Tales from the Road ... and the Airplane

I just got back from a whirlwind business trip to Green Bay and Chicago. My travels were eventful as always, including the following:

• My luggage took a different flight than me. Thank you, American Airlines.



• Drank my first Spotted Cow beer. Thank you, Debbie Henry.



• Spent $17 on an official cheesehead hat. I guess that’s a lot of money for a big block of inedible cheese. However, my son was insistent. In case you’re wondering, he’s a bigger fan of cheesy hats than the Green Bay Packers.



• Won $60 at a casino on an Indian reservation. I took a tip from the great Kenny Rogers by knowing when to walk away … if only he had walked away from that plastic surgeon.



• The good folks at the Swissotel locked me out of my room after promising me a late checkout. To paraphrase Jerry Seinfeld, anyone can take a reservation; the key is keeping the reservation. Usually when I can’t open a hotel room it’s my own fault. Maybe science will eventually unlock the room key-cell phone conundrum.



• Escaped a close call from a woman with a dog on an airplane. I’m allergic to dogs, although I’m not sure this lady would even recognize her traveling companion as a dog, based on the ongoing conversation between the two of them.



• Not so lucky when it came to the puking woman just one row ahead of me. Thankfully, I narrowly avoided a sympathy barf.



• At the AHIP conference, I saw a woman’s presentation interrupted by her own cell phone. It wasn’t even a cool ringtone. I chalked it up to karma since presenters are always telling audience members to turn off their phones.



• Enjoyed two dinners at Brett Favre’s steakhouse in Green Bay. The restaurant is still in Green Bay even though Favre isn’t. He now plays for the Minnesota Vikings … the Packers most hated rival. The food was good, but the merchandise wasn’t moving. I did hear about some bozo paying $17 for a cheesehead. That’s enough to make you want to puke on an airplane.
  

From Cheese Plate to Cheesehead

We all know men are from Mars and women are from Venus. That point was dramatically driven home to me the other day when I asked people of different sexes about the very best place to stay in Green Bay, Wisc.

A young female professional who is very familiar with the area recommended a place “owned by a Catholic college that is cute, quaint and has a nice brunch.”

The male, also a professional, went another direction. He recommended the Hilton Garden Inn. Not so cute, not so quaint, but located directly across the parking lot from Lambeau Field, home of the Green Bay Packers.

“They have the Green Bay Packers Hall of Fame there,” he explained. “If you’re anything like me, you’ll want to check it out.”

So much for that nice brunch.

Keeping Tab on Some Old Brands

Many of the brands of my youth are gone, lost presumably to changing tastes and perhaps a better informed public.

I used to wash my hair with a shampoo called Body on Tap. It was made with actual beer, which was supposed to be good for your hair. I haven’t seen Body on Tap for years. If it were still around, you’d probably have to keep it locked up in a liquor cabinet. The FDA also might frown upon beer being promoted as a cure for a bad hair day.

Tab, the original diet soda, is still around, but not as popular as it once was. As it turns out, people apparently prefer diet sodas that don’t taste like cough syrup and include warnings about dying lab rats on the side. Imagine that.

I loved Fun Dip, which is basically what you get when you empty a jillion Pixie Sticks into a mountain of sugary dust and then shovel it in with a spoon, also made of sugar. To the best of my knowledge, the packaging wasn’t made of sugar, but it should have been.

We weren’t much for moderation in those days. Charles Chips used to arrive at my doorstep in the equivalent of an oil drum. Charles Chips might still be around somewhere, but I’m certain they don’t come in oil drums anymore.

The bottom line is we’ve probably gotten too smart for suspect additives, mountains of unrefined sugar, gargantuan sizes and alcohol-infused household products. Or maybe the lawyers just smartened up. Either way, these are positive developments.

Nevertheless, I can’t help but have an occasional yearning for one of the most heinous -- yet delicious -- salty snacks of my youth. It was called Bacums. As I recall, Bacums were basically bacon-flavored potato chips. Each chip looked like a miniature slice of bacon. If they were around today, you’d probably confuse Bacums for dog treats. But if Bacums are for dogs, then slap a collar on me and call me Spike. I loved Bacums. I ate them every day. At my high school, you couldn’t find a warm vegetable for a hundred miles, but you could always find a bag of Bacums.

I don’t remember ever giving up Bacums. Luckily, the changing snack food market saved me from myself. But I won’t lie. If I could find one last bag of Bacums, I’d eat them right now, washing them down with a Tab, of course, just for old-time’s sake.

Let’s Shake On It

It seems like an epidemic is breaking out. It’s not H1N1, although it may be closely related. It’s a condition I’ll call handshakeicitis.

There have always been a few suffers … those who turn to Purell at slightest possibility of an open palm. But their ranks are growing rapidly since the swine flu if my experiences are any indication. In the last few weeks alone, I’ve met two victims.

First, I approached my son’s teacher at a recent open house, extending a friendly hand. She ducked aside as if I had brandished a gun. “I can’t shake your hand,” she explained. “My allergies are acting up.”

A few days later, I ran into an acquaintance at a restaurant. My hand sprung into action like a GI Joe with karate action. Once again, handshakeinteruptus. Just like the teacher, he said he was under the weather and didn’t want to spread germs.

If that’s the case, I should be thankful. But I can’t help but wonder if these people are protecting themselves from me instead of me from them!

I’m not unsympathetic. After all, I’m a hypochondriac from way back. WebMD used to be among my favorite Web sites. I don’t even want to talk about the great diabetes scare of the 80s. Yet, when it comes to handshakes, I forge fearlessly ahead. The extravert prevails over the germaphobe, hands down, so to speak.

Whether it’s fair or not, I can’t help but feel rejected by those unrequited handshakes. It leaves me hollow, like a guy with a bad pickup line on Ladies Night.

Dr. Keith Ablow of Fox News says it OK to shake hands, even with the swine flu threat. He says we need human touch now more than ever. So follow my lead. Get a grip! Don’t be afraid of a hearty handshake.

How About a Digital Debate?

Some of my recent Facebook comments have been rubbed out quicker than one of Tony Soprano’s enemies. Can a defriending be far behind?

Perhaps a generational gap is to blame. Many of my Facebook friends are younger than me. They’re probably surprised to see a 40-year-old in their digital sandbox.

For the most part, that’s fine. I live vicariously through their party people weekends while posting updates about my wife, kids and Louisville sports. But when the conversation occasionally veers into politics, things get a little sticky. For starters, I think their embarrassed to know someone who didn’t actually vote for Barack Obama.

I should take a timeout here and tell you that I’m the kind of guy who is very passionate about his views. I’ve always been that way. In my peer group, you either debated or got run over. We argued about everything … sports, girls, clothes, etc. We drank beers, argued, ate, argued, went home, stewed and did it all over again the next day.

This was probably great training for a career in public relations. If someone said something you didn’t like, you picked it apart. You couldn’t delete their comments.

Facebook isn’t like that. In the digital world, if you don’t like something someone says, then you just zap it away. I found that out the hard way while commenting about things like the health care and other current events.

I prefer the old way. If you don’t agree with me, let’s go toe to toe. When it’s over, you’ll send me a virtual margarita. I’ll send you a smiley face. And we’ll do it again tomorrow.