Video Thursday, Daddy's Big Secret

Hostess with the Mostess

There they are, sitting on the counter all gooey and sweet. Mark has been baking again, this time he made his version of Hostess Cupcakes. Obviously, his are a hundred times better. None of that chemical flavored filling, or the rubberized chocolate frosting on top. Mark has used ingredients that are actually edible, identifiable food. There are two problems with Mark’s cupcakes however. First of all there are the calories. I estimate fifty thousand calories are sitting on that cooling rack. Although I know better, at least forty thousand of those will end up in and around my gut. The second problem is demonstrated by my flip flops, which have stuck to the kitchen floor as I approach the sweet little cakes. Mark you see, cannot cook or bake without making a complete mess of the kitchen. These things are dripping with melted chocolate, and have a mixture of melted butter and marshmallow sauce inside them. At least half of those ingredients have been distributed throughout the room, on the counters, on the walls, and most of all on the floor. Our kitchen is like a gigantic, sticky, fly catcher. The only thing that makes it a bit easier is Chandler. He’s been in there for half an hour licking every surface his tongue can reach. That gives me more time to kill before I actually have to clean it all up. I figure dog spit is easier to wipe down than marshmallow goo.

Maybe a Nice Ratatouille

I actually like walking my dogs in the morning. I like the quiet, and calm of the early dawn, and quite often we get to see wildlife that we don't normally see. Yesterday, halfway around the block, Chandler and I were coming up on the large lot where he loves to stalk squirrels. This morning, however, it wasn't the squirrels that were running across my neighbor's large expanse of lawn. It was my neighbor. I was startled to see two large Muscovy ducks run across the street in front of us, followed closely by my neighbor hollering at the top of his lungs.

I understand his frustration. Muscovy ducks were imported here a hundred years ago from South America, they aren't native. When I first moved here I was amazed at the large flightless birds that would waddle around most neighborhoods, standing in the middle of the street as if they owned it. They can't fly, they poop all over your driveway and lawn, they are just all around dirty birds. What they do have going for themselves apparently, is that they are good eating. Now I'm not going to go down the street and catch one of these things, kill it, pluck it, and gut it for Mark to prepare. However, I have noticed one thing over the years. Since we have had a large influx of Haitian boat people over the last twenty years, the number of Muscovy ducks roaming the neighborhoods has greatly diminished. I have no problem with that, I only wish the boat people would develop a taste for some of our other pests.

Butter Butt Ugly

159th and Oak Park Avenue, c1952

On our way back from Chicago we had to make an unscheduled stop in my home town of Tinley Park. We were heading west on 159th street when Mark asked,
"What town are we in?"
"We're on the edge of Tinley Park, and Orland Park. Tinley is on the left, and Orland....  "
"It's ugly. This is so damn ugly."
I looked around, and I could not disagree. Mile after mile, on either side of this four lane divided street were strip malls, auto dealerships, and fast food joints. It was an assault on the senses that is repeated over and over again throughout the United States. I tried to explain to Mark what had been there, that how when I was a boy this street was a two lane rural highway bordered on either side by picturesque farms. When I was a kid you would drive into our town on a pleasant country road. There was very little development outside of the town borders, maybe a tractor dealer, or the garden store on the edge of town, but not the dull crap that is there now. The quaint little town I grew up in does not exist anymore. Instead of corn fields and cow pastures, houses and more houses march off to the horizon. Mark was not impressed.
"It is so damned ugly." And this is coming from a guy who grew up in the Bronx, and New Jersey. The old, original core of our town is still there, all made up to look as though it is still the quaint little town. They have put up antique looking street lamps, and brick planters. It's sort of like putting too much makeup on an old farmer's wife.

I found that the rest of the country is pretty much the same. As we made our way from Chicago to Florida on interstate highways, I noticed that each and every interchange looked like a platter of hors d'oeuvres, with giant toothpicks in them represented by the hundred foot high signage. Each and every motel, gas station, and fast food joint had to have one of these massive signs. It was hard to tell the difference from one town to another. That is until Mark started jonesing for a Culver's Butterburger. He spotted that sign from two miles away.

Photo Friday, You're supposed to give them to the dancers.

This is what happens when you go to too many stripper bars. 

They keep giving you your change in singles. 
I went to two stripper bars while I was in Chicago, 
and only gave one stripper a dollar. 
He stopped and talked for at least fifteen minutes.
Not much profit in talking to me.

Would You Like One Lump or Two?

There is a show on one of those cable channels, History, or Bravo, called ‘Hotel Impossible’. On it this guy goes to help failing hotels, and turns them around within the one hour show. One of the things he does is inspect the rooms by flipping over mattresses, and looking under things.

It’s three o’clock in the morning, and I am lying in my LaQuinta hotel room bed, slowly rolling towards the edge. I swear that there is a body encased in this mattress. It has a huge lump in the middle, and a deep dip near the side of it. Unlike the guy on the show Hotel Impossible, I am terrified to look under things in this room. I need to sleep, and I am afraid that if I looked I would definitely find something totally revolting. I finally fall asleep only to be awakened by the most awful, obnoxious odor you can imagine. Aha! There is a dead body in this room. Then I realize that Chandler has fallen asleep with his ass in my face. That is the other thing about this room, LaQuinta always accepts dogs. Traveling with two dogs, one ninety pounds, and the other a bit of a yapper, makes it difficult to book a room without putting up a cleaning fee. LaQuinta does not care. In fact it is sort of like a dog shelter when you check in. 

Now back to that bed with the strange lump in it, and a dog farting in my face. Apparently Chandler doesn’t like it either, because he got up after gassing me, and jumped across to the other bed to join Mark and Sasha. Finally, I can get some sleep.

Air Heads

A day late, but we’re on our way home. Made it to Tennessee today, barely. Remember how our PT Cruiser lost its a/c on the way up to Chicago? Remember how we took it to Napelton Chrysler and they charged us $650 to fix it? Remember how five minutes after we left their lot with our ‘fixed’ car it failed again? Well after we got the thing re-repaired at Bettenhausen Chrysler we took off for Florida. Around 35^th and the Dan Ryan Expressway it failed again. We drove all the way out to Orland Park, to Bettenhausen’s, and this time they took the dashboard apart. 

“Well sir, it seems that the little door that flips back and forth, directing the air flow, is stuck.”

Well goddamned sonofabitch! That is exactly what I told Napleton Chrysler was wrong with the goddamned, mother scratching thing three weeks ago. That is exactly what I asked them to check before I spent $875 for parts and labor, only to get a car returned that would only blow hot air in Chicago’s hundred degree heat. 

“Fine,” I told them “Staple it, glue it, clamp it, wedge the damn thing in the proper position. Whatever it takes, just make the a/c work.”

“But sir, if we do that the heater won’t work.”

We were standing behind the car, directly in front of the license plate that said ‘Florida’ on it.

 

“I don’t care! I never use the goddamned heater.”

So we now have a/c. It’s blowing just fine, but I gave Mark strict instructions.

“Do not turn it off, and do not touch any of the a/c controls until we reach Fort Lauderdale.”