BoyJake's Breakfast Way

In that I am not that excited about anything else it seems to be perfectly reasonable to continue organizing all of my thoughts around breakfast. This will end badly in that I almost never eat breakfast when I'm at home -- not a proper breakfast anyway. I usually choke down a granola bar first thing in the morning, ride my bike to work and find that I'm hungry again around 11 AM. Then I usually go to the supermarket across the street for an early lunch.

I only eat a proper breakfast on the weekends when Anna and I go to one of our two favorite cafes. At one (the Saturday cafe) I enjoy what they call the "Bagel & Eggs" and it's exactly what it sounds like. I usually go for a toasted whole wheat bagel which they will top with two eggs (fried hard -- I hate runny egg yolk) and both jack and cheddar cheeses. I usually dump a fair amount of hot sauce on it and try to fold the whole thing into kind of a clumsy sandwich. The variable shape of the egg and cheese combination has a lot do with how successful the sandwich is, but I'm always successful at eating it. Oh yeah, in the summer months I always wash it down with iced tea. In cooler months I wash it down with hot tea.

At the other cafe (the Sunday cafe) Anna and I both order cinnamon rolls from the bakery case. I opt for a roll with icing. Anna opts for a roll without icing. My beverage habits (cold or hot tea depending on the weather) are the same at the Sunday cafe.

Are you still awake? I thought not.

Thanks for playing.

BoyJake's Breakfast Blog

After my Wendy's encounter the other day it occurred to me that I've been thinking about breakfast a lot. I haven't been thinking about breakfast in terms of breakfast the meal, breakfast the broad concept or even "What the fuck do I want for breakfast?" It's more like many of my most recent and random thoughts seem to be somehow breakfast related and in that I don't feel like writing about anything else, I'm wondering if I shouldn't just change this into a full time Breakfast Blog.

Before I change the name of this weblog to BoyJake's Breakfast Blog, I'm going to try a couple of entries and see how it goes.

All I Wanna Eat/ Is Cap'N Crunch

The supermarket that I frequent in the university town where I live has satellite radio and the music played on that satellite radio is responsible for much of what gets stuck in my head. Sheryl Crowe's 1993 hit "All I Wanna Do" is a recent plague to my aural memory. But one morning I decided that it could easily be a jingle for Cap'N Crunch cereal. Now the lyrics "All I Wanna Eat/ Is Cap'N Crunch" run through my head to the tune of Ms. Crowe's melody. The bad news is that I can't think of any other lyrics. I imagine they would have to involve cutting the roof of one's mouth, but that concept never seems to translate itself into the proper rhyme scheme or syllable count for the melody. For me anyway. But I'm not a songwriter. Feel free to take a crack at it yourself. If you can convince Ms. Crowe to sell her rights and the good folks at Quaker to buy your idea maybe you could take me out for a beer or somethin'.

Thanks for playing.

Wendy's at the Houston Airport -- Yes - I Went There

I just arrived in Houston for a somewhat long layover at the beginning of my latest work trip. I left the plane with that wrong feeling that comes from about two hours sleep after two Jim Beam and ginger ales. I decided that food was my best bet and knowing that my next flight would depart from gate E19 I headed in that general direction. I arrived at a familiar George HW Bush Intercontinental Airport alcove that contains a Wendy's franchise. The food available here seemed like almost the exactly perfect thing to put in my belly given the condition that I found myself in.

So I guess part of this might be a bit like a restaurant review. My contact with the staff was so brief I almost couldn't believe that it had actually occurred. The person in line ahead of me (at 5:45 AM on Labor Day there was only one) gave me just enough time to choose an item from the menu. I decided that a fried chunk of chicken on a biscuit would be ideal to soak up the bourbon and ginger ale poison that I had consumed only a few hours earlier.

When my turn came I asked for the number 7 with hash browns and orange juice. I had just barely placed my money on the counter when each item of my order lay in front of me, most of it (all except the small carton of orange juice) neatly concealed in a small paper bag. The food actually beat my change. Some supernatural connection between the register and the cooking station must exist. It's either that or the young woman preparing the food could hear me. The young woman who brought out the food asked me if I'd like any ketchup. I said yes and in that I had noticed that one of the bins behind the counter contained hot sauce, I asked for some of that as well. Less than two seconds later several packets of each condiment had joined my food in the bag and I was on my way, chugging the orange juice as I walked. The water and sugar made me feel better immediately and by the time I found a seat in the gate area (where I type now) I found myself ready to eat.

I rarely eat fast food now, but there was a time when food like this made up a significant portion of my diet. Comparing how I felt then (sluggish - yeah - that's the word) to how I feel now, I think I made the right choice when I decided that I would avoid it most of the time. This experience did nothing to change my mind.

I pulled the top of the biscuit off of the chicken chunk, tore a corner off the hot sauce packet, squirted a couple of drops and took a bite. The first word that comes to mind is DRY. The difference in mouth feel between the chicken and the biscuit was barely discernible. Both were DRY. One was slightly more dense and chewy -- I'm guessing it was the chicken. I could be wrong, but almost everything about this experience was wrong. In an effort to improve my experience I removed the top of the biscuit once more and squirted some more hot sauce onto the chicken chunk (I couldn't taste it at all before). I took another bite and experienced the exact same dryness punctuated by a bit of very weak hot sauce flavor (I use the word flavor generously). I choked the rest of the little sandwich down as quick as I could and moved on to the hash browns.

Wendy's serves it's hash browns in little coins. I must say that I prefer the honest large ovals of McDonald's. The large ovals seem to be more crisp and they definitely have more flavor. They also seem to hold heat better. In my attempts to improve my chicken biscuit experience I had allowed my hash brown coins to cool to the point where they held very little heat at all. If they were warm, at least I could say they were warm. I cannot even say that. I didn't even bother with the ketchup. I just choked them down.

That's really all I have to say about eating at the Houston Airport Wendy's. I deserve exactly what I got and no more. I really need to stop drinking on airplanes and allowing myself to make nutrition choices in the unfortunate condition that follows such behavior.

Part II

A Random Thought About Wendy's

My recent breakfast experience has caused me to think a bit about the concept of Wendy's in general.

Thought 1: What's it like to work at the airport Wendy's as opposed to a Wendy's location out in the world?

The airport Wendy's is not a destination. I can't imagine that many people, departing a plane in Houston are thinking "Wow - I can't wait to get to that Wendy's". I imagine that most patrons of this particular Wendy's are like me: in some sort of ill-health (physical, mental or both) due to their recent or impending air travel and they stumble toward the Wendy's line without putting much thought into it at all. The Wendy's locations out in the world, however are destinations. People go there on purpose. They plan it. They say "I'm going to Wendy's." They say that. They say it out loud in front of people.

I wonder if airport Wendy's employees ever meet up with out in the world Wendy's employees and discuss the differences in the two ways of life. I bet they each think there own location is a harder place to work.

"You don't even have a drive-thru!"

"Oh yeah? You ever had to feed the entire Lithuanian national soccer team that just got off flight 3737?"

This is the type of argument I imagine them having.

This is the type of crap I type when I've slept two hours and am waiting to fly some more.

Thanks for playing.

I Made This!

And Then Some Ratfucking Wads of Monkey Spunk Stole It!
(may they get flesh eating virus on their tender parts and die the slowest of painful deaths)

I fell in love with bicycles about a year and a half ago when I purchased a great three-speed cruiser. The joy I experienced on this bike was profound and I wanted to learn how to work on it myself and I thought building my own bike would be a great way to accomplish this.

I encountered a group of like-minded folks online and read what they had to say very carefully, planned the project and slowly began to acquire the necessary parts. By November 2007 I had everything I needed, but it was too cold and wet to paint. The first weekend in May I was home, I had the time and the weather was favorable. I primed and painted the frame and fork and the next weekend my good friend Tom helped me assemble in time to ride it to our fair town's local hippy festival.

It was way too small for me and certainly wouldn't win any races, but I made it from parts that I had gathered; parts that never would have become this particular bicycle without my time, effort and vision (such as it was) and I was proud of it.

Yesterday I finally got around to taking pictures of it and my lovely wife took pictures of me with it. I posted them to my Flickr account and I couldn't wait to share them with the friends and family.

This morning I went out to the bike rack to find that the cable lock tethering my creation to its larger cousin (a big cruiser that was to be a future project) had been cut and both bikes had been stolen.

Thieves should be made to experience significant pain. I wish the thieves of my bicycles could know the sick feeling of violation that comes with having their hard-earned work taken away. I guess that's the difference. Thieves don't work for anything so they don't care. I guess that's why slow bodily disfigurement is the only real punishment for theft. Watch your asses, douchebags. It may not be me, but I have to believe the Universe has some true pain in store for you pig-licking shit munchers.

die die die

(I apologize in advance for making any ill-informed generalizations about the laziness of thieves. It's always possible I could be wrong. If you're a thief and I've offended you, you can still go fuck yourself. Fuck yourself in the ass with a chainsaw, you fucking fuck.)

Thanks for playing.

Tommy Lee and I are Not Pals

Still catching up...

Last month I had a work think in Vega$ at the Mandalay Bay. The Mandalay Bay has a new tattoo joint called Starlight Tattoo. They also have a House of Blues. One evening I stood in line for the elevator after our Internet Cafe setup and I saw that Starlight Tattoo was holding their grand opening party at the House of Blues. In the elevator bank there is an entrance to the "House of Blues Foundation Room" which I can only assume is a special lounge the the House of Blues makes available to VIPs.

The long line for the elevator kept me standing there for some time and along came Tommy Lee of Motley Crue fame with a small entourage consisting of a hot little brunette and a bunch of dudes with make up, highlights and rock star clothes that I can only assume were in his band. One of the dudes, the one in a suit who was probably a personal assistant or road manager or something (but he still had make up and highlights - or not, I don't remember, but it's my story so shut up) went to the suited guy who manned the velvet rope in front of the foundation room and they chatted a bit while Tommy Lee stood there looking around.

Even though I've never been a huge fan of the Crue or Mr. Lee's projects since then I always enjoy being in proximity to celebrity and say what you want about him, Tommy Lee is a celebrity. So I watched him looking around and he made eye contact with me. My intention was not to have a staring contest with Tommy Lee, but I couldn't help but be curious as to how long he would hold eye contact before he either got pissed enough to swing at me or look away. He probably held eye contact for three seconds before the little brunette said something to him and he looked away to talk to her.

I wonder what went through his mind during those three seconds. I wonder if I looked familiar to him and maybe he thought he should know who I am. Nope, Mr. Lee, even though I have long hair and earrings, you don't know me and there's no reason you should remember me from somewhere. We're not pals. We're not homies. Rock on, Tommy Lee.

That is all.

Thanks for playing.

Overheard in the Supermarket Right Before Valentine's Day

It's been a while since I last posted and it seems like there are quite a few things that I should get caught up on. I'm more than a month late on this, but I wanted to share a conversation I overheard in the supermarket (names are changed because I don't remember them):

Woman: I heard the cutest thing at the pre-school today.

Man: Oh yeah?

Woman: Jimmy was making a valentine with the rest of the kids, so I asked him "What'cha got there?" He said "A valentine." "Who's it for?" I asked. "Billy! He's my boyfriend." It was so precious.

Man: I don't approve of homosexuality among small children.

I don't know if there was more said as these people were behind me and I was almost out of the building with my purchases, but I just want to go on record as being absolutely one-hundred percent in favor of "homosexuality among small children" -- if you get all bent out of shape about it when they're four then things are really gonna suck when they're fourteen. Kids should be able to say what's true about them in any given moment and trying to stifle that truthfulness (about anything) only leads to self-loathing, secrecy, suicide, murder, rape of small animals and things even more ridiculous and terrible. Be good parents: leave your children the hell alone.

That is all.

Thanks for playing.

Swingers in the Cyber Cafe - Ft. Lauderdale, Florida

I haven't written here in some time so I could write about many many incredible things that are going on in my life, but instead, I'll just share a bit about a couple of very recent encounters I had in the Cyber Cafe I am running on this current work trip.

Yesterday I sat here reading silly Internet cartoon web logs and arranging travel for out of town associates who are coming to my town for one of my boss's big meetings in December. An unusual looking couple (they really seemed to be a couple, but I have no real evidence to back up my assumptions, so you'll just have to trust me) came in and sat at terminals next to each other. The man was in his mid to late fifties and had a very European look. What was left of his hair was cut in a severe buzz cut, fancy glasses, big fancy watch, dressed in black shorts and a black tank top that revealed all kinds of muscles and ink. He also had stretched earlobe piercings with small (probably 8-6 gauge) tunnels in them.

The woman, in her mid-late thirties was tall and fit with short blonde hair also dressed in a black tank top and black shorts. She also had her share of ink. She reminded me a little of Brigitte Nielsen.

I noticed that one of the machines near them showed the blue screen of death, so I got up to reboot it and I noticed that the guy was looking at nasca.com (I'm omitting the URL because it's probably not safe for work, school or your mom's house -- if you really want to go there, I trust that you know how your browser's address bar works). NASCA, I have since discovered is "an Association of Clubs, Events, Services and others related to the Swinger/Lifestyle Community." At the time it just looked a little sexual and it made me curious enough to go to the site myself and find out why this guy was doing so much scrolling and making so many notes.

This morning he returned, went to the same page (my company is no longer using those little speak and spell machines, so the computers are now attached to large flat screen displays that show me (and anyone else in the room) exactly what people are looking at -- I usually mind my own business, but certain things catch my eye -- I can't help it) and this time he must have noticed that I have a printer because he printed out quite a few pages before leaving.

It doesn't bother me that this man and his partner engage in this sort of activity, nor does it really bother me that he was looking for places to engage in it at the Cyber Cafe that my company provides for his professional association. However, it absolutely makes me curious about how somebody can feel so free to let total strangers (and professional colleagues) have access to such information about them. I guess that's all I wanted to share - my own curiosity. Maybe I'm just boring and if I were less boring I would want to share every twisted part of my being with the entire universe.

Maybe I need to remember to roll my clock back tonight so I don't show up at the airport tomorrow morning for my ass o' clock AM flight an hour before the stupid ticket counter staff even shows up. Maybe you need to do that too because you want to be a good citizen. Maybe I need to work on my tendency toward digression...

That is all.

Thanks for playing.