“Most gentlemen callers don’t even make it to the bedroom. One bolted when Ms. Ruttenberg, who has a total of 160 animals on her sprawling mountainside property, let a baby goat into the living room after Trixie, the pig, had already joined the visit.”

Cold Nights, Warm Noses (New York Times: Feb. 16, 2011)

A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
“Pardon the egg salad stains, but I’m in love.”

– Billy Collins “Marginalia“

The New York Times had a great story recently about those who scribble in the margins of books. I hear a chorus of librarians groaning and lamenting the sanctity of bound material – but wait! You see, the idea of virginal pages is a new concept that came to power in the 20th century. Mark Twain, Charles Darwin and Studs Terkel all were proponents of the dirty deed.

There’s a fear among scholars that these valuable historical insights might be less preserved with the rise of e-books. But forget doodles; handwriting itself seems to be in grave danger. I can’t remember how to make a cursive Q.

My books are clean, I swear, but I’m tempted to rough them up a bit.

“On our first date, I was like, ‘Hey, why’d you stop being a vegan?’ And she was like, ‘What kind of guy’s going to date a vegan?’ And I was like, ‘You’re awesome.’ ”

-Jon Shook, an owner of Animal, the meat- and fat-centric restaurant in Los Angeles (full story)

I visit the dining car at 8 p.m., last call. For those unfamiliar with train etiquette, strangers are grouped with strangers in an effort to conserve space. Four to a booth, plastic dishes and a faux flower at the window. It’s a close enough approximation of glamor travel. Cary Grant may beg to differ.

My partners this evening are a woman a bit older than my mom and a man I will dub “Augustus.” The woman is pleasant, conversational and fun. And the man is… fat.

Our waiter brings menus and immediately we are doomed: “16 fucking dollars?!” bellows Augustus. He pulls out a spicy chicken wing he brought with him and loads it into his mouth-opening. It’s clever sleight of hand trick, and I’m desperately glancing around the dining car looking for sympathy. A sea of tables, each full of engaging and intelligent, sane train lovers.

We order dinner, veggie pasta for the woman and I, BBQ brisket for Mr. Augustus, and I quickly add a Heineken as antidote. Salads arrive, and I watch globs of dressing fly out of his mouth and onto his tattered, stretched polo shirt. His fork skillfully scrapes his shirt clean and pushes the wayward food back into his gullet.

Our main courses arrive; we begin the small-talk tango.

Me: “Have you heard of Lousie’s in Lawrence, Kan.? The place is famous for the giant “schooners” of beer.”

Lady: “Yes! Believe it or not, I’d go there regularly in the 60’s when I was a student at KU.”

Augustus: “Piece of shit phone!” He slams it into the table. “I should have known that {randomcellprovider} is fucking horrible!”

Us: Silence. Eat food, drink alcohol. Quickly.

Augustus: “I’m going to Concordia, Kan. That Greyhound bus better be there, because I’m meeting a girl from the Internet.”

There’s nothing to say, but eyebrows are arched.

This continues repeatedly: normal conversation peppered with nonsensical outbursts, laced with profanity. He attempts to join a conversation on hot peppers, but derails it with racist remarks on Mexicans.

We discuss the awful state of air travel and delays, and he regales us with a quick story about how he was in prison for about 8 months (or maybe 48, for the details were quickly expunged) and then he apparently senses our terror and adds a little more detail: “You know, I used to have a temper problem.” The older woman orders another drink and I turn my attention to the sherbet sunset outside our window. Darkness follows.

Augustus continues.

“You know those little darts that go in a gun to shoot at dart boards? One time, my friend and I tied this guy up head to toe against a tree and shot about 200 of them into his face. He hadn’t been good to a lady and her kid, so we made him promise to never do that again. I’m sure it hurt a little, because he had little blood marks all over his face. But we didn’t kill him, at least!”

Check, please.

I found myself spending literally a half an hour, 30 minutes, in the cereal aisle of the supermarket, trying to choose between boxes of Cheerios. That’s when I realized I had a problem.

– Jonah Lehrer, on the pathologies of decision making

When I saw this quote in an NPR story, I nearly fell off my chair. THIS IS ME! Maybe not with cereal, but with similarly frivolous decisions.

This very nature, no matter how poisonous it may be, has saved me from going into massive debt. Any purchase must be painstakingly researched, often to the point that an entire afternoon has disappeared and I’ve chased my tail over and over around the decision. This very MacBook Air laptop I’m typing on was a product of my dysfunctional study.

There are two pairs of hiking boots in front of me. It’s 8:45 p.m. and the store is closing in 15 minutes. I’m setting out at sunrise with some buddies to Starved Rock State Park, and temperatures are expected to be around ZERO degrees. There’s a good bit of snow on the ground, and it’s time I became an adult with proper footwear.

Only 40 bucks stand between the two boots. A salesman was no help, offering up several pairs of camouflaged, knee-high boots for my quick rejection. Not only a crime against fashion, but equally a crime against safety – mobile ankles are key when hiking.

Time is running out. Both seem serviceable, but only one has the magic word: Gortex. A closing announcement goes out over the store’s P.A. system. I call a life-line, someone more knowledgable. I even try a quick dip into Google with little result.

D-Day.

I chose the boots less traveled – err, less expensive. I drive home, open the box, and immediately regret my cheap ass.

THIS HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.

Yes, it’s back by popular demand! It’s time for you to pick a new set of specs for the first time in nearly three years. I have a favorite, obviously, but I want validation that my impeccable taste is indeed still impeccable.

Now I know that these glasses are all awfully similar. They certainly cross the line into hipsterdom, but it’s a bullet I’m willing to take. I won’t fool anyone one way or another, so let’s just pick something different than my current pair. Unless you pick Option Six (The Unknown). It’s a risky choice, my friend, and I’m going to need some solid documentation for eschewing the listed five.

So let the great experiment begin! Phone lines are open now. Not valid for ofadam.com fans in the U.S. Virgin Islands or the microstate of Liechtenstein. For some strange reason.