Ad Libbing

My Nomination for Creepiest Piece of Art Found on the Internet in 2011

2012-01-02T13:11:00.006-05:00

All I could think was: What would Stephen King do with this?

NOW do you believe me?

2011-12-26T12:58:00.004-05:00

I don't know about y'all, but I've pretty much given up on restaurant Chinese food. Stopped eating it for the most part. That's partially because there are so many other options these days -- Thai and Vietnamese, mainly. But I also avoid Chinese food because I'm invariably disappointed in it. Unless I'm in a big city like New York or San Francisco or Washington D.C. ... if I ask for spicy I get something that's about as daring as the gravy in an old-folks' home.

A friend who's married to a Chinese woman explained it to me one time: "You're what they call lo fan," he said. "It means white rice. Look at you; you look like a redneck. Rednecks don't like authentic, spicy foods. They're dumbing it down for you."

Today, very hungry, I stopped into a Chinese restaurant to order some Szechwan tofu with vegetables. It looked fresh and delicious but, once again, it was so benign that I would have fed it to a baby. I wondered: What can I do to convince these Chinese cooks that I like SPICY?

And then I had an idea: I'd just been grocery shopping, so I went out to the truck and pulled out a fresh serrano chili and took it inside and asked to speak to the cook. With him watching, I bit off the chili all the way to the stem, chewed it slowly and swallowed without flinching. His eyes widened.

"See?" I said. "I'm not lo fan. I want it hot. Please. I grew up with Mexicans -- I'm used to it."

He took my entree back to the kitchen and whipped me up another. When he set it down in front of me I could smell that he'd added fresh ginger and I could see red pepper flakes coating the shiny vegetables like confetti.

As I ate my wonderfully spicy food I could feel the cook and his cashier-wife watching me over my shoulder, as if I was some exotic animal that had wandered into their restaurant.

"You want something to drink?" she asked.

"No, thank you." I replied. "This is perfect."

Mr. Hudler, we regret to inform you that your Man Card has been revoked.

2011-12-21T13:31:00.002-05:00

This is what you're reduced to when you go out partying with someone named "Big George."

The Moving Diaries: Post #8443E5

2011-12-15T13:16:00.004-05:00

Though the movers don't come to Coconut Drive until the first week of January, I'm getting ready for them. I'm all by myself, and it's easy getting weepy as I sort through a quarter-century's worth of belongings.

Today I cleaned out and repaired my daughter's dollhouse, which had been all but abandoned beneath the stairs for the past decade. It's a little girl's dream dollhouse, made for Haley's fourth birthday by her Grandma Wanda. Wooden floors, real cedar shingles, three stories high.

I took all the contents outside, to the patio, with a pan of Mr. Clean-and-water and one of those spray cans of compressed air. I cleaned it all, then sorted everything by room into Ziploc bags. Also fixed and glued lots of things that had broken over the years.

I figured I needed to get this done. The movers will build a crate from wood, then seal it shut, and I'm guessing it will sit in the attic of our new home in Nashville for years to come ... probably until Haley has a family of her own. And on her daughter's fourth birthday, Carol and I will load it up into my truck and drive to wherever the hell she's living ... and we'll open it ... and Wanda's gift will be enjoyed for another generation.

Oh ... wait ... What if she has boys and no little girl? I suppose the house could be used as a barracks for little plastic army men. But which soldier would have to sleep in the pink canopy bed?

Party Planning Hint #82294R3

2011-12-10T09:11:00.003-05:00

What to do when you're transporting three dozen cupcakes with no one to hold them.

Something we need: Refrigerator Alert System

2011-12-07T09:27:00.000-05:00

And this is how it works: Every day, early in the morning, an electronic brain in the refrigerator takes stock of things inside that haven't been touched for at least a week. And then it transmits a message to a marquee on the front of the refrigerator door, blinking in red letters as you walk past: "Cottage Cheese! Remember you have cottage cheese in here. Mmmmmm. How about some cottage cheese with sliced peaches? Doesn't that sound good?"

And you think, "Hey! I'd forgotten all about that cottage cheese." Because how many times do we buy something and forget that we've bought it, and it lingers there in some dark corner, behind the pickles and olives and cabbage?

A Sneak Peek at My Western Roots

2011-11-30T09:40:00.005-05:00

Every year for Thanksgiving all Hudlers converge in Burlington, Colorado, at my folks' house. We're a small clan. While my family does most things very, very well ... breeding isn't one of them.

Mom just emailed me the photos from this year's get-together.

I want to introduce you to my wonderful mom and dad:. Meet Joy and Rol.

The names are interesting: Dad's full name is John Rollin Hudler II. And Mom's is Muriel Joy Hudler. She goes by Joy. Her sisters -- and I kid you not -- are named Happy and Lucky. (Aunt Lucky and her daughter Debbie also join us for Thanksgiving. On some years, Debbie performs her Elvis impersonation concert)

An eccentric family? You bet. A few examples of my mom's whimsical decorating are most telling:

The little snake hides in a plant in the bathroom. Women tend to miss him because they're sitting, but men are greeted, eye-to-eye with the little guy as they do their business.

My mom's spirit and personality have wound their way into at least two of my novels: Linc's runaway mom in Househusband and the character Geena in All This Belongs to Me. So far, dad has escaped my author's eye in crafting characters, but, nonetheless, he is there with me every day as I write: My dad taught me how to work, to get things done. I don't think I would have finished even one novel without his influence on my work habits.

Love y'all.

Reporter at Large: Central Ohio

2011-11-26T10:52:00.005-05:00

Wanted to share a few oddities I encountered while watching daughter Haley compete in Moot Court regionals in Ohio.

First, this shot from the small town of Wooster:

Black squirrels! All over the place! I had no idea such a thing existed.

And then, in a suburban Columbus Hilton, this interesting choice of a sculpture just inside the main door:

Not sure what to think of it. This bronze, contortionist human appears to be ... umm ... pleasuring him/herself while trying to fly?

This Christmas ... for the man in your house who has everything ...

2011-11-22T10:50:00.002-05:00

Was Christmas shopping with my wife in suburban Columbus, Ohio and I found this really nifty coffee cup.

This is for you, Pee-Wee.

Tattletale at 36,000 feet

2011-11-18T09:34:00.003-05:00

Sat by a commuting flight attendant yesterday ... a lead flight attendant, I might add. And take a look at this mess she left in her front-seat pocket. Half a candy bar, some paper trash and a half-filled glass of water. She also slept with her ipod on even after passengers had been told to power down all such devices.

Note to Barb (I read her name on her pin of wings):

Dear Barb: Please try to set a better example for the passengers.

Sincerely,

Mr. Fussy

Bean Enchiladas and Pina Coladas: Why I like country music

2011-11-16T09:07:00.001-05:00

I grew up in the middle of nowhere -- East Jesus, we called it -- a town on the High Plains of eastern Colorado, 170 miles from the nearest airport or McDonalds, though there is a McDonalds there now. This meant we only had one radio station to listen to ... and that was KNAB, 1140 on the AM dial. And since my town was in the middle of ranch and farmland, KNAB's format was ... you guessed it: Country.

As a result, I grew up not liking country music because it was my only option, so, obviously, I rebelled against it.

But, having lived most of my adult life on the East Coast, I have since re-visited country music and have come to love it, especially classic country ... not that new crap that can't make up its mind whether it's rock or country.

I think the other reason I like country music is because I can understand the lyrics. I've always thought I had this genetic flaw that didn't allow me to understand song lyrics. (Remember the Pina Colada song from the '70s? I thought they were singing "I like Bean Enchiladas," not "I like Pina Coladas.")

Years later I realized that it wasn't my ears that were the problem -- it was the singers' inability to articulate. But those country singers ... their diction is awesome. And here is a great song by Deana Carter called DID I SHAVE MY LEGS FOR THIS?

"Flowers and wine is what I thought I would find
When I came home from working tonight
Well now here I stand, over this frying pan
And you want a cold one again

I bought these new heels, did my nails
Had my hair done just right
I thought this new dress was a sure bet
For romance tonight

Well it's perfectly clear,
between the TV and beer
I won't get so much as a kiss

As I head for the door
I turn around to be sure
Did I shave my legs for this?

Now when we first met
you promised you'd get
A house on a hill with a pool

Well this trailer stays wet
and were swimmin' in debt
And you want me to go back to school

I bought these new heels,
did my nails
Had my hair done just right
I thought this new dress was a sure bet
For romance tonight

Well it's perfectly clear, between the TV and beer
I won't get so much as a kiss
As I head for the door
I turn around to be sure
Did I shave my legs for this?
Darlin', did I shave my legs for this?

Signs of Intelligent Life #28834W2

2011-11-15T13:13:00.004-05:00

Found this clever pothole cover in east Tennessee. The grate had sunk into the asphalt.
I sure hope they decorate it for Christmas. Maybe a Santa hat on top of the cone?

Mysteries of the Universe: #8444RB5

2011-11-10T02:30:00.002-05:00

Why is it that so many people order ginger ale on airplanes? (You never hear them ordering it in restaurants or bars.) Is it a comfort drink that we remember momma serving us when we were sick as kids? Are we seeking something that makes us feel safe ... because we're up there in the air, vulnerable from defying countless laws of physics?

It's not easy being green

2011-11-06T07:13:00.005-05:00

I do whatever I can to help ease the strain on the resources of our planet. I've replaced my superior, incandescent light bulbs with those pitiful, anemic compact fluorescents. I've reduced the number of times I flush the toilet during the day: "If it's yellow let it mellow, if it's brown flush it down."

I also buy eco-friendly cleaning products when I can -- but I won't be keeping this last one I bought:

Yep, instead of my usual green dish-washing scratchies I bought this one made of .... well, I'm not sure what it's made of. I think it's recycled plastic bottles and, best as I can tell, yak hair ... which sheds as you're doing the dishes.

(yuck)

Those frozen french fries? They're right beside the blue jeans.

2011-11-03T11:27:00.003-04:00

I just read in today's New York Times that the Levi Strauss company is trying to lessen their environmental imprint -- and they want the buyers of their jeans to do the same thing.

They ask us -- and I'm not kidding about this -- not to wash our jeans more than we need to.

I'm already there. Honestly, I wear a pair of jeans for up to 10 days sometimes without a wash. Denim is amazing; it seems to shed odors overnight ... even smoke from a bar.

The most fun fact from the article was this handy household hint on how to keep your jeans odor-free for longer: Put them in the freezer overnight.

Evidently, the cold temperature kills the germs that cause odors ... although, the article warns us, this is more successful if the person has faithfully been wearing underwear beneath his jeans.

I'm gonna try this one, folks.

Those secrets under the kitchen sink ...

2011-10-28T09:55:00.004-04:00

I recently had to get new home insurance, and when the inspector from the insurance company came to look at the house (this is at our Florida home) he scrutinized the obvious things: age and strength of the windows and doors; age of the water heaters and air conditioners; slope of the roof.

I thought he'd finished, but then he came into the living room, where I was working, and said this: "One more thing. I need to see under the kitchen sink."

Why would my home-insurance provider need to look under my sink?
I asked him. He evaded the question. "It's just something we look at," he said.

And then I got to thinking. Maybe that space under our sink tells insurers a lot about us. Maybe they use it as a litmus test of some sort. Perhaps that spot under the sink provides a psychological profile of some sort.

Is it dirty and cluttered, like mine? And, if so, does that mean the homeowner doesn't pay attention to details? Does it mean he wouldn't fix things when broken and therefore make the house more susceptible to damage?

I don't keep my trashcan under the sink, as many people do. Would that be a black mark against me?

Was he looking for rat or mice droppings?

Would I be judged for keeping our dead cat's ashes in a box under the sink? (Because that's where they are; I just can't seem to part with dear old Sophie.)

What's under your sink? And what does it say about you?

How to Spot a Good Thai Restaurant

2011-10-25T08:07:00.005-04:00

Anyone who's read my books knows I like to eat. Cooking and good food are a big part of my novels Househusband and Southern Living.

My wife and were driving through middle Tennessee this past weekend and decided that Thai food sounded good for lunch. I pulled out my phone and searched Yelp for Thai restaurants near our location on the freeway, and we were soon led to a shack-like restaurant in the shadow of a grain elevator in Lebanon, TN.

I know what you're thinking: Oh, Ad ... that's pretty risky ... Asian food in Andy Griffith Land ...

But we knew immediately that we'd found something special -- and here' s why:

Lining the outside wall of the store were pots of lemongrass, Thai basil and Thai chilis. Obviously, someone inside used fresh, authentic ingredients.

We were quickly proven right: Take a look at this:

Green curry and a plate of whole crawfish sauteed in basil and garlic. Ain't it pretty?

So keep an eye out for those pots, people!

Alien spotting #5334R2 (at the mall)

2011-10-20T15:22:00.005-04:00

And look at these scary feet. They look like cloven hooves, don't they?
Could it be ... Satan?

Cat = Teenager

2011-10-17T10:31:00.006-04:00

In moving two cats from a tropical yard to a 29th-floor Nashville condo, I was worried about keeping them amused. I'd bought this swell, very-tall kitty condo that I hoped the younger cat would take to. But alas ...

Mitchell prefers the sunny spot on the bed, of course, while the ignored kitty condo unsuccessfully tries to pose as art object in the corner.

But not all is lost:

I'm calling it my "butler."

For the man who has everything...

2011-10-13T10:20:00.001-04:00

My only question is this: why?

There once were two tuxedo cats, and two men ...

2011-10-11T14:14:00.011-04:00

I'd been paying a petsitter, off and on, for nearly a year ... trying to avoid what I envisioned to be hell on earth: transporting two cats, via minivan, to our condo in Nashville, a 14-hour trip from Fort Myers, Florida.

Finally, I mustered up the courage, largely because my best friend agreed to take the trip with me. I set up a catbox and catfood, even made them a playhouse from a big cardboard box. We would stop every hundred miles or so and let them out and let them play and eat and then put them back in their crates ...

That's not what happened. For more than 150 miles, Mitchell, the younger of the two, scream-meowed in that Oh-Lord-Help-Me-I'm-Headed-Toward-The-Veterinarian's-Office manner ...

We let him out. And, to be fair, we released Thomas as well.

While Thomas, The Elder, responsibly hunkered down, beneath my seat, Mitchell decided he wanted the highest view in the van. And, because he finally shut up after finding this perch, we left him there, like the weak, indulgent parents I've judged so many times before. And this was fine ... until, while driving at 79 MPH, we came upon an 18-wheeler STOPPED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE INTERSTATE.

Gravity happened. Catbox catapulted against the back seat. Mitchell became airborne.

Yes, those marks on the dashboard are from Mitchell's claws. His rear claws. We know this because he doesn't have front claws.

We were rattled but safe. I shouldn't have let them out, I know. But, hey ... we transport our children in school buses without seatbelts -- don't we?

Something I wish I would have taken a picture of ...

2011-10-06T09:04:00.003-04:00

... at the gala opening of the Nashville Nordstrom, being served in the men's department on silver trays carried by very-tall, beautiful women: small, crystal shot glasses of Woodford Reserve bourbon and, in the middle of them all, a silver bowl filled with erect pieces of crispy bacon.

It was so beautiful I almost cried. If they offered this combination at communion, maybe I'd go to church more often.

If Giant Cats meow in Macon but I can't hear them ... do they exist?

2011-10-03T12:46:00.005-04:00

I'd asked my friend's wonderfully smart-ass techy daughter to take a picture of us while we were resting at the foot of some Confederate memorial in downtown Macon. "Can you email the photo to me?" I asked, which she did ...

Ad's Customer Service Award for September, 2011

2011-09-24T10:53:00.004-04:00

Was in the Verizon store, getting yet another replacement phone, when I overheard a conversation between a sales clerk and a distressed young woman. She'd lost her phone while partying in downtown Nashville and was wondering if they could help find it.

I thought: Uhhhh, really? Darlin', you're joking right?

And then, the young clerk said sure, we can help, and she typed in the young woman's phone number and scrutinized something on the screen. "Hmm, here it is. Found it."

The customer walked around the counter to look at the screen ... as did a curious Ad. And there was a detailed satellite image of downtown Nashville with blinking blue dot that represented the woman's phone, still alive with heart beating.

"It looks like it's at Legends," the clerk said. "Were you at Legends?"

"Yes!"

"And it looks like it's toward the rear of the building. The bathroom, maybe?"

"Yes!"

And then this very-competent clerk called the manager, who located the phone ... in the bathroom! And formerly drunk woman and iphone were reunited.

Got to love happy endings like that.

A line from the current memoir in progress ...

2011-09-17T12:22:00.002-04:00

'Really, really happy with this one:

"I can't say that alcohol is a thread that runs through my life; it's been more like a rope. Ropes are thicker, stronger, more noticeable, dangerous. You can hang yourself with a rope."

I found Buddha ...

2011-09-15T13:51:00.002-04:00

He was hiding in the closet ... playing dress-up.

Location, location, location.

2011-09-12T08:33:00.004-04:00

Just rented some new storage space in downtown Nashville, and I was chagrined to discover how expensive it was. Maybe next time I'll look more closely at the address before renting:

I should have asked if they have any spots left on Baltic Avenue.

Adaptation as an Art

2011-09-09T09:21:00.002-04:00

I've always believed that when it comes to human behavior we rise up or slip down to match the collective expectations and norms of the society we live in at that time.

When we lived in Macon, Georgia, we found our manners improving (saying "Yes, Ma'am" and opening doors for people), and we found ourselves taking more time to engage in idle chat.

Conversely, after living 5 or 6 years in laid-back, informal Fort Myers, I caught my wife one day in flip-flops, going out to dinner ... and she'd messily wrapped a piece of duct tape around her injured toenail. It was just fine doing this in semi-feral Florida; she thought nothing of it.

Last night, we had dinner with new friends in Nashville. Swell people. She's from an Old Nashville family but married a Yankee! And you'd never know it. This guy is from Minnesota. And while he has the physical markings of a sturdy northern Midwesterner, his manners and speech paint him as a man from Middle Tennessee. When he was telling us about his boy-toy patch of land out in the country he said this:

"I've been re-workin' this ol' pond."

Isn't that an awesome sentence?

My friend, your Dixie Green Card has been renewed for another year.

My nomination for Inappropriate Comment of the Week

2011-09-06T05:40:00.002-04:00

Overheard this, standing in line at the grocery store:

Cashier: I cooked Mexican last night.

Customer: You did?

Cashier: Yep.

Customer: I hear they squeal real loud when they start getting hot.

Astounded and intrigued, I followed him outside. Wanted to see what kind of car he drives. As a writer I always look at the details that people surround themselves with. I think they can even be more telling than what comes from their mouths.

I was expecting some sort of redneck truck. Maybe even a Rebel flag sticker or something.

No.

I was left there, standing in the parking lot with mouth open, when I saw this man unlock and climb into his ...

Prius?!?!?!

Who says tree huggers can't be racist?

Curmudgeon-at-Large: Report from Denver

2011-09-01T08:41:00.008-04:00

Returned to my native Colorado this past week to visit my brother and help him move into a new apartment. He lives downtown, and we spent an entire day exploring the bars and restaurants and sights. And this, my friends, is a very common sight in Denver these days:

Denver has long been called the Mile High City for its elevation, but this certainly gives new meaning to the name. Yep, in all of their infinite wisdom, Coloradoans have passed some very liberal medical marijuana laws. And guess what? Suddenly, everyone seems to have a medical condition that requires legal marijuana! I hear it's very therapeutic not only for anxiety but also ingrown toenails, broken arms, and razor burn.

I guess it shouldn't surprise me much. Boulder, after all, is just up the road. And urban Colorado is filled with young people who spend more money on their bicycles than their houses. And isn't it nice to see all those old gas stations getting a new life?

Legal marijuana? Really? Haven't we dumbed down the culture enough already?

Scam #5534R4

2011-08-25T14:48:00.003-04:00

Uhmmm, did anybody see where the sculptor went? Is he on lunch break? Vacation?

I have a dream ... that someone is going to finish this sculpture.
Government cutbacks, maybe?

Fort Myers Mystery #5966YB3

2011-08-24T04:57:00.004-04:00

Uhm....okay, guys ... where did the Outback Steakhouse go? Who took my Outback Steakhouse? It was here just a few days ago!

I realize things are more uncertain these days, but geez ...

You know your kid is well rounded when ...

2011-08-21T23:15:00.002-04:00

... you ask her to pick out a movie and she whittles it down to two: Jane Eyre and Deliverance.

Weird Dream #4991W2

2011-08-18T03:47:00.004-04:00

I've had some doosies lately. Here's another that probably won't make the final cut for the memoir in progress:

A strange redneck family takes over my house while I'm gone. I return to find a party raging inside, the revelers smoking and dumping their ashes on the floor, the men peeing on the carpet in the corners of the room. I storm in, screaming: "Get the hell out or I'm calling the cops!" They scatter but return the next day with guns in military trucks to hunt me down. First, they start throwing wet, white cheese curds at me, and just as I think they're going to switch from cheese to guns, I start running. I run and run and run. Suddenly, inexplicably, they transform from foe to friend, and I stop running and return with them to the house for another party. I'm married to some woman who is not Carol, and upon my return ask her to leave. I open the front door. There is a mariachi band playing in the street. Suddenly, the door falls to the ground. I look up and see that it has no hinges – it never had hinges. How could I have missed this? How could I have lived here all those years and missed this? I then notice that all the windows are mere sheets of clear plastic. Everything within, my family's history and identity, is vulnerable. I start panicking, and the men who came to shoot me tell me to drink a beer and relax. I refuse. They insist. I pretend to drink the beer but swallow nothing, as Bill Clinton did with the marijuana.

Making the cashier blush

2011-08-16T08:52:00.003-04:00

Ad at the supermarket yesterday, buying one jar of tahini, one six-pack of diet 7-Up and one lemon:
"I don't need a bag, miss, thank you," I say.
"Are you sure?" she asks.
"Really, I don't need one. I'm like an octopus. I've got multiple appendages."
She looks at me, perplexed.
"They're tucked in all over the place down here," I say, motioning to my shorts.

She blushes and looks downward, smiling.

I instantly realize how this child-like talk has instantly blown up into something naughty-adult.

"I think I'd better stop talking now," I say.

My Year of Crazy Nightmares: Dream #14

2011-08-11T16:18:00.003-04:00

As I'm now writing about in my memoir-in-progress, the past two years have brought much change to our family. During that time, our only child graduated from high school and left for college. Two months later, my wife was transferred from Fort Myers to Nashville. I went a little crazy -- that's what the book's all about -- and living in two places and commuting and all that change invoked a series of horrible but comical dreams ... dreams so odd I felt compelled to write them down. (Thanks, dear wife, for suggesting I do so.)

Here's one of them:

Dream #14: I'm unmarried with no child, and am living with my parents. We all three attend a mandated government press conference in which they explain that the United States has surreptitiously set up a colony on another planet, and if anyone wants to live there they have to leave right at that moment, never being allowed to return to Earth. My uber-curious parents, both of them journalists, are the first to raise their hands, then they turn to hug me goodbye. I panic. "What about all of your possessions?" I ask. "How can you leave them behind?" They smile and blow me kisses as they walk toward the flying saucer. "What about me!" I scream. "You can't leave me! I'll be all alone here on this planet! Mom! Dad! Please!" Someone pushes me backwards. I fall into a child's red wagon, and someone pulls me away.

My trip to Alabama: Chapter 1

2011-08-06T17:23:00.005-04:00

My wife needed to visit several of her properties in the South but also needed to get lots of writing done. Because I can't do anything with my memoir-in-progress right now (waiting on my agent to read revision ... waiting ... waiting ... hello, dear agent?), I suggested I drive Carol from A to B to C; she could work in the car while I drove, and I'd get the chance to see some places I'd never seen.

My first post is about the Renaissance Hotel in Montgomery. Nice place ... but the art? ... Well, let's just call it disturbing. This is what greeted us at the reception desk:

"What are they?" I asked.
"They're supposed to be Southern Belles," he answered.
"Dead ones?" I asked.

Scenes from the airport: #8485R4

2011-08-04T08:21:00.005-04:00

Like a flock of birds exhausted from a migratory flight, the gaggle of high-schoolers, weary from their long overseas haul, yearning to succumb to gravity, descended on my isolated spot in the Atlanta airport, settling all around me: on the floor, slouched in chairs, leaning against the wall. Jet-lagged, and quiet, and empty. And I thought: Should I feed them something?

It takes a village ... to write poetry

2011-08-01T16:46:00.001-04:00

There once was a boy from Poughkeepsie ...

Nashville defined in words (instead of music)

2011-07-28T08:16:00.003-04:00

My wife and I have tried describing our new home of Nashville to friends who have never been here. Some descriptions we've come up with:

Kind of like Atlanta, only hipper.

Like Atlanta, but with a larger creative-class.

The best of LA, NYC and The South all rolled into one compact, easily navigable city

Nashville: Where everyone who waits on you in restaurants and stores is young and beautiful and talented.

A city where there is NO bad karaoke.

The polar opposite of Memphis

Any others? What are your impressions of Music City? You can tell most of mine are favorable. ;-)

A lesson in epithet writing

2011-07-26T09:47:00.006-04:00

On the gravestone of Meriwether Lewis, just south of Nashville:

In the language of Mr. Jefferson, his courage was undaunted, his firmness and perseverance yielded to nothing but impossibilities. Rigid disciplinarian yet tender. Father of three. Committed to his charge. Honest, disinterested liberal with a sound understanding and a scrupulous fidelity to truth.

How to Fail in the Bed and Breakfast Business: Case #284RE3

2011-07-24T16:50:00.003-04:00

1. Have a yappy dog greet visitors with a loud, aggressive bark.

2. Hang a AAA sign outside but tell your guests you no longer give AAA discounts ("I guess we should take it down -- right?")

3. Decorate the house with statues of babies and crucifixes, some of them three feet high.

4. Without knowing the political persuasion of your guests, engage them in a rant about Democrats and food stamps and white trash.

My Nomination for Book Club of the Month

2011-07-20T10:27:00.004-04:00

I talk to a lot of book clubs, both in person and via Skype. It's a great way to connect with readers -- and I'm always fascinated by their insights into my characters. Since the protagonist of two of my novels, Househusband Linc Menner, is autobiographical in nature, oftentimes the feedback I get from book clubs feels like therapy ... like I'm being deconstructed on a shrink's couch.

I recently had the pleasure of visiting two book clubs in Bowling Green, KY. These ladies know how to treat a visiting author! They put me up for free in a Hilton Garden Inn for the night, which meant we could drink and talk long into the evening. They bought me a great bottle of bourbon. They fed me wonderful food. Their questions were insightful and, at times, challenging.

Sometimes book clubs have names. This one was called BIBLE, an acronym for Bitches Intoxicated By Literature, Etc. They meet on Wednesday nights, which is commonly a church night. Hence, the name.

My new friend Kristie picked me up at my hotel in her husband's car. The second I saw it I stopped and thought, "Oh, God. No effing way!"

Indeed, it was a tight fit. It took me awhile to get out of the thing, but I managed ... knowing that a good bottle of bourbon was waiting for me inside.

Thank you, ladies, for a great evening of books, food and discussion.

A Nashville Lesson in Lexicon

2011-07-17T14:54:00.004-04:00

I've long known that the nickname for a woman who has many gay male friends is "fag hag." It's not a nice phrase, especially if you're a younger woman, but because of Americans' love of rhymes and labels it has stuck.

We live in a downtown highrise with a relatively large gay community so, of course, many of our friends are gay. But my wife and her female friends in the building say they don't like the name "fag hag" because it sounds too old and ugly.

"That's simple to fix," said one of the gay friends. "You're not a fag hag -- you're a fruit fly."

Insert smiley face here.

Discrimination in Music City

2011-07-11T10:04:00.003-04:00

My friend Steve, whom you all know as my Kansas Correspondent, is married to my wife's childhood friend who came to visit us last weekend. (As girls, the two of them were known to play Barbie Torture Chamber; more on that some other time.)

At any rate, we came upon this sign somewhere in downtown Nashville:

Steve's antics aside, take a look at the bottom "no" designation. No Scottish Terriers. Evidently greyhounds are allowed, as are small fluffy dogs and beagles. I'd never seen a "No Dogs" picture highlight a specific breed. Did the sign's creator hate Scotties? Or love them?

I'm still looking for the "Scotties Only" water fountain.

Tropical Diary: Post #544W1

2011-07-05T07:41:00.004-04:00

Found in the bottom of my filing cabinet drawer:

And a sideways shot:

I think we can deduce that this poor little guy died of dehydration.

My (failed) Adult Science Fair Experiment

2011-06-29T10:01:00.002-04:00

The weeds had taken over a part of my Florida yard, and because we were putting the house on the market I knew I had to spruce things up. 'Thought I'd save some money at the same time. Since things grow so fast down here in this tropical climate, I surely didn't have to lay an entire carpet of new sod -- right? Couldn't I do something similar to hair plugs in bald men? Within days I'd have a new head of full green grass ...

Yeah, I know: the answer is no. Looks pretty sad, doesn't it? Can I call it "art?"

Why Publix is my favorite supermarket chain: Reason #2554T5

2011-06-24T17:49:00.003-04:00

I usually don't like these mixed bouquets but this one included roses, hydrangeas, lilies -- and none of them dyed with fake color. This was $26 but worth every penny.

Admittedly, I'm obsessed with things botanical. The protagonist of two of my novels (Househusband and Man of the House) was landscape architect for the stars of Hollywood. And did I ever tell y'all that my great grandfather was a world-class gardener from Germany, who emigrated to the U.S., where he grew immense award-winning mums for two U.S. presidents?
Or was it 3? ... Mom? Was it 3 or 2?

My new friend

2011-06-22T13:58:00.003-04:00

Those of you who know me through my books and blog are well aware that I have a tendency to lean toward junior high in the humor department. I think I've met my match. The other night we had new friends over for cocktails (he, the husband of the duo, is pushing 70) and while we were talking he started playing with the cheese and crackers and fruit in the nearby fruit bowl ... and this is what he came up with.

Yes, those are nipples made of brie cheese and almonds, atop oranges.
I salute you, George! Pee-Wee Herman would be most proud!

On good signage, less is more.

2011-06-20T06:49:00.004-04:00

This is a new sign near the big bridge at the northernmost point of the Natchez Trace Parkway, outside Nashville. Over the years, about 150 people have jumped from the bridge to end their lives.
I thought this was beautifully handled, as far as the writing goes.

Photo credit: The Tennessean.com

Why I don't care about Weiner's Weener

2011-06-17T07:58:00.005-04:00

Anthony Weiner's photos haven't bothered me in the least. Neither did Bill Clinton's antics in the White House or the Idaho congressman's gay shenanigans in the airport.

Here's why: Men have two heads, the one down there, and the one they think with, up top. Contrary to the complex way that women are wired, men's two heads are not connected in any way. One deals with foreign policy and budgets. The other deals with getting laid. For men, sex is solely an act of physical gratification. True, it's more special when we perform the act with someone we love, but it feels the same with every person, every time. Men's sexuality has nothing to do with their emotions and intellect. Men have high sex drives. It's why they pursue prostitutes and consume porn and have affairs. It doesn't make us bad leaders. It makes us MEN. And it's always been this way with male politicians. Remember the Kennedys? (And that's only one example.) The only difference today is that we have technology that obliterates privacy, so men's adventures in getting their rocks off are made more public. The Europeans have no problems with this stuff. Only we Americans do.

And I thought I was picky...

2011-06-14T10:07:00.001-04:00

This from an editor friend: the amusing submission guidelines for Portland Magazine.

We do not accept poems about cats, guns, cats with guns, or guns used on
cats, however delightful the prospect of the latter would be. We do not
accept poems in which French words suddenly appear, or the poet praises
one or more breasts of his or her acquaintance, including his or her
own. We do not accept poems about God unless the word God does not
appear. We do not accept poems about poems. We do not accept poems about
the artistic process, the arduous nature of eliciting poetry from the
trammeled soul, the agony of poetry, the primacy of poetry among the
written arts, or anything whatsoever to do with poetry. We approach the
reading of poems having to do with nature or landscape warily, but we
have in fact accepted several. We relish poems about sports if they do
not draw any sweeping conclusions about character, personal and/or
national, or use sports as metaphor. We accept poems about insects. We
do not accept poems about religions, unless the religion is reduced to
human proportions, which is where religions all started to begin with,
yes? We accept poems about birds. We accept poems about food. We look
favorably on poems in which wood appears in any form whatsoever. We
accept poems about chess. We do not accept poems about cars and driving
and the vast American yearning and loneliness as represented by cars and
highways. We do not accept poems about poets. We do not accept poets
with poems. We decline to lunch with poets no matter what the ostensible
context for said lunch. We approach lunches with novelists warily,
keeping both hands on the old wallet. We do lunch with essayists. We
decline to meet with artists to see their vast and inchoate portfolios.
We do not publish poems about dance in any form. We decline to meet with
ballerinas past or present. We decline to read or entertain work of any
kind in which the author or artist specifies his or her copyright with
that little copyright mark. We decline to read work from authors or
artists who use only lower-case letters in his or her name(s). We
decline to read submissions from France. We do not accept poems from
cats or indeed from any member of the feline race or his or her agent or
representative.

Cordially,

Brian Doyle

Editor, Portland Magazine

University of Portland

The Little Hose That Could

2011-06-11T09:22:00.003-04:00

Says the Days Inn manager: "Oh, but we do have a pool ... Err, at least we will by Thursday or Friday. Maybe Saturday."

How Not to Wear a Cowboy Hat

2011-06-09T16:02:00.004-04:00

Both of these guys were spotted at the CMA festival this weekend in Nashville. Rule of thumb for those unfamiliar with cowboy hats: They should rest an index finger above the top of your ear. For some reason, a lot of the newer country stars wear them way down low, and I think it looks like they stole their daddies' hats -- don't you?

Is this the country equivalent of rappers wearing their pants too low?

Dear Italian boys: Don't mess with my daughter

2011-06-07T11:54:00.002-04:00

Our daughter is studying abroad in Italy this summer and she's posting her travels in a blog. I had to share this funny anecdote with you:

This weekend my roommates and I visited the Amalfi Coast, Sorrento, and the island of Capri. We began by taking a five hour bus ride from Perugia to Naples. However, all hopes of stopping for a delicious pizza in Naples (the birthplace of pizza) were completely dashed when we realized what an absolute CRAP HOLE Naples is. I had always heard writers describe Naples as a loud, dirty, noisy city that had some sense of ruffian charm about it: however, I did not pick up on any charm at all in the twenty minutes or so that I was there. Massive piles of trash littered the streets, everyone looked angry and/or was yelling at someone or something, and within five minutes of leaving our bus some gypsy children tried to steal my bag. They were running around me, pretending to play innocently, when one of them tried to grab it. Having read that Naples is a cesspool of humanity and a big center of crime, I was already on my guard, so I swung my other bag, which was pretty heavy, and hit them HARD in the face. Needless to say, it worked: they ran away. I was kind of worried about hitting a small child in the face, especially since their mother was right there. However, I obviously didn’t want to get stolen from, and since their mother didn’t react whatsoever, showing she was in on the game, it was clear that I was right in labeling them as thieving gypsies. Needless to say, watch your back when you’re in Naples.

Me again: Tee-hee-hee

Curmudgeon Report #55797T5

2011-06-06T10:21:00.004-04:00

These are stupid, and you look stupid wearing them. I guess the word that comes to my mind is this: WHY?

Tropical Diary: Post #5881E3

2011-06-02T07:28:00.005-04:00

You know times are tough when you see this on a church marquee: "Thou Shalt Not Steal the Copper Coils from our A.C. Unit."

How (not) to get a close shave

2011-05-31T15:58:00.005-04:00

Recently took my wife and friends bicycling along the Natchez Trace. The wives rode, and we men followed in the van and cobbled together lunches, etc.

Gone for three days, I forgot my razor and was forced to find a cheap Bic throwaway model in a grocery story that was named, if I remember correctly, Morrows Food World. Bald men know that razors are a serious issue, and, if we note a particularly close shave on a fellow baldie standing somewhere in line, we will ask him what brand of razor he favors.

Well, all I can say, gentlemen, is this: do not use the Bic Metal Razor.

Good thing the beautiful and capable Nurse Carol was in the room with me.

Addie Award for Juvenile Delinquency

2011-05-25T11:19:00.003-04:00

... goes to whoever painted this awesome mural on the side of our highrise in downtown Nashville.

It's pretty phantasmagorical, ain't it? Don't you think the angel boy looks like a pea-green version of Mowgli, the orphaned boy from Jungle Book?

Co-cola, anyone?

2011-05-22T10:12:00.003-04:00

Having spent most of my adult life in the American South, I always choose Coke over Pepsi. I like the complexity and bite of Coke -- I'm sure it's ginger.

I also like how Delta airlines always serves only Coke products because they are loyal to their fellow Atlanta-based company.

Over the years, the creative agencies who write for Coke have given us well-penned, innovative ads: Remember "Have a Coke and a Smile?" and "I'd like to Teach the World to Sing?"

This is on their new napkins on Delta:

Coke: Crispy and zesty on the first sip, smooth and rich by the last.

That pretty well captures it, don't you think?

Urban Wildlife: Post #866T5

2011-05-20T08:08:00.002-04:00

I call this my "rapper tuxedo."

This week's Addie Award for Thriftiness

2011-05-18T06:01:00.003-04:00

I love how, once your kids get into college, the tables turn: after all those years of you teaching them, they start teaching you. I've learned so many great things through our daughter: books I never would have read, political theories, the themes and meanings behind Shakespeare.

And here's another fun one: Recently, one of her professors was chatting with the class and he divulged that he and his wife really enjoy their cocktails -- but, both of them academics, they can't afford the pricier vodkas.

Enter Britta. For those who haven't used a Britta, please note that they are nothing short of miraculous. It's a water pitcher with built-in carbon filter that makes even Florida tap water taste delicious.

Evidently, according to my daughter's professor, it also can turn cheap vodka into expensive-tasting stuff. They run their cheap liquor through the Britta a few times, and ... voila! ... they're suddenly drinking Grey Goose!

Definition of Tired

2011-05-16T08:55:00.003-04:00

Exhausted daughter just finished a grueling two weeks of finals and papers and is in animal mode this week: Sleep. Eat. Sleep. Facebook. Eat. Sleep.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhh..............

Addie Awards: #45856T5

2011-05-14T08:00:00.004-04:00

Starting something new on my blog this week: When I see something that I think deserves a superlative and mention, I'm going to share it with you. We will call them Addie Awards. My grandma Max used to call me Addie. Also, Addison Forbsikens.

From my recent trip to Greenville, South Carolina ...

Best Place to Get Married:

The YMCA camp in the mountains north of town. No alcohol allowed, though. (sigh)

And the Skinniest Coffee Shop in the World award goes to:

Owner says: "Go in the door and take a QUICK turn to the right."

Coitus Interruptus

2011-05-11T13:52:00.005-04:00

Easy to spot a Floridian this time of year by the front of his truck or car.

Yep. Love bugs. Easy to see how they got their nickname:

For those who haven't seen them, these little critters have sex while flying: the TRUE Mile High Club. Problem is, they're ... uhh ... well, they're a little distracted in the process and tend to float into the paths of oncoming vehicles.

I do admire their zeal for multi-tasking ... though often unsuccessful.

And I wonder: Who gets to fly forwards and who has to fly backwards?

Barstool Wisdom: #8556TV

2011-05-09T08:10:00.002-04:00

Quick story for you: The other night after a hockey game I was drinking at a hotel bar with a friend, and there was a talkative, negative jerk sitting next to us. It took every ounce of willpower just to keep our mouths shut.

But, at one point, my friend could hold back no more. He said: "You know buddy, I think we've just about heard enough. You need to know somethin' here: Real men don't talk bad about their wives or their waitresses. You understand? Now, I'm gonna get up and go to the bathroom and when I get back I sure as hell hope you're gone."

And he was.

Mysteries of the Universe: #7576TG6

2011-05-04T15:08:00.004-04:00

So one of my guy's-guy friends called me recently with an unusual observation -- at least for him: He'd tuned into the royal wedding and noted something peculiar: "Hats," he said. "Really, cool hats. Man, those Brit ladies can do hats. They make the Kentucky Derby hats look downright dowdy."

And then, he added: "So, if they can do hats so well, why can't they figure out the teeth thing?"

"???"

"Their teeth," he explained. "They really are horrible, all gray and crooked. If they worry so much about their hats, then why not their teeth? I just think it's really weird."

It made me think how we Americans are so consumed with acquiring the perfect smile. First, the introduction of orthodontics in the 70s ... and, most recently, this obsession with getting our teeth as white as copier paper. We've perfected teeth, boobs, eyebrows, etc. Where do we go next?

I, for one, like a little gravity on a lady. And I'm a little wary of those with smiles that look computer-generated.

What makes teeth gray, anyway?

Memoir-writing, Lesson #47T4: The ending

2011-05-02T09:02:00.004-04:00

Since I'm immersed in writing my first memoir (after writing four novels), I've been consuming as many of them as I can, and I see a common thread: Though many of them are well written, few have good, solid endings. They all just seem to peter out with a bunch of notebook-dumping: "Oh, and then this happened, and then this, and then this." It's as if the writer died while the book was in progress, and an editor somewhere had to finish the project.

While teaching a class at the Kentucky Writers' Conference a weeks ago, I shared this thought with my students, and asked them if they had any idea why memoirs had this problem. One smart woman raised her hand: "Memoirs are open-ended because your life's not over," she said. "You really don't know how the events in the memoir are going to impact you in the long run. You don't know the ending because, well, because you're still living."

I think she's right. Don't you?

Housekeeping Horror: #465Q2

2011-05-01T10:38:00.003-04:00

I've heard from my nomadic Kansas Correspondent again. (Remember the gentleman who sent us the photo of the huge fake eyelash left behind on his hotel chair?)

Here's his most recent find:

And his report: OK. I am staying at Hilton Garden Inn uptown Charlotte... 15th floor. So did someone really use a condom in the 15th floor foyer? Or did they use it on the elevator? Now would that be on the way down or up or both? I am taking the stairs as a precautionary matter. You Kansas Konnection has issued a travel advisory for this hotel.

The royal wedding: color me "confused."

2011-04-29T06:41:00.005-04:00

I'm confused about Americans' fascination with the royal family of England. Adoration of such a thing seems anathema to our country's collective personality:

1. There was this thing called an American Revolution ... unfair taxation and all that. Boston Tea Party? Redcoats kicking our ass on our own territory.

2. Americans' entire country is based on the idea of egalitarianism. Though it's really not true, we at least like to think that we're all equal, that every man and woman has the same potential for power and greatness. The entire idea of a monarchy, and what it stands for, is in direct opposition to that.

3. Americans, for the most part, have a distrust of things European. We tend to roll our eyes at them, just as they roll their eyes at us.

4. Americans believe in hard work, not in things being handed to them on a silver platter.

So why this fascination with the royal family? Is it because we're a (lovingly) vulgar, rag-tag, mutt-like mix of humanity ... and the royal family helps to elevate us in some way?

Do this young nation crave a deeper sense of history and tradition?

Does the royal family take us back to our childhood, and all those books about princes and princesses?

It's surely not that they're attractive. I mean, the girls (Diana and Kate) these boys are bringing into the family are cute, but the royal family itself is looking a little inbred these days, dontcha think? I mean, they all look like various farmyard animals: horses, etc.

I just don't get it. Enlighten me, please. What is the allure behind the royal family?

"Yes, Virginia, there is an Easter Bunny."

2011-04-25T04:50:00.007-04:00

As I've mentioned in the past, I have a fascination with animal costumes and secretly wish to be a mascot for some sports team. Hence, I enjoy having my picture taken with large furry characters.

These shots were taken at the Hermitage Hotel in downtown Nashville, where my wife, daughter and I had a great Easter brunch.

Honestly, I am not goosing him or doing anything inappropriate. What on earth is he covering his eyes for? Isn't this the weirdest photo?

Now a not-so-strange one:

Aren't my girls beautiful? I hope y'all had a great holiday weekend with family or friends.

My Roller Derby Report

2011-04-24T07:47:00.004-04:00

When I was a boy growing up on the High Plains of Colorado, entertainment options for us were few and far between. For starters, we had one TV channel, which signed off with the Star Spangled Banner every night at midnight.

Luckily, one show in that channel's programming schedule was roller derby. My brother and I wouldn't miss it. To this day I have no idea which city the girls played in, but I do know that there was plenty of action on that rink: women pushing and shoving, some of them flying over the rail that tried to contain the action. Boys always love watching girls fight, and this was even better: these were grown-up women fighting.

Well, evidently, that version of roller derby was a little like professional wrestling: the violence and drama were choreographed and acted and ramped up for a television audience. I know this because I finally got the chance to see a real roller derby match last night.

The sport has made a comeback in recent years, and a facebook friend of mine (thanks, Teresa) who plays on a Colorado team talked me into going. I gathered up my wife, friends and daughter who was visiting from college for Easter weekend, and we walked over to the Nashville Municipal Auditorium to watch Music City take on Kansas City.

Some observations:

1. Roller Derby tickets cost $8! It's good, cheap family entertainment.

2. Key word is family: These women weren't violent in the least. Not one girl fight. Honestly, I was a little disappointed. I wanted some hair-pulling or body slams or something.

3. Roller Derby concessions serves the biggest beers I've ever seen. 'Can't remember the official ounce-count, but one friend noted that one can of Bud was equal to 2.5 regular-size cans.

4. Know the rules of the game. If you don't understand them, it merely looks like a bunch of girls skating around in a circle. The woman with the star on her helmet is the jammer, and it's this jammer's job to out-lap the members of the opposite team. Each time she does this she makes a point for her team. Meanwhile, her other four team members try to clear the way for her while the opposing team, of course, tries to stop her. What this means is that offensive and defensive plays are going on at the same time. This sport requires ACTIVE watching. Lots going on.

5. The whole thing is wonderfully low-budget and has a homespun feel to it. The clock and scoring was shown via laptop on a projector screen. The cheerleaders: a rag-tag collection of women and men with tattoos, piercings and hair dyed all sorts of colors. They used meager pom-pons that looked like ones bought for a child at a football game.

6. Each woman has her nickname on the back of her jersey. There was Killah B. Killed and (appropriate for Nashville) Meanie Pearl. If there was an MVP of last night's action it was a black woman from Kansas named Black Ice. (we managed to get her autograph.)

7. In so many sports we are kept far away from the athletes, but not in roller derby. You have the option of sitting in what's called Suicide Seating, which is floor-seating around the edge of the track, inches from the action. (And I mean ON the floor, no chairs.)

8. Most impressive was the ending. (Incidentally, Nashville got their clocks cleaned). The women of opposing teams greeted each other with smiles and hand slaps and congratulations, and then they rolled around the rink, hands out, slapping high-fives to everyone in the Suicide Seating section.

So ... Nashville ... looking for someone to play a mascot for y'all? I'm available and interested.

Hello? Acme Sign Company?

2011-04-21T10:08:00.005-04:00

Okay, folks, this is not photoshopped. My wife and I saw this with our own eyes in downtown Nashville, which has seen some nasty winds of late. Somebody better alert the folks at Suntrust.

T-shirt of the Month

2011-04-20T04:42:00.004-04:00

Check out this awesome T-shirt spotted on a pregnant woman at the Southern Kentucky Book Fest last weekend.(Yes, I DID ask her permission before shooting the photo).

I wonder what the little guy's reading. Fiction? Non-fiction? An Ad Hudler book?

My Secret for Ear Wax Problems

2011-04-19T06:02:00.003-04:00

I have a recurring dream-borderline-nightmare that involves me pulling from my ears chunks of wax the size of peanuts. Gross, I know, but ear wax has been a persistent problem of mine. Ear infections, too.

Finally, I went to an ear-nose-throat doc. He cleaned out my ears and said I should wear ear plugs when I swim. I told him I don't swim. Confounded, he explained that people with constantly wet ear canals produce large amounts of ear wax.

"Could it be sweat?" I asked. "I sweat a lot."

He started writing out a prescription to me for ear drops, which I would have to use for the rest of my life.

"A prescription for the rest of my life?" I said. "I'm only 41."

He looked me over. I was wearing ratty blue jeans and boots and a T-shirt tucked in.

"Tell you what," he said. "I know that can get expensive, so here's what you do. Take one of those plastic bottles that you put mustard or ketchup in, and fill it with half rubbing alcohol and half white vinegar. Every time you shower or go swimming, rinse out your ears. This will help dry out the canals."

(I silently thanked my momma, who always had us dress poor when we went to visit a specialist in Denver so that they would feel sorry for us and bill accordingly.)

Guess what? That was five years ago. I haven't had an earwax problem since. Not once. No more infections. No more crinkly sound of dry wax in my ear. No more need for ear candles or syringes.

Incidentally, I finally discovered why my ears were always wet. Though I'd always had ear-wax problems it got worse about the time I turned 40. I scrutinized the variables that had changed in my life ... and thought and thought and thought ... and then, EUREKA! I realized the problem intensified after I started shaving my head: water was running, unimpeded, right down the scalp and into my ears.

So tell your friends who have earwax problems: rinse with a 50-50 solution of rubbing alcohol and white vinegar.

Your advice will be the finest gift you ever give them.

My brief life as a sandwich

2011-04-17T07:58:00.007-04:00

Ever since I was a child I've always dreamed of being a mascot. I always watched the slightly-larger-than-life, stuffed-animal-looking character strut and dance about the sidelines or gym, entertaining the crowds -- and wished it was me.

You always find similar costumed characters at reading festivals: Cat in the Hat, Snoopy, etc. At the Southern Kentucky Book Fest this week (which, incidentally, has turned into one of the best run reading festivals in the South) I was in the author's lounge when I saw a giant, plush costume of a Crustable (those funky PBJ sandwich things from Smuckers). The girl who was wearing the costume was taking a break and had set it down against the wall.

I seized my chance ...

"Can I? ..."

I couldn't fit it over my shoulders; it's supposed to cover the entire torso ... but we did manage to set my hat on top!

Retail Find of the Month: #288Q1

2011-04-15T13:13:00.007-04:00

Recently stopped by a place called Gully's Retail Store Fixtures, on the other side of the tracks in Fort Myers. Evidently, when shops go belly up the folks from Gully's swoop in like vultures and buy all the stuff one needs to set up a store: shelving, pricing tags, light fixtures and ...

lots and lots of dummies. Obviously, the people who work at Gully's have a sense of humor. Note these two prostitute dummies.....pretty hot, dontcha think? And what about the little boy with his name tag attached to his nipples. Ouch.

Then there was the gigolo section. As you can see, Tom will cost you just $205. He's very brooding, isn't he? And Amos on the far right: he's got some rapper at-ti-tude.

Looking for something a little more creepy? Here's "D. Baby Rose," who appears to be Asian. I'm very intrigued by the thing on her head that looks like the end of a banana.

Conspiracy Theory #3866T5

2011-04-13T06:47:00.002-04:00

...that the Chinese are trying to take over America, and NOT in the way you think. They're doing it through their buffet restaurants, which are everywhere now, from tiny towns to urban neighborhoods. Yep, if you have a Bonanza steakhouse or Denny's that went out of business, chances are very good it's now an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet restaurant with a name like China Palace Buffet.

These things rarely cost more than $7 per person. How can they do it and make money? They can't. You see, the Chinese government is underwriting them so they can succeed in their plot to make us the most obese culture on the planet. And then when we're all rolling around in duck sauce, all fat and happy, they storm in and take us over.

Hey...we've got to blame someone for our obesity problem, right? We can't be responsible for our own actions; that's so 1950s.

Would someone please alert Glen Beck?

Flabby arms

2011-04-11T06:40:00.003-04:00

Question: When was the last time you walked into a big-box store or supermarket and the door didn't open up for you? Was this your reaction: "What the hell? Is this thing broken?"

You wave your hand in front of what you think is a sensor, and the door just sits there, closed.

And then you realize, with incredulity: "This is NOT AN AUTOMATIC DOOR?!?!! What the heck?!"

Next stop: Cars. When was the last time you manually rolled up a window?

Next stop: Electric kitchen equipment.

Next stop: Riding mowers

I asked my personal-trainer friend why so many people have trouble with flabby triceps. (The triceps are those under-side muscles in the upper arms that, if unused, start hanging there like a floppy hammock.)

Simple, he explained. We no longer have to manually push things.

Try this: Push down on the table or against the wall. See? It tenses those arms in the trouble spots. We have flabby arms because technology has made pushing unnecessary in everyday life.

Push onward, people.

A sad scene in ATL

2011-04-08T17:02:00.002-04:00

I was writing on my laptop at the bar in the B concourse Delta Crown Room, Atlanta airport. An older man, maybe about 75, sat a few barstools away from me.

Over the course of less than 20 minutes, I watched him drink three bloody marys.

It was 8:15 in the morning.

He was shaking. His face was red and inflamed. He was alone.

The writer in me wondered what it was that made him drink that much so early in the day.

The drinker in me wondered what it was that made him drink that much so early in the day.

I love my cocktails. So far I've been able to keep myself from drinking them before 4 p.m.

But I looked at him and saw a potential Me. It scared me. Rattled me, even.

Thank you, sir. I hope you're okay.

A Real Survivor.

2011-04-04T11:38:00.007-04:00

Meet Spike.

When you live in a downtown highrise you find yourself craving things green because you're so removed from nature. I bought this plant about a year ago and told Carol to make sure she watered him whenever I was gone.

One time, I was absent for nearly an entire month, hosting friends in our Florida house and attending author events in different places. When I got home, there was Spike, all healthy and green and looking great.

"Great job of taking care of Spike," I said. "He looks great!"

"I didn't," she said.

"Didn't what?"

"Didn't water him."

"Not even once?"

"No."

"For a month?"

I reached into the pot and felt the soil, hard and crusty. Like something freeze-dried.

"Wow,"I said. "This guy's amazing."

Truly, there was nary a dried edge of leaf on Spike. He looked like an expensive, artificial plant. Perhaps I had his gender wrong. He's obviously as resilient as a Southern woman.

Spikeena? Ideas for names, anyone?

And the Prophet of the Week award goes to ...

2011-04-02T08:15:00.006-04:00

My friend and I were driving to lunch in Fort Myers the other day and came across this fellow, preaching at the corner of U.S. 41 and McGregor Boulevard. He was a black man whom I assume to be homeless, citing scripture through a ventriloquist's dummy.

The armchair psychiatrist in me has had a hey-day with this one: First of all, the idea of citing scripture through a dummy. Second of all, a black man hiding behind a white man to cite scripture through a dummy. Irony alert! Irony alert!

I googled the Penny Carson website listed on his placard and ... voila! ... discovered that we'd just seen a celebrity. To watch him on a youtube video, click here

Adventures of the Kindle Cowboy

2011-03-30T13:04:00.006-04:00

I've told y'all before how I like to lie to strangers, trying on different identities.

Because I wear a cowboy hat, jeans and brown work boots those lies often involve made-up vocations of a rural nature.

Yesterday, while waiting for the aircraft door to open:

Flight attendant: Is this home?

Me: Yes.

FA: Where's your ranch?"

Me: Colorado. I commute between here and there.

FA: What do you have?

Me: What?

FA: How big of an operation?

Me: Uhmmmm, not too big. 200 acres maybe.

FA: No. How many head? And what kind?

Me: Uhmmmmm.....Head?

FA: Cattle?

Me: Yeah!

FA: What kind?

Me: Uhmmmmmm.

FA: Red angus, black angus, hereford. What kind?

Me: A good mix.

FA: Uh-huh. What's your favorite breed?

Me: Uhmmmm.

FA: I don't like those black angus. They're so aggressive, don't you think so?

Me: Uhmmmm. I don't really run the ranch. You see, it's my dad's, and he's not good with numbers, and I'm a CPA so I'm out there trying to help him.

Now I ask you .... what are the chances of running into a flight attendant who was raised on a cattle ranch in Wisconsin? Hmm?

Besides, they're not complete lies. As in most fiction, there are elements of reality in this made-up stuff: I did grow up in a ranch-and-farm town in Colorado, and a lot of my friends wore hats and boots and worked the land and herds. True, I was a townie; not a cowboy. It wasn't until age 45 when I started wearing cowboy hats, shortly after my doctor excavated the first scary mole from my bald head.

Signs that you are an eccentric: #855W2

2011-03-28T11:01:00.009-04:00

My Atlanta friend -- we'll call her Madame X to protect her identity and dignity (wink,wink) -- recently visited us for the weekend. I couldn't help but snap a few photos of her casual around-the-home attire:

Top photo: 2-toed socks and hot-pepper flannel jammies.
Bottom photo. Tim Burton jammies and striped socks with actual stuffed kitty heads on them.

And, no, she is not 8. She is 55. Don't you want to be her friend?

Cuttin' up during the photo shoot

2011-03-25T09:50:00.002-04:00

Daaaaaaaaaad!

Strangeness in North Dakota

2011-03-20T10:19:00.002-04:00

From the memoir in progress:

... I broke free from Carol and our friends before sunrise. Driving in the soft, pink-yellow light of early dawn, I finally descended the last of the boringly spectacular glaciers and spilled out onto the endless plain.

I drove. And drove. And drove. And drove. The further east I got the more the traffic thinned out, and after about six hours I was passing one car every five to ten minutes. The landscape was Lake Superior-flat and so devoid of humanity that at one point I felt compelled to pull over and get out to experience the extreme, lonely silence, hearing nothing but the ticking of my engine as it cooled and the wind as it rustled through fields of crispy ripe wheat. No birds. You need trees to have birds.

Somewhere near the Montana-North Dakota border, just after passing a farm whose owner had created a huge Raggedy Ann doll out of hay bales and spray paint, I was pleased to encounter a distraction: a sunburned man with a goatee and reflective orange vest flagged me down. His white utility truck (an F250 4-by-4 with aluminum tool box. Mud flaps, too, which are unusual on a truck that size) was parked in the middle of the highway, broadside, acting as a barricade.

I rolled down my window, and he walked up to me.

"Road's closed for awhile," he said.

"How long?" I asked.

"Not sure about that. It's a government project."

"Are they working on the road?"

"Can't say. It's a government project."

I'd seen no road-work signs for 200 miles. I thought of the old Cold War missile silos that I'd heard about in the Dakotas, each filled with multiple warheads aimed at the former Soviet Union, and I couldn't help but wonder if Homeland Security was up to something on the prairie once again. If I were a hawkish president, and I wanted to develop some controversial weaponry without public scrutiny (Bush was in office at this time), I could think of no better place to do it than right here.

"A secret government project?" I asked.

"Oh, just a government project. You know. Government."

"Should I turn around and find another route?”

The man shrugged his shoulders and walked back to his truck, where he sat, leafing through but not reading a magazine. To pass the time, I opened my atlas on the hood of my car and began perusing this fine, rectangular state. Had I made a mistake in choosing Grand Forks over Fargo, home of the Roger Maris Museum in the West Acres Shopping Mall? … Should I swing south and hit the Teddy Roosevelt National Forest? … Would I regret overlooking Bismark while I was here? Carol had told me that visiting North Dakota was like visiting Australia; it's so remote and out-of-the-way that you'll most likely never return in this lifetime, so you'd best see as much as you can if you ever make it there.

About ten minutes later, a second car finally came down the highway, this one with Rhode Island plates and two young women. It took the driver of this car about five minutes before she, too, got out and asked the man what was going on.

"Government project," he said, now leaning on a rake that appeared to have no purpose other than providing comfort.

Fifteen minutes later, a third car joined us. Out stepped a skinny man, jittery in that over-caffeinated way, with a mullet haircut and cut-off jeans shorts and black boots.

"Government project," the highway worker said. "Road's closed for awhile."

The man gave the highway worker a pained, mystified look, as if he couldn't understand a word he'd said. He then turned, looked at the girls in their car, shook his head, spit on the ground, got back into his car, completed a hasty three-point turn, and headed back in the direction from which he came, his tires spinning and kicking back gravel.

"Crystal meth," the highway worker explained. "'You see how all his teeth were bad?"

Thirty-five minutes later, the man received a call on his two-way radio. Without saying a word to us, he tossed the rake into the back of his truck, got into the cab and drove away, eastward.

I looked at the Rhode Island women and shrugged my shoulders. We waited a good five minutes more, and, with no sign of our guide returning, I got back into my Malibu and continued eastward. I scanned the horizon over the next fifty miles for any sign of road construction but found no crews, no barricades, no new striping on the highway or freshly filled potholes – and no sign of our highway-department friend.

Kitchen Bitch (and lovin' it)

2011-03-19T10:51:00.004-04:00

Yesterday we said goodbye to our daughter and her two good friends who had spent the past week with us for their spring break. A great bunch of girls, all of them. They spent most of their time at the beach and sunning on water's edge in our backyard ... and eating.

Wow ... do college girls have appetites. I cooked up a storm all week long:

Fish tacos. Mine are fried in a beer-batter crust, served in corn tortillas. And then I make a special sauce from buttermilk, mayo, lime, garlic, pepper and cumin. Serve these with chopped tomatoes, avocado, cilantro, feta cheese and shredded green cabbage.

A chicken curry with smoked paprika and coconut milk.

Ad Pasta, which basically means a mix of roasted meats and veggies, tossed with pasta, basil, capers, kalamata olives, a hard cheese such as romano. (Some of you might remember this as "Linc Pasta" from the protagonist in my Househusband novels, Linc Menner.)

A French-style vegetable soup that is enlivened by a big dollop of pistou, which is basically a pesto that includes tomatoes ground into the cheese and basil mixture.

My daughter's favorite dish, pasta carbonara.

Instead of soft drinks the girls drank up different concoctions of infused water. We started with one that included ground ginger, lemon, cucumber and fresh mint. Then we moved to an apple-cardamom-pod and cinnamon infusion. Our favorite, however, was water infused with sliced strawberries and fresh basil. Very refreshing and perfect for the 80-degree days we've been having.

I don't get to cook that often in my now-empty nest. It felt good nourishing thankful diners again.

But for the next week or so: Takeout food and pizza delivered to the house!

Uh-oh.

2011-03-15T15:25:00.003-04:00

Not sure what this means.

Yep. No fortune in the fortune cookie.

Definite food for thought.

Good memoirs leave the bullshitting behind

2011-03-11T09:53:00.004-05:00

As I make make the transition from writing novels to memoirs (at least for the foreseeable future), and toil away on my own story of surviving the shock of the empty nest, I've been devouring as many memoirs as possible to help me learn.

There are a lot of bad memoirs out there.

And some good ones, too.

Among my favorites so far:

Lit by Mary Karr: An honest look at how alcohol shaped a mother's relationship with her son.

Lauretta Hannon's Cracker Queen: A tale of growing up poor in Warner Robbins, Georgia. I liked its mix of humor that occasionally turned on a dime, 180 degrees, into sadness.

Also: At Least in the City Someone can Hear You Scream, by Wade Rouse. The newest of the gay-boy memoirists. Funny like Sedaris but with a more youthful energy and sarcasm, which appeals to the junior-high boy in me.

And, finally, one I could not put down: The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls ... a story of kids raised by brilliant, gifted parents who taught their kids philosophy and physics but couldn't even put food on the table. In the words of my friend, who also read the book: This is another good example of showing, not telling. Without the violins. The facts themselves are so outrageous and compelling. She just needs to tell the story.

Here's what all these books have in common: absolute honesty. I've determined that the best memoirs ring true. Writing the truth is hard. For months, I was trying to hide behind humor while writing my own memoir, and my agent pushed me and pushed me to look beyond the humor, at the truth. It's been a grueling process, but I think I'm well on the way to creating something wonderful.

Because we have so much information available to us these days, we as a culture have developed a heightened ability to detect bullshit. It's definitely made the memoirist's job even harder.

Uhh...I'll just have a glass of water, please

2011-03-09T10:34:00.004-05:00

This is a staged food photo that a downtown Nashville restaurant actually used for PROMOTIONAL purposes. I suggest they hire a new food stylist.

Imagine the waiter's pitch for this one: "It's a delicious-if-not-undercooked loin of pork atop a mound of baby poop and pureed peat moss. Topped with sliced peaches and fried pork rinds, of course."

Lordy, I'd hate to see what their cream-chipped-beef looks like.

Dear Southwest Airlines: Wow. All I can say is WOW.

2011-03-07T13:43:00.004-05:00

We hear a lot of complaints about air travel these days, and, sadly, most of them are valid.
But I had an uplifting experience on Southwest Airlines today that deserves mention.

We were scheduled to leave Nashville, flying direct to Fort Myers, at 8 a.m. today. At 7:45 the captain came out and told us the engine was acting up, and he wanted it tested. Flat out honest with us. He said, "Hey, I'm going up there with you; I don't want to be on a plane with a bad engine."

For the next 15 minutes we listened to him rev the engine up and down, testing it as a mechanic worked on it. Then he came back on and said he wasn't satisfied, and that he'd called for a new plane.

Now, if this were Delta, they would have kept us on there for hours, but we left the plane immediately and returned to the terminal. Time: About 8:20.

Now ... get this: It took less than 30 minutes for a substitute plane to arrive for us. From where? I have no idea. But it appeared, magically, and we boarded. Since this was Southwest and we'd already given up our boarding passes on the original plane, they asked us to use the honor system and sit exactly where we had sat on the first plane. And because everyone was so happy that this problem had been handled so well, they all obeyed. With smiles. Despite having to switch planes, despite being late, everyone was smiling and laughing because the plane's crew was forthright and friendly, and we didn't feel like we were being lied to or treated badly.

In the end, we were just over one hour late arriving into Fort Myers. Incredible. On Delta, this would have taken all day long. I speak from experience: I fly them almost weekly.

Everything about Southwest is efficient. The gate agents get to the doors upon arrival faster than any other airline. Seriously, that aircraft door is open usually within 60 seconds. On other carriers: Sometimes up to 5 minutes. And, Southwest pilots taxi faster than any other pilots. They zip those 737s in and out of those gates as if they were VW Bugs.

And the bag handlers? They were already unloading our bags from the broken plane even before we were let off.

No one at Southwest waits for anything. Except, of course, if something's wrong with a plane engine -- and thank God for that.

Today I married Southwest Airlines.

Hudler Household Snapshot: #38r55T

2011-03-04T09:01:00.003-05:00

We are crazy cat people. As a family who has never had cable TV, we spend way too much time watching our two cats, Thomas and Mitchell, for entertainment. (Here's a pic and the lowdown on Thomas, made famous in my novel Househusband).

My mom has always said there are two kinds of people in the world: Cat lovers and assholes.

I wouldn't go that far, but I do respect their sense of independence and you-can-go-to-hell attitude.

New art in the Hudler house:

We bought these three paintings from a street artist in New Orleans, when we went to watch our daughter compete in Moot Court nationals. That's a beignet in the left kitty's paws, a donut in the center, and an oyster on the right.

If I wasn't a writer ...

2011-03-02T18:52:00.004-05:00

... I think I'd like to be a civil engineer or architect ... because I have great respect for projects that succeed in both form and function. Like this:

This is the bridge at the northern entrance to the Natchez Trace Parkway, just south of Nashville. Gorgeous, isn't it?

For those who don't know about it, the Trace stretches about 500 miles, from Nashville to Jackson, Mississippi. A snake-shaped national park, it is a natural path that's been followed by humans for thousands of years. I'm not sure why it's a path, but it is, and it was on this path where Meriwether Lewis died en route to Washington to deliver his journals from the famous expedition. How he died isn't known for sure. In fact, his family is trying to get the body exhumed so they can finally determine whether he was murdered by himself or someone else.

I'll bet he would have stopped to sketch this beautiful bridge, though.

Heard at the Mall: Post #298eR4

2011-02-28T07:38:00.005-05:00

Signs that you have dropped the ball as a parent:

Woman #1: "So Allison came home and she had gauges in her ears."

Woman #2: "What did you do?"

Woman #1: "Well, I took her back to the mall, and she agreed to get smaller gauges with a picture of Jesus on them."

I'm not kidding folks. This is real. Sounds like something Claire Dunphy on Modern Family would do, doesn't it?

Postscript: After a few inquiries via facebook, I realize I need to define "gauges."
Imagine an earring with a diameter of your pinkie finger ... and you pierce a hole in the earlobe and stretch it big enough to fit around this ...Cringing yet?

Tornado in the highrise

2011-02-26T07:42:00.003-05:00

It seems that the upper South has become the new Tornado Alley these past few years, with most of the killer twisters touching down in Arkansas, Tennessee and Alabama rather than Kansas and Oklahoma. Tornado watches have become fairly commonplace in places like Nashville.

So where do you go for shelter during a tornado watch when you live on the 29th floor? Answer that surprised me: Into the hallway. It was explained to me that highrises, because they are made with steel instead of wood, are fairly immune to the destruction of twisters, and as long as you get away from the windows you should be just fine.

Hmmmm.

I'm still skeptical about this ... but, at least it makes for some nice chatting time with neighbors in the hallway ... and cuddling time with the furry residents, too.

Why I like to cook: Reason #2ZS17

2011-02-24T08:37:00.002-05:00

Because it's so perty. Seriously, all those colors and shapes and textures! Here's the start of 14-bean soup with chopped veggies.

Girls: Behave yourselves

2011-02-22T13:06:00.005-05:00

Going out on a limb here. I've long noticed a growing sense of incivility in American culture (Thankfully, Southern culture is not as bad off in this arena). And, honestly, it's more notable in young women than any other group. There's a growing aggressiveness and anger amongst women ages 18-30 today... an anger that one normally associates with testosterone. Just today a young woman nearly ran me over as I crossed a street in the crosswalk. She hadn't looked before turning on a red light. I yelled at her: "Hey!" to keep from being run over. She threw the car in park, got out and started screaming at me in four-letter words.

In nearly every altercation between two drivers I've seen in the past few years, the most aggressive, ugly party has almost always been a young woman who is screaming FUCK this and FUCK that and FUCK you!

Men, the worst-behaved of the genders since the beginning of time, have always relied on women to hold up the rules and expectations of behavior that keep civilization civilized. We expect men to act bad, but women have always set the higher standards. They have kept us kinder and gentler. What are we to do when women begin devolving into nasty male behavior?

And you need to know, ladies: Men don't like it one bit. While we may enjoy watching the Kardashians engage in aggressive, rough behavior, we choose to date and marry women who don't trash-talk and act like Rocky Balboa.

Aggressive behavior in women is as sexy as Ugg boots.

Okay, now .... let me have it. I'm cringing and ready.

A word about drunk-writing

2011-02-21T09:40:00.004-05:00

I've been thinking a lot about writers and drinking this past week as I'm seven days into a month-long hiatus from gin. As many of my readers know, I love gin a little too much, and now and then I have to abstain just to make sure I still can.

Booze helps me in the writing process, but not in the way you might imagine.

Frequently, under the influence, I sit down and start writing and I think, "Oh, wow! This is freakin' brilliant! ... Don't stop, Ad! ... BRILLIANT!"

Alas, I awake the next morning and read what I and Tanqueray have written; it is crap. Every single time.

Editing under the influence, however, is another matter. Whenever I drink, my way of seeing things undergoes some sort of shift, as if I'm seeing the writing from a different perspective, from SOMEONE ELSE'S perspective, and I can see ways to improve the original raw portions of the manuscript. It's like viewing a modern sculpture. From one vantage point you get a particular reaction, but if you walk 45 degrees to the left or right you see things that you wouldn't have seen in that original spot. Gin cuts me loose from my normal, everyday point of view and sets me adrift, so that I can see the manuscript from a spot that is further away, big-picture, and truer.

Gin = different-colored lens.

Wine vs. Booze: More from the Memoir in progress

2011-02-19T09:10:00.001-05:00

From a chapter about my lifelong, rocky relationship with alcohol:

One year for Fourth of July Carol and I decided to have a Mexican-themed meal. This, of course, meant margarita. Both of us being born and raised in the Mexican-heavy West, we serve an authentic, potent version of the citrusy cocktail: one-third tequila, one third Cointreau, one third fresh lime juice.

By the time dinner was ready, two people had passed out in their chairs. Two others, discussing national politics, were shouting at each other. In the postmortem of this crash-of-a-dinner party, Carol and I concluded that spirits dramatically alter the arc of an evening. With beer and wine there is a gentle rise in inebriation, gradual and prolonged like a sloping hill, because the body can absorb the alcohol it's taking in. With spirits, however, the rise in drunkenness is faster, steeper; you catapult yourself to the narrow apex, hold on to the top for a brief moment, and then tumble down the other side. Often, there are casualties: someone's pride, someone's dignity, a friendship.

When space is tight ...

2011-02-13T19:10:00.004-05:00

Bars in the kitchen are great for sitting at to eat breakfast or lunch, but, in my opinion, dinner needs to be a slower, nicer event. I just can't relax while sitting on a high stool at a bar. I feel as if I have to rush, as if I'm catching a bite in an airport or a bar somewhere.

Until very recently we had no dining table in our Nashville condo ... and then my very-cool mom sent us a black drop-leaf. It's perfect for small-space urban living because, when folded up, it is only 12 inches deep. Take a look. It sits at the end of my kitchen counter. Hardly takes any room at all.

And looky here, at a small dinner party with our friends Mary Jayne and Steve (Steve, incidentally, is the Official Kansas Correspondent for this blog; he's the guy who sent us the photo of the eyelash on the hotel-room chair)

Now isn't that better than sitting under harsh light at some kitchen bar? Wine and cocktails were served along with the lamb stew. Wouldn't the meal have been more dangerous if we were sitting on high stools?

Thanks again, Mom.