Omaha!
Just back from a Thanksgiving/Christmas mashup with the family in Omaha. It’s cold there, and Kyra and I ate much steak. Also, it snowed, as vaguely testified to by the photo.
It’s true that a dinner on Saturday with some old friends was my introduction to frog legs. They’re strange but tasty, as are most things sauteed in a half-pound of butter.
Of note: my brother, who is taller than me, went to the local Border’s (it still exists!) and informed me that, as suspected, my book was not on the shelves. So, then: Fuck you, Omaha Borders store. And, while we’re at it, how about fuck you to the other chain, which felt it needn’t have my book in stock the weekend it published and I was in town doing promo. All of which is to say, when shopping for books in Omaha, go the The Bookworm on Pacific Street.
Anyway.
Here’s what’s great about Omaha: a few days before the trip, I called around trying to find a bar to watch the Manchester United match Saturday morning at nine. Nowhere was open, and when I called The Fox and the Hound, the manager, bless his heart, said he’d open early so I could watch the match. Sure enough, I showed up at five of nine, and he was there, unlocked the door and already had the pre-game on the big screen. Couple beers and a decisive Man U victory later, I met Kyra for some hardcore sock shopping, which is not a euphemism for something dirty. We bought socks. Excellent socks.