Brown Out

The two of us don't often have an evening out, so when we do, you know it has to be something special.

"Hold my coffee"

In the case of Wednesday night, it was Alton Brown who lured the Ginleys out of their cave.

The event was called "Alton Brown Live: The Last Bite." We sucked it up, plunked down a wad of cash, and planned our big night out. 

The first roadblock came up when we tried to get a parking pass. We found out too late that the parking garage was sold out for the evening. 

The second roadblock came in the form of a Cavs playoff game, which was going on at the same time as our show and would no doubt push parking prices through the roof. 

Given that neither one of us are adventurous when it comes to driving downtown (let alone trolling for parking), we began to stress a bit. Sure, we could take the rapid downtown, but that would mean schlepping back to Public Square afterward at 10:00 at night along with whatever Cavs fans were also hitting the happy trail.

What's a codger to do?

Well, this codger pulled out her computer and emailed her favorite livery service (aka Axel Hoyer) and arranged for a ride home.

So that was settled.

Fortunately, the weather cooperated. It was a lovely evening as Mr. and I headed downtown. We were lucky because there were no issues with the Rapid, and we made it downtown in good time. From there, we headed out of the Terminal Tower, reminiscing about all the stores that used to be there. (Remember the Warner Brothers gift store? Brooks Brothers? The record store?)

As we strolled down Euclid Avenue, we recalled the other stores and fast food joints that are mere ghosts in our memories. Peterson's Nuts on the square. Remember that smell? It was a little bit of heaven, and damn near impossible to pass by without nabbing a quarter pound of cashews. 

We had decided ahead of time to nosh at Heinen's, so we walked to 9th Street and went in to see what good eats we could find. (Alton Brown fans will appreciate this reference.) I'd heard there was a Michell's Ice Cream shop inside, so I was all set. Mr. Ginley found a pasta salad, a bag of chips, and an orange soda. We sat and ate our goodies and people watched. 

Who knew so many people in the CLE were wine connisseurs? A lot of the grape was sold that night.

As showtime neared, we headed over to the State Theatre (aka the "KeyBank State Theatre").  I guess everything is for sale these days.

I decided to grab a coffee, and we headed upstairs where we stood for half an hour waiting for our semi-nosebleed seats to become available.

They turned out to be quite good seats, all things considered. We both had a clear view of the stage, and Alton Brown did not disappoint. I wish my brother, Paul, could have been there. Alton did an entire schtick on Cap'n Crunch Cereal, choosing the proper bowl size, and milk. (Also, there was a funny bit about buttermilk.) He talked about watching Saturday morning cartoons, which those of us of a certain age could totally relate to.

There were other entertaining skits, an intermission, and the finale, which featured Barnabas Brown's Weiner Wonder Machine. Team Cleveland just squeezed into the 10th spot. (You had to be there.) 

All in all, a good time was had. And when we exited the theatre, there was our ride. 

"Wow, people are going to think we're somebodys," quipped Mr. Ginley. 

Not likely. Still, we did feel quite special being picked up at the door. In no time at all, we were winging our way homeward, chatting pleasantly with Mr. Hoyer about grandchildren and such, and we arrived back at the Casa de Ginley weary but happy.

We may not be spring chickens anymore, but it was fun flying the coop if only for one night.

Eggs-treme Nostalgia

I wish I could hop into the wayback machine and travel to my childhood.

This would be the day when my siblings and I decorated Easter eggs.

My Mom would present us with pristine white hard boiled eggs, ready for the dunking. She'd divvy them up to provide eggs-actly the same number to each child. (That's how we rolled in the Schrimpf house.)

One of the elder sibs (most likely Diane) would pour the boiling water into bowls along with vinegar and the fizzy color tablet.

We'd each pick out a metal dipper, which we'd bend into shape.

If we were so inclined, we'd use the waxy crayon to write a clever or possibly profane message on the egg before dunking it into the colorful liquid. 

You could dip the egg halfway in for a dual-color presentation or go all-in for one overall solid color. The more patient you were, the darker the shade. 

Once the eggs were colored and dry, you could add stickers or rub-on transfers.

The best part was critiquing each other's eggs. Someone (Paul) invariable went for the ugliest egg, which was achieved by dunking the egg in multiple colors that didn't blend well. The result would be something resembling baby shitz. 

After the eggs dried and we'd all lost interest, Mom would put the eggs in the carton and store them in the refrigerator until the Easter Bunny hid them later that evening. In those days, there were no worries about eggs going bad. Unless one wasn't discovered and the EB forgot where it was hidden. Then we'd all chime in with, "Well, if we don't find it, the smell will give it away in a few days." 

But it never came to that. 

These days, Easter for the Ginleys is just a day when many of the stores are closed. No decorated eggs, no Easter bonnets, no big Easter dinner.

But now that I've taken that stroll down memory lane, I don't mind. A nice, quiet day at home and maybe a walk in the park actually sounds kind of nice.

As an added bonus, we won't be eating hard boiled eggs every day for the next week.

The tradition carried over to the next generation.
(My niece, Melissa, is sitting on her mom's lap.)

A Thrifting We Will Go

I know you've been biting your nails, wondering what I did on my day off. 

Never mind that you didn't know I had the day off. Work with me here.

We were doing our bit to save the planet. In other words, we were thrifting.

If you've never experienced the serendipity, the pure wonder, and the "what-the-hell-is-this?" of the thrifting experience, I can't recommend it highly enough.

Today's finds included two pairs of sweat pants, a fancy jacket for me (tags still attached, kaching!), some books, three jigsaw puzzles, and a few CDs. We hit Savers, Half-Price Books, The Exchange, and Value World.

Of course, the hunt is the best part, and there were some finds we left behind. The Value City glass brought back memories of Mr. Trusken and my brother, Paul. It was nifty, but I knew it would sit in my cupboard with all the other cool dishes I never use. 

I enjoyed trying on the hats. Mr. and I had just had a discussion earlier about our Dads and how their hats were an integral part of their work attire. 

Thrifting also gives you the opportunity to play "name that article." There were old telephones, 8-track tapes, and coffee cups from now-defunct restaurants and such. On a former trip, I discovered a box of piano rolls. The kind for old player pianos. 

Of course, there's no accounting for the odd folks you encounter in such establishments. But that just comes with the territory. It's best to just let them be. Avoid eye contact, and under no circumstances should you take them home. 

Unless you're the one who brought them.

Going Down in Flames

"Let's have a Viking funeral," suggested Mr. Ginley the other day.

Frank Bernard Dicksee, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

"Yes, the news is a shitshow, but I'm not sure I want to check out just yet," I replied. "And besides, how would we off ourselves, where would we get a boat and who would shoot the flaming arrow?"

We discussed the possibilities at length. 

"You could smother me, then take a bunch of sleeping pills," Mr. helpfully suggested. "But, of course, we'd make sure the cat had plenty to eat. And maybe we could send a postcard to someone telling them to check in on us. The way the postal system is these days, it'll take a week or two for it to get there. By that time, it will be a done deal."

I pondered this. "Well, that could work. All I've gotta say is, if for some reason I did pull through, I'd be charged with murder, and I don't want to eat bologna sandwiches for the rest of my life."

"Look at it this way," he replied. "At least you wouldn't have to worry about where your next meal was coming from. And you don't make it outdoors much these days, anyhow."

Hmm. True enough. But that still left the question of the logistics. As to the boat, it needn't be anything fancy. A leaky rowboat would do. It wouldn't need to stay afloat all that long. But the person shooting the flaming arrow, that's another kettle of fish altogether.

He suggested a few possibilities, but I pointed out the obvious: none of them had likely ever even picked up a bow and arrow. I imagine there's an archer out there somewhere who would be willing to do it if you paid them enough, but how would one go about finding them? And could you trust them to keep quiet and follow through when the time came?

There are also the legalities to consider. We could get around some of these by being cremated ahead of time. That would solve for the law against burning a body in public. But we'd still have to find a private pond to do the deed because most public places prohibit folks from setting boats alight on the water.

As is my wont, I googled Viking funerals, and it seems we aren't the only ones who find the idea appealing. Unfortunately, the blogs I read were less than helpful. They were full of suggestions on how to have a Viking-esque funeral. Also, they pointed out that the whole concept wasn't accurate, and that Vikings didn't send off their warriors in a blaze of glory.

Just go ahead an burst my bubble, why don't you.

When the time comes, I imagine we'll employ our runner-up choice of disposing of our earthly remains: toasted and tossed.

In the meantime, we'll dream of moving to a more enlightened country where they value things like education and affordable healthcare and kindness.

P.S. If any of my readers are archers and you'd like to make a little extra scratch, let me know.