Blathr Wayne Lorentz

If Abraham Lincoln asks you to hold his hat, donʼt.

The sixteenth president was notorious for storing things in his famously capacious hat. But you never know what might be in there.

It makes sense that heʼd stuff it with a Lincoln logbook, or a few pencils, or even a draft of a speech to Congress. But if you were to rummage through his stovepipe chapeau you might not only encounter legal briefs, but Mr. Lincolnʼs actual briefs. Thatʼs because the hat was something of a catch-all for him. Half filing cabinet, half trash can.

Apple cores were a particularly common hazard, though why he should save apple cores is unknown to me.

Also unknown to me is why I know this. When I lived in Illinois, I never visited any Lincoln musea. When I lived in the South, I did visit the Abraham Lincoln Birthplace in Hodgenville, Kentucky. So perhaps I picked it up there. Or maybe I just imagined the whole thing.

This is one of those jobs I could never do.

These guys are only about ten stories off the ground, but in Chicago, I used to see guys 40, 50, even 60 floors up with nothing to support them but a couple of ropes and a plank of wood.

I hope theyʼre well-paid.

In Hong Kong, Iʼve seen children doing this 20 stories up with just a single rope, balancing against the glass with their bare feet.

I doubt theyʼre well-paid.

At 6am, after a hard nightʼs rain, even Bourbon Street doesnʼt look half bad.

My wife has a thing about restaurant ceilings. She tries not to look at them, because they might ruin her meal.

After learning this, I've developed a habit of always looking at restaurant ceilings, and her fears are not unreasonable — some of them are disgusting. Smoke-soaked corbels, brown-stained drop ceilings, mysterious holes that could be entries for any number of creepy-crawlies.

I think the ceiling above the bar at The Court of Two Sisters is among the worst. It's like the backdrop for some kind of over-the-top Disney pirate ride, but in real life, with real cobwebs, and real who-knows-what. It was very easy to imagine a spider dropping down and adding just a bit of crunch to someone's cocktail. Ick.

The restaurantʼs web site claims eating there is a “one-of-a-kind experience.” Well, it was certainly memorable.

In most cities, they have people pushing brooms to clean the streets. But this is Houston, so “Letʼs see if thereʼs a way we can do this sitting down while burning dead dinosaurs.”

If you put that thing in reverse, does it spew out everything its Hoovered up?

Amazingly, the menʼs room at Death Valley Nut and Candy isnʼt the worst public restroom Iʼve ever used.

Today Annie sat in the bathroom doorway and watched as I cleaned my toilet. So naturally, I felt obligated to clean the cat box next.

I think just got guilt-tripped by a cat.

“I wish Iʼd spent more time scrubbing grout,” said no one on their deathbed ever.

After seeing how the staff at The Palm wear their masks, Iʼll never eat there again.

Thereʼs a reason that mask-wearing by staff is the law.

If you get flyers stuck to your front door advertising a service to clean the dog pee off of the rocks and AstroTurf in your yard, you may live in the desert.

The Keurig machine reads “Hand wash only.”

If I wanted to do things by hand, I wouldnʼt have bought a Keurig.

So this guy rolls up on his motorcycle, pulls a suit bag out of his pannier and hangs it in a tree. Then he pulls out a big tub of Windex Wipes and gives himself a full bath — underbits and all — while standing in the parking lot. Then he unzips the suit bag, puts on a tuxedo, and walks away down the street. Ta da!

Amazingly, this isnʼt the worst toilet Darcie and I have come across in our travels.

I know some tourists like to bring their own pillows to Las Vegas hotels of unknown quality, but unless your lodging cost less than $30, you probably donʼt need to bring your own Swiffer.

Cleaning the litter box is a lot more festive this time of year, what with all the butt nuggets threaded together with tinsel missing from the tree like the worst Christmas train ever.

I should probably clean out my bathroom cabinet. Itʼs starting to attract vermin.

My first thought was to blame the webdev for using unvetted user-uploaded photos when no other pictures of the property were available. Then I realized I should blame the people who run the motel for the condition it is in.

Good news: The toiletries I bought at Harrodʼs work. Bad news: I didnʼt get up early enough to be first into the shared bathroom. Maybe I shouldnʼt have left my headboard tuned to classical music all night.

The soap is unremarkable, but the shampoo is great. Instead of coming in a cheap plastic tube like Iʼm used to, it comes in a tall, slender ceramic bottle with a metal screw-on cap. Very classy. The bottle is the same off-yellow/mustard color as my hotelʼs carpeting, but the label is a bit more orangish. It proclaims “Geo F. Trumper” which has apparently been around for over a hundred years.

In another surprise, the shampoo isnʼt a thick, viscous goo like American shampoo. It comes out freely, like water. But a tiny capful still lathers up as vigorously as a handful of American stuff. Iʼm starting to think that Iʼm paying for a bunch of filler when I buy Suave at home.

Todayʼs task: See London without being seen. Dianaʼs funeral is today, and Iʼm not sure what to expect from a nation in mourning. I expect lots of things will be closed, so itʼs probably a good day to go to parks and squares and other outdoor places.

I went to Harrodʼs today. Not because Iʼm fancy, but because the rooming house Iʼm staying in doesnʼt have toiletries. In fact, I donʼt even have my own toilet. I have to use a shared bathroom down the hall from me, like in a dorm or a youth hostel.

One benefit of being excited about being in a new country for the first time is that I woke up early and was able to shower before anyone else stirred. But I donʼt have any soap or shampoo with me, so Iʼm relying on cold water and Right Guard to keep me socially acceptable.

I picked Harrodʼs as my first destination because it advertises “Omnia Omnibus Ubique,” which means “Everything for everyone everywhere.” Well, Iʼm someone and somewhere, so it made sense to see if it really has “everything.”

Good news: It does.

Right on the ground floor near the entrance I found a little wood-paneled salon featuring menʼs grooming supplies. I picked up a bar of very normal-looking soap, which was a relief because I was afraid of a repeat of the Budapest red soap issue. I also got a bottle of shampoo. I picked it because Iʼm not going to be in London for a month, and it was the smallest bottle.

Harrodʼs is clearly a special place. All of the salespeople were very nice and attentive. They were also super patient with me, and happy to cash my American Express travelerʼs checks. But there is a sadness at Harrodʼs. I couldnʼt quite put my finger on it until I came across the central escalator area. There, between the up and down options was a gilded easel with a big portrait of Princess Diana on it. People were standing around, seemingly at a loss for what to do. It was so quiet, you could hear the hum-clack hum-clack of the escalators — not something that happens in department stores.

A few people had violated the velvet rope barrier to lay flowers on the floor, and I imagine if the easel was of the correct height, they lay where her feet would have been.

I wonder if thatʼs why London seems… less vibrant than I thought it might be. I wasnʼt expecting New York, but I wasnʼt expecting a place as quiet as Vienna. Iʼm sure not everyone feels the same about what happened, but if enough people feel a certain way, itʼs contagious, and can cast a subconscious pall over a city. I should try to be more patient with my mustachioed hostess, and perhaps more grateful for the Harrodʼs store clerks demonstrating their British stiff upper lip. Time to make myself inconspicuous.