I found some more menus from the Super Chief train and this time I’ve got one with breakfast, lunch and dinner. So, looking over the breakfast menu, I see it’s pretty similar to the one I wrote about a few days ago. Though, there are figs in cream on this bill of fare. Don’t see much call for that anymore. Understandably.

Lunch is also pretty interesting. It’s listed as luncheon, which is a pretty fancy way of referring to what many in this country now call ‘a swing through the drive-thru’. Not as fancy as calling it the midday repast, or noshes at noonish, which I think would make an awesome title for a cookbook, though others disagree. In my opinion, I also think we should refer to lunch as tiffin, but efforts to get this meme off the ground have floundered. Visionaries often have a difficult time.

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On our magical mystery tour to jolly old England, we’ve decided this time rather than using those new-fangled jet aircraft to fly over, we’re going do this totally old-school. We’re going to take the train to New York, just like they used to back in the Thirties and Forties. Except, instead of passing the time watching the scenery, drinking dawn to dusk, and smoking three packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day, we’ll have iPads, laptops, and smartphones to distract us. Possibly not as romantic, but definitely easier on the liver and lungs.

Sure, it’ll take us three days to get to New York, rather than four hours by jet. But we won’t have to take our shoes off, unless we want to, and no one is going to irradiate us or pat down our junk. And really, how effective is swiping the back of your hand across your crotch in determining whether someone is smuggling exotic animals in their pants? If I want to carry a pack of lemurs across country in my trousers, on the train it’ll be nobody’s business but my own, and the emergency room doctor that treats me for rabies.

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Plans continue to progress with the whole living in London for a while idea. We are now only weeks away. So along with picking up conversational British a la P.G. Wodehouse, I felt I also need to become a little more conversant with British words and phrases.

Looking over a list of British English terms and comparing them to equivalent American English expressions (in various parts of this country, also known as Real Amurriccan), I see only a few areas where there may be issues.

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Ok, I’m going to promote a new law, and I do this very reluctantly, as I don’t like promulgating regulations as a rule. Instead of new laws, I’d much rather politicians spend their time rolling back old laws, lots of them. You let them sit around in Congress and state legislatures, and they have all this time on their hands, that is when they’re not chasing interns, or devouring forty ounce porterhouses paid for by lobbyists. So they come up with new rules and regulations all the time, even though when we elected them, we all kind of wish that they’d just keep a low profile and attempt, mostly vainly not to screw anything up. And once in a while when there’s a national or state emergency, they’d jump all over it and organize relief efforts or authorize reconstruction fund, or at the very least establish protection of some habitat for a cute but endangered mammal. But no, they keep coming up with more laws all the time, and they hardly ever think to get rid of the old ones that don’t apply anymore.

For instance, apparently in Colorado it is illegal to loan your vacuum cleaner to someone else, or at least it is in Denver. Here in Colorado Springs it’s legal to carry a holstered six-gun, except on Sundays and holidays. I guess, on Sunday you’ll just have to carry a seven-gun, with your go-to-meeting clothes. Also in Denver, and I can’t even imagine why they had a law like this in the first place, but you cannot drive a black car on Sundays. Man, they have a lot of things you can’t do on Sundays in this state.

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Sometimes, when I’m standing in a line at the grocery store, the person next in line will turn around and look at me and ask, “Why are you in the ten-items-or-less line when you have enough groceries to feed a boy scout troop for several months?”

And I’ll answer, “Because I’m a stranger here, and do not understand your arcane customs.”  She’ll glare at me, I’ll glare back, hoping silently that I’m not in a region where concealed weapons are considered a fashion accessory, and reflect again on why I like to travel. I’ll also throw a ponder or two at the subject of how anyone could possibly think that a five gallon container of Chunky Monkey is a good idea.

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I gotta say, this product is perversely brilliant. How many times have you been sitting there in the car, stuck in a stop-and-go traffic jam on the interstate, that’s going to take you at least an extra hour to get home? And there you are, you’ve promised yourself that if you managed to make it to the end of the day without punching Dave in the face repeatedly, you’d have a nice cocktail when you got home. And that was because Dave drank the last of the coffee, and put the empty carafe back on the burner, where it eventually cracked, meaning not only did you not have any half burnt caffeine to get you through the last three hours of the workday, but you’re going to have to go over to Operations to get a cup of joe tomorrow, because it’ll take at least a couple of days to get a replacement carafe, and you hate the guys in Operations. But now that cocktail is another hour away, and you’re feeling like some one has to get punched but you’re in the car alone, so who are you going to pummel? Slamming your car into the guy ahead of you is looking more and more attractive all the time, but what if he stops, and gets out, and he’s not only six foot seven and two hundred and fifty pounds of lean, dojo trained muscle, but he has a concealed weapon permit, too?

So that would be the time that one of these canned gin and tonics would really hit the spot. Not that I’m recommending or condoning drinking while driving. That would be wrong. Man, I should get into the advertising business. Make a commercial just like the above scenario, and just show the principal at the end of the commercial, his car pulled over to the side of the road (cause, let’s repeat, drinking and driving is bad, okay?), drinking a frosty cold canned cocktail. I am very probably so going to burn in hell, someday.

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I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about sleepwear as a rule, but a post on Boing Boing got the old grey matter percolating.

I like the idea of pajamas more than I like the actuality. I’d be keen to swan about in some nice silk sleep togs, with a swanky dressing gown on top, maybe with some posh slippers. But the reality is, that even in the coldest depths of winter, I sleep hot. And I mean, like a furnace, hot. Shortly after getting in the iciest of beds, I’ll throw off all the covers, and then any clothing I happen to be wearing. Some nights are so uncomfortable that I’d contemplate attempting to strip off my skin as it’s obviously not allowing my internal organs to properly breathe. So wearing a layer of silk or cotton to bed, is normally not something I find appealing. And flannel, well, you might as well just douse me in gasoline and diesel oil and light a match.

Even though I have quite a nice pair of sleep togs I find myself unable to wear them for 95% of the year. This apparently is not a problem for others. And I think it would behoove us (and by us, I mean of course, you ladies, since it has been established since time immemorial that men are incapable of properly dressing themselves without the intervention of the fairer and smarter sex, or a valet) to establish that there are some rules that should be observed. Perhaps some of the younger men out there are in need of a little instruction in the proper fit, form and function of sleepwear.

Rule #1

Pajamas are for sleeping. And lounging about in the morning when you’re entertaining a lady guest like Myrna Loy, or Audrey Hepburn. Like so:

And they should always be covered in the latter circumstances with a stylish dressing gown. A bathrobe is too common. Don’t go there. Pajamas should only be worn immediately before retiring and discarded no later than 9:00 AM. They should never be worn outdoors, except when an emergency dictates – such as when you realize that the garbage truck is two houses down, and you forgot to put out the trash. And even then, you should always, always, put on a robe before hauling the odorous remains of last weeks parties out to the curb.

Rule #1A

Pajamas are never, not ever, for wearing out in public. No matter how much you need a tall refreshing Big Gulp, and no matter how comfortable they are. Like this guy. Dude, just no, dude.

Rule #2

Sleepwear should be restricted to separate pants and blouse, and should be in subdued colors, and any patterns should be understated and something an adult would wear. Superhero pajamas are not permitted after you reach the age of ten. One piece footie pajamas aren’t permitted after the age of three.

Dressing as a Greek god? No, don’t do that either. Fortunately, this, like many things from the past is now gone, and mostly forgotten, thank god.

This combo is only permissible if you’re cast in a remake of Ma and Pa Kettle Go To Town. No one under the age of one hundred and seventeen should ever wear a nightshirt.

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And again, to that guy, at the Seven Eleven, in Rule #1A, who almost certainly has a pair of these in a drawer back home. Again, no dude. Like, really, no.

Rule #3

Do not be this guy – ever.

Spending your entire life in pajamas surrounded by brainless bimbos seems like a pretty cool lifestyle, when you’re 17 and your higher reasoning functions are continually shorted out by hormonal tsunamis. After that though, it just becomes embarrassing. And creepy. So don’t do that.

Rule #4

That bathrobe you found in your hotel room? It is for wearing subsequent to your shower, after a long day running with the bulls, or chasing a cat burglar over Parisian rooftops. It is not, ever, to be worn down to the breakfast buffet. Or to the bar, or the gym, or the lounge, or really any place but inside the privacy of your room, where I cannot see you. I would be perfectly fine with higher end establishments immediately calling a cab and ejecting offenders who break this rule. You’ve been warned.

This fall, we’ve decided to leave the country, and go and live for a while in that Scepter’d Isle, that Green And Pleasant Land, also known as England. We thought it would give us a chance to experience a foreign land as only the inhabitants can. And, perhaps more importantly, we would avoid the deluge of political advertising prior to the election in November. Yes, while you poor suckers are inundated in a veritable torrent of attack ads, dirty tricks, and negative campaigning, we’ll be in Old Blighty, grousing about the rain and drinking pints of bitter. As Nelson would say, “Hah-hah!” And, in this case I am referring to Nelson from the Simpsons, and not Admiral Horatio Nelson, hero of the British Empire. Though I’m sure old Hory would probably enjoy a little snigger himself.

Anyway, as part of my acclimation scheme, so that I hit the ground running when we arrive in London, I’m trying to get conversant with British slang. And by that I mean the kind of slang that only the upper class toffs use. I think it’s important to fit in. And since I want to fit in with all the right sorts, I decided to intensively study P. G. Wodehouse and his terribly fascinating and true-to-life characters, Wooster and Jeeves. Mary has been issuing some vague and ill-defined warnings about the use of language in the P. G. Wodehouse literary canon. Something about it being out of place in the Twenty First century, and even most of the Twentieth. Pish, posh I say. It’s cracking good stuff and I’m going to soak up as much of it as I can before we leave.

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In today’s edition of So Totally Not Awesome, we have this flyer from a local weekend event that a friend sent us. Thanks Beth!

See this is the weird thing. It’s central Colorado, it’s summer, and people should be outside, climbing mountains, rafting down rivers, and eating sausage. What, you don’t eat sausage in the summer? Okay, that is weird! Along with our normal summery activities we also have a RenFaire. Or maybe it’s a RenFest! This RenFaire runs most weekends of the summer, or at least it seems like most weekends. Sadly, Mary has never consented to go, probably because I’ll spend all my time ogling serving wenches and eating stuff with my hands, and she sees enough of that at home. The eating with hands thing, not the serving wench ogling. Though, thinking about it, if we had serving wenches at home….

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The other day, yesterday to be exact, I was online filling out an application for a bank account, because we like to spread our money around. Sort of like, if you only have a couple of teaspoons of mayo left in the bottom of the jar, you spread it out thinly over the sandwich bread so it looks like you have more mayo than you actually do. Hmmm, mayonnaise, God’s gift to Middle America.

While I was filling out the application, I had to choose an occupation using a helpful pull-down menu with a host of choices. Like, Fisher/Hunter/Trapper. Now there’s an occupational choice you just don’t see much anymore. And while we’re over here, on Quaint Professions for $400, Alex, is there actually anyone still making a living from trapping? Are beaver skin top hats back in fashion and no one told me? Cause I’m pretty sure I would totally rock a beaver skin hat.

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