Waffle House Party

I love Waffle House, even if Waffle House doesn't love me. I’m usually the first to suggest the ubiquitous diner when I’m in a group trying to decide where to eat, and yet I don’t know how many times I’ve left feeling terrible. I can say I’m never going back, but literally the next day I will be face down in an All-Star Breakfast. I’m currently coming off of a three-night bender, and there’s a chance for a fourth. So what lures me inside those half-glass walls time after time? What siren song does Waffle House sing?

I have written about my love for greasy and loathsome restaurants before. Waffle House has taken this formula, perfectly mimicking the mom-and-pop dining experience, and mass produced it. Wherever you go in the South, there will be a Waffle House smiling at you with its musty, yellow, Scrabble-tile sign. Their business plan is to put a Waffle House on every corner until they run out of space, in which case they will start building Waffle Houses on top of Waffle Houses. 

Until they spring for the Waffle House Hotel, of course.

They are either purposefully cannibalizing their own sales, or the government has plans to convert Waffle Houses into an underground system of safe bunkers to be used as an escape route during a foreign invasion or zombie apocalypse. For instance, the Waffle House closest to my apartment is about 100 yards away from another Waffle House. If my time trials have been accurate, I could easily outrun a horde of zombies from one Waffle House to the next.

I like how Waffle House doesn’t take itself too seriously. The campy Americana on the walls and the Waffle House odes on the jukebox lend to a light atmosphere. I have always wanted to drop some coins into the jukebox and play some ridiculous Waffle House tune, but I have feared retribution from the staff in the form of a hot waffle iron to the face. I also like how you know what to expect from a Waffle House, because the employees and patrons have an unstated contract. The waiters and cooks all know that you’re there because nothing else is open, and the patrons all know that they’re in for a transient case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Everyone’s on the same page.

The food is actually delicious, too. I’ve tried almost everything on the menu, but I haven’t tried the steak. Actually, I’ve never seen anyone order the steak, despite their claims of being the nation’s leading provider. Big fat liars or not, they are the  King of Waffles, no matter what those even bigger, fatter liars Waffle King would have you believe. 

Waffle House is convenient, laid back, and tasty. But so are many other places. The key ingredient to Waffle House’s success, and Bert’s Chili, is consistency.

It's like cottage cheese suspended in half-congealed gelatin.

Whether it was celebrating high school football victories, or going after a dance and piling six YSA into a booth designed for no more than two people ordering toast, Waffle House has always been there. It is always open, and always around the corner. During the ice storm a few months back, Jen and I walked the half mile to Waffle House, because we knew it would be open. The city had shut down, so they must have sent evac choppers to their employees’ homes. And I'm grateful for that level of insane, dangerous dedication.

I’ve made many fond memories inside Waffle Houses, like the time I convinced Drew to order his hashbrowns “scattered, smothered, covered, and spanked” (the waitress obliged with a spatula tap), or the time Cam and I got into a bizarre conversation with a waitress’s awkward son who told me how lucky I was to be wearing his favorite color (green, for those who desperately want to know). But really, Waffle House has been the setting for many nights with my friends where we’ve just enjoyed each other’s company. It was a place to hang out after all the respectable establishments had closed and we didn't feel like going home and falling asleep.

So thanks, Waffle House! You're often full of belligerent drunks, but just know that there are some people who appreciate your tireless work. I look forward to many more nights spent chatting idly away into the wee hours, many more waffles, and many more regret-filled mornings.

Roll Tide! War Eagle! Go...Blazers?

Ah, autumn in Alabama. When the trees shed their summer skin for vibrant yellows and oranges, the sun dips behind the rolling hills earlier each day, and a young man's fancy - intense and misguided - turns to college football. But not just any college football. No sir. Alabama football. Possibly even Auburn football. But never, under any circumstances, UAB football. In fact, many of you reading this are just now finding out that UAB has a football team. Constantly living in the shadow of the two powerhouses around them, the UAB Blazers must feel like the Olsen Twins' third sister.

I am proud to count myself as a UAB Blazers fan, though. Not proud enough to poison rival campus' trees or get in a fight outside of a Waffle House, but proud nonetheless. I will readily concede, however, that UAB is terrible. Just awful. I would call UAB the Hindenburg of college football, but historians would be quick to point out that the Hindenburg is retroactively known as the UAB of dirigibles.

*Wha- what was that sound outside? Hmmm, nevermind.

Anyway, UAB is bad at football, but I go to games and cheer my face off. At least that's how I start off every season. Because every season is going to be the season. I actually made a $100 bet with a friend about five years ago that UAB would have a national championship within 50 years. It just so happens that my friend has since moved to Arizona and fallen out of touch. Is that because of the penetrating fear that he would have to pony up $100 dollars and have me laugh in his face soon, or is it because he got married to someone that lives in Arizona? You tell me, but I'm pretty sure his marriage is a sham. You better believe, though, that if UAB does win a championship I'm going to personally spend thousands of dollars to track him down and collect my hundred dollars. And if I lose, and he is looking for me, I'm changing my name to Friar O'Houlihan and joining a monkery (that is where monks live, right?).

Somewhere in the middle of every season, though, after an astonishing 19 losses over the last 6 games, I start rooting against the Blazers. Because goshdarnit, if they can't be the best at football they might as well be the best at losing. And if losing was winning, UAB would be Rocky Balboa. And in this confusing metaphor, every boxing match would start off with Rocky beating the living mess out of a Russian. Then the music would climax and the crowd would cheer, and just as the Russian is about to keel over, Rocky would take off his gloves and start giving shoulder massages. And then the Russian, feeling relaxed and refreshed, would launch his fist through Rocky’s teeth and into his brain stem.

You’ve done it Rocky! You’re the worst! U-A-B! U-A-B!

*Wait - did I just hear several doors slam outside? Probably just the neighbor kid acting up...and...uh, slamming his door. Eleven times. Oh well...

As I was saying, the Blazers are consistently ranked about 110 out of 120 teams, but the university administration seems very okay with that, even going as far as extending Coach Calloway's contract after four straight losing seasons. It's clear that the higher-ups at UAB care more about silly things like test scores and graduation rates, but when I go to parties I can't start talking about how the incoming freshmen ACT average rose 3% this year. I need to talk about how my alma mater's football team emasculated and pillaged someone else's alma mater's football team, because that’s how people socialize here, and I want to fit in.

I want UAB to succeed, and I think they have the potential to be a respected team. I really do. That's why it's so hard to be a Blazer fan, because they never quite live up to that potential. Not enough people get behind the program, because the program doesn't seem to take itself too seriously. I loved my time on campus as a Blazer, and a decent football program would be a good way to get people talking about UAB on a national level or within the state. But even if they have another losing season this year, and all signs are pointing to Callowayan levels of disaster, I’ll be in the stands. Alone and booing and mayb-

*What was that thud!? It almost sounded like cleats pounding on a flat surface, maybe against a wall, possibly a d- oh hey, visitors! Hopefully they know I was just joking around. Just blowing off steam. Nothing to get m- AAAHHYYYYEEEIII!!!!ig/rqw5’kn.df38

Out With the Old, In With the Blue

I am going to miss my ol’ Saturn. Not that there wasn’t a moment during its death throes that I didn’t seriously consider beating the Charles Dickens out of it with the baseball bat I kept in the trunk.

Like this, except instead of a flaming fist it’s a Louisville Slugger.

The only thing that kept me from doing it was the thought of being arrested for wailing on my own car on the side of the highway (the bat is generally used for impromptu baseball games and not for violence, if that makes me sound any less crazy). No, the Saturn had seen better days.

Over the years, the Saturn and I got into a few altercations with other cars (and one large dog, RIP “Puddles”), and it wasn’t exactly the nicest car to look at. All of the wrecks were on the left side, however, and the right side was as pristine as the day in 1999 that it rolled off the assembly line. This earned it the name Two-Face. The first question asked by anyone who ever rode in Two-Face was, “Geez, what happened to your car?” followed by, “Why do you have a severed pair of women’s legs glued to your dashboard?” and then, “O God! Am I going to end up in your crawlspace?”

“Don’t worry, her torso is in the floorboard.

…..Yes, that was supposed to be reassuring.”

The severed legs actually belong to Pikalukahine, my Hawaiian princess/hula girl that melted in the sun. She was part of the Saturn’s charm. As I was cleaning the car out, I noticed how many of the other accessories were old and dated – my McCain/Palin 08 sticker, my UAB graduate tassle, a wall decoration from my days at Gap. It was time for something new. Still, I almost felt callous as I abandoned it in the dealer’s lot and drove away in my 07 Chevy Aveo.

Saying goodbye to Two-Face made me reminisce about all the cars I previously drove or grew up with. My first car, a ’92 Ford Probe, actually had many names, one of which may or may not have been a juvenile acknowledgment that I drove a Probe. I more fondly remember it as The Last Resort, so named because my friends would rather have ridden in a Gremlin without brakes that was currently on fire and heading towards a mine field. I loved that car, though. It was my first freedom and was just big enough to carry my drum set to gigs. The Probe was eventually stolen after I broke down on the interstate. My father picked me up, and when we came back for it two days later it was gone. This means that a crafty thief either spent thousands of dollars rebuilding the engine, or they got a wrecker and towed it to a scrapyard where hobos, to this day, refuse to sleep in it. Either way, I’d like to think The Last Resort lives on.

After my Probe was gone, I drove my father’s dark green Dodge Caravan. My friends and I called it The Rapist, because it was the type of car you’d see listed on overhead Amber Alerts. I drove The Rapist until it, too, met an untimely demise on the side of the interstate. My father owned an Oldsmobile while I was in high school, and I called it The Crapper, which is a cleaned up version of its actual nickname among my friends. While it wasn’t very cool to drive, I liked it because it was good for “getting wheels”. Before I could drive I remember getting chauffeured around in my brother Aaron’s Poop Log, which was an ’89 Cavalier the color of digested prunes. Aaron would go on to eventually drive a ’95 Dodge Spirit named The Grandma-bile. He was not fond of these nicknames, but I assured him that they were hilarious.

So now I have a car that runs properly and has no hideous cosmetic flaws. It still needs a silly nickname, however. My first thought was “Chevy Chase”, but then realized that was unimaginative. I've been playing on the fact that it’s blue. Blutooth? Bluto? Blu Cantrell? I’m sure something will catch on. In the meantime, here’s to at least 66 financed months of good times together.

Goodbye, Two-Face.

 Hello…..Picasso’s Blue Period? I need help here, people.

Google(com)plex

I'm trying to avoid getting a Google+ account. For those that don't know, Google+ is Google's attempt to steal the social networking limelight from Facebook. The only problem is that Google is about 7 years too late to the party. I feel like signing up for a Google+ account is like casting a vote for John Kerry. But, in the event that Google+ gains traction, I am proactively campaigning for the re-election of Facebook. And here's why:

1) I already have 7 years built on Facebook and I don't feel like starting over. 

I've spent many years online updating my status with nuggets of wisdom and fingers of observation. I've added hundreds of photos of myself with friends and at memorable events. I don't want to have to start building a community at another website when my current community is so extensive. This has happened before. Remember Myspace? Of course not, no one does. But writings have been discovered that suggest Myspace was once a thriving social networking community that was mysteriously abandoned during a harsh winter.

All that was left was a cryptic tree carving.

I don't want Facebook to vanquish into the forgotten sectors of the internet like Myspace and that stupid dancing baby. How cool would it be to still have a bustling Facebook community in 50 years? You’ll have digital photo albums to show your grandkids, and an almost comprehensive list of all the people you’ve befriended throughout your life.

The only way I’d willingly migrate to Google+ is if they made switching convenient and easy. There needs to be a button that you click that automatically switches all your pictures over to their servers and catalogs your status updates and notes. This is the same reason I have not switched banks. I hate Wells Fargo. Many people don’t know this, but the company was started by Damien Wells, a Texas oil baron that was responsible for the Great Puppy Farm Oil Spill of 1837, and Lucifer Fargo, the man that bankrupted several orphanages through a sinister Ponzi scheme. Or at least that’s the rumor that I am actively spreading on the internet. I’m still with them because the only thing I hate more than Wells Fargo is switching banks. I also hate switching social networks, I guess is what I’m saying.

2) Whatever Google+ does better, Facebook will eventually copy

Any competitive advantage Google+ has, Facebook will knock off soon thereafter. Facebook is used to being the social networking innovator with the company motto of "If it ain't broke, smash it with a hammer," but I don’t think they’ll be above copying someone else.

Just ask these guys.

Right now the buzz on Google+ is the Circles feature. It allows the user to compartmentalize their friends so that they can send information pertinent to only certain groups, like Dilbert comics to co-workers, greetings to old classmates, and drunken, pathetic ramblings to ex-girlfriends. I give Facebook until the end of the year until they announce a similar re-design. And when I'm right, you can come back to this blog post and comment on how totally prophetic I am. And if I’m wrong, you can come back to this blog post and notice that I have removed this paragraph.

I love new gadgets and new technology and new internet platforms, but there are diminishing returns. Just as I don’t want to have to re-buy my movie collection in Blu-ray because people want to be able to see the moles on actors’ faces, I don’t want to start fresh on a new social network because I don’t see the gains outweighing my previous investment. So let’s all take a deep breath, think for a moment, and re-elect Facebook as Supreme Despot of Social Networks and Time Wasting.

Get ER: Season One on Blu-ray now.