Restaurant review from Old Man Green.

I despise whiny people. And I believe strongly that one of the biggest problems in our society is that most people start their sentences with “I think” and assume anyone actually cares. That said, I’m putting all that aside to make a big, bold “I think” statement:

I THINK bad service sucks.

Indeed, Cristi and I decided to deviate from our constant state of financial fear and go to a restaurant for dinner and drinks. I met her after work—which put us in Lakeview. With numerous dining options, we decided to fully recognize the occasion and go somewhere with a nice atmosphere. So we skipped the delicious, cheap burritos that can be found in abundance on the corner of Sheridan and Irving Park and took a seat at Fornello Trattoria.

Having had great experiences at the restaurant two or three times before, I was fairly confident that we’d made a wise choice. The pizza oven was burning, the light was low and surprisingly the place wasn’t that busy for a Saturday night.

And then our evening of waiting began.

First we waited about 10 minutes for anyone to take a drink order. Cristi started looking around the room with a curious expression.

Once we put in our order for drinks and appetizers, our waiter completely disappeared. We watched as another waiter left the room with our calamari only to return a few seconds later to ask, “Is this yours?” Cristi began to frown.

With calamari on the table we began to wonder when we were going to get our drinks. It had been about twenty minutes and we were still drinking water. Another waiter passed, “How is everything?” he inquired. I asked if we could get a couple of beers. Finally, after a few more minutes, the guy who was busing tables arrived with a Moretti and a Peroni. Cristi took a sip and stopped talking.

After about ten very silent minutes, our waiter reappeared with a pizza and a bunch of excuses. “It’s cool,” we reassured him, but it really wasn’t. Cristi smiled as the Red Line train above us rumbled by. Clearly, she was ready to go home.

We had to beg for our bill. We caught a glimpse of “the waiter” in the door of the kitchen. “We’re all set,” I said, with my hand in the air. “We’ll take the check, please.” Crist was putting on her coat and gathering her things.

I left a $3 tip on a $36 tab and today I feel guilty. I started wondering about the guy. His family. His education. Whether or not he might have kids to feed. But, above all, bad service creates an uncomfortable situation. I would’ve rather been at home eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the couch, than sitting at a restaurant waiting for some guy to bring me a pizza.

In the end, I THINK we’ll choose another restaurant next time we decide to splurge and dine out.

Lost in the land of dress up.

As I sifted through my closet at 5:45 this morning it became blatantly clear that I am severely lacking in corporate business attire. After pulling a couple of wrinkled Gap button down shirts from the rack I nearly broke down. It wasn’t just that my options were so limited—it’s that I have no idea where to start to change the situation.

First off and most problematic, is the fact that I am 5 feet tall and 120 pounds. The only clothes made to fit someone my size are usually found in the Boy’s Section of JC Penny. There are Big & Tall stores all over the country, but has anyone ever seen a Short and Scrawny store for guys like me?

The other issue is financial. As many of you know, since the big condo purchase, we’re painfully broke. Every month it’s the same—we pay the mortgage and then we stop by the grocery store for a loaf of bread and a can of beans. This leaves us with about 50¢ worth of “disposable income.”

So what’s a guy with dress up needs to do? Does anyone know of any short, rich guys who would like to take me on as a charity case? Or maybe this is the perfect set up for a new reality show? I can already hear the promotional voice over:

“He was short, funny looking and unfashionable—until we got a hold of him. Now, he’s sexier than George Clooney and Brad Pitt wrestling on the beach. Make sure to tune in tonight at 9 for Recreating Curtis. Only on FOX.”

I’m open to ideas, my friends. In the meantime, I’m off to iron one of the wrinkled shirts I mentioned earlier.

Top of mind.

It’s a gloomy Monday morning and I have so many thoughts racing through my head. Specifically:

> Optional third row seating
> How the mini-van evolved into the SUV
> Zombie movies and how the word needs more of them
> The beauty of pumpkins and the joy of carving them
> Various remodeling projects and whether I can teach myself how to wire things
> Death or injury as a result of trying to teach myself how to wire things
> The many products we use on a daily basis and their containers
> Landfills full of containers
> How annoying it is to read someone’s stream of consciousness thinking
> Getting to work before the boss

Oh. Man, that last one really wrecked everything. I suppose I’d better go. Welcome to a new week everyone. Please check back soon as I fully intend to elaborate on the finer points of third row seating just as soon as I have the time.

Mr. Green sky.

The thunderstorm might be one of my favorite parts of living in the Midwest. Watching the sun disappear in the middle of the day behind ominous cloud cover. The huge gusts of wind and the mysterious calm that follows. The warning signals from organizations with really long names that always include the word “preparedness.”

Right now, as I pluck away at this keyboard, the sky is turning green and thunder is rumbling in the distance. The weathermen predicted this one yesterday. Judging by the deserted sidewalk and quiet street, it seems many have already taken cover.

The proverbial “calm before the storm” always strikes me as a good time to be with a spouse or significant other—preferably with a couple of alcoholic beverages and the mutual desire to make out. But if you find yourself watching the storm roll in without a mate, as I do at the moment, resort to Plan B: Make a pot of coffee and write a bit. Haiku, blog or letter of resignation, bad weather is the perfect opportunity to clearly express those thoughts that might otherwise come out chunky and convoluted.

See for yourself next time the little tornado icon shows up on the corner of your TV screen. I’m fairly certain that Mother Nature’s wrath will lead you down the righteous path of artistic expression—or at least inspire you to create a Crayola drawing worthy of hanging on your refrigerator for a couple of days.

Leon and his tomatoes.

Leon Swilley is a relative of mine who resides in Toronto, Kansas. He’s also one of the toughest old dudes I’ve ever met. He rebuilds houses, fixes tractors and hunts wild critters. Did I mention that he’s 85?

So next time you’re complaining that Starbucks didn’t put enough hazelnut flavoring in your Grande skim milk latte, remember this guy.

We know your gluttonous ways.

OK, OK, so I realize I work in advertising. And I’m sensitive the fact that some might think it’s one of the most evil industries in the United States. But after nearly five years of trying to sell people everything from pet food to auto insurance, I’m comfortable with my chosen profession—evil or not.

But I’ve always been a little nervous about the grocery store club cards. Sure, they’re the easy and convenient way to save ten cents on mayonnaise every once in a while, but they also serve as a direct link between you and your friendly neighborhood mega-market. Keeping track of who you are, where you live and what you buy, these nifty little cards help a bunch of people, like me, figure out exactly what makes you tick and how often you have to replenish your supply.

They also seem to determine what kind of coupon you get with your receipt. If you buy a lot of ice cream, you’ll receive a “Save $1 on Blue Bunny” voucher. If you buy a lot of condoms, you’ll receive a “Save 49¢ on a pregnancy kit” voucher. And if you’re like me, you’ll get the old “Save $3 when you buy any 12 pack bottles or larger Miller Lite, MGD or MGD Light AND any hamburgers, steak, pork, chicken or fish from the meat or deli department” voucher.

Of course, I’m going to save this coupon and probably redeem it as soon as I get home from work tonight, but not without wondering how the Dominick’s food store down the street got to know me so well . . .

A few thoughts on holy matrimony.

Cristi and I just returned from my little brother’s wedding. And somewhere between the Jager shots at the rehearsal dinner and standing in the keg line at the reception, I realized how much I like being married. This is a little ironic considering the fact that neither one of us was ever interested in entering the institution of marriage. At all.

Indeed, the whole thing was the work of my Grandma and Grandpa in association with my mom. Obviously they recognized something in our relationship that we didn’t. I’m not suggesting that you rush out and get hitched. Actually, I’d stay as far away from making a lifelong commitment to another person as you can. That is, at least until a couple of really smart people tell you otherwise.

Respect your elders—and make sure you show up if they send you an invitation to your own wedding.

Easy listening here I come.

First, let me declare once and for all that I have no knowledge or training that should lend any credibility to my opinion about anything—especially music. But after purchasing ‘New Seasons’, the new release from Canadian surf/country/rockabilly/psycedelic band The Sadies, I’m feeling a wave a musical disappointment that makes me want to unplug my record player, carry it to the divey bar around the corner, drink whiskey shots and cry.

Don’t get me wrong, the album isn’t bad, I just think it lacks the raw energy and grimy down-home goodness of their previous releases. And don’t even get me started about The Gourds latest ‘Noble Creatures’. Yet another band I’ve listened to and loved for years whose recent work has left me sitting next to the stereo wondering where the glory days have gone.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s probably not the music at all. It’s me. I worry about paying the mortgage—not hearing a good mandolin. I fret over to tone of my emails rather than the tone of what’s coming out of my speakers. Basically, I just don’t rock any more.

What I’m saying is don’t be disappointed when you see me standing in line at a Best Buy in the suburbs with a Yanni CD in my hands. It’s just the natural progression of things.

The mighty power of barbecue.

Certainly this post will come as no surprise to those who know me well. But I woke up this morning with red sauce under my fingernails and the smell of apple wood still lingering in the air and I was overcome with emotion.

It all started when the Condo Association proposed a “Summer Party.” The official invitation went out and it seemed the gathering was going to be more or less an event focused on drinking and snacks. But the little bit of Kansas I still have left bubbled to the surface.

“What if I could treat all these nice people to some smoked food,” I thought.

And for once in my life, a spur of the moment inclination was the perfect move. Not only did I have the opportunity to introduce people to the concept of smoking meats right in our own backyard, but I had a chance to serve some of the best food I’ve ever made to an extremely appreciative audience.

And with a pork shoulder and a beef brisket as my guide, I feel I’ve reclaimed some of my sanity. Crazy or not, I needed some time with a couple of large cuts of meat, some aluminum foil and a 10-pound bag of Kingsford. Maybe it doesn’t matter if the buildings are tall, finding a parking place on the street is impossible and the crime rate is at all time high—the most important thing is that mankind still has the desire to gather around a big delicious critter and share their stories, their thoughts and their time.