Two New Hats and Lots of Random Stuff

Some of you may know that I have a thing for hats, especially funny costume ones. I have at least 20 different funny hats, a number that grows or shrinks every time I wear one out. And I'm not even including my Burger King crown in that number.

So Saturday I was driving into Centennial to get the daily paper when I saw a garage sale sign in the neighborhood. Usually with garage sales, the older the proprieters the better, and these people were really old. So they had some old stuff; I first picked out a 1950's style grey leather suitcase for 50 cents. Moving on the hat section, I was pleased to find that, like me, this gentleman has quite a noggin on him. In fact, his size 7.5 hats fit me perfectly! I first picked out a brown felt cowboy hat. Here's a picture:

Please note the black-and-white Bruce Lee print in the background. Anyway, I will go ahead and tell you that I am a full seven feet tall with this hat on and if I were to put it on too tight a door could decapitate me. But honestly, hat+mustache+semi-western shirt*Bruce Lee=amazing. I don't wear much else anymore. Sale price, $1.

About to leave quite pleased with my purchases, I spotted a natty (not nasty, natty) green felt fedora on the corner of the shelf. The owner related to me that it was bought in Munich during the 1936 Olympics! I don't know if that's true, but it is German. Here's another pic:

Pop quiz: Which popular R&B singer do I look most like:

A. Ne-Yo

B. Ne-Yo

C. Ne-Yo

We're pretty much dead ringers for each other. And I wish I could sleep wearing my green fedora.

So the rest of this has nothing to do with hats, and everything to do with funny stuff that happens while I'm working at the bar. The first one has to do with backhanded compliments. Though I am a master of the empty compliment myself, I'll let it be known that I think backhanded compliments are low and despicable. Here's a really good one:

Person 1: "Rehab at 14 was the worst possible thing for him. I mean, he just isn't at all equipped for the pursuit of life. He really is practically useless at everything."

(pause)

Person 1: "He's a nice guy though, I've always liked him."

This anecdote serves to reinforce the widely-held, probably incorrect notion that saying "he's a nice guy, though" immediately negates ANYTHING negative you just said about the third person. Example:

Person 1: "He's a total hebephile and a huge racist. Hates Puerto Ricans and Buddhists with a passion. Kills baby seals for fun and throws their pelts away because he just likes the sight of a dying, clubbed, peltless seal. You'll never meet a nicer guy, though."

Next: I was poking around the kitchen at work for some food one evening, when I saw a big tub of generic sour cream from Sysco. It said on the label: "CULTURED SOUR CREAM". I started thinking about what uncultured sour cream would be like.... boorish, insensitive. Unable to respond to the needs of my taco.

My "Check Engine" light has now been flickering on and off for over three years. I take it as a sign of good craftsmanship that the light is able to last that long, and I know check engine lights are just swindles to get you to go to the repair store, usually so they can check your check engine light and fix that instead of your engine, putting you into an unending cycle of worry that your engine is broken alternating with worry that your engine is broken but you don't even know because your check engine light is malfunctioning. It's dizzying thinking about this, so I covered up my check engine light with black tape.

But what I really don't like about check engine lights is the fact that they're completely unnecessary. I have a VERY good idea if my engine is not working correctly, because the CAR DOESN'T TURN ON. Does this seem self-evident to anyone else? I'm out.

A Night on the Town!

A wild night in Centennial, Wyoming, usually consists of shooting firearms out of a moving vehicle, ATV, or snowmobile if it's past September. But this Tuesday, the Costello family took to the town hell-bent on having a great time without poaching animals. As you can see on the left, the town is fairly small. The picture is from 1979, but looks very similar to Centennial today. There is gas, diesel, basic foodstuffs, lots of fishing tackle, two stores with "Western" memorobilia (mostly fake guns and homemade candles), a post office, three hotels, three bars, and two fake cop cars that sit empty to scare speeders. The sign on the right is real, but an informal census by a local hippie census-taker revealed around sixty full-time residents. One hundred was during a platinum boom which has since faded.

We started at the Beartree Restaurant and Tavern, which on Tuesday nights has some of the better chicken fried steak I've tasted outside a middle school cafeteria. You best call ahead, though, because there are only twenty-five available each week, and they sell out around six most of the time. It's also one of the biggest social events in town. After introductions to five different people, we sat down and had quite a meal. I did have to stand up and approach the bar in order to obtain a second beer. Zagat rating: 19, Michelin rating: half star.

After dinner, my sister Christy and I scored enough cash from Moms to pay for most of our drinks throughout the night: $11. Big! I did think it a little strange that the $11 consisted of a five, two twos, and two ones. We proceeded to the somewhat dilapidated Trading Post to continue our night out. The limo was late, so we walked across the street. Notice: if you're looking for a one-speed bicycle, this place has everything you're looking for. There are twenty gently use fixies parked out front, unlocked. Seeing that vandals have broken into the local one-room school and the post office, it's a wonder that these bad boys are still there.

At the Trading Post, we doubled the number of patrons. The bartendress was a bit chilly at first, but warmed up to us when she learned I was a doctor; the chiliness returned when I informed her I recently retired. We chatted up some locals and heard some jokes, none of them racist (score two for the locals, although someone did think I was an Arab due to my dark tan and flowing beard) but most of them pertaining to bestiality (score three for the locals). We earned a tee time at the local seven-hole golf course, complete with coffee can holes and deer on the greens. We downed a pitcher, we played a game of pool in which the white ball went in eight times, and I donned a hockey helmet resting on a peg in the corner, thank you lost and found.

After the Trading Post closed at ten (?), we stopped off at the hippie's house (the former town flea market, Valley's End) for a beer. We then headed across the street to our third and final bar; on the way, I had a particularly surreal and touching moment looking at the stars with the hippie. The Milky Way was clearly visible, and I created some metaphor for retirement and the stars and the galaxies far off. The long and short of it was, retirement is great, and Wyoming is a great starry place to spend it.

But enough starry-eyed talk; the Friendly Store beckoned. The place really lives up to the name, as over the years it has morphed from general store to general store/hotel/greasy spoon/bar without missing a beat. At this particular destination, we only increased occupancy by fifty percent. We commandeered the jukebox and played quite a bit of Fleetwood Mac, which is agreeable to everyone in Centennial. My sister danced with an elderly man who repeatedly told us that he was the newcomer and town and had never played pool, and after awhile I believed neither statement. One-Eyed Jack entered (I later found that he was nearly the victim of Centennial's only drive-by shooting) and left quickly; fortunately for him, the legal alcohol limit was waived by the sheriff in absentia!

Perhaps the most peculiar thing there, though, was the bartender's electronic cigarette; evidently, you provide it with cartridges of nicotine, inhale hard, and it provides you with the nicotine you so desperately crave! It sounded an awful lot like a cigarette to me; he said it's meant to wean people off cigarettes, but he smoked three in the hour that we were there, so I have a hunch it was simply a way for him to augment his nicotine intake. We ended the night watching a tribute to Nat King Cole, bless his soul, on mute.