Ford Fiesta

Rob Ford is in trouble again.  I kept my eyes peeled for the embattled mayor of Toronto during my visit to the city in March.  Not only did I not see the portly politician, I spotted shockingly few fat folks.  (Except, of course, when I was confronted with my own reflection.)  Even during my visits to nightclubs, I didn't encounter a single overly intoxicated Canadian.  Ford seems to be a outlier in the sober and the healthy city.

Go Quietly

I was disappointed but not surprised to find that the doors were locked at the 9th Inning Sports Bar & Grill as I sought nourishment during a set break at the Blue Room on Monday.  The signs in the windows promoting Monday Night Football beer specials seemed to mock me.  This report confirms the closure of the establishment directly underneath the neon 18th & Vine sign.  I patronized the place a few times.  The miniature sports museum was cool and the staff was friendly.  But the food looked and tasted as if it came straight off as Sysco delivery truck.  And the young waitresses, while really sweet, were woefully inexperienced.  The jazz district's ongoing power outage saddens me.

GIve Me Cornbread

 Macaroni and cheese may have saved my life last week. In the midst of one of the most difficult days I've endured, I stopped for lunch at Sweet T's restaurant in Olathe.  The place doesn't look like much, but the $8 all-you-can-eat buffet included a delicious helping of restorative mac-and-cheese.  The brisket, greens and fried fish were very good as well.  The gregarious host asked me to "like" his establishment on Facebook.  I told him I'd comply, but I refuse to "like" his failed attempt at social media.  I'm reviving this dormant site to suggest that an enterprising geek could almost certainly work out a rewarding trade with Sweet T's.

Old School

Hey, let's buy a school.  I was recently stumbling around midtown in a cough syrup-induced haze when I was suddenly struck by the beauty of the shuttered Westport Middle School.  It's gorgeous.  I don't expect the real estate agent to respond to my inquiry about the price.  Not knowing the related issues or the specifics of the seven-figure price tag allows me to dream.  Just think of the possibilities.

Hack

I was thrilled when a severe pain in my right foot roused me this morning.  You see, it was the first time in weeks that an ailment other than a constant cough didn't consume my first waking moments.  The flu has had me down and out for much of the new year.  I'll be the first in line to get the flu shot next fall. 

For a Good Time

I have an unexpected confession to make.  I've never- not even once- written on a bathroom wall.  While I always read the notes left by vandals, salesmen and pimps, I've never had the impulse to contribute to the graffiti.  Some people might suggest that it's related to my compulsive hand washing.  I think it's because I grew up knowing that someone was going to have to pick things up- and it was probably going to be me.

The Eternal Mrs. Bridge

Evan Connell died Thursday.  The stifled protagonist depicted in Connell's incisive 1958 novel Mrs. Bridge lives on.  Mrs. Bridge glares at my unkempt hair as I shop for groceries.  She sneers at my rustbucket from her hermetically sealed Lincoln.  After church, Mrs. Bridge asks me if I left my tie in the car.  The worst part?   Mrs. Bridge's disapproval actually stings me.

Perishable

A Japanese tourist once accompanied me on an ordinary shopping trip to a grocery store on Wornall Road.  He was astounded by the aisles of abundance.  His reaction reminded me that the multitude of processed food to we've become accustomed shouldn't be taken for granted.  Even so, I was taken aback by the empty bins and limited selection of perishable goods at the Hy-Vee between Lamar and Metcalf on 91st Street during the store's final day of business last Saturday.  The friendly service, inexpensive meats and solid selection of ethnic foods had made the location my preferred grocery store.  I'm going to miss it.

Thanks For Playing

A friend recently treated each of his dining companions to a lottery ticket.  Most of my buddies immediately scratched their cards.  I knew better.  Sure enough, I was momentarily overcome with sadness and disappointment when I processed my ticket the next day.  I'm a horrendously sore loser.  The bitter sensation lasted less than five seconds, but it was enough to remind me of why I avoid gambling at all costs.

Kansas City Skinny, Part 7

So salty!  I was shocked by the taste of the McDonald's french fries I shoved into my mouth last Saturday night.  I'd last indulged in fast food over twenty pounds ago.  Abstaining from junk food and alcohol for over two months was a drag.  I'm still Kansas City skinny but at least I'm safely out of the supersize range.  The physical transition, while relatively slight, has humbled me.  People of size are my people.