Ten fingers none the poorer

As Blogtober passes the halfway mark, I've managed to write every day except one. I didn't get home from the Bama game until after 1:30 this morning and was just too worn out to try and write. Maybe I can write an hour or more tomorrow to make up for it. You know, double up on my prescription. That's always worked really well for me with pain medication.

Parking is always an issue at the Bama games. The place we'd parked the past two years was turned into an RV lot a few weeks ago. So at the last game, we paid ten bucks to park over a mile away from the stadium. Thing is, I have a little issue with paying for parking, more specifically, paying to park over a mile away from the event. I adhere to the George Costanza theory, which is loosely translated (or exactly as he said it word-for-word): "It's like going to a prostitute. Why should I pay, when if I apply myself, maybe I could get it for free?"

So through talking to a few people and Google-mapping the area, we found a new place to park yesterday, for free. And mostly legal.

Last night was also the first cold-weather Bama game. The low temperature was in the upper 30's, which was a problem for me because I couldn't remember how 38 degrees feels. It's been so long since last winter, plus how often am I out in the cold for four or five hours? Two, three times a year, max? Thus, I wasn't sure what to wear.

What we need is a program where you enter the expected temperature and wind speed along with how long you're going to be outside, and it would tell you what to wear.

For example, I'd input 38 degrees at 10 mph for 4 hours, and it would spit out: "ear muffs or a toboggan, gloves, wool socks (preferably Argyle), thermal underwear, long pants, and a long-sleeved shirt under either a sweatshirt or a stylish cardigan." (Speaking of, whatever happened to The Cardigans? Love me, love me, saaaay that you love me...)

My device could be called the Outfit Forecaster. Maybe I could somehow combine it with my Outfit Flow Chart of a couple years back. That would seriously cut down on the amount of mental energy I expend each day trying to figure out what to wear. Then I would have more time and energy to spend pondering important issues such as, well, whatever happened to the Cardigans.

In the end, I think the ensemble I chose for the game worked out OK, except that I didn't bring any gloves. Also, the band of my thermal underwear got a little itchy. Sometime during second quarter, one of my fingers started going numb. (This had to do with the gloves, not the underwear.) I looked down and all my other fingers were flesh-colored, but this one was a scary yellowish-white.

I might have had a brief, mostly internal panic attack. I'm too young to have circulation problems! How will I blog?! I showed it to my sister and she said, and I quote, "You're probably gonna get gangrene and your finger will fall off. You should have put plastic bags on your hands. Didn't Dad ever teach you anything?"

Fortunately, I returned home with all my digits. And now I remember quite well how 38 degrees feels. In mid-October, nonetheless.

Welcome to Alabama: The new North Dakota.

"This evening has been, been hoping that you'd drop in, so very nice. I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice..."

Threadbare and sentimental

Good. Bye.

Perhaps no two words in the English language conjure up more emotion than those. But really, isn't it just one word? Yes, of course it is. What was I thinking?

Goodbye.

'Tis the sweet memories of time shared darkened by the sudden knowledge of what will never be again. What was it Bone wrote? "For had I known that someday goodbye we would say, I rather would have chosen never to have lived that day."

Goodbye is never easy to say, and even harder to do. Especially when the thing you are saying goodbye to is... a favorite sweater.

I think the time has come to part with my DQ sweater. No, not GQ. DQ. As in, Dillon Quartermaine. I wore it Monday and, well, let's just say it has seen its better days. The once royal and pristine gray is showing the slightest signs of fading. It has started to pill. And also has begun to lose its shape. A couple more wears and frankly, I'll look like I'm draped in a Snuggie. And no one wants to see that.

Why is the sweater such a tragic figure? It's the Holly Golightly of the wardrobe. Like the really hot, high maintenance girl you date. You know it's going to require a lot of work and extra attention and in the end it's not going to last. But you do it anyway. Just because she's so pretty and soft to touch.

Of course, eventually she becomes threadbare and you begin to see her flaws. Her arms start to sag and she loses her shape. And you realize she is no different than every other soft and pretty thing you've ever touched. Wait, what are we talking about again? Oh, right.

We are here today to pay our final respects to the DQ sweater. It has served me well. It wasn't the best sweater nor the worst sweater, not my last sweater nor my first sweater. But it is the only sweater I have ever written an entire blog entry about.

I will always remember its mockneck collar with three-button placket, and how well it went with a pair of jeans and my black leather jacket. I remember when one of its buttons came off, and how I found some girl to sew it back on. And then how it came off again, and...is there anything in the world less reliable than the buttons on clothes?

And so with that, let us lay to rest the DQ sweater. But do not mourn for me. Rather beware. For while today it is mine, all our sweaters shall one day fall.

"If you want to destroy my sweater, hold this thread as I walk away. Watch me unravel..."

I took off for a weekend...to try and recall the whole year

(Weather permitting, I will be participating in a 36-hole putt putt tournament Tuesday evening. I'm thinking of bringing my own putter. Is that too much? BYOP! I'm in it to win it!)

I hadn't had a vacation or holiday since New Year's. Work seemed to only be getting busier and more stressful. People around the office had become amused and/or frightened by my constant yelling at the phone for ringing. It was getting to the point where at least three times a day I felt as if my head were about to explode like a Gallagher watermelon. Clearly, I needed a break. So last weekend, I got away. To Myrtle Beach.

It was a bit of a last minute decision, as most of mine are. I didn't know for sure I was going until about four hours before I left on Friday. I was also a bit hesitant about going from a financial standpoint, considering the $600 car repair bill I'd just accrued last week and the kidney it was going to cost me in gas.

On the other hand, I was going to have a free place to stay. And it was the beach. So I ignored the overly cautious little Bone sitting on my left shoulder--who speaks with the voice of Carlton on Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air-- and just went.

It was my first trip to Myrtle Beach. The drive wasn't that bad, though it did cross my mind that the country is definitely wider than it is tall. Google Maps put it at a nine and a half hour drive, but I shaved a little more than an hour off that. The final tally was 591 miles in roughly 8.5 hours for a 69.5 mph average. That included a drive on the Strom Thurmond Highway. And one six hour stretch where I passed three cities that host NASCAR races--Talladega, Atlanta, and Darlington. Only in the South.

My stay was most relaxing. The weather was perfect. There wasn't a cloud in the sky Saturday or Sunday. My Blackberry didn't have a signal inside the beach house, which I was kinda bummed about at first. But in hindsight, it was probably a good thing. I needed a break. It was good to be disconnected for a few days.

I got to meet an old friend for the first time. We hung out on the beach during the days and enjoyed outstanding seafood in the evenings, my two favorite things to do at the beach. One particular place we ate was called the Bonefish Grill. Yeah, I really liked the name, too. It felt like I was meant to eat there.

I arrived home Monday evening feeling refreshed and recharged. My head clearer. My skin a bit darker. And feeling glad that I "just went."

There were times in the past when I might have found some reason not to go. But that was the old Bone. A lot has happened this year. Things that have caused me to appreciate and try to live each day, taking advantage of opportunities to do things and spend time with people. I've found myself saying "yes" a lot more this year. (Creepy pseudo-suave voice:) So... ladies?

Oh, one other thing happened at the beach. I went plaid:



Uhh, ladies?

"With all of our running and all of our cunning, if we couldn't laugh we would all go insane..."

The fashion evolution of Bone

A few months ago, I found myself in Cracker Barrell, standing in line behind a guy who was wearing a flannel shirt, tucked in to his slim fit tapered leg faded jeans, the bottom of which conveniently fell about two inches above his white Nikes. Yes, I was tempted to bend down and tight roll them.

Normally I don't pay attention to what other guys wear. But for some reason, this caught my attention. And I began to ponder. I think some people just get tired of trying to keep up with the latest styles and fashions. They find a look they like, and they stick with it from here on out. Look at Cracker Barrell Guy, for instance. I'd say he deboarded the fashion bus sometime around 1985.

That's fine if that's who you want to be. No judgment here. After all, I watched Cheers, I liked Sam Malone. My question is, where do people who wear these out of style clothes keep finding them? Because they can't all be wearing clothes that are twenty years old. Somewhere, some store has to still be selling them. Which means some company has to still be manufacturing them. That's what confounds me about all of this.

Don't get the wrong idea. I make no claim to be on the leading edge of fashion myself. I'm closer to the trailing edge, actually. But I do try to keep up. I even got a compliment the other day from a female friend of a friend, who told my friend, "He knows how to dress."

Still, I say all this very humbly, as someone whose personal fashion evolution includes the Wrangler and cowboy boot phase of the early nineties. But I survived that and am able to laugh about it now. And by laugh, I mean shudder.

It was during my heavy country music listening days. Which is the main reason I totally missed out on the whole Nirvana/Pearl Jam/Metallica explosion. But that's another story for another post. I was all the time going to country concerts. Alabama, Garth, Reba, George Strait, Clint Black, Kenny Chesney, Tim McGraw, Brooks & Dunn, I saw them all.

I even had a black felt cowboy hat that I wore to a concert or two. Yes, I was that guy. Except I didn't know I was supposed to have the hat shaped. So I wound up looking more like Howdy Doody than Garth Brooks.

I wore boots. And Wranglers. Tight, slim fit Wranglers. As in, if I had a toothpick in my pocket, you'd be able to spot the outline of it from fifty feet away. And tell if it was single-ended or double-ended. I also wore briefs.

I'm not ashamed of my fashion past. But now, thankfully, I'm a different man. With a different body. And different jeans. And boxers. I still occasionally listen to country music. But I could never go back to Wranglers. Or briefs.

Once you get used to that free-wheeling, unfettered lifestyle, I don't think it's possible to go back. It'd be like driving a Tahoe for ten years, then trying to fit back into an Escort. Certain parts of my body hurt now just thinking about it.

Most everything I've learned about fashion has come from girls I was dating at the time, female friends, or occasionally my sister. After all, why do guys comb their hair, shave, or wear nice clothes? It's not to impress the other guys, I can assure you.

Several weeks ago, I purchased a corduroy blazer with vintage suede elbow pads. Much like the pink shirt, it is the type of purchase that could only have been made with female accompaniment and approval.

Danger arises, however, when I go thru a dating drought. Female friends can help a little. But the fact is, no one is going to be as vigilant as the girl who has to be seen in public with you and known as your girlfriend. One might theorize some guys who are "out of style" are simply still wearing the clothes they wore the last time they had a girlfriend.

I'm pretty good at putting outfits together. But sometimes, I'm not 100% sure what jacket to wear with a particular shirt, for example. Some mornings I literally spend a minute or two agonizing over my outfit for the day. Here's where I think an outfit flowchart for guys would come in handy. (Not to be confused with a Jump To Conclusions Mat.) Yes friends, my name is Bone, and I'm bringing flowcharts back.

Every guy could have a girl in his life go thru his clothes and design one for him. We could just plug in a particular shirt or sweater into the oval box, then follow a series of lines, diamonds, and parallelograms leading us to acceptable jacket and pant combinations.

Another question I sometimes struggle with is: When is it appropriate to tuck in shirts for guys?

Personally, with jeans, I never tuck. Polo shirts, t-shirts, button-up shirts, I leave them untucked. Even with a sport jacket. Normally with dress pants, I tuck. But what about with khakis? And is it ever appropriate to tuck with jeans?

These are the questions I have. These are the clothes that I wear.

And don't discount the outfit flowchart.

"What's the matter with the clothes I'm wearing? Can't you tell that your tie's too wide? Maybe I should buy some old tab collars. Welcome back to the age of jive..."