I’ve been debating whether or not to write about food things. Food things = restaurants, cooking, tips/tricks, ideas, stories, and reviews.

In 1975 I hired on as a cook at the Red Barn Hamburger joint. In 2005 I was 86’d from the steakhouse where I worked as a sort of traveling food ‘chef’ (note the quotes around the word chef, please; street educated). In between I worked for thirty years at nearly every level possible in the restaurant biz.

(BTW, what does 86’d mean? To 86 something in restaurant speak is to tell the staff you’re out of a certain item. “86 10 oz Ribeyes.” If someone is 86’d, it’s means they are excused, off the menu, no longer around.)

Kind of a pompous thing; me musing if I should bless y’all with some tidbits or kernels of knowledge, but here’s the deal: any idiot who does something for thirty years does it because (a) he likes it, and/or (b) gets halfway decent at some part of it through sheer repetition, or (c) is doing it from a prison cell.

Point is if you pay attention, you tend to learn a thing or two. One other point; if you’ve done something for thirty years, I know I’d like to hear some stories from you. (Good reason to send something in to NeighborsGo.)

What I’d like to do if y’all will indulge me is expose my passion (Hey now!), pour cold water on some myths, maybe toss out some food science goodies, and let you know when I run across a restaurant where I enjoy a home run.

As to the idea of restaurant reviews, here’s my problem. There are enough folks having supper at restaurants today who will post their sound thrashing of the place because it didn’t meet their criteria for this or that. And some poor soldier who only (literally) mortgaged everything to open the place will fall as a sacrifice on the altar of blogdom because he or she dared to run their business with human beings, who as we know, have a tendency to screw things up now and then. I don’t mean to be so vague and milquetoasty; sorry. Next time I’ll step out and write what I really mean.

If you’ve followed these blogs before today, you’ll notice I don’t do brand names. I’d rather have my opinions be just that…opinions. In other words, if I have a bad deal at XYZ restaurant, it’s not important to me to keep people away from it; if it simply a bad shift then hopefully the next one will be better. If they have real problems, they won’t be around long. When someone blows me away with their blazingly brilliant food and easy-going, attentive service, do I want to write about it? Well, to quote 2048 Republican presidential nominee, Tripp Easton Mitchell Johnson…you betcha.

(Trumpets sounds, the crowd stands, catching their collective breath…)

So today we’ll begin a sixty-eight part series entitled,”Pot lock etiquette: should you leave some bok choy or take a leek?”

Not really. But we’ll begin soon.

Says right there, on the first page of the instruction manual, ". . . . is easy to build with easy to follow, step by step plans." The actual work is easy to understand, but you could say the same thing about raising hogs. Different story once you get your feet in the slop. Here's how it goes.

Your wife says, "Let's get the kids a wooden sky fort, make it one big birthday present for all their birthdays." Being Sunday and all, your official I Refuse to Make a Decision Day, you respond with the required response, "Hrrummph." And off you go to the lumber store.

"Okay, sir, you got your two by four by eight's, your two by six by ten's, your four by four by ten's. Go to register five, and then out the first door. Pull your vehicle around to bay nineteen, show the two guys your invoice -- number seven-oh-nine -- and you'll be good to go. Did y'all get five pounds of sixteen 'd' galvanized nails?"

"Hrrummph."

Now, wedded bliss lends itself to a communication process extraordinaire. Unspoken words, head nods, shifts of the eyes, finishing each other's sentences; you do it all. Until it's time to build something together. Then it's the Tower of Babel. And with a project like this, the confusion starts as soon as you unload the wood.

"Let's get the little wheelbarrow and truck the pieces into the yard," you offer.

"Oh, I don't know, there's not that much, that wheelbarrow is so cheap.”

That's a challenge. You put four pieces of wood into the ten dollar wheel barrow and effortlessly wheel then into the yard. Four more go on, some of the bigger ones, and half way back they fall off. Now the curse of the tongues takes over.

"Put-the big-gest-pieces," you stutter, "on either side of the bed and the weight won't shift when we wheel it across the incline."

To her that has the same meaning as, "Green, crusty Jell-O tastes yummy on toast points." For a minute you just stare at each other; she -- convinced she's married Cooter Brown, you -- wondering just where on earth this woman has stashed her brains.

"Hey Bubba," she hisses through clenched teeth, "this wheelbarrow is too small to handle this load, let's JUST CARRY IT!"

You hear . . . well, you hear nothing.

"If you just HOLD the boards up at your end," you say slowly, with your eyes bugging out, "the weight will be more distrizzxedj ghuthej kklkj!!"

"Grisam PLASTSa whicker, ggesat forub NICKSHAB!!"

Somehow the wood gets in the yard.

You get to measuring and leveling and lining up with the square and hammering and tightening and sawing. (I loved the sawing part. I can saw like a big dawg. Just plug me in. Zinnnggg! Scared the heck out of the dog. Zinng! Make the kids jump. Zinngg! It's great fun.) And then, you put the frame together and stand it up.

It's four thousand feet tall.

Didn't look that tall at the lumber store. The kids will need oxygen to sit up there. Planes will bank around it. There's a snow crust forming on the top already. But you continue on. And on.

It's 10:30 at night. The neighbor, kind enough to offer a hand six hours ago, holds the eighth bent nail destined for a particularly tough spot, while your wife holds the flashlight that needs shaking every twenty seconds to keep from dimming. Nail number nine goes in, sort of, and you call it quits.

Later that evening, you peer out the back window. There it stands, like one of those big, black, brooding heads on those Juga Booga islands. A great mystery. Only the mystery is not the fort itself. The mystery is why you didn't just call Sears and say, "Come build me a swing set!"

Hrrummph.

"So, are you serious about this writing stuff?" my friend asked. "I mean, I know you are, but like…why do you do it?”

I thought for a moment; how could I explain this?

"See, it's like . . . . “

(Dream sequence music)

You see, one day, it will happen for me and they’ll make a movie about it.

Some kind, benevolent editor will be slumming through her slush pile one lazy Thursday afternoon, and keep chancing upon this certain envelope. No matter how many times it's thrown back in the pile, out it pops. So the editor; played by Selma Hayek, (it's my dream) opens it. The tinkle of small bells, the ones you hear when magical twists of fate invade the plot. Maybe a faint glow of green light from the open envelope. She begins to read.

Her bosom begins to heave as she. . . . whoops! Wrong Selma story.

She smiles at first as she reads through the piece, then begins to laugh out loud. The poor, underpaid, overworked assistant editor, played by Johnny Depp (my wife will insist Johnny is in this movie. In any movie, for that matter.), will stick his head in Selma's office to see what all the fuss is about. He'll be buck neck-ed.

"This piece," Selma will gasp, "is great." Then they'll do it, but in a PG-13 rated context.

Selma tries to call the writer but finds the phone disconnected. Then a whole bunch of goofy things happen until they find the writer, played by. . . . um . . . a young Fabio (hush), living under an overpass with his dog. He's making about four bills a week with signs that are variations on the "work for food" thing.

Selma and Johnny get Fabio cleaned up, and bring him to the Managing Editor of the newspaper syndicate. They sign the stud to a sweet deal; 1000 papers to start, etc, etc. With some of his advance, Fabio buys a beautiful diamond necklace. On a starlit summer night, out on the penthouse balcony of the Grand Shindig Hotel, he opens the box and shows Selma the necklace.

"Oh, my," she says, "it's beautiful."

"Really?" he asks. It requires ten takes for Fabio to get the line right.

"Oh, yes," Selma says, drooling with anticipation.

"Good," Fabio says, nodding assuredly. And then he runs into the hotel room and gives the necklace to Johnny. They embrace and the scene helps them capture the Oscar the following February. They live happily ever after. At least until the sequel.

Okay, go to the "return from dream sequence" music because this dream is getting away from me a bit...

(Return from dream sequence music)

". . . . it's like, hard to explain. I just have to."

Whether or not you agree with an incoming president or his politics, you can’t deny the almost herbal tang of a do-over that wafts across the air each election. As a country we either renew our effort to sweeten things up, or, as in 2008, we chuck the old and brew a new batch.

We are on our way into 2009 and soon dialogue, diatribes, and filibusters will serve as entrees in many discussions; the one I want to hear is, “If we had 900 billion sitting around to hand out, why didn’t we played black jack with it and double down or something?”

As a Texan (transplanted, I grant you) I am compelled to weigh in on the real problem and offer a solution and lubricant that will move our country forward. Yasser, as a Texan…dare I say as a southerner…my philosophy is thus: good Sweet Tea cures everything.

Not sure if we have a state drink, but we ought to and when it becomes so, I’m thinking it needs to be sweet tea. Now, it’s fine if you want to limit your sugar or carbs and drink unsweetened tea but please don’t deny the power hot water possesses after trickling gently over leaves picked in some far off land, left to steep for a moment and then impregnated with six hundred metric tons of sugar until it screams, “Por favor, Poppi; no mas! No mas.”

Go ahead, lick your lips and swallow…I’ll wait.  

Thing is, what can really….I mean really…go wrong over a glass of sweet tea? Nothin,’ that’s what. Meaning the solution to all our problems is right there if, that is, you’re a sweet tea person. What’s that look like? Let me tell you about Tony. 

He worked for me a few years ago and he loved him some sweet tea. He’d swing into his favorite drive-thru each morning for sweet tea, and if you saw him fifteen minutes later you’d swear he’d just had a quick tumble with the wife. A wide-eyed, blissful buzz of sugary love coursed through his veins, painting his face with a bright glow…and then he’d do the work of three men because he’d done half a gallon of the stuff and it wasn’t yet 10 AM.

Lunchtime we’d go to this or that restaurant usually, but now and then someone would say, “Well let’s try XYZ restaurant today, whaddahya think?”

“Do they have sweet tea?” Tony would say.

“Well yeah, I think…”

“No,” Tony would interrupt politely, but firmly, “I mean sweet tea, already sweetened, done so while the tea brewed, sugar added and mixed while the tea was hot. The real sweet tea – do they have it?”

“Um…”

Somehow…eventually… we’d go to a new place and, as you’d expect, they wouldn’t have sweet tea and it would go like this.

“We have iced tea and you can add sugar or the blue stuff,” the waitress sweetly offers.

We duck as Tony gets started on his response.

“Good Lord, ain’t y’all got a map? Do y’all know geography? How in the world can I be sitting in a Texas restaurant and not have a glass of sweet tea sitting in front of me?” Ten seconds of silence, and then he mutters: “You must be from Colorado.”

Resigned, Tony quietly works hard, stirring and adding sugar to get his tea just right, tongue out ala Michael Jordan, before starting on his meal.

“Oh, there she is,” he hisses a few minutes later, “the girl with the tea pitcher.” Tony shakes his head and continues.

“Why do they wait until I got my tea as good as it can be and then ruin it? If she comes over here and tries to add tea to my glass, make sure you stop her if I don’t catch it.” 

Invariably he’s in the restroom, someone is telling a story and we lose track of the iced tea girl and she fills his half full, decently sweetened, glass of tea to the brim. Tony returns and shakes his head; what was drinkable is now a brackish nightmare of Tegur –half tea, half undisolved sugar.

Then the manager comes by.

“Hey, how y’all doing? How was the food?”

“Know what,” Tony says, “just take this tea and bring me a Dr Pepper; how’s that?”

“Well, we don’t have…”

“No sweet tea and no Dr Pepper?” Tony cries. “Well let’s just give this place back to the people of Ohio or where ever, why don’t we? Datgum, who’s idea was it to come here anyway? You know, I ask ‘Do they have sweet tea’ and every time…”

He’s nuts until he next sips some of the good stuff.

It’s the genuine article, sweet tea; it’s the real deal, and I’m pretty sure a safe bet for elephants and donkeys as well as those who pay taxes on time and those who wait until they’re up for administration positions to wonder if stuff they got worth hundreds of thousands of dollars is taxable.

And you wanna talk about a stimulus? Hit the drive through with Tony; that'll jump start things.

Cold. Bad economy. Cowboys. Rangers...we need something, don't we?

Dog days: n pl 1: the period between early July and early September when the hot sultry weather of summer usually occurs in the northern hemisphere. 2. Period of stagnation or inactivity. (Thank you, Mr. Webster.)

That's what I'm talking about! An easy day -a dog day. Right?

Driving through west Texas on one of those long forgotten nice days, I pass a Dairy Queen equipped with this new fangled Star Trek tractor beam thingy that sucks cars off the highway. Jerked the wheel right out of my hands, it did.

As I walk in the front door and pause a minute to soak up some conditioned air, I glance at a handwritten sign hung crooked on the community cork board.

Reward

Lost brown and white mutt

Answers to name of Lucky

Small knot on right side of head

Call 325-555-1234

A dog named Lucky sporting a knot on his head? Hmmm.

Then there’s Uncle Clifford dog. When they tell stories about the dog, no one can remember its name but I’m sure it’s something equally as interesting as Lucky. Has to be because, as the story goes, Lucky Jr. was born without any back legs. When it was time to go, someone would pick the dog up by the tail and wheelbarrow him down the road. A Schwarzenegger tail muscle, no doubt. Probably a fairly tough nose, too.

And then there’s Muggins.

He was my dog when I was about eight or nine. My parents owned a small cabin about three hours from our house in the city and Muggins loved going to the cabin. Sometimes my mother would spirit him away for a quick Friday night to Sunday afternoon trip…just the two of them.

One winter evening while making the trip, mom decides stop at a McD’s drive-thru. It was bitterly cold out that night and begging for a hot sandwich with a steaming cup of coffee. As she rolls down the window to pay the cashier, the aroma off the grill hurries into the car. Mom gets her order, cranks the window shut and slowly slides forward in the snow.

Click, click, click.

Your biggest fear on any extended car trip in the middle of winter shivers around the “what is that sound?” scare. Mom slows the car to listen and see if she can figure out this terrible sound. Was it the brakes? The transmission? Front end issues?

If you haven’t guessed already, it was Muggins’ paws.

His snout was stuck in the window (grill aromas, right?) and his little paws were just a-flailin’ away on the glass, trying to pull himself out of the window.

So, dog days or tough times? I think it’s all point of view. Lucky was smart enough to run away, Stumpy was smart enough to get chauffeured around, and Muggins got half a hamburger and that’s 100% more than he was going to get before the window affair.

For these guys, no matter how bad the cards are in a particular hand, they never end up worse than even for the day, for one reason. Day always ends with a long, cool drink of water, a new comfortable position on a couch, a porch, or a rug and then the final, “days over” sigh.

So what’s the moral here?

Well who knows, Batman, but it appears to involve Dairy Queen, McDonald’s and someone grabbing my tail. I’m up for most of that.

What a great day Tuesday turned out to be; the Inauguration of our 44^th President was historical, exciting, and I have to admit I was puffed up with pride the whole day. I don’t care for a fair amount of the man’s politics, but we got something right in my lifetime and that’s a good deal.

Can you imagine what today was like for him? Certainly he walked in with a game plan and he’s been in the loop for quite some time, but today was the day to get going and what a list that must have been!

Thing is, he doesn’t have a lot of easy choices. On his agenda:

1. What to do in the Middle East.

2. How much more Monopoly money to print up to goose the economy.

3. Figure out whose head to crack amongst the idiots who’ve pocketed billions and aren’t doing what they’re supposed to do.

4. Find a way to see if he can end Rick Warren’s filibuster, which I think is still going. (Holy smokes! I thought he was gonna jump in Numbers for a minute there and start banging out the genealogy.)

5. Delicately letting our enemies and two friends around the world know that everyone gets a second chance, but do that without appearing too much of a hawk or a dove.

Tough first day, that’s for sure and probably a tough four years.

Oddly enough I can understand exactly what he’s going through. Yes, it seems hard to fathom but let me explain.

Tonight I’m at Wally’s getting some stuff and the missus calls, saying, “Get some All Natural ice cream.” She’s on this kick – and it’s a good kick, I must say, but a kick nonetheless – with ALL NATURAL, NO HORMONES, etc, etc. They have ice cream there that’s cream, sugar, milk and cocoa and nothing else. Pretty good stuff.

Two minutes later I get a text from my daughters. Three words: “Get Moose Tracks.”

Do you know about this ice cream? Oh my. I'm convinced when I get to heaven Moose Tracks will be the first thing I see, period. Then there’s Extreme Moose Tracks and even in simply writing those words, I have to stop and weep for a sec. 

OK.

Well, sir, there’s my dilemma and the level upon which me and my new Prez both sit.

The President of the United States must be all things to all men and women, at all times. As a man, I am compelled to keep my wife happy and I’m required to fall constant and consistent victim to my daughter’s moans of great pain whenever they ask me for something. What are the answers?

President O, you quoted Scripture on Tuesday, you invoked memories of past Presidential speeches, ideas, and focus. I give you one more great quote to remember.

 “If momma ain’t happy…” You know the rest.

Means a half gallon of all natural ice cream sits in my freezer is what that means. To heck with the whining in my ears, I’m gonna do the smart thing. I don’t know if it will help you, but there’s an application you can make, I’m sure.

“If you’ve never been in Starbucks…” may be a phrase as close to silly as one could snuggle, don’t you think? We’ve all either ordered, been with someone who ordered, or tried to order a cuppa joe at Starbucks – I’d put a fiver on it.

A man’s lifetime includes a handful of happenings that define his culture, and this Monster Coffee Company from the farmer’s market section of Seattle may rank one or two on the list for me, trailing only that last Cowboy/Eagle game. (Excuse me while I projectile vomit. Okay, I’m back.) I’m not a Starbucks junkie and really only go there when the missus says she needs a Hazelnut something before she goes postal, but the place defines the culture you and I live in, no doubt.

So if we all have an idea what goes down when the young person at the cash register (the registerista?) asks, “Can I help you?” then we all know there’s a different way to habla at Seattle’s gift to the world. 

For instance, there’s a Triple Grande Mocha. Know what that is? It’s a medium-sized espresso and chocolate drink with an extra shot of espresso. Maybe. I asked the missus, “Say, good-lookin’, what’s a Triple Grande Mocha?”

Twenty minutes later, “…so Kevin, it kinda depends on how the barista sets the Hecktor Vector Schmector on the espresso machine; that is to say, if he or she runs it at 35.045 PSI – corrected to sea level of course – it produces either 1.2 grams of white foamy goodness or 1.2 grams of just hot milk.” 

I blinked and made a squeaking sound.

“It’s simple, husband. A tall is the smallest size, and though I prefer the venti or large size when I order a Caramel Ray Liotta, you can still ask them to...”

It’s a whole different vocabulary and you have to wonder about the future. What if, thirty years from now, cities are trying to pass Starspeak Only laws? Might we have to understand things like…

 “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, when it comes to math and science, your son is Quad, Extra Hot and Double Blended; when it comes to reading and English…well, to be honest…he’s a datgum Two Pump Hazelnut.”

Will the announcer’s whisper hurry out of her mouth like a hiss of steam, “Our last diver needs to score a 9.6 on this dive, a very difficult Quarter Soy, half pack Sweet and Low, light extra foam maneuver. Here she goes…”

Will Starspeak slip into home decor? “I would have painted it a more vibrant color, you know? Looks kinda One Pump Sugar free Vanilla now that I see the whole room.”

“Gosh when I was 23, I could drink beer all night and still I looked like a Skinny Soy Latte. Now if I even pick up a bag of chips, I plump up to a Venti, Thick, Heavy Whipping Cream Breve.”

If you tell someone you want Iced Quad Venti, you'll be saying, “I'll come at you like a spider monkey, Chip.”

*Shiver* I better get up to speed…it’ll be soon enough the doctor will say, “Okay, Kevin, let’s have a look at the old frappuccino.” I’d better know what to show.

In honor of all our still fresh NY resolutions, I offer you the overview of one man's first steps in quitting smoking. I quit in the 90's, started again and then in 2000 quit for good. Nine years ago now, baby. Not one single puff since. It went like this...

I quit a few years ago, started up again, and have been scared to quit -- afraid of failing for good, I guess -- if you can imagine such a thing. Now, I'm ready to do it for good. I think.

Besides the obvious benefits, there is one other. The missus and I operated under this uneasy truce; she hated me starting up again, as well she should.

"Kevin, are you stupid?" she asked the day she found me out.

I just muttered.

Finally, she wouldn't bring it up, and I wouldn't do it anywhere around her or the house. Sort of like gays in the military, don't ask, don't tell, and all. She knew I was, and I knew that she knew I was, yet I felt compelled to hide it. The smoking I mean. Never been the other thing. Curious about it, I think I'd be good at it, but it's not for me. The. . . uh. . . military, I mean. Anyway, I decided to quit. Here's my account of the toughest days, the first three.

Jan 10, 2000 - I decide the quit day is 24 January. That's the thing to do, pick a day somewhat in the future, and make it your quit day. I tell everyone, post a note on a bulletin board at work, and prepare to enjoy two weeks of guilt free smoking. 'Cause I'm quitting, see?  So everyone is either supportive, or gunning for me to screw up. Either way is very motivating and for the first time in three years, no one is bugging me to quit. Because I am.

Jan 23. Day before quit day. Today, I will smoke four hundred eighty-six cigarettes and by bedtime, smoke will be billowing out my eyelids. I'll sound like Wolfman Jack. I'm ready, though. I've prepared myself, burned all my bridges, and tomorrow I wake up a non-smoker. I drift off to sleep.

Jan 24. Ahhh! #$%*! What did I do? Why today? Tomorrow would have been a much better day. Ahhh!#$&*!

 (Driving to work) Okay, okay, I can handle this. Almost there. Ah, the traffic signal at Park and Preston. The light I always catch red. Ha-ha. No matter, I always seem to catch this light red. I always light a...Ahhh! #$%*! 

 (Driving home) It was okay. Operating on adrenaline, most anything is possible.

Jan 25. Really, I mean really, craving. Just time for a small breakfast -- eggs, bacon, grits, hash browns, biscuits, gravy, oatmeal, waffles. . . .

Drive into the gas station, and whip past this slow idiot ("Hey, buddy, it's the little skinny pedal on your right!) and up to the pump. I choose the pay at the pump option, and then go to pay inside. Just because I can. Too bad.

"Sir, you want all three kinds of Zingers?"

"If that's okay with you? Lemme know, and I'll put some back. I thought the idea was..."

"Oh, that's right, you quit today, right?"

I just growl.

Lunch time, chicken fried steak, mashed, corn, rolls, salad, and a chocolate shake. Boy, hadn't a shake in a long time. Yes, the good things in life. All told, this is going okay. No troubling side effects -hey pass me that piece of pizza please, no, the big piece - and ask around: have I been grouchy today?

Jan 26. Takes three days for the nicotine to leave your system, and then it's all psychological after that. I've been drinking so much water (helps, supposedly), folks must think I'm seven months pregnant I'm running for the john so much.

Time to head home. The drive is great ("Up yours, #@$%*!"). I pull in my drive, just missing the cute little birdie. Miss him when I back up, too, the quick little  #@$%*! Growls and spittle flow out of my mouth, and I make for the front door. If I can just. . . . and then I hear it.

Fire and brimstone, thunder and that trumpeting noise. I ease in the door and find the kids cowering in a corner.

"What's wrong?" I ask the missus. She's sitting on the chair, wiggling her foot in that way people do when they're angry, and smoke is rising off her head.

”It's called 'pre,' okay, as in before, and if you value your life . . . " and the rest is indecipherable as her head spins round and round. Godzilla and Rodan, the two of us.

A few hours later, with me on day three, jamming cookies in my mouth, and her, just before day one, the conversation goes like this:

 (You know, I can't even write it, not even with punctuation. Think for a minute; me on three, her on pre. . .does the word Armageddon paint a #@$%*! picture for you?)

Jan 30. On vacation. It's easy now, being on vacation. Everything is easy on vacation.

So, lesson here is quitting smoking involves lots of food, unbridled cussing, and folks will put up with any behavior you can dish out -- at least for a time.

You should quit more often.

I thought I invented the ultimate profound question: would you rather be invisible, or be able to fly? About a month ago, I heard a radio broadcast of a special they did on that very thing; guess I didn’t invent the question after all.

More people chose to be invisible by something like ten to one, and when pressed, most of their motives were embarrassingly sinful. The whole thing is silly, I know, but telling at the same time. Perhaps it’s simply a semi-mystery, like Mixed Fruit Jelly. Have you ever seen Mixed Fruit Jelly anywhere but at those independent restaurants off the highway? Is Mixed Fruit Jelly the hot dog of jellies?

But I’m getting off track…not altogether unusual I know…so let’s move on. Believe it or not, we’ll tie this all together. Pretty sure, anyway.

Last time I took a trip into East Texas, I stopped at a gas station in a little town we'll call…oh, let’s call it Petticoat Junction. Just for fun.

The gas station in PJ is halfway to where I regularly visit and a convenient place to stop. They never acknowledge me as a regular - guess my accent still sounds Yankee enough that I don’t rank - but it’s one easy exit shy of halfway to where I go, so I stop there. It is a funny little town; one that would make a great setting for a slasher movie. I figure they trap tourists, take ‘em to a barn where they do unspeakable things with a Husqvarna 3120 XP magnesium crankcase, LowVib, Smart Start chainsaw.

On this last visit – and as soon as I walk in the gas station - I sense something is not right. Todd has this sour look on his face as does the State Trooper standing there.

I say howdy, and that I just need to use the restroom. Todd nods me over to it; I go in and lock the door behind me.

This restroom at Petticoat Junction Gas and Groceries is the smallest restroom ever. Keep that in mind, it’s important to the story. It’s chilly outside but inside the station and bathroom, I’m thinking it’s 84 degrees. Celsius. Think sweating, sticky, clothes. I hear the two men talking about something and then, in a loud voice John Law says…

“Todd you gotta come with me.”

“I aint a-gonna, and that’s all there is to that.” Todd says even louder.

Do you enjoy moments like that? Moments that are not funny and yet they are, and if you last through them you know there’ll be a great story. Profound doesn’t have to mean deep, right? Maybe you just learn a lesson – obscure but worth remembering. Perhaps a question that’s always bugged you finally finds its answer. Well…

Listening for a chain saw with one ear and to Todd and the trooper with the other, I’m trying to hustle up and finish my business - sweating in my coat and sweatshirt - and I think this: not so silly now, is it, this invisible or being able to fly choice? Pretty flippin’ profound and apropos, actually.

Either would be fine, I decide, but unfortunately with my life hanging in the balance, I choose fly. Rather, as I stand up and try to quietly and quickly zip up, my fly chooses me.  I learn of a third option for the profound question – the ability to scream until your face turns red, all without making a sound.

Well it’s funny and it hurts and that makes it even funnier. Gathering myself up, I fling the door open and, a bit hunched over, make for the front door. Keeping a close eye on Todd and the Trooper, I don’t see the wire stand and knock it over. A stand of…can you believe it…jars of Mixed Fruit Jelly!

Todd and the Trooper were not quite finished with their business; I’d like to think my adventure actually put their dilemma on pause for a moment. It did long enough for me to head out the door, anyway; darn well hoping I was just a little bit invisible.

As I drove through the neighborhood this afternoon, I saw signs of a terrible disease invading the area. I'm not sure what the medical term is, but I'll just call it NGS. Neat Garage Syndrome. 

A garage equals old shoes, a couple of parted out bicycles, half empty cans of spray paint, and an assortment of spiders, beetles and such. Not the garages I've been seeing. There are peg boards, brackets on the wall, and a place for everything; everything in its place. I just shake my head when I see them. 

I know things have changed, but people, I need someone to drag a couple of rather large, heavy, rusted car parts and put them on a bench. How else will young boys learn the life lesson of banged and bleeding knuckles?

We need to see an old radio with just one working speaker, a 5 by 4 foot sign that mysteriously showed up in the garage one day, and a set of golf clubs that include one through five woods actually made of wood. If you need three old basketballs, all with various amounts of air but none with enough to bounce…come see me.

Instead of things in piles, we see cabinets with locks and extra shelves anchored into the ceiling of the garage. If you look carefully you’ll see matching sets of garden gloves. The other day we saw a tiled garage floor. Tiled! Great Scott!

If these folks don't shake the disease soon, how will they ever realize the relief of a huge sneeze from layers of dust?

How will they ever get their "stripes" without banging their shins on a piece of jagged metal that has no purpose, but never gets thrown away?

If their garages stay too neat and tidy, how will they ever enjoy the intense stretching exercises involved in getting out of the car when you can't open the door all they way because of all the lawn and garden equipment laying against the wall, just under empty hooks? 

I don't know, I just don't know.