After a stopover in Savannah the previous night, we made it into Myrtle Beach the following afternoon. We stopped in on our room to lecture Beth on the finer points of empathy, consideration, and not using your feet to push off on the side of the car to gain leverage against your father in obtaining more of the space in the back seat. From there we went to Planet Hollywood. Yes, they have one here too. We didn’t heed the first warning, that the Hard Rock Cafe next door had an hour wait and Planet Hollywood’s was ten minutes. No, for that kind of clue to work you’ve got be able to reach up with your hand, hold the big red flag out of your eyes, and read the neon sign that says, “DON’T EAT HERE.” We were just like so many tired, tourist-flavored lemmings marching to our culinary doom.

Cheryl ordered a chicken pasta dish that was heavy on the pasta and not so much on the chicken. She was the victim of a classic bait and switch. The menu pictured this dish that featured large, prominent cuts of meat. Reality featured two thin strips of chicken that were so well hidden they were only found with assistance of the waiter’s expert eye.

“See, it has chicken.”
“Not quite like the picture in the menu, though, is it?”
“Well, sometimes they just stir it up.”
“Stirring doesn’t explain the fist sized breasts of chicken in the menu, and two pinkie sized strips on my plate.”

Since Cheryl was sharing the dish with her mother, and neither one were satisfied with a single strip of chicken, they sent it back. Cheryl’s father ordered a hamburger, a seemingly safe choice. The problem was once again one of expectations. He was expecting a round patty, but instead he got a crescent moon. Now, I’ve got nothing against the crescent moon, but it makes a lousy shape for a hamburger patty. Not least of which because everything else on follows the circular paradigm of sandwich building. He sent it back.

Now I’m no expert, but I’ve learned from countless horrible tales of the restaurant business that you NEVER send your food back. Having sent two dishes back, I was beginning to worry that our next reservations would be at the nearest hospital.

With all of these problems, it is customary for a management type to come out and address the problem in one fashion or another. There go our expectations running wild again. One youthful management type stopped by our table to ask how everything was, and my wife answered, “cold.” We didn’t hear from him again.

A tip is a terrible thing to waste.

This is my first, live update from a remote location (re: hundreds of miles from home – home is where the server is after all). Ah, but the fun ends in about fifteen minutes. Then I have to do what I’ve been paid to do, do some work. Where’s the fun in that? While not exactly fun, it may be interesting, seeing what the same state agency does in a different part of the state.

Alright, maybe not THAT interesting,

There is a place, deep in the heart of Tampa’s urban wilderness, where the locals go to cool off. Like an oasis in the midst of desert wasteland, it is a place filled with life. It is also a place of death defying falls, unrelenting surf, and the never-ending smell of Coppertone. This place has a name, and its name is Adventure Island.

Theme parks are a place where even the hardiest native Floridians can wither and perish during the summer months. They can have the fun cooked right out of them, leaving behind a scorched, dried out husk. But a water park? Well, at least it won’t get dried out.

Three things led to my decision to go Adventure Island on Sunday, the look of joy on my kid’s faces as they splashed in the water, the promise of a little cooling off, and Cheryl telling me I had to go. However, one thing almost called it off before it started: the weather forecast. Our local weather experts had forecasted a 60% chance of rain before noon, a 17% chance of rain between noon and 3 p.m., and a 40% chance of rain after 3 p.m. Personally, I think weather personalities are jumping up and down on the thin part of the branch as it is – without giving hour by hour forecasts. Fool me once,

So we left home at 11:45 a.m.

Come one, it’s a water park for cripes sake! What’s a little rain at a water park? If you can swim around in diluted children’s urine (chlorinated for your convenience), you can stand a little water dispensed from nature’s distillery, right?

Um, yeah. The thing with rain is that it can be quite cold. That’s why we spent twenty minutes getting intimate with the side of a building yesterday afternoon. Being wet is one thing, but the cold wet from a Florida summer storm is pretty uncomfortable fully clothed – let alone in your swimming skivvies. Then there’s thunder.

Being cold and wet is one thing, but throw in a little thunder and lightning and even the slow of foot will be prancing through the parking lot like gazelles on the Serengeti.

We were home by 3:15.

Since all events are now measured in terms of how they relate to my rash, this tale is right smack in the middle of Genesis – based on the events of three weeks ago.

In the beginning his skin was void of blemishes or imperfections, and the Lord said, “let there be a rash,” and there was a rash, and it was most assuredly not good. On the second day the Lord said, “let he on whom I’ve bestowed this rash go to Busch Gardens,” and he went to Busch Gardens, and that too was not good. Later that same day the Lord saw that he on whom he’d bestowed this rash and sent to Busch Gardens was thirsty, and said, “Let Busch Gardens give them their choice of free beer,” and there was Bare Knuckle Stout, and it did not look very good. Finally, the Lord saw he on whom he’d bestowed this rash, sent to Busch Gardens, and given Bare Knuckle Stout – had a daughter whose curiosity threatened to overwhelm the goodness of his creation, and said, “let her have a sip of this Bare Knuckle Stout and thou shall see this curiosity vanish!” – and she did, and it most assuredly did vanish, and it was finally good.

There are a slew of unfinished entries in the queue, but this one is begging for the front of the line. This weekend found the Kauffman family spending some holiday cheer in our nation’s (vacation) capital. My in laws are good Catholics, and I try to be a good son-in-law, so we all went to mass. It started out as a nice piece of ecumenical pie.

When I step in a church I don’t typically see a particular religion’s house, I see God’s house. Believe it or not, I try really hard not to look down my nose on other religions… not when religion is used as a mechanism for celebrating our gifts from God and sharing them in kind. So it was on Sunday. I saw a bunch of other people there, and although I didn’t recognize a single person (save those I came with), I felt a sense of community with them. All were there for the same reason. That warm fuzzy feeling of belonging and community came to an abrupt halt when mass started.

First the priest welcomed the congregants. So far, so good. Then the priest told the congregants a little of the history of the church: it did not have a regular group of members, it was there solely for tourists such as ourselves. O.K. that’s interesting, no harm no foul. Then the priest advises us that without a regular group of members, his church relies solely on the generosity of vagrant, tourist congregants such as ourselves. Alright, now I’m a little uncomfortable, but every church has the money talk every now and again. Then the priest launches into an audio tour of the sanctuary: the marble statue imported from Italy, the bronze doors imported from Europe, the fine works of art displayed on the walls… all made possible with generous donations from people like us. He’s painting a picture himself – but it’s not a particularly cash-strapped picture. Finally, he gives us the full spiel on how we can make our donations: for $25 we can have our names engraved on a roof tile, or for $50 we can have them engraved on the European bronze doors. Either of which will “leave a legacy for our children and our children’s children, who can come back and say with pride: ‘my parents gave to (censored).'” Ah, but that’s not all. Smaller donations will be accepted with our petitions. What is a “petition” you ask? Well, well my poor naive friend. A petition is the PC, post-Protestant Reformation incarnation of the indulgence. You don’t know what you should petition the church for? For your convenience, there are petition suggestions on the back of the offering envelope. All you need to do is check one off, enclose your cash, check or money order payable to (censored) – and you may consider your petition received.

In case you hadn’t guessed by now, I was feeling a little cynical. I was reading through the sample petitions when one stood out: advancement. Advancement? “Dear Lord, I know you’re busy feeding the poor and curing incurable ills, but while you’re up could you throw a promotion my way?” Yeah, remember that chapter of John where Jesus travels to the temple and is rewarded for his troubles with a promotion to Carpentry Specialist 4?

“Come on people, God needs a marble crucifix for the altar. There will be two special collections for your giving convenience.”

Alright, enough with the priest bashing. It wasn’t like his little speech took fifteen minutes. Oops, wait a minute, or fifteen… hypothetically speaking, of course.

Then there was the sermon. Don’t get me started on the sermon. He starts with a little Roman Catholic chest thumping, reassuring the Catholic masses that they’re getting what the poor – wretched little protestants will never get: real communion, from a real priest, from the one and only true Church. Next he threw in a few inaccuracies (in my view) concerning “what protestants believe,” portrayed in a decidedly unflatering light. I didn’t hear the rest of the sermon because I took my daughter’s hand, stood up, and told my wife in the loudest whisper I could manage, “I’m leaving.”

“Are you coming back?”

“No.”

It’s a day later and I’m still fuming. But I wonder to myself, does someone who has missed more church in the last five months than the last five years have the moral high ground? Does someone who would write some of the judgmental, mean spirited stuff that appears on this web site have the right to look down his nose on a priest? Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean I have to sit still and be judged by that guy. So I left. I feel bad for my in-laws, I didn’t mean to insult them with my actions.

Could the guy have turned it around? Is it possible that I walked out before the punch line? Yes, it’s all possible. Judge not, lest ye be judged (and all that). What can I say, I’m human – pissed like an binge drinker on the can – but human.

(Don’t ask, I’m not sure what I meant by the drinking metaphor either… it just kind of happened. Why waste a perfectly good turn of phrase for something as trivial as making sense?)

– Astute readers will note that the drinking reference was a simile, not a metaphor. -JK, 6/1 @ 10:01 pm

On Sunday we went to Sea World for a little family fun time. If you like it when circumstances tempt all of your shortcomings as a parent and a husband, then you would have had a great time. Adam’s nose started to run. Then Adam’s temper started to run. Then Beth’s mouth started to run. Then my patience started to run. Then everyone should have run.

I can’t put my finger on the precise moment when Orlando became Bataan, but if the day had lasted much longer then Adam might have been up for a field promotion.

Fortune smiled on me though, after staying up all night Sunday night/Monday morning with a sick kid, I was too dim-witted to be short with anyone yesterday (Monday proper). I’ve said it before, there’s a threshold I pass through where fatigue transitions from irritant to mild hypnotic. I could get four or five hours of sleep, add that to a trying day at an Orlando theme park, and be really cranky; or, I could anesthetize myself with no sleep and try again with the whole sleep thing when conditions are more favorable. Yeah man, Monday was a wild trip. I’d tell you if it went better than Sunday in Orlando, but I don’t remember much of Monday.

Today? Still pretty much useless. We’ll see about sleep tonight.

Oh, all right, I confess that Sunday wasn’t all that bad. Everyone was in pretty good spirits until around 3 p.m. We had an awesome drive over – snacks provided by my favorite caffeine vendor. We had a superlative lunch at the Shark Encounter Bistro (or whatever it’s really called). And I had a great time filming the highlights on my relatively new digital camcorder. Truth be told, I’d probably do it over again.

Maybe someone should check my temperature?

The other day one of my coworkers was extolling the virtues of the Interstate Highway phenomenon known as the Cracker Barrel. Personally, I don’t think the Cracker Barrel is “all that.” In fact, I think there’s something seditious about the whole thing.

How could a good, wholesome establishment for good old-fashioned home cookin’ be cast in with the likes of commie bastards? To be honest, I don’t really know. My gut just tells me there’s something not right with that place. My coworker suggested that it’s the attached “country shop” that rubs me the wrong way, and that being a male of the species I’m just naturally suspicious of anything resembling every man’s sworn enemy: gift shops.

I have to admit, he may be on to something there. Women folk teasing their men with home cooking and rocking chairs as a rouse, a foot in the door if you will, to get in some extra shopping time?!?

Some might call it good business, but I call it evil.

Yesterday afternoon I was driving behind a clunky, beat up, fire-hydrant red, 1972 Chevy P.O.S. (Now available with matching driver.) Just picture the guy given chase by Michael Douglas and Karl Malden to complete your mental picture. He was driving beside a small, clean, 1998 Mitsubishi Galant (with matching female driver). The driver of the P.O.S. was beckoning to the other driver like he was trying to coax a scared cat out from under the bed. This went on for several minutes until finally the Galant slowed down and pulled in behind the P.O.S.

Why am I telling you this? For some reason unbeknownst to either you or me, I found this exchange quite amusing. Maybe you just had to see it. Maybe I’m too easily amused. Maybe I need to get more sleep.

Three days ago I had no intention of being anywhere other than at home right now. Yesterday I figured I would be sitting in Cheryl’s grandparent’s house right now. Now I find myself sitting on a “full” sized bed in a motel situated on the New Hampshire / Massachusetts border.

I hereby resolve to suspend any and all expectations for the duration of the week.