Still Lurking About

Well how about that? This page is still up. I thought it would have been taken down due to inactivity. The last time I was here I promised road stories, but it turns out most of them are pretty boring. In fact, the things that stick in my mind from my travels are usually more like rants than commentary. Fortunately, I do enjoy ranting from time to time, and it will help me get back in the swing of writing. So, on a very light note, here are some observations on some of the people and places I’ve been seeing lately.

Motel Hell

I live in motels. Sometimes they’re fancy and sometimes they’re cheap, but it’s not the price of the motel that makes it better, it’s the feeling you get when you walk in and know right away that you can be comfortable there. It is intangible, elusive, and always welcome. I had a run of two motels in a row a couple months ago that were comfy, but the weird part was that both motels had furniture that looked (to me) exactly like cartoon characters, one from the past and one from the present. See the accompanying pictures and decide if I speak the truth or if dementia has begun.



I walked into a motel room in near Baltimore, a Marriot Courtyard I believe, and the sun streamed into a room that sprung from the pages of a storybook, with impossibly bright colors that covered the spectrum, yet did not seem out of tune. And right away, I saw it. The chair. The chair that struck me like a bolt. You just gotta love those moments when you suddently remember something long-lost, something from your childhood that evokes a rush of nostaligia that brings an instant smile and an inner warmth that has been missing since adulthood set in. Anyway, this cream (?) colored chair sat on a dark blue carpet that was wildy incongruous, yet very pleasing. As soon as I saw it, I remembered a book I hadn’t thought of in years (decades, actually). The book is titled “Put Me In The Zoo” written by Robert Lopshire in 1960, and it was a childhood favorite. (If you have never read it, I suggest you do.) The chair in that room looked exactly like the critter in the book; I never could figure out what kind of animal it was, but there it sat, in my room. Was it just me? Had months of motels worn me to the point where I was seeing imaginary creatures in the flesh, er, fabric? You decide. The picture of the chair is a little dark, but trust me, it was spot-on, so to speak.





I probably wouldn’t have thought the “zoo” chair so strange except that from Baltimore, I went to near DC and walked into a room with a chair that looked just like “Plankton” from Spongebob Squarepants. Two motel rooms with two cartoonish chairs in one day made me wonder if working on the road was starting to have unforeseen side effects. But, unlike the zoo chair, this one doesn’t take much imagination to see. In fact, if you can’t see it, maybe it’s you that has a problem.





Melting Pot

I’ve been a lot of places in the past few months, and every time I change areas, I always make it a point to try to munch on whatever the local culinary specialty is. For instance, I have to eat crab cakes when in Maryland, steak in Oklahoma, and tacos in Texas. Whenever I get to a new site, I find a local bar (duh) and ask the regulars which restaurant they think has the best food in town. I always specify that it’s not the price that makes it good, but the food. Because I’m a bit of a cretin, greasy spoon diners are often far more enjoyable than swanky, “dress up” places. Food presentation means little to me. Flavorful and unique are the qualities I seek, and if I can eat with a spoon, even better. I wish I could give a review of something I heard of in Texas, but my time there was short, and while I did have some AWESOME barbecue, I didn’t get to try the one thing that I had heard so much about: fried butter. Yes, I said fried butter. I think they’ll fry just about anything in Texas. I saw on various menus fried olives, pickles, jalapenos and cheesecake, but the only place to get fried butter was at the state fair, and I heard radio announcers describe the traffic around the fair as “nightmarish”, so I didn’t go. I did manage to get the lowdown on how one goes about frying and eating sticks of butter though. The process, according to the locals, is to take a frozen stick of butter, and roll it in a sort of biscuit dough, then plunge it into hot oil. When sufficiently cooked, the result is a nearly hot dog sized wad of crispy fried goodness that oozes buttery ecstasy. I had heard tales of fried Twinkies as well as fried candy bars (Milky Way, Snickers), but I wanted to eat what surely must be true ambrosia. Mark my words: I WILL eat fried butter before I die. I will.

Home and Away

For all of the different stuff I get to eat, the legion of restaurants can never duplicate the foods that one can only make at home. There is a great deal to be said for eating out, of course, not the least of which is being able to tell someone what you want to eat, wait for them to bring it to you, then leave the dishes when you’re done. I like that. But, there are some things (and we all have our favorites) that can only be made at home, or at least, in a motel room with a kitchen. I have yet to find a motel room with a real oven; twice I have been in a new place shopping, hungry, and bought frozen pizza because it looked good, only to return to my motel and remember that I have no oven. Motel maids must love it when I do that. But there is nothing like making what I want the way I want it made when I want it. It often reminds me that I’m a long way from home and the people I love when I sit and eat by myself, and that can be a drag, but a pile of macaroni and cheese can work wonders when you’re melancholy. I believe writing helps too, now that I think about it. I’m going to have to do it more often.