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Birmingham Restaurant Week, or How I learned to stop worrying and buy bigger pants

Ahh, Birmingham Restaurant Week. You came and went too quickly.

For 10 glorious days, restaurant-goers in one of the fattest states in America could gorge themselves on much better food.

We were still giving ourselves diabetes, but a much higher class of diabetes; the kind of diabetes that knows which fork to use first in restaurants like Bottega and makes snide remarks about English majors.

For $30, $20, or $10, average Joes could wander into the finest restaurants in Birmingham and walk out stuffed with three courses of goodness. Here's part one of the rundown on my extended week of gluttony:

What would Shawn Spencer say?

In honor of Psych, one of my top-five favorite basic cable comedy shows about a fake psychic detective agency, I've decided to start asking myself, "what would Shawn Spencer say?" or WWSSS for short (bracelets and other paraphernalia coming soon).

For example today, when a female co-worker told me "Wow, you look very un-slovenly today," SS would have S'd one of the following:

"Yes, but don't worry, tomorrow I'll return to my usual look, which I call 'homeless man riding on the No. 9 train to Slumsville with my trusty one-eyed, three-legged dog named 'Chipper' who only tolerates my oppressive stench because I let him eat out of my economy-size can of baked beans.'"

"Why, thank you. I recently tripped over something and discovered it was called an I-ron, and while it has extremely limited potential as a potato chip-maker, it turns out it can actually take wrinkles out of clothes."

"Wow, with friends to boost your ego like that, who needs parents?"

"Aww, you're too kind. When you say it like that, it almost doesn't sound like an insult."

"Hey, now. Don't be a carbon copy of Rachel McAdams' character in Mean Girls."

"Thank you. Can you keep a secret? They're coming for me today. The Children of the Corn. I've been applying and begging them to let me join for years, and this could finally be my big break."

"Well, I figured I should look my best for the back-handed compliment award ceremony we're having later today."

I didn't say any of these things. But I could have. Well, except for the one about the potato-chip maker. That's kind of a tongue-twister.

Anyway, you're on notice, fake compliment givers. And just in case anyone is still reading, I'll leave you with my favorite Spencer-ism of all time (so far):

Gus: How'd it go?

Shawn: Crashed and burned. Then somehow crashed again, in Chile, only to be eaten by my soccer teammates.

Ouch.

The peaks and valleys of biking to work in Birmingham

In my own modest attempt to decrease my personal impact on the planet, I've taken to riding a bike to work instead of driving.

I figured, hey Alabama's among the top-50 most bicycle-friendly U.S. states, so why not pedal my way to work every day?

Like the city in which I live and work, there are a number of peaks and valleys associated with being a bicycle commuter. Here are but a few:

Peaks:

• Exercise, yo - Since I work online, and work out about 1/10 as often as I post on Twitter, most of my time is spent hollowing out the perfect indention in my chair at the office or the recliner in my living room. Riding the bike at least gets some blood circulating before and after my work day.

• It's a great way to wake up - It's like coffee, but on a bike. We all know that it's possible to get in your car and drive to work in a virtual stupor every day and rely on caffeinated beverages to jolt your heart into actively pumping blood through all your veins and arteries. It turns out, there's a better way to wake up. On days when I bike to work, I feel significantly more alert and can usually hold out until 10:30 or so before my first infusion of caffeine. That's progress.

This sports journalist found his swagger covering the Gulf of Mexico oil spill

It's been more than a month now since my first trip to the Gulf of Mexico to report on the Deepwater Horizon/BP/Transocean oil spill/leak/explosion/debacle. Covering this ongoing story has been the highlight of my journalistic career (eclipsing even a college football national championship game), yet it has only come as a result of a national tragedy, the scope of which is barely being realized.

It was easy, even a pleasure to tell the story of people like Mike Reynolds, Alabama's Turtle Tsar. The Gulf Shores real estate broker has given countless hours of his time over the past six years organizing an army of volunteers to identify and protect sea turtle nests.

Reynolds' regiment of retirees marches over 47 miles of Alabama coast line every morning before most tourists get out of bed, marking new nests with protective barricades and signs warning the frolicking masses of the $100,000 fine imposed on those who disturb the nests. It's a purely volunteer organization, run with a precision that would make Nicholas II proud.

Crafting the perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich (and no, it isn't frozen)

I was in Aldi the other day when I stumbled upon these modern marvels of engineering. That's right, folks, there is actually a company out there that manufactures and sells frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Really? Who's buying this stuff? Moms who would like to prepare food for their families, but are too busy to open two jars and a bag of bread? Wouldn't it take even longer to unfreeze one of these than to spread the condiments on two pieces of bread?

Not to mention that you lose all semblance of creativity that goes along with making your own PB&J sandwich. What's that? You don't see how making PB&J can be creative? Well, good thing I'm here to set you straight.

2010, the year of the (my) blog?

 

 I seem to have picked up a knack for starting years off on a high note. Or, more appropriately, the Alabama football team has managed to find itself in good places each January 1, and I happen to be along for the ride.

I started 2009 in New Orleans' French Quarter, raising glasses with two of my best friends from college, watching a giant fleur de lis descend atop Jackson Square and wondering what the year would hold. I was there, of course, because the Crimson Tide was in town to play Utah in the 2009 AllState Sugar Bowl.

City Stages 1999 to 2009: From 'must-see' to 'very optional'

I almost didn't go to City Stages this year... and I had free tickets courtesy of my employer.

In fact, the main reason I did end up going (besides the free tickets, of course) was an up-and-coming band out of Chapel Hill called Roman Candle. The trio created a four-minute burst of musical heroin titled "Why Modern Radio is A-OK" that has quickly been ratcheting up my iTunes most-played list for the past month.

Of course, once I dragged myself out into the heat and got inside the gate, I had a great time. Roman Candle put on a good show, even if the food vendor serving alligator on a stick seemed to draw a bigger crowd. 

Jonny Lang and The Neville Brothers worked the Miller Lite Stage in Linn Park, and I'm not a huge Dierks Bentley fan, but the thousands there who were seemed to really enjoy his set. 

Sitting in Linn Park, listening to Aaron Neville belt out his version of "A Change Is Gonna Come," (Sam Cooke's original is one of my all-time favorite songs. Ever.) I felt a wave of nostalgia rush over me as palpable as the heat on a June Saturday in Birmingham.

This festival has meant a lot to me over the years. My parents took me to the earliest editions before I was able to drive myself downtown. I remember dipping my feet in the fountain at the park and my parents yelling at me because the water wasn't clean. I remember sitting with them in the park for acts like Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, The Temptations and The Pointer Sisters. I vividly recall watching a young couple in front of me make out and graduating from the "girls have cooties" phase to being genuinely curious about what the young man was doing, and why he would want to put his hands there.

Moving to a Highland Park condo

I'm boarding a plane Monday morning to go to Italy, but I didn't let that stop me from doing a little shopping before I left town: last night, I bought a condo.

I made the offer Wednesday night and got word by lunchtime Thursday that it had been accepted. My first offer on this unit (not including the debacle of my first ever offer to buy a property anywhere). The price is good. The location is good. The potential is high.

There are some issues with the place, but it will give me a chance to gain some experience fixing up an old place: refinishing hardwood floors and old cast-iron bathtubs, making old doors with bad hinges work again, that sort of thing. Also painting. There will be much painting. Lucky for you, I will probably share some of those experiences here in this blog.

But those things are down the line a bit. For now, I can finally shift my focus to my upcoming Italian adventure. I'll blog more about that later, but for now I'll leave you with some more pictures after the jump.

The stages of coping with condo loss

Well, I did not get the condo. Not sure if someone else made a better offer, or ours just wasn't high enough, but it has been rejected. I know some of you may be expecting a virulent diatribe against a certain unscrupulous real estate agent, but I don't have that in me right now. Sorry to disappoint, but apparently I've moved past the anger phase and am now solidly in the numbness/depression phase.

I realize I just threw out the word depression because I wasn't able to buy a condo. Boo hoo, poor me, I know. That's what the phase is called. Actually, the fact that I can get depressed over this mess is making me even more depressed than I already was.

Random, unexpected encouragement for life

Heard tonight, while eating dinner with Mom and watching Wheel of Fortune (because I live fast and party hard):

Contestant: I'd like to buy a vowel.

Pat Sajak: Go ahead.

Contestant: "Y"

Pat Sajak: *confounded silence*

Thanks for that one, life. I owe you one.