How short should grown men's shorts be?
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
To this day, a blog I wrote more than five years ago about the length of men's shorts continues to be the most-read blog post at adhudler.com. Obviously, there's some confusion on the matter, and guys (or their wives) are looking for advice.
At the time, I said that grown men over the age of thirty should not be wearing the rapper-length shorts that almost look like baggy capris. (If they did so, they looked like they were trying to emulate their sons, trying to appear younger.) Grown men, especially we suburban men, could wear chino shorts that were cut above the knee. And we did -- that's exactly what we wore -- and our sons and daughters teased us about our hairy, exposed thighs. If you saw a man wearing above-the-knee shorts you knew he was over thirty, certainly over forty. But we were cool in hot weather and we went about our way.
Turn to today: A friend of mine came by for a visit this week. I opened the door, wearing shorts -- and she said, "Oh! You're wearing boy shorts!"
Yep...some time over the past two years -- and I witnessed this as a mega-hotel concierge -- the length of young men's shorts crept above the knee. Mid-thigh, actually. And now I look like I'm trying to dress young!
Oh, well ... fashion is fickle, and some day young men will be wearing those stupid-looking rapper shorts once again... and I, wearing my mid-thigh Lands End chinos, will be the subject of laughter.
Bring it on, boys!
Nashville Bachelorette Scene #52
Friday, May 13, 2016
As I work with designers and editors to get my first Nashville-based novel out to the world -- title: "Cashville" -- I'm going to start sharing little scenes from the work in progress. This one shows a group of singer-songwriters cringing as a rowdy bachelorette party invades their favorite bar:
the doors burst open. Along with a blast of humid air blew in a cacophony of
drunken women’s voices … “Ohmygod
it’s so humid!” … “I’m so hungry!” …
“I gotta pee! You guys! I gotta pee!” … “Okay, go pee!” … “Where’s the hostess?
I mean, is this place even open?” The
group of musicians sat, stone-still and quiet, like rodents trying to avoid
detection from birds of prey. The
waitresses pushed three tables together to accommodate the ladies. Gwendolyn
had been counting. “Twenty-nine of them!” she said. “That just defies logic.
Think of the logistics they’ve been battling with all weekend just to eat. Who
in hell would travel in a group that large?” The
musicians did their best to ignore the girls, but as the three rounds of
tequila shots began to take effect the volume and pitch of the girls’ voices
began swelling. It got
worse when they broke into several different conversation clusters. All it took
was one loud girl to push a domino effect into play: the girls next to her,
unable to hear her own conversation, would start talking louder, and then the
girls next to those girls would have to talk even louder, and so on and so on.
And, then, someone, feeling uncomfortably too much like a wallflower, would
feel the need to turn the stoplight on herself with an exclamation designed to
climb atop every conversation in the room: “Oh! My! God!” … “Waaaaaaahhhhhhhh!”
… “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHH!” And then every conversation would ratchet up one notch
shook her head. “They sound like mad turkeys in a tin shed,” she said.
Presenting: The Elevator Pitch for my next book!
Thursday, April 7, 2016
Cash Reynolds is a jaded, Hipster bellman at the Cumberland
Plaza Hotel in downtown Nashville, and when he gets fired for sleeping with the
guests for money he starts a company – NashvilleGirlfriendWeekend.com – that
proves to be the genesis of Music City’s unraveling.
While Cash is getting rich, the city’s crowds of women grow bigger
and crazier. They dance on tables in restaurants and have sex in elevators.
They leave trails of “penis glitter” all around town. Realizing that bottomless
mimosas are replacing the music as the true draw to their city, the
singer-songwriters of Nashville organize and begin to fight back. And just when
you think they’ve lost the battle, in comes Clay Allen, seven-time Grammy
winner and old-school country artist, who is yanked out of his retirement and drunken
stupor by the arrival of TMZ in his once-quiet city.
Meanwhile, the mayor of Oklahoma City, sensing opportunity,
moves in to seize from Nashville the title of Country Music Capital of the
The people of Nashville band
together with their nemesis to conjure up an idea that will save their city and
change tourism forever.
Stop calling ... or else!
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
Though I've lived in Nashville for nearly five years I still have my cell number from Fort Myers. Now and then, someone from southwest Florida will call me mistakenly ... and they usually hang up and leave no message.
Well....Mr./Ms. 239-494-3123 will not stop calling me. He/she has called about a half dozen times, even though I've identified myself via text after each call.
Today, this was my response:
Stop calling me or I will begin texting you pornographic images of myself that you will never be able to erase from your mind.
Sanitized for your protection
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
'Found this in our Florida motel room a few weeks ago:
New in hospitality:
As the sign promises, "Making your world a CLEAN WORLD. The CLEAN REMOTE has been designed specifically to make it easy to clean and disinfect. This is just another of our many efforts to ensure ... A MORE COMFORTABLE STAY FOR YOU AND YOUR FAMILY."
Kind of reminds me of this:
I feel very safe and ... clean.
Which reminds me of Mr. Clean.
Which reminds me of the year I wanted to dress up as Mr. Clean for Halloween ... although my muffin top made this impossible because Mr. Clean is FIT.
I went to Dillards and asked, "Do they have anything like Spanx for guys?"
Said the male sales clerk: "Man Spanx! I've got some on right now!"
I tried them on. It took me nearly ten minutes to get out of them. It did hide my muffin top. It also bruised my kidneys.
"Are you okay in there?" yelled the clerk over the transom of the dressing room.
I never put them on again.
Until my biometric screening at work this past year, when I knew they'd be measuring my waist.
I passed with flying colors ... though my boss failed his biometric measurement.
"You need one of these," I said, unbuttoning my shirt to reveal my secret.
Life Lesson in Consumerism #443378R45
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Sign that you picked the wrong toilet paper:
And, since I bought it at Costco, we'll run out of it in ... oh ... nineteen months or so.
A word of advice for future Hudler-household guests: BYOTP
Houskeeping Secret #554R2: How to clean crystal glassware
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
My wife and I like to entertain, and, being Southerners for most of our adult lives, we like to do it up right. This means crystal glassware, of course.
Problem: streaking due to hand-washing. (There's always some microscopic bit of grease in there somewhere!)
Solution: dissolvable dishwasher pods.
As the sink fills with warm water hold one of the pods under the running water. A very-cool thing happens: the plastic melts, and the pod of liquid and powder dissolves right before your eyes. Let your young children do this part for you -- it's that cool!
Wash and rinse as normal. The water feels very slippery, so be careful with that crystal, but you will have absolutely no streaks in your glassware.
Linc Menner, protagonist of Househusband, would be proud!