone would move their bag to make her job easier.
Of course, after 2 minutes, no one did, which prompted her to finally pick up her bag and carry it with her the rest of the way to her seat.

This wasn’t the only issue Curly Sue had. Much like the Empress that I mentioned in my China travelogue, Curly Sue needed to sit in an exit row on the plane, since she needed space as she was not feeling very well. She also managed to pronounce it to about 25 people that were sitting around her. Unlike the Empress however, once she got what she wanted, she shut up for the rest of the trip.

Well I managed to make it to Atlanta ahead of schedule by about 20 minutes, which gave me about 3.5 hours to figure out what to do while waiting for my connecting flight. I decided that I needed to have some brunch, and figured the smartest thing to do was to get to my appropriate terminal and look for something. The Atlanta airport has about 6 different terminals all lined up parallel to each other, and lettered in order, A, B, C, D, E, and for whatever reason, T. I'm assuming an expansion is in order. Conveniently, they are all interconnected by an underground subway. Of course, my arrival happened to be in terminal A, and my departing flight was in terminal D.

I got to the terminal and where my gate was to be. By this time, it was 10 am (9am CST) and I was hungry. I stopped at a Phillip’s restaurant, and had buffalo butterfly shrimp. I then managed to get on my plane to Panama City, Florida without incident, and arrived a half hour earlier than I had intended.

My mom picked me up, and we headed back to the beach house. Stopping at Toucan’s restaurant for a late lunch/early supper in Mexico Beach, I was able to have awesome bay scallops, deep fried pickles, and Yuengling beer (which I will say IS my favorite).

We got back to the beach house, unloaded what little I had and strolled along the beach, before falling asleep for the evening. Florida’s panhandle is definitely a place I love to come, and am looking forward to the rest of the week ahead.

On the road again....

Seems a befitting title for this next segment in my life. Not that I'm a fan of wailin' Willie, but if you'd ask my co-workers about my vacation, they typically answer with, "aren't you always on vacation," or "what exciting place are you going to this time?"

No, I'm not always on vacation. In fact, I think that the annual allotment of vacation that I have is no different than that of any other worker. It's just that when I take it, I tend to take big chunks at a time which SEEMS like 52 weeks.

Anyhow, I'm venturing to Florida again. Yes, the annual trek to a place where my family loves to go. This time, I'm actually flying down first rather than driving. This was largely determined by how Easter, the school system spring break, and my work schedule all aligned. I AM, however, a bit disappointed by not having the opportunity to stare and gawk at a strange kid playing out "Get Smart" in the middle of a Culvers near Peoria.

Hoping not to disappoint, I hope to have some hardy laughs even if I'm flying down.

Take, for example, the bus depot.

Like Amy Winehouse to recreational drug use, bus depots and people watching go hand in hand. My brief stay was no disappointment. After being dropped off by a wonderful co-worker after work, I arrived at the bus depot about 45 minutes early to find a great menagerie in full swing. I went in the bus terminal to purchase a bus ticket for my ride to O'Hare International, only to be overwhelmed by a funky smell that can only best be described as that of a combo of gardenia and feet. I have no idea if it was eminating from the oily-haired woman sitting alone in the terminal, the guy behind the window selling the tickets, or what. It certainly was unpleasant, causing me to sit outside instead.

There were many different people milling about, but the one situation that caught my eye was an Amish guy getting out of a Toyota Rav4 (not driving it, mind you)to pick up his luggage. I was expecting a very large red and white checked gingham table cloth attached to a stick (a la Huck Finn) to be pulled from the bottom of the bus as it was being unloaded. Alas I was disappointed to see that his black bonneted wife stepped off the bus, and he fetched a normal huge backpack made from synthetic fibers. I was trying to figure out how all of this was allowed without going via horse and buggy, but then I really didn't care. Even more surprising was the African-American driver that seemed to know the guy on a first name basis. Talk about a social juxtaposition...

Anyhow, getting on the full bus, I ended up sitting to a young guy reading one of the Harry Potter books, and in the midst of a myriad of college aged students coming from Madison. And they looked like they were coming from Madison.

Anyhow, I pulled out my Kindle (thinking I was just as hip as the texting, iPod listening, laptop toting 20-somethings on the bus)to commence reading Chelsea Handler's latest book. I think I probably caused a few heads to turn (with the thought that now I must be some strange "differently abled" guy laughing at something for no apparent reason), but I couldn't help myself. After all, I was annoyed by the phone of a young guy sitting in front of me beeping every time he received a text message. So what if I laugh?

I got to terminal 2 at O'Hare International, walked up, over and down to the Hilton Hotel where I am to stay the first night. I didn't know exactly where to go in, but once I did, I was assisted by a young Asian woman who's rapid-fire speaking caused me to miss half of what she said. I'm hoping I didn't agree to some insurance seminar or registered for an Amway convention...

I ordered room service, which I'm certain will cost me several shekels, a carafe of wine, and am watching TV, to await my next leg of my journey tomorrow, at the butt-crack of dawn, which I'm certain...as my niece Sarah would say...isn't gonna be pretty.

Head for the Hills

As some of you have probably read, my blog is rather eclectic. Most of the stuff on this thing are essays, thoughts, and in some instances reviews of the world around me, or the things in it. I'm not much for adding lots of paraphernalia such as pictures, movie clips, links, or the like. Not that I have anything against those types of things. I sometimes (o.k. most times) am just to lazy to bother, or more likely have no idea HOW to do such things.

Well, tonight I was invited by my mom to go out for one of Wisconsin's omnipresent "Friday Fish Fry" dinners. Upon seeing an ad touting one such place's cole slaw as being the best, we decided to venture to a new place for something completely different. I found it interesting that we would pick a place that highlighted its cole slaw as the mitigating factor for trying the fish. But, I'm always game for something new and different, even if our food priorities were somewhat askew.

Anyway, we went to Hackbarth Hills on the northwest side of Janesville (actually in Janesville Township) to see what this fish fry was all about. I'm pretty good about knowing where things are in general. But in this case, I had absolutely NO idea where we needed to go. But, upon arriving at the restaurant, I was surprised to discover it actually has a 9 hole golf course. This mini-clubhouse was where we were to have our dinner.

Entering the restaurant, it seemed pretty nondescript. Going inside, it reminded me of some very nice garages that I have seen on the Parade of Homes tour, complete with bar, finished drywall walls, a kitchen off to the right, and several unassuming tables at which we could sit. There wasn't a terrible crowd occupying this concrete carpetless eating establishment when we arrived, but we were seated immediately and brought the menu card that was simple and plain.

After ordering drinks, I was looking over the menu to see if there was something in tune with what I've normally been eating since the 15th of January. Initially, I was going to be good and order some broiled shrimp on a skewer. But, alas, I opted for the exact same thing my mom had, which was the two-piece cod dinner, complete with choice of potato, roll and the secret special cole slaw. There really wasn't anything fancy about this place, and from the prices on the menu, things were quite reasonable.

After a reasonable amount of wait time,the cheerful server brought our food. After the first bite from our unassuming plates, I knew we were at a place that is a hidden gem, even with it's non-frilly glory.

The fish was crispy, fried to perfection, and not overly breaded. The breading was nothing like I've ever had before, in that it included herbs within the batter. Hints of basil and oregano in just the right amounts perfectly complimented the soft taste of the flaky fish. The cole slaw, I must say, was nothing I've ever had before either, and certainly WAS one of the best I've sampled in a long time. Often times cole slaw is touched as a side, but never completely finished. Cole slaw can be sketchy, but this was anything BUT that. And, it was completely gone by the end of the meal, as a testament to its tastiness. With a sweet-sour dressing added to it (and not cream based), it was a perfect complement to the well seasoned fish. Of course, it came with our chosen baked potatoes. While the potato was excellent too (and I LOVE potatoes), it acted, for lack of a better descriptor, as sort of a required accoutrement to the meal rather than a staple of it, which anyone knowing my food preferences (knowing how much I love potatoes) speaks LOUDLY about the quality of the food served to us.

I must say that it was well worth the venture out of the mainstream to dine at Hackbarth Hills. For all of the fish fry dinners available to Wisconsin patrons, this one IS one of the tops in my view. It's always fun to find an "off the beaten path" type of establishment, and this one certainly fit the bill, proving the fact that great food doesn't require frills and methods of food preparatory techniques that only Julia Child could muster to make this dining experience a real treat.

The Cauldon Extinguished

Well, another Olympics has come and gone, and I'm wondering what the heck I'm going to watch on television. After all, I've gotten accustomed to having them on TV (when I'm home)practically 24-7 the last two weeks.

A couple things came out of this for me. First of all, being the music geek that I am, I've come to really like the tune of "Oh Canada." It's really pretty. Not to say that in any way, shape, or form that I'm not proud of the United States' efforts or my country in general. There's just something about the tune, "The Star Spangled Banner" that I've just never been fond of.

Why you may ask? Well, it sounds really militaristic to me, and not really reverent. I'm no peacenik by any means, but in this day in age, I think something along the lines of "America" or "God Bless America" are a bit more attractive tunes,express a more reverent patriotism, and last but not least more easily singable. After all, how many times have you actually gone somewhere where "The Star Spangled Banner" actually was sung well, and either 1) not cheapened by the unnecessary vocal flourishes that some pop or R & B stars tend to add, or 2) the person actually remembers all the words (in it's archaic poetry form). To me, most times our national anthem, when sung like this, is more like "The Star Mangled Banner." In any event, I am proud of our Olympians. They ALL did the U.S.A. proud.

The second thing that came out of this two weeks of sport was the fact that I'm pretty ignorant about Canada. I've always thought of Canada (which I fondly call "Canadia")like us. We share a similar heritage and origin, a common language that for the most part, with the exception of Quebec, has an accent that sounds like how we talk at home. I also thought of Canada as very vast, very sparse, and very cold. I'd probably love to visit it more often. Unfortunately though, it's located north of Madison. To me, anything north of Madison is considered the north woodsy, and I'm not a big fan of fishing or camping. The last thing is that we've just always been close neighbors and friends to our friends to the north.

It's much more than that. I had a history lesson (especially the piece about how Canada was a godsend during 9/11), a geography lesson from the torch relay (in which I don't EVER think I want to visit Iqaluit in Nunavut as I'm not to crazy about eating whale blubber or seal), and a cultural lesson, where Canada is full of wonderful people that don't mind taking in strangers from all over the world, are hospitable to anyone and everyone, and seems like one big happy family (with some minor elements of family dysfunction like ANY family).

The last thing that came out of it for me is to say to any athlete competing in the Olympics, that there is something to be proud of when one wins ANY color of medal. A fraction of a percent of people on this earth ever GET to the Olympics, and then to win a medal on top of that is like winning the super mega lottery. Sure, I was disappointed that the U.S. hockey team lost, but the looks and demeanor of the hockey team receiving their silver medals didn't really sit well with me. Or the poor attitude of a disgruntled Russian figure skater, or Korean speed skater kind of frosts me. Perhaps they don't live on the same earth I do.

Hopefully this experience will broaden my understanding of our friends to the north, because certainly, they are incredible neighbors and friends to have.

Heavy Duty

As I'm sitting here at about 11:15 p.m. on a Friday night, several things are shooting through my brain. The first thought is that I haven't kept up with this blog thing very well. Much like many plants in my home, I'm feeling like this blog thing is withering on the vine, as I haven't watered or fed it with new material or stupid stuff to talk about to bring it back to it's resplendent green, healthy hue that will make it look fresh and new again.

I don't know what prompted me to think about it, but, the fact of the matter is: I miss french fries.

You see, my friends, since the middle of January I have been participating in what I'd like to think could be called an experiment...a biological one. Early in the year this year at work, a couple of the people I work with thought it would be a great idea if we, as a group, would participate in a contest to be "the biggest losers." Normally, I don't consider myself remotely close to being a loser by any means, but in this case I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to try. After all, who doesn't (except if you happen to be Callista Flockhart, J.J. Walker, or a concentration camp survivor) want to lose a few pounds.

I was a little hesitant to start.

I have to admit: I LOVE french fries. No matter how greasy, salty, hot or cold, I love them. And this contest that I was about to commit to would force me to forgo this vice. Then after stepping back (and having been forced to step on a scale at the doctor's office), I realized that perhaps it would be a good idea to start my Lenten fast early, and give up my french fries. I went ahead with participating on this "loser" team,reluctantly, and begrudgingly.

So I committed to this scientific experiment, even though I didn't know how I would ever live without my french fries.....mmmm...plain, a hint of salt, crispy and greasy.

Hurdle number one came when I was informed that one of my co-workers would have to weigh me. Now, anyone that knows me well knows that I am and have always been HUGELY self conscious about my weight, even when I weighed what seemed to be 3 1/2 pounds in high school and had all my hair. All morning long I stewed about it. I probably should have had three extra shirts that day, because I was sweating like Mike Tyson in a spelling be by the time I had to be weighed. Several people offered to do the official weighing and recording, NONE of whom were even remotely a viable option. So after settling for the one person we all could feel comfortable having do this horrid task, we (7 of the 9 people in my office who are participating)proceeded to have the grand "weigh in."

Then...it was my turn. I felt like Sean Penn in "Dead Man Walking."

Tasting the iron-like biley taste in my mouth, I was afraid I was going to lose whatever was in my stomach (which probably would only have been a pot of coffee)and not be anywhere NEAR being somewhere where I wouldn't make a scene....and a mess.

Let's just say that from the initial "weigh in" (and this term cracks me up, since all I could think about was me being entered into a boxing contest, only to be the horrificly unprepared super mega ginormous heavyweight entering the ring with King Kong, knowing that inevitably I'd be getting my ass kicked in a matter of 3 nanoseconds), it somewhat relieved my need (and obsessive craving) for french fries.

I have no idea where this whole process will end up, but I'm liking the fact that things are working. Perhaps I should take peoples' advice and try skydiving to cure my fear of heights....then again, I think I'll pass on that. After all, I don't need to be changing EVERYTHING.

Internal Combustion- Two Ways

It's amazing how money just flows in and out of my hands, especially on unforseen things that happen to pop up when you least expect it.

Last week, it started with my furnace. It was a Sunday evening, and I was sitting at the computer. I was checking my email, playing a game, and checking things out on facebook when I smelled something to the likes of burnt plastic, electricity, and dust. This wasn't a pleasant smell.

I couldn't tell if my house was on fire or not, as my greyhounds (being the lazy hounds they are) were snoozing away. I went downstairs, checked things out, and came to the realization that maybe my air ducts needed to be cleaned.

Well, the smell didn't go away.

I went to the basement, and everything seemed in order. I let my hounds out, as by now they were prancing around the house, thinking that it would be a splendid time to go out, even IF it was -8 degrees outside. It made me wish I had a different house that had a backyard instead of a fenced side yard that I have, as each time I have to let them out, I have to walk them to it. I wasn't happy.

The three of us came back inside, only to still smell the funny electrical plasticky smell. It also felt colder in my house. I checked the thermostat to find that instead of being a balmy 68, it was now 65. This wasn't a good sign. It was especially not good, since it was now about 1 a.m., and not having heat was an issue.
I thought I'd be resourceful and try to fix things myself, so I checked the internet to see if there was something I could do to diagnose the problem. Flipping the breaker (even though it wasn't blown) seemed to kick the furnace in again. And I got a MAJOR dose of the burnt plastic smell again. I thought I would go upstairs and just go to bed.

After lying in bed for about 10 minutes, and stewing about the fact that I was probably going to be asphyxiated by carbon monoxide (being the fatalist I can sometimes be), and worried about how my house would look if someone were to find me, I got up and called the furnace hotline where I got my furnace.

Pavlik Heating and Cooling has a 24 hour service line as I soon found out, and was greeted by a very pleasant man who, after asking a slew of questions, thought it best that I talk to the technician on call. Two minutes later, the guy called. It sounded like he had been awaken from a deep slumber, which made me feel terrible. Unlike me, he was quite pleasant to talk to after being jolted awake by the phone.

Seeing as there wasn't really a whole lot that could be done over the phone, he said he'd be willing to stop over and check the furnace right away. It was now about 1:45 a.m., and I couldn't really justify calling the poor man out, when I would be getting up in a matter of a couple of hours. So I told the guy not to worry, so long as someone came to my house right away in the morning, I said I'd throw on a couple extra blankets on the bed, and that my two hounds would probably end up sleeping with me anyhow, so I would be fine.

Well, waking up, I could just about see my breath. The thermostat was 54. I like a cold house, but 54 is just a bit much.

The technician came later that morning, to discover that my thermostat had gone bad, and that some air flow duct thing was shorted out (hence the electrical smell). $250later, I had heat, and I was happy. It certainly was better than having to have a new furnace.

Well, the next evening, I had fallen asleep on the sofa, and must have placed my new glasses on the end table. Well, waking up in the morning, my glasses went missing. Searching for them all over the house, I went upstairs to find that they were a midnight snack for my greyhound, Siri. I was only able to find about 2/3 of my glasses, with one bow missing (and I am a bit concerned since it is made out of metal). Collecting the 4 pieces of chewed plastic and broken lenses (with a nice canine tooth mark in the middle of one of the lenses), I had to call my optometrist to see if I could get them replaced with exactly the same frames and lenses (after all, I LOVED my glasses).

Low and behold, the assistant at the office must have caught me on a good day, as somehow she convinced me to purchase additional warranty coverage in case something like what I experienced happened. I was a happy guy. All I had to do was to take in the remnants of what was left of my glasses, and I would just have to pay a minimal amount.

Bringing them to the office, they looked at the pitiful pieces on the counter that were my glasses, and laughed. Replacement of the glasses cost me about $80.

The bigger concern however is: I don't know if I want to know where that metal bow is. I'm hoping I find it in the spring in the house, rather than randomly finding it with the lawnmower.

Then again, I'm hoping I don't have to shell out more cash for an unexpected vet bill.

When it rains, it pours....