Ugh

Freaking jinxed myself with that post on Febreze...

My youngest came down with a stomach virus Saturday night and spent every twenty minutes or so releasing bodily fluids from mouth and ass.

Many loads of laundry and many sprays of Febreze later, this stomach flu tries to attack me but it's Super Bowl Sunday and I refuse to relent my body to it managing to only puke twice in the morning and strictly siding with the diarrhea side of the bug. I was hell bent on sticking to my plan of making ribs, bacon wrapped shrimp and crab rangoon for the grubfest that is SBS. I least I have plenty of leftovers!

I'm not sure if I tossed my cookies (one of my father's favorite phrases) because I was holding a bucket for my son to vomit in and had to smell it and watch his tiny body wretch or that the bitch of a virus was making a bee line for me.

Now, it's Monday morning and the little guy seems to be bouncing back just as the same time that my wife is starting to go down with it.

I managed to keep down some food this morning and even braved a cup of coffee because I had to peel my eyes back to get my 1st grader to school.

He may come out unharmed because he's been on antibiotics for an ear infection that crippled him last week (and yeah I know there's a difference between bacterial and viral infections but I'm lookin' for salvation anywhere I can get it).

Buckle up.

It's going to be a bumpy ride.

My Love/Hate Relationship With Febreze

When I first discovered Febreze I immediately feel in love with the product.

I live in a home with two boys and a cat and the introduction of Febreze was godsend: it power to eliminate odors is rivaled by none (okay, maybe Lysol).

It is the champ of the cover-up.

Cat piss? Gone.

Kid puke? Gone.

Spilled milk on a rug? Gone.

Hairballs? Gone.

Pee in a bed? Gone.

Essentially, it will cover up just about any foul smell that you can find on your carpet, sofa, bed or any piece of fabric soiled by pet or child.

So you can clearly see why I would championed such a product and find salvation knowing that I can take out that blue bottle, spray and "Viola! Odor be gone!"

So what's the downside?

Well, my friend, the downside is that as soon as I walk into a room and get the slighest whiff of Febreze I immediately begin to run down a list of what could have transpired to require the need for the miracle spray.

Was it kid puke?

A cat turd dingle berry?

Spilled Beer?

You get my drift.

If only I could get the same results from a Yankee Candle...

Quitting The Family Band*

“I quit the band,” he said.
“You quit?” I said. “But you can’t quit.”
“I quit dad,” said my 4-year-old son Spencer.

And then he left the room.

We had just launched into a skronk fest: He on mom’s trumpet, his 15-month-old brother on drums (or shall we say cymbal) and myself on bass.

As a stay-at-home-dad going on year four of my tour of duty, there are often times of the day when jam sessions occur. The instruments have always been lying about the homestead although I’m not quite sure how the band actually started.

Or why it stopped.

But I can tell you that it all pretty much began with Thin Lizzy. Before Spencer’s younger brother came along, I’d always force a trip to the record store when out running errands. If there’s one thing you learn when you become a parent, it’s that you have to steal back your personal time or it will quickly vanish in a haze of family duties. Oftentimes I’d duck into CD Alley on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill and browse. One day I bought Thin Lizzy’s classic Jailbreak. When we got back in the car, I slipped the disc into the CD player and off we went about the day’s business.

As the weeks passed, Spencer soon began to request Thin Lizzy. He loved the “Cowboy Song,” “The Boys Are Back In Town,” and “Emerald.” He would incessantly listen to this CD to the point where my wife wanted to ban it from the car. I quickly pointed out that it was better than listening to The Wiggles or Barney.

She agreed.

Once Jailbreak was worn out (with Spencer usually referring to the album-closer “Emerald” as the “fight the fight” song), on the next visit to the record store he asked if Thin Lizzy had any other records.

So I got him Black Rose (favorite songs: “Waiting For An Alibi,” “Get Out of Here”) and then Fighting (most requested: “Fighting”).

Before long his young, feeble mind couldn’t fathom the band pictures on the CDs and he yearned to see the men playing the songs he heard. So I bought him a DVD of Thin Lizzy live in Australia in 1978.

I think soon after watching that was when the family band started.

Sometime after the inaugural viewing Spencer started to strap on my guitar and began to mimic Gary Moore’s guitar licks. He’d stick the guitar pick in his mouth and clap his hands above his head to an imaginary crowd or jump up, spread his legs and then ape doing hammer-ons.

I quickly used his interest in music to capitalize on my own wanton needs. If Spencer liked listening to music and he liked watching music then that’s what we would do: There was Devo’s The Complete Truth About De-Evolution DVD. And Zeppelin. The Who’s The Kids Are Alright (which was a mistake because shortly after viewing Keith Moon play drums Spencer began to try an incorporate some of his more famous moves like playing with his feet or hitting the cymbals with his hands).

Not wanting to short change punk rock, I tossed in Black Flag live in Europe from 1948, Fugazi’s Instrument, Minor Threat live at DC Space, and even the first Turbonegro documentary. With songs about making pizzas, Spencer was instantly gratified by Turbonegro, although he wondered why they looked so creepy.

Devo won his over completely for the sole fact that I was able to explain that front man Mark Mothersbaugh was the guy “from Devo who does the theme song from Rocket Power.” Nickelodeon’s animated cartoon Rocket Power is set to a backdrop of skateboarding, surfing, and snowboarding and features a zine-making junior high girl named Reggie and her shredding little brother Otto.

It appeared that my son was on his way to a life of rock’n’roll. At first, he flirted with the drums, then the guitar, and then back to the drums. The guitar was fun because I’d plug the axe into my shitty Peavey amp and turn it up. He’d pull the mic stand over and started making up songs. I quickly learned to keep my Fostex X-14 four-track within arm’s reach for just such circumstances. Back on drums, my wife taught him the basic intro to Queen’s “We Will Rock You,” and again he was off and running in dreams of rock’n’roll grandeur.

Soon after, he discovered that other kids were into the rock. Like Rick Davis, son of local musician Ben Davis (formerly of Sleepytime Trio, Milemaker, Bats & Mice and now fronting Ben Davis and The Jets). Rick had a band and that band even had a name – The Take-A-Rides. Rick played his first gig at age four sandwiched between Bringerer and Merge Recording Artists’ The Rosebuds. According to Rick’s dad, he has since retired the name Take-A-Rides in favor of the Secret Sea Turtles. ‘He’s into heavy, slow music now,” explained Ben in an email.

The days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months and soon I was living out Jack Black fantasies of School Of Rock proportions, teaching Spencer how to throw the goat and how to wield a mic like Iggy Pop. One day before I headed off to practice with my band the Chest Pains, he asked me if we were ever going to play live.

“Like on stage,” he said.
“Sure,” I replied.
But won’t you get nervous?” he asked
“Probably but that’s natural,” I said. “A lot of people get nervous – actors, athletes, musicians – before they perform,” I explained.
“Well, when you get to practice tell your friends you know the world’s greatest drummer,” he said.
“Who is that? Mom?” I said.
“No, me dad!” he said.

When my wife came home from work that one fateful night – the night my son quit the family band – I told her I had bad news.

“What’s that?” she asked.
“Spencer quit the family band,” I said.
“Dad!” hollered Spencer when he overheard the news.
“When I said ‘I quit’ I just meant that I was dome playing for the day,” he said wiggling his head and holding his hands up in the air flashing traces of the goombah I-talian bloodline he got my side of the family.

And so the band isn’t “officially” broken up yet, we’ll just call it on a hiatus.

*Versions of this essay appeared in Raleigh's The Hatchet and Australia's Monster Children

Alien Abduction

So I had another alien abduction dream the other night.

I think I've had about a dozen or so over the last few years.

This one was sorta generic and par for the course in that it featured the basic big, bright light outside which needs to be investigated, that feeling of lost time and not being able to account for your whereabouts, and that feeling like you've been drugged.

The kicker was that during my "return" I sort came to walking down a dark hallway in my house only to find a stranger sleeping on my couch.

I walked over and pulled the covers off the stranger to find that I was looking at myself sleeping on the couch.

Chills rolled down my spine.

I shuddered off the chills and *poof* the dream went away.

The weird thing was that I actually slept on the couch because my 6-yr.-old came into our bed and 2am complaining of an ear ache.

The next day while channeling surfing I stumble upon a show about Roswell on the National Geographic channel.

Now I wasn't totally blown away by the coincidence because one can always find a show on aliens or Hitler on cable television.

But then today, I took said sick 6-yr.-old to the doctor to see if he had an ear infection (he does) and during our stay in the waiting room (not the mass populace waiting room, but the second tier room they put you in after the initial nurse consultation), the boys and I had this odd conversation about dreams and nightmares.

My 3- yr.-old's reoccurring "nightmare" is when I'm the tickle monster. I've actually heard him laugh in his sleep before and had him tell me the next day that I wouldn't stop tickling him on his dream.

But then my oldest son went into this elaborate dream about finding me in a room stuck with needles, lotsa of needles, all over my body and that the image totally freaked him out.

I think I've been listening to The Doors too much or something...

Punch Number Two

I got woken up this morning by my almost-7-year-old shrilling "Snow! Snow! Dad there's snow!"

It wasn't even 6am yet.

Of course they cancelled school because that's what they do here in NC. I remember one year they cancelled school at the thought of flurries. But over the years they've learned their lesson; a few times they cancelled school and not one drop of precipitation ever made it to the ground.

So today we get a meager two slushy inches and they cancelled school.

Kids are stoked as it is a rare treat to get snow in our neck of the woods but it does happen. But not enough that you care to purchase the necessary clothing for toddlers who will grow out of something overnight. Fortunately, my sister lives in the Midwest and is always passing along cold weather hand-me-downs.

I think she was appalled when years ago, when our first kid had experience his first taste of snow, she had called and asked if he got a chance to play in it. I told he he didn't have any boots so I put plastic trash bags over his shoes and secured them with rubber bands because - after all - somebody has to represent the white trash side of the family.

But the thing that sucks most about snow days, isn't the fact that "no school" are the two words I want to hear least, is that snow here just sucks. It rarely ever snows enough to do something fun like sledding or tobogganing and the snow is almost always on the side closer to sleet than powder.

So it is really like playing in the mud after a few hours when the sun finally breaks through and the temperature warms a bit.

I dig managed to make a tiny, snowman with a pine needle mohawk only to have my moody 3-year-old kick it over because "snowman don't have mohawks, Dad!" he barked.

Not to mention, today was the day both boys were suppose to be in school (3-year-old until 1pm, 6-year-old until 3:30pm) and I had big plans about what I was going to do with my free time.

Instead, it's "can you say cabin fever?"

One, Two Punch

So just last week we were rolling in temperatures above 70 degrees here in Carolina.

Over the weekend we had a cookout with some neighbors and we were joking about how ridiculous it was that we were in t-shirts and shorts and grilling during the MLK holiday weekend.

And then it came: the fucking frigid weather.

So cold in fact, that daytime highs were in the low 40s.

So what's a stay-at-home dad to do but improvise.

Enter the indoor camping extravaganza.

Needless to say, the wife wasn't to happy about this one. But I (think) I convinced her that it was a good primer for the boys for when we finally get back into camping (this spring I hope; we registered at REI when we got married but we haven't been since Number 1 was born and that's creeping up on seven years).

The Cave

The place in the woods where the degenerate "burn-outs" would hang out - was called The Cave. Riding past there on
your bike when the hoodlums were there was like riding the gauntlet. Sometimes they'd throw rocks at you, sometimes they'd throw beer cans. You were going to get heckled that much was for sure.

Years later I befriended one of the local juvey hall kids and went there myself. At some point they had built a rope swing that swung off the top of it which was pretty hairy and pretty scary. I saw a guy get stuck and watched his friends scramble to find a branch long enough for him to grab so he could get back. Serious injury would have resulted from a fall from that height. Although the dirtbags were smart enough to knot the end of the rope which formed a rudimentary seat thus saving your upper body strength from being tapped out in just such and occasion.


My older brother told me a story about how one of his friends was kicked out of his house in high school and he spent a couple of nights at the cave (although there doesn't seem to be much room in the cave).

And when I told another friend about my recent trek to The Cave he asked if there were any moldy Penthouses to be found. Fortunately there weren't. But there was a shitload of broken glass from smashing beer bottles on the rocks.

So on a recent trip to see my parents I took my two boys on a expedition to see the creek, the "black path," and the cave.

A little bit of neighborhood lore for them to take with them back to North Carolina.

The Woods

I spent a lot of time playing in the woods as a kid. We used to ride our bmx bikes back into the woods by the creek. Skipped stones along the bank or search for salamanders, turtles or snakes.

There was a path that went from Lake Needwood all the way to the National Zoo in D.C. It was dirt for a long time and then somewhere around the end of elementary school they paved it and it became known as the "black path."

if you said you were going to the black path people knew exactly what you were talking about. By the time I got out of high school, me and my friend Scooby would ride our mountain bikes on it, searching for paths that spun off of it. If we didn't find anything, we'd get to D.C., park our bikes and saddle up at some cafe like Zorba's on 19th Street and drink pitchers of beer under the summer sun. Those were good times.

Durham Ink

The shop is open.

Cackalacka Xmas

Frosty The Snowman made out of hay bales.

That's how we do it in North Carolina folks...

Christmas Trees and Bodily Fluids

I'd been meaning to post a few words about the family tradition of hunting for Christmas trees a few days ago but was rudely interupted.

The interruption started as most do - with a holler "Daaaddd!!"



I knew my oldest was in the bathroom as I had heard him threw the vents talking to himself.

Then I heard a flush.

The flush was followed by the holler.

I arrive to find that my son had shoved about an entire roll's worth of toilet paper into the can.

And to find the water quickly rising.

Immediate action needed to be taken so I thrust my hand into the toilet, grabbed the wet gob of tee pee and extracted it, throwing the soggy goop into the waste basket next to the can.

"Dad, what are you doing?" exclaimed my 3-year-old while my 6-year-old is wooting it up. "You got your hand in the toilet!" he says with a yelpy smile.

"Don't ever do this," I tell them.
"Never stick your hand in the toilet."

It was a classic, textbook example of the old adage "do as I say, not as I do."

Then I preceeded to wash my hands about 15 times in a row.

Ta Zizzle In Da Zizzle

 

I'm not usually such a fanboy, but when I spotted the star center for the UNC men's basketball team eating breakfast at the local Whole Foods, the first thing I thought was that my son Spencer is going to be so stoked when I tell him.

This was followed shortly thereafter with "He'll kill me if I don't ask for an autograph."

So here it is.

Thanks Tyler. 

Priceless

 

This popped up on the wall of the new subdivision of million dollar homes they are building up the street next to my son's elementary school. 

Middle Age Rage

 

Nice pic of me hollerin' at Victory Factory/Chest Pains gig.

Photo by the wife.

It's always nice when she can make it to the shows.

This time we actually had our two boys sleep over her sister's house, so we got to take the post gig partyin' back home to the House of G.

Like old times. 

Victory Factory

 

I got to share the bill with my friend Ron Liberti's band on Friday, December 1, in Chapel Hill.

Ron makes great gig posters. 

I, Caterer

So last Saturday I had to work a shift for a party some woman was throwing for her husband to celebrate his 70th birthday.

It was a tented event on the grounds of a place called Fearrington Village (which you can peek at here: http://www.fearrington.com/).

The party involved such entertainment as character actors walking around interacting with the guests [cheesy] and tango dance group [sorta cheesy] and three tenors doing opera [had they had old Bugs Bunny cartoons projected behind them on a backdrop? Priceless].

Some guy actually said this: "This is the nicest party I have been to that I didn't pay $1,000 to get into."

He was met by much laughter.

Some days you feel like Bob Newhart,
other days you feel like Peter Sellers.

AHDCIKC - Being There Part 3

 

Dave Lux, he of the 17-inch monitor'ed lap top, enjoying a festive post-convention cigar. 

AHDCIKC - Being There Part Two

 

The group makes their way to Arthur Bryants via a [shortened] yellow school bus. It's a raucous ride through downtown Kansas City.

We arrive to find another bus, this one of the chartered variety, parked in front of the joint and several folks let out sighs.

But no sooner then their sighs fade does it become apparent that the crew on that bus is leaving the restaurant.

The mouths of sighs become smiles.

Intrepid British journalist John Perry asks what to expect.

"Various parts of the pig all cooked to perfection," I say.

"Yah, but which parts?" he asks.

Many pitchers of beer are procured.

Veni, Vidi, Veci.


We came, we saw, we conquered. 

At Home Dad Convention In KC - Being There

  

I get up bright and early.

Too early considering I had a hotel room to myself and nary a kid demanding my attention in sight.

Then I went to the lobby for a few cups of complimentary coffee (much needed).

I spotted a few AHDs doing the same.

Shortly there after I hopped into the car of KC Dad Kevin “Kace” Christensen now dubbed a “shuttle” and made my way with a few other dads and a Japanese woman to the spot on the campus of UMKC where the convention is taking place.

The Japanese woman Renge Jibu is on assignment for some business magazine in her home country. “Japanese men do nothing at home,” she says with head tilt that is customary in her country.

People register, breakfast is consumed and introductions are made.

And soon after, the first of the day-long breakouts begins.

I attend a breakout on kids and the internet which is really informative but mostly pertains to parents of the tween’er set and kids who use email. The moderator is Dave Lux from Chicago and he has some scary shit to say like the fact that 1 out of 7 children will be sexually solicited in a year’s time or that 75 percent of children are willing to share personal info online.

I make a mental note and place this in a file for a few years down the road when my kids actually use the computer for such purposes. Right now both my kids strictly use the computer for video games and virtual puzzles but I am aware that my 6-year-old knows how to boot the sucker up and often goes online unsupervised. It wasn’t so much of an issue say a year ago, but now as a first grader and ardent speller the boy could easily find himself viewing inappropriate material whether it’s some knucklehead lighting himself on fire on YouTube or one misplaced vowel away from porn.

Taking candy from a stranger somehow seems like such a trivial thing these days. Yet it’s basically the same principle that is applied here.

After a brief break it's onto the next breakout which covers the topic of going back to work and preparing yourself for a return to the job market. Much of what is discussed pertains to recent grads more than At Home Dads but the general info regarding resumes and cover letters is a nice little refresher.

What isn’t explained (and maybe because it can’t be) is how to address the gap in work history due to being a stay-at-home-dad. One fellow is really concerned about how this will look a few years down the road and is aggressively taking courses and looking into grad school to make sure he’s got something to account for during that time besides bottles, diapers and memorizing the theme to Barney.

I believe more is achieved with the internal discussions amongst the men in the room then the career counselors but they do provide excellent questions which prompted the transfer of information between us all.

***

Lunch is basically the make-yer-own sandwich spread and serves its purpose to fuel up the conventioneers for another couple hours of talking heads, fluorescent lights and all things At Home Dad-esque.

***

My post lunch breakout is an open discussion amongst the dads that is segregated by age. I hit up the 2-5 age group even though my oldest is 6. I figure I may get some fresh insight on 3-year-olds and possible shed some myself to those about to run into the 5-to-6-year-old bracket.

Lots of interesting discussions come up: from the importance of routines to clean-up tactics.

“Routine is key,” says Steve Lundy from the KC Dads group. He uses the 3 B rule: “bath, books, bed,” he says.

Minnesota Dad Tom Vytlacil points out that while routine is key, kids are “event sensitive not time sensitive.”

With all the great ideas and good advice, I suddenly feel like I’ve been teleported to an episode of Dr. Phil what with high level of enthusiasm being used among the informative exchanges.

From there it’s off to the Kids, Nutrition & Behavior breakout.

This breakout focuses more specifically on the concept of a minimally processed, organic food diet. This being the Midwest, it comes off a bit forced trying to push this type of diet on what I perceive as the meat-and-potatoes sensibilities of the locale. Working in food service and living in the most cosmopolitan part of my state, most of this is either old news or stuff I already have implemented (buying/using local and seasonal goods, substituting soy milk for milk and keeping a minimum of the ingestion of sweets). It also can be stripped down to the age old adage "you are what you eat.” Of course if my kid eats at McDonalds all the time and drinks soda there’s going to be some nutritional – and behavioral – issues to be addressed.

That said, I still gleaned some valuable info from the session.

[Note to organizers: more coffee after lunch! Or maybe nap time!]

The last breakout of the day was about depression and isolation and the one I probably got the most out of despite the fact that it had this sort of Iron John/AA vibe to it: we are all men with this unique experience and we are not alone.

The day finished with brainstorming sessions on likes and dislikes and on getting a leg up with the planning of the 12th Annual At Home Dad convention. Capping off that was men sharing their anecdotes with the crowd.

And yes, I broke out the Breathing Penis story.

I won’t tell it again here, you had to be there for it.

Then it was back the hospitality room at the hotel for cold beer and conversation before boarding a bus for ribs and BBQ at Kansas City’s stories Arthur Bryants.

At Home Dad Convention In KC - Getting There

 

Friday, Nov. 10, 11:15am: Shoeless and without belt I clear security. This is the first time I have flown in years (in a post 9/11 world). One of the security guards at Raleigh/Durham International – a catering colleague of mine – recognizes me.

“I know you from somewhere,” she says, her pierced tongue affecting her slight Southern drawl. “[Blank] Catering,” I say. “Oh, yeah,” she says. “They fired me and [blank]. It was over some bullshit.”

***

With the better part of an hour to kill I dive into Bradley Udall’s The Miracle Life Of Edgar Mint.

***

I sit down for lunch – an $8 veggie burrito – when the biggest son-of-a-bitch of a man sits down next to me. I overhear his cell phone conversation which involves talk of wrestling and how he’ll need a shot because his shoulder is hurting him. He’s mentions Hulk and The Undertaker to who ever is on the phone as well.

“Do they call you Tiny?” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “My brother is even bigger.”
Then he explains how both him and his brother use to wrestle professionally. His brother wrestled under the moniker Mr. X.
“And your alias was?” I ask
“Tiny,” he says.

***

I take a puddle jumper (as my father would say) to Dulles Airport in Washington, D.C., to make my connecting flight to Kansas City, which is where I am headed to attend the 11th Annual At Home Dad Convention. And yes, I am as surprised as you that it even exits much less on its eleventh year. Two shuttle trips across Dulles’ tarmac are required before I reach Concourse A… and a vodka tonic is required ($7).

Drinking at the airport reminds me of a time back in the late-80s when I spent several hours waiting at National Airport for a friend of mine – stuck in Chicago because of bad weather – to make it to the East Coast from Los Angeles. After several hours killing time in an airport bar, his flight eventually got cancelled and I had to leave only to return the next day to pick him up. I left thinking about how strange airport bars are; the strange mix of people you find there; the stories told and heard.

Twenty minutes later, beverage consumed and airport bar memories relived, my worse fears are revealed: my flight has been delayed an hour. This has several ramifications. First off, it most likely means I won’t rendezvous with British journalist (and father) John Perry at the Kansas City airport. We had planned to split a cab to the meet & greet session that evening at Boulevard Brewing Co. in Kansas City.

It also means I will miss the free beer at the meet & greet.

But this is Parenting 101: expect the unexpected.

I secretly admit to myself that I’m glad I’m not traveling with a wife and two kids and having to face a long flight delay. Because I am traveling alone, I exhale a sigh of relief.

Accentuate the positive.

There’s another trait learned as a parent. Making the best of a shitty situation is a weekly, if not daily, occurrence.

I peek at the departure board. My flight it delayed yet again.

I contemplate another adult beverage.

***

I stave off the desire for an adult beverage with a slice of pizza and my novel. I fantasize about possessing a text-messaging cell phone, an iPod, or a lap top. But I’m fully antiquated with nothing but a book, a pen, a few scraps of paper stapled together which turns into a makeshift notepad, and a meager slush fund in my pocket. Whittling away the hours in an airport is not a cheap proposition.

I check the departure board again. My 3:30pm flight has now been delayed from 4:30pm to 5:30pm. Clearly, the skies of United aren’t as friendly as I’d like them to be.

There goes the meet & greet.

Yet I’m starting to feel like a real working father and husband, one who has to slough away the hours at airports on business travel. Only I’m missing the fancy watch, the carry-on tote with wheels and an expense account.

***

Suddenly, I get this slight foreshadowing; a wee bit of déjà vu – like I’m soon going to be the angry drunk at check-in on some reality television show. Luckily for me, somebody else would step up to fulfill this role an hour later.

I speak with a Vietnam Vet who is in town for a battalion reunion that’s part of the new Marine monument dedication.

With all the delays and gate changes, mass confusion ensues and several KC-bound folks board the wrong plane.

I am one of them.

I introduce myself to the young woman sitting next to me and ask her about her travel plans. She is going to meet her boyfriend in Kansas City who is coming from Texas.

“And what about you?” she asks.
“I’m going to a convention for At Home Dads,” I tell her.
“What?” she asks.
“A convention for stay-at-home-dads,” I say.
“I’m going to write a story about it,” I explain. “I want to know who these men are.”
“A bunch of losers!” she exclaims with a hearty laugh.

Fortunately for her, I have boarded the wrong plane and won’t spend the next two hours schooling her on the definition of loser.

The best news when I finally board the right flight – at 6pm – is that nobody is sitting next to me.

I settle in and get back to The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint.

***

The woman across the aisle from me is reading Vanity Fair and I can smell the pages as she turns them.

My dinner is a blend of pretzels, roasted red pepper sesame sticks and BBQ soy nuts. All chased with Minute Maid orange juice. Yum!

***

When I finally get to Kansas City, it is passed 8pm.

I stand outside in the blustery weather – a mix of snow and sleet – and wait for a shuttle to take me to my hotel. Roughly, thirty minutes and $17 later, I’m at the Hampton Inn and ready for some food and drink. I call one of the organizers, KC dad Andy Ferguson, but the group from the brewery has splintered apart since the meet & greet and he apologizes for not being able to point me in any AHD direction.

I walk down the street from the hotel and step into a pub called Tomfooleries. I order a sandwich and a few beers and then head back to the hotel for some sleep.