5 Things That Make Kansas City (Missouri) Awesome

This year's Winter Institute took place in Kansas City, MO, a place I've never had reason to believe I'd visit.  Spending a few days there reminded me of what non-destination cities have on Miami; with so much to recommend it, The Magic City doesn't try all that had to impress.  When you've got hundreds of cities above you on the "must list" of places to visit, you work a little harder to move up that list.

In the few days I was there, this is Kansas City, putting in work.


5: Rainy Day Books

Rainy Day Books is in Fairway, a suburb of Kansas.  It's gorgeous inside; beautifully displayed, full, and well-mapped.  The staff knows what they're doing.  And what's a place to visit without a decent bookstore?

4 is for $4 Guinness

I don't know from whence you're reading but to a guy living in Miami, paying less than $6 for a beer is a revelation.  Most times, it's $7-$8 ($9 or $10 if you're stupid enough to go to a club).  At $4, I almost expected to see a wee shot glass.

I won't say every bartender knew how to pour it perfectly, but the search for a perfect Guinness pour is a rant for another time.


3: Cab Scholars

A cab ride in Kansas City is like a free history lecture.  You want to know which mob boss rode FBI bullets to the great beyond in front of what building?  You want to know where Lewis and Clark bought slaves for their journey?  You want to know not just the historic landmarks and the lay of the land, but how the landmarks became historic and why the land is laid out the way it is?  Take a cab.


2: This is Not the Library

It's the garage next to the Central Library, called the Community Bookshelf.  It's a solid indication of how Kansas City celebrates literacy and the arts.  Fountains, sculptures, galleries, bookstores; it's all happening.

With all the snow when we visited, tracks told us which books people posed in front of the most.  Least surprising?  Gabriel Garcia Marquez got no love.

1: Burnt Ends

You know the edge of the meat that got crisped up on the grill and captured all the flavor?  Smoky and delicious, charry-chewy on the outside and juicy-tender on the inside, Burnt Ends have all of that, and nothing else.  One bite and I wanted to move to Kansas City.

Pura Vida: a Golden Birthday, big cats, and The Springs

We were in Costa Rica for Becky's Golden Birthday.  IE, she turned 29 on the 29th (don't worry, I'd never heard of that, either; but it's a thing).  We started the day by walking to a bridge some miles from the hotel.  I say we walked, but with the landscape down there it's really all hiking.


Becky and I wanted to find a local artist, a husband and wife team with a wood art shop just up the road from the  tree house hotel.  Of course, "just up the road" is relative.  It wasn't brutally hot compared to Miami, but we're not used to being under the sun for that long.  The sun and the bags we carried made us feel every step.

People kept stopping to offer us rides.  Much as in the US, some of the the locals are just being helpful.  Others offer you a free ride and then demand payment before they'll let you out.  A few want to drive you to a remote area and take everything you have.  We had been warned so we kept to walking.  There was plenty to see along the way.

Pura Vida: Local Flavor

In an interview with Knight Arts, Miami poet Emma Trelles said "Anything can thrive down here. You could fling a tadpole into a gutter puddle and have a colony of frogs a week later. That kind of insistent life is inspiring."  This is true about Miami.  It's true in Costa Rica a hundred fold.

Geckos cover the streets of Miami, those little ones people up north buy at pet stores.  In Costa Rica, we saw these bad boys outside of a restaurant:  

That black triangle in the upper-left corner is the edge of the patio roof.

Iguanas like plaintains.

Pura Vida: Horseback riding, La Fortuna Waterfall

We met Alberto the day after an accident at his stables.  A stallion, angry at Alberto for inviting another stallion to the ranch, knocked the horseman to the ground, pinned him down, and bit his upper arm.  Shirtless, broad-featured, barrel-chested, fresh bandage glaring white against his tanned skin, Alberto looked tough as rock.  He walked with obvious pain.  Not only did the run-in with the stallion injure his back, he also suffered from a chronic ailment.  With my limited Spanish (as in, limited to understanding at about a middle-school level and speaking hardly any) I couldn't tell if it was sciatica, chronic back pain, or an old leg injury.  Riding horseback was one thing, but how was our guide supposed to make it down 492 steps to La Fortuna Waterfall, let alone back up?

"You look at me and you think, 'That's crazy, how could he do that?'" Alberto said.  "If I worked in an office, it would be crazy.  My job, this is just part of what you do."

Pura Vida: Arenal Volcano, Baldi Hot Springs

A short walk from the Tree House Hotel, Becky and I found lunch on the side of a mountain at a restaurant called Lomas del Mapache (translation?  "Raccoon Hills").

Their driveway is long, winding, and gravel, with a breathtaking view that goes on forever.  This is a good example of one of my favorite things about Costa Rica; you didn't need a building to have a restaurant.  If you had a kitchen, a bathroom, a roof, and maybe a wall or two, you were good to go.  Lomas del Mapache had no walls.

The food was too salty and waaaay too buttery (I got the feeling they were trying to appeal to American palates, or their idea of the American palate, but I've seen some positive reviews so maybe we just got the wrong cook) but the fresh juices and the atmosphere made up for it.  At the raccoon restaurant, we met another couple from the US who would be hiking Arenal Volcano with us. Our guide, Juan Carlos, picked us up after lunch, and we were off.  

Pura Vida: Zip Lines, La Fortuna, and Pizza Delivery

After breakfast at the Treehouse Hotel, our first foray was to Ecoglide for a zip line tour of the base of the Arenal volcano.  I lost track of how many platforms they had, but thankfully Becky took a picture:

This.  This many platforms.

Pura Vida: One Hell of a Honeymoon

Becky and I registered at Deposit a Gift.  We wanted to go to Italy for our Honeymoon, which not only sounded  romantic as hell, but would be a nice cushion for turning halfway to heaven (a phrase I only recently discovered and instantly hated; for all I know, I was halfway to heaven at twenty and I’ll die next year choking on an M&M).

Even with the generous gifts of friends and family, Italy turned out to be more than we could afford.  Becky looked closer to home and came up with Costa Rica.  Which is great, because Costa Rica looks like this:

The Honeymoon is Over. . .

. . . but this picture Becky took of me in Niagara Falls lingers on.  Normally I'd title a picture like this "Canada is Racist" and move on, but I have mixed feelings about all the Indian stuff I encountered up north.

Niagara Falls makes me wet.

Along with Health Care, lack of handguns, and being America's hat, Canada is known for its Natives.  It's tough to think of Canada without thinking of totem poles and canoes.  I don't know why Indians have such a strong political presence up north relative to US.  I do know I'd be tickled if one of our Olympic teams designed a jersey which somehow acknowledged that Indians live here.

Which is why, despite the grunt on my face in the picture, it's tough for me to call shenanigans like I usually do.

Would I rather Canada's Indians remained invisible, like they are most places?

The gimcrack tomahawks and teepee geegaws cramming the gift shop are probably every bit as asinine a tribute to Native culture as Ke$ha's fucking headdress, I just can't tell.  I can't see Niagara Falls clearly, and not because of the mist.  I went there a lot as a child, and I loved every visit.  I loved the bow and arrow sets then, and I was tempted to buy for one Dylan as an adult.  Yeesh.

Ultimately I guess I'm bothered by what always bothers me about shit like fringe shirt headdress dude; no one in my family has ever worn a headdress or a fringe shirt, or carried a hatchet unless chopping wood was in the offing, and they're Indian as hell, cos.  Being Indian is not a thing that exists in the past, in a teepee, in a buckskin shirt, eating scones around a fire.  Indians hang out in jeans and t-shirts and watch Cartoon Network while eating popcorn, just like you.

As long as Indian is something that can be patterned into a rug, or worn as a costume, or sold as knick knacks, it serves to make real Indians invisible.

And that sucks.

Close to Hilda's Bakery in that Both Names Contain an "L"

I wasn't totally off.  My last post also made it clear that the business was a bakery.  So, yeah, this place:

Making Delicious Happen.

Becky and I purchased one chocolate cupcake and one red velvet cupcake, ate them on site, and then left.  Realizing we might never encounter another cupcake so delicious, we turned around after half a block.  This delighted the staff, who sold us two more red velvet cupcakes while we tried to sell them on the idea of a Donna Bell's Miami.

We got about ten feet before we returned, this time for a single red velvet.  We want a Donna Bell's in Miami because there is no cupcake in this entire city which can hold a candle to them.

"Wait, what about Misha's Cupcakes?" I hear you Miamians saying.  Blah, blah, blah.  Yes, they're great.  But you know what?  Homemade cake is great, like the one about sex and pizza.

Male propaganda.

I'm not saying Misha's are bad, at all, but one bite from Donna Bell's and I knew I wouldn't be able to eat another Misha's for at least a year.  It's like reading James Salter's Light Years or John Irving's Cider House Rules; you know other fiction will pale for a time.

"Some Chick from CSI" is actually actress, singer, and philanthropist (and if IMDB and Wikipedia are to be believed, director / photographer / producer / poet / spoken-word artist / writer) Pauley Perrette:

Acting as Abby Sciuto in NCIS.

Singing as Pauly P. with Lo-Ball

Philanthropisting as herself with Project Angel Food. 

I IMDB'd her.  I've seen her in Frasier, Almost Famous, and The Ring, and I've heard of NCIS, but I didn't know who she was.  NCIS is a number one TV show.  This year's Harris Poll ranked it America's Favorite Television Show of All Time.  Perrette's Q Score (yes, that's a thing) ties Tom Hanks and Morgan Freeman as the number one Performer.  She's also 5'10", black-haired, and badass.  You'd think I'd have celeb-crushed on her like I do on Eva Mendes or Angelina Jolie, or at least that I'd recognize her.

You see what not having TV does to me?  This is why thousands of people descend on Books & Books to meet Tim Tebow while I need Wikipedia to tell me who he is and why I should care.

But really, does it matter how big of a star she is?  I'm sure NCIS is a fine program, but I'd have to guess Perrette's voluminous fundraising efforts, monetary donations, and charitable contributions - be they time or using her celebrity status to raise awareness - are of much more importance to the world.  

Well, all that and sharing her mother's baking recipes.

This is a clarification post but if you want a love-letter to Donna Bell's a good example can be found here, with pictures of the offerings AND the girl who rang Becky and I up.  If you're in New York City around the Theatre District and Hell's Kitchen, do your day right and stop by Donna Bell's Bake Shop.

Here's hoping it will be there every time I'm in town.

New York City is Amazing

Becky reppin' 305; NYC doorman representing . . . 35

John Updike said, "The true New Yorker secretly believes that people living anywhere else have to be, in some sense, kidding."  I don't believe people who say they "hate" New York City.  I refuse to accept their statement because it tells me we will have little in common, and finding common ground is what life's all about.

I've visited New York City natives a few times over the years, friends I went to college with who either came to Syracuse University from NYC or who moved there afterwards.  This last trip for BEA made me realize their limitations in playing host (and my own in bringing friends and family to Miami); they showed me their New York, but I never really experienced the city as a newcomer.  I wanted to wander, to find someplace and dip inside, to stand on the subway as a jangle of nerves because I could never quite be sure I'd taken the right route until I magically ended up where I wanted to be.

The first morning, Becky and I walked from the Holiday Inn to the Javits Center.  We stopped at a corner convenience store-cum-deli with a latin dude at the flat-top and a middle-eastern dude behind the registers, guys who only need to hear "a breakfast sandwich with egg and cheese" and "coffee with lots of cream and sugar" to give you a downright delicious meal to start your day, and the best bagel you've ever eaten.

Eating great for cheap is part of what makes New York City cool, more than the accents or the stories you hear strangers exchange in the street, yelling over traffic like they're not sharing something intensely personal (people from LA and Miami seem to think the addition of a cell phone makes them superior to New Yorkers, like yelling dirty laundry into a phone is more refined than yelling it into a face).  Even better, every place that catches your eye has a story.  Using the criteria that I can't stop myself if I tried, I realize I'm only truly addicted to two things - reading and writing; I'm all about story.

Becky and I stopped at a bakery on impulse, one with a name like Hilda's Bakery (I've searched the internet like Cyber Sam Spade but there are about a billion bakeries in Manhattan and I've delayed this post long enough).  We walked in and saw a big-boned black woman and a flamboyantly gay man behind the counter.  We assumed Hilda was a figure made-up to sell baked goods.

Then we saw three framed black-and-white photos by the register, and a fourth frame filled with long-hand notepaper, faded by time.  Turns out the woman in the photos is Hilda, and the notepaper is one of her original recipes.  All of the recipes they use at Hilda's Bakery are, in fact, Hilda's.  And the baby in photo number two?  That's the current owner, also known as Some Chick From CSI.

(You'd think with that much information, the internet would give up a name.  The BBBW who rang us up even flashed the actress's headshot, and I can't remember who it is.  Damn.)

How good were these cupcakes?  After stuffing our faces with cupcakes Becky and I tried to leave twice.  We returned both times to buy more cupcakes.  They were that good.  Meanwhile, passers-by kept ducking in to critique pastries they'd eaten earlier in the day.  The employees and the regulars knew each-other by name, and the employees obviously were having a lot of fun.  It made me wish I lived there so I could familiarize myself with Hilda's entire menu, to form opinions I could shout in passing on the way home.

"Hilda's Bakery," Carnegie Deli, Hell's Pizza Kitchen, that no-name corner store with a breakfast counter or the half-dozen other places we dipped into, we saw nothing but cheer amongst New Yorkers.  The New York Sneer - particularly post 911 - is like Big Foot.  It's legendary, told so often it must be true, but it's doubtful you'll ever see it in person.  Plus, the stories behind these places?  Forget about it.  Fuggedabboutit.  Fuhgeddabowtit.

Still, it's good to be home.

Miami, in the dead of winter, sans pants.     

Gone Fishin'

And camping...

(sister and brother-in-law's cabin)

And frogging...

And flint mapping...

(Ganondagan)

And hiking...

(Green Lakes)

And smooching...

(Pratts Falls)

And hiking...

(Tinkers Falls)

And riding...

(sister-in-law's house, but not her horse)

And mountain-climbing.

(Rocky Mountain)

Among other things.

New York City: Racist

You can't visit NYC, the Big Apple, the city so nice they named it twice without writing a thing or two about it.  Before I write my love letter, I thought I'd get this out of the way.

We passed a shop with a window full of Indian statues, the sort of kitsch with sets my teeth a grinding.  If these were statues of Indians, they'd be offensive.  But they're statues of Native Americans, so we're cool.

I like my face in one and the statues in the other, but until I learn how to use Photoshop you'll have to look at both.

Finding EO

As I mentioned, Becky and I went to see the re-release of Captain EO at Epcot Center.  The first thing you see on screens outside the theater for Captain EO Tribute is, as the voiceover carefully points out, “the original introduction, exactly as it appeared in 1986.”  This let’s you know the movie itself is as dated as Aqua Net Hairspray.  

Seeing video from the eighties (and I mean genuine eighties, not The Wedding Singer or Blow) is like watching Japanese games shows- there’s an I-can’t-possibly-be-seeing-what-I’m-seeing splendor to the whole enterprise that makes it hilarious and cringe-inducing all at once.  I offer one example, a man who we assume is a formerly-human victim of the Supreme Leader.  Sentenced to be a robot frozen into a pillar, he’s struck with the awesome power of Caption EO’s love / song / life force and transformed - much to his astonishment - into this guy:

I'm like, totally human again.  Let's dance about it!

As a film, the in-theater smoke and lighting effects were precursors to 4D films like Muppet Vision 3D, It’s Tough to be a Bug, and Honey, I Shunk the Audience.  The design of the Supreme Leader, an unrecognizable Angelica Huston suspended in cables as a kind of cybernetic spider, led directly to Star Trek’s Borg Queen.  A few years removed from Thriller, the moves are very zombie-dancerific, and we get to see Michael Jackson's signature Moonwalk.  

The thing is, my inner thirteen-year-old didn’t care about the film; he cared about the phenomenon.  

When EO first came out in 1986, it was what The Wizarding World of Harry Potter is to Universal today.  People didn’t buy tickets to Magic Kingdom to see Magic Kingdom, they bought tickets to Magic Kingdom because it was the only way to get into Tomorrowland and watch Michael Jackson as Captain EO.  Many people waited for hours, watched the show, then got back in line to wait for the next showing.  Some extra-dedicated fans - probably the same ones who petitioned for Caption EO’s return - spent entire days at the Magic Kingdom that way.

I was a month shy of turning fourteen, living in Syracuse.  We were not poor, but my family didn't have money to travel.  Every night for weeks, news footage showed lines of people waiting to get into Captain EO.  Looking at still frames in the newspaper, watching the making-of documentary, listening to the few classmates who had been say it was better than Thriller, I knew the movie itself was something I’d never see.  Eventually Jean Claude Van Damme made Bloodsport, and I stopped caring.  

Bring me EO, and I will punch him.

I’m so glad I finally got to see Captain EO.  Watching Michael Jackson boss a team of robots and fuzzy aliens around (the only crew who could believably take orders from him anywhere outside of a recording studio), wake up from a space crash covered in garbage composed entirely of fake rubber food (most expensive film per-minute at the time and plastic eggs-over-easy is the best you’ve got?), and seeing magical dance moves transform menacing robots into extras from an Olivia Newton John video was the hilarious high point of my day.  

Does that mean I didn’t miss much?  I don’t know.  Had I gone in 1986, my gawky, braces-wearing, mullet-sporting boy-child would have loved every frame of Captain EO.  I would have  dressed as Captain EO for halloween, and been every bit as believable a Space Captain as Michael Jackson.  

Except I can’t Moonwalk.

  

Of Disney Trips, Moving Sisters, and the Importance of Lighting

Another road trip to Orlando has passed.  Becky and I helped her sister and two other girls move in to a third floor apartment... with no elevator.  Mattresses and dressers be damned, all it took was one huge, leather sofa to make my arms into jello the rest of the day.  Our labor was paid for by Patron Silver, Bud Light, and $5 hot-n-ready Little Caesars; I feel no shame.   

Apart from a buzz and the excuse to slam slices of cheesy greasy goodness, two things made the sore muscles worthwhile.  Sister Q’s roommates are both moving out of their parent’s homes for the first time.  In the family kitchen, one proud poppa couldn’t believe I drank my coffee black, especially a young guy like me.  

“What are you, like 22?” he asked.  Sister Q said she could hear Becky and I laughing all the way from the driveway.  He admitted to guessing low to make me feel good, but he kept repeating 38?  38? in tones of heightened incredulity rarely heard outside of a bad romantic comedy.  

Apart from learning I could blend in with college students in the right light (i.e. nine am in a kitchen with no eastern-facing windows), Becky and I got a free day at Disney World on Tuesday.  

Which park did we do?  ALL OF THEM, BABY!  Again, I feel no shame.   

We started with Test Track, Soarin’ (why not “Soaring”?  Does the missing “g” mean more fun?), and Captain EO at Epcot Center.  We moved on to Animal Kingdom’s Maharajah Jungle Trek so Becky could greet the tigers, and we rode Expedition Everest twice.  I’d never done Expedition Everest before, and it gives more sustained stomach butterflies than any other Disney ride.  At Hollywood Studios we took in Toy Story Mania, the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror, and Aerosmith’s Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster.  We would have ridden Tower and Rock ‘n Roller twice each, but butterflies have a way of turning into queasiness for me, so we decided not to press our luck.  

Then on to Magic Kingdom for the usual Pirates of the Caribbean-esque, Haunted Mansion-ey, Space Mountain-laden,  Big Thunder Mountain-drenched fun.  We also found time for Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin, and I somehow managed to keep my motion sickness under control long enough to ride the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party Teacups.  

I don’t know if people normally crowding Disney were whooping it up over at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter or if it was just February first, but there were no lines.  Rides that said ten minutes barely took five.  The longest wait was Toy Story Mania, which claimed 40 minutes but took fifteen.  On Pirates, we just walked in and didn’t stop until we were looking at an empty boat.  We were so accustomed to waiting we just stood there.  Finally, the woman expediting the ride encouraged Becky, me, and our fellow guests to board.

This slowness also meant no parade.  As hundreds of people sat around the usual route and the guys pushed their carts full of glow-in-the-dark tchotchkes, Becky read from the program that the parade was limited to Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.  People within hearing distance got up and left.  Becky and I walked out feeling superior to the hoards of saps who hadn’t realized that the parade was not late, is was just not.

Another benefit of the slowness?  Disney recommends reservations for Canada’s le Cellier - located in Epcot’s World Showcase - be made 180 days in advance.  Becky snagged us a reservation five hours out.  It’s a steakhouse, and I’ve never been anywhere in Canada approaching that level of expense, but it lived up to the hype I’ve been hearing the last few years.  

It was a day to die for, topped off with a meal to die for, with a woman who makes me glad to be alive.

Our Favorite Story

You've probably heard that there are a limited number of stories, that every book, TV show, play, ballad, movie, or musical ever made can be stripped down to one of seven basic plots.  This same theory - or truism - also holds that the most popular story of all time, a favorite the world over, is young man leaves home, has adventures, and returns wiser.  

I hear Chicago has one of these, too.

A few years ago I decided I could never live in Syracuse again.  As much as I love and my family, my tendency to depression simply won't tolerate that level of relentless gray in the sky.  And how many weeks of the year can you actually bike there?  There's no cafecito.  And I think I've mentioned more than once how much I enjoy blending into the melting pot.   

Syracuse University's Hall of Languages; Charles Addams based the Addams Family Mansion on it.

I don't know if a trip home qualifies as a return in the literal sense of a story plot, but it is a type of return.  

East Syracuse

Taking Becky to visit Syracuse was the first time I saw the place I'd grown up as an outsider, as someone who'd never return, and with someone who had never been there.  

Niagra Mohawk 

It made my home town clear for the first time.

Downtown.

I loved being there with Becky because showing her my hometown was also showing her part of myself, but I never expected what her gaze would reveal to me.   We didn't even explore any of the natural beauty - the apple orchards, Green Lakes, Chittenango Falls, etc. etc. - and I found Syracuse to be cool and special.  

S.U. Hill

It might be a college town like a thousand others and its economic hub might be a mall, but the buildings are unique, the winter-bare trees and picturesque neighborhoods are charming when you really look, and Dinosaur Barbeque is still fucking delicious.

I hear New York City has one of these, too.

All I felt when I lived there was the urge to leave.  With Becky, I could have stayed forever. 

Or at least another week or two.  

Just When You Thought She was Into You

Lisa Ann M_ [I'm reading Frederick Exley's A Fan's Notes] came into the store with the kind of forceful personality which is either intensely annoying, indefinably charming, or the magical combination which comes across as Holly Golightly on speed.  Like a heavy current, you realize you could be swept along, so you let it wash over you and try to remain upright.  

When I leave the buying office and register work distracts me from my agenda, I do my best to be civil.  The customers don't realize whoever should be on the register is AWOL, and they're the reason there's a roof over my head, so I resist the urge to vent my annoyance at my job situation on them.  Sometimes, I even manage to fake enthusiasm.  In LAM's case, her joie de vivre was catchy.  

LAM purchased a copy of Les Standiford's Last Train to Paradise, explaining that she liked to read about the places she travelled.  I gave her points for being a paying customer, for her boho chic outfit (fashionable isn't my thing but stylish is, and the look suited LAM) and blocky black glasses, and for loving Books & Books.

"Are there any cool places in this city?" she asked.  "You know, for people who love books?  Events, or somewhere special you like to go?"

I asked how long she planned on staying.

"I'm leaving Miami as soon as possible," she said.  

In that case, not really.  

"Is there an Art Deco district?  I've heard about all the cool Art Deco architecture.  I saw some on the Beach but it looked pretty run down."

If you've been to South Beach, that's about it on the art deco.  I mentioned Wynwood and the Design District, but since I couldn't offer directions I was fairly useless to her.  

When I first moved to Miami, I would have commiserated with the numerous negative things LAM had to say as I rang her up, but I'm done bad-mouthing The Magic City.  I've lived here long enough to see Miami, to love this town and adopt it as my own.  By this time, Becky had come by.  She wasn't cock blocking but she was certainly present.  Lurking, I guess you'd say. 

"Are you a biker, by any chance?" LAM asked.

I allowed as I was.  

"Because I biked here by Venitian Bridge.  Do you know Venitian Bridge?"

She meant Venitian Causeway, one of the few bike-friendly places in Miami.  

"Once I got off it, there didn't seem to be anywhere to go.  I got honked at a lot."

I told her apart from Alhambra, there wasn't a street in the Gables with a bike path.  The best you could do was bike carefully.  

LAM refused a bag for her purchase, instead tucking Last Train into the bag over her shoulder.  She plucked a copy of Tim Gautreaux's The Missing from her bag to make space and asked if I wanted it.  She'd just bought the book in New Orleans, finished it on the train, and wanted to travel light.  I told her I was familiar with The Missing and had intended to read it since it was published.  I thanked her, wishing I had something to offer in return.  

According to Becky, Lisa Ann M_ was flirting.  I might agree, if not for the following.

"I can't really get you back to Venitian," I said.  "That's out of my six-mile radius."

"Six mile radius?" 

"Yeah.  All social engagements need to be within a six-mile radius of my house.  Otherwise, I don't go."

"What it that, a Miami thing?  Or an old-person thing?"

She may have meant "is that an old-school thing" or "a classic rule of living" but I wasn't about to find out for sure.  I said it was my thing which I'd adopted from a friend, wished her luck on her travels, and bid her goodbye.

I may not have gotten an ego boost out of it, but at least I got a free book.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving, how I love you, and how sad when it all comes to an end.  This year my nephew Jason couldn't make it, but my brother and sister-in-law did.  

We had nineteen kinds of dessert. 

Aunt Val's neighbor had the night off from his job as a prison guard and brought his wife over to Thursday's bonfire.   

My cousin Margaret brought her significant other, Justin. 

My nephew Steven brought his significant other, Reina.

And of course, Clan Curtis / DeSocio / Jacobs finally met Becky, AKA Cleopatra, AKA the Girl with the Pigeon Tattoo.

We drove, and despite car games, awesome sing-alongs, and a two-hour side swipe at Savannah, it's not an experience I care to repeat any time soon.  Particularly the part where we couldn't find a cheap hotel.


We started pulling over in Virginia, going into hotels and seeing what a night cost.  We took turns to stay awake, all the way to Pennsylvania.  Past two am, unable to drive another foot, we reclined the seats and proceeded to sleep in the car.  It was 30-degrees outside.  Those $50 nights at the Loews Becky's sister hooks us up with have us spoiled.  


We're already saving our pennies so we can fly up next year with Dylan, so imagine him photoshopped into these photos.

My sister Cass, her son Johnny, and my sister-in-law Kim

My cousin Shannon and his wife Christina, with my Mom

The group, minus Kim (behind the camera) and Aunt Val (in the kitchen)

My brother AJ, Me, Becky, and my sister Cass

Me, Becky, and Shannon & Christina's daughter Sophia, pre-snowball fight

In the meantime, I'm hoping my family will visit us so they can get to know her better. 

The Turkey Bowl was two-hand touch with just a few guys.  I lost most of Friday to a Labatt Blue hangover, so we missed driving to the Rez.  Becky didn't get to eat any apple pie the whole time.  On the way back, route 95 was choked with bumper-to-bumper traffic from Pennsylvania to Virginia.  I kept saving it for later, so my one serving of corn chowder went bad on the drive back home.  Heartbreaking.

The beauty of being with family is not that the good outweighs the bad, it's that the bad is a mild afterthought.  

Here's to another great year.