Hugo C.'s Profile

I'm sure this place is charming and delightful when you have the sun shining through and plenty of people filling the space with life. If you make the mistake of visiting during a weekend afternoon though, I like to think it more closely resembles the type of place grandma's go to die.

I took notice of the quieter than quiet atmosphere as I sat down in one of their armchairs in the upper nook. I took a whiff and couldn't tell what I was smelling, but I was afraid it might have been the aroma of death emitting from the straight-from-the-estate-sale armchair. I just kept looking down at my chair and thinking, "this is where my cat would go, my reading glasses would fall right between these cushions, and I suppose I would cross my legs just like this...right before dying in this armchair!"

It turns out later that the possible aroma of death wasn't that at all; it was just stale coffee that tasted like it hadn't been brewed anytime recently. I try so hard to remind myself to support independent coffee shops, but then they go and do something like this and it makes me think that Starbucks isn't so evil after all.

Haven't we come far enough as an inclusive people to rename the Black Cow Cafe to something more appropriate for the 21st century? How about the African American Cow Cafe or even the Urban Cow Cafe? I suppose we still have a way's to go.

Blatant racial insensitivity aside, these folks make a kick-ass breakfast. Their much raved about Banana Nut French Toast is completely worthy of the praise. Going easy on the syrup keeps the dish from being overly sweet, but you're probably better off with their small portion to keep things from going overboard. The cornflake crust was whimsical, but the consistency of the banana nut bread, while oh so tasty, was a tad too crumbly.

Their LAMILL Coffee offering is downright sinful. How the hell am I supposed to go back to the usual junk that's offered in cafe's, when I've been given a glimpse of the good stuff? It's going to be tough, but I know I can always make my way back to Montrose for a bangin' breakfast and a dreamy cup of joe.

How should I tell my travel companion that we're going to Mill Ends park?
- "I know what we should do next! Let's go to the WORLD'S SMALLEST PARK! It should be tons of fun. It's only a three mile walk that way."

How do I make it sound more appealing than it is?
- "I know it's far, but we'll get to walk along that river looking thing (point to phone). That should be fun, right? A river!"

How do I play down the homeless folks that hang out alongside the river and are currently staring us down?
- "No need to worry. We're fine as long as we outnumber them. There's at least seven of us pedestrians, bikers and stroller folk and only six of them. See, we're safe!"

How do I finally reveal the park?
- "Stop right there. Are you ready? Close your eyes! (Point them towards the park) Now, open them! Isn't it spectacular (point towards the park). No, it's not that grassy area back there with the trees...it's there! No, not over there, right here!"

How do you respond when your travel companion remarks, "Are you fucking kidding me! That little piece of shit in the middle of the street is the world's smallest park? Are you serious right now? Did you just risk my life to see this random piece of turd? AHHHHHH! I hate you so much right now!"
- "Would you like to hear the history behind the park? It's quite an interesting story."

Tanner's could very well be renamed to "The Ed Little Waiting Area." There's always a java-suck or two that's waiting for their car to be serviced at the neighboring car shop.

The coffee has never been extraordinary, but always good enough to warrant a steady line of regulars that line up for their morning fix. Partner that up with the usual availability of seating and power outlets and you have yourself a merry little work spot.

The only unsettling part of it all is that I typically find my laptop brethren to be nicer than the busy espresso slingers.

Note to future self: If ever in need of LMU gear, do yourself the favor of visiting the campus during Winter break.

In need of some LMU-emblazened items to sport during an upcoming Alumni event (dressing the part of an overenthusiastic school-spiriter really breaks the ice with older Alumni that hold those elusive networking ties), I was ecstatic to hear that the Bookstore updated their recorded message to include their Christmas hours (no "holidays hours" found around here; it's all about mad love for Little Baby Jesus) and days they would be closed.

Not only did I not have to run over any undergrads, the winter break meant that the gate attendant gave me unofficial permission to "just park anywhere." Although I was tempted to park sideways across three handicap spots, I figured it would feel almost as rebellious to just leave the Prius in the clearly marked loading zone behind Von der Ahe.

This being my first visit since the move from Malone, I was quite impressed. Although the higher ceiling was the first thing I noticed, there was much more inventory than I remember and I was even asked if I needed any help. I will say that I didn't think I would see so much stuff available for women in the range of XS-M. I suppose they know their niche pretty well.

I had a five-star experience all around, but I still hold a grudge for their insistence that their prices are, in any way, reasonable.

I don't know why I keep giving build-your-own places a try. I suck at this. Maybe I should just give myself two stars for choosing sucky sandwiches, you say? Well, I'm glad you brought this up.

Businesses have a duty to tell you when you're being extraordinarily stupid. If I go to the bank and try to withdrawal $0.50 instead of $50.00, someone is going to ask me if I understand just what it is that I'm asking. If I go to the dentist and tell them that I just want one tooth cleaned, I'm going to get a funny look. If I order a BBQ Pork & Slaw sandwich with absolutely no toppings, feel free to tell me that this would make a lousy sandwich.

If on my second visit I try to learn my lesson and ask, "I'm ordering a Chicken Salad sandwich. That doesn't sound like it needs any other toppings to me, but am I totally bizerk?" your answer probably shouldn't be "Sorry, I never personally get that sandwich" since you might instead do better with a "Not adding any toppings will make for a pathetic small sandwich; most people like to at least add lettuce and tomato."

I was looking for a way to thank some folks that donated to my Movember efforts and thought that a whimsical thank you card was the perfect choice. I would have loved any sort of card that contained a mustache, but would have been just as happy with a thank you card that was visually as silly as the thought of growing a mustache and hitting people up for cash.

The shop keeper was admirably kind and sheepishly offered a "I'm just holding down the fort until my wife comes back -- I'm sure she would be able to help you if you waited a bit for her to return," but I was a man on a whimsy-filled-card mission and had no time to spare. I ultimately found a few cards that were the tiniest bit fanciful, but nothing that really fit the bill.

Happy Hour kills it! We sat at the bar for their late night happy hour and couldn't have been happier.

The salmon cakes were tasty, and the oysters were scrumptious. Figuring we couldn't leave without at least trying the crawfish, we put in an order. At under $2, it was a total bargain. I'll admit I had to sheepishly asked the bartender how to eat the crawfish. "Well, just pick it up like this and then do this, and then just do that." I think he noticed the glazed over looks so he asked, "Would you mind if I just picked one of them up to show you?" I would have normally called the coodie police in a situation like this, but this guy was just so friendly that I thought it was the nicest thing in the world.

Jake's is a ringer for cheap eats and a great late night environment.

Get real, Get Shaved!

I can handle braving the line of high schoolers. I can handle the curt, but quick, person manning the register. I can handle standing in the DMV-like huddle waiting for my treat. What I can't handle though is the sticky ass floor that reminds me more of the 24 Hour Fitness West Hollywood steam room (the workers threatened to go on strike citing adverse/unsafe working conditions -- read a newspaper!).

It always ends the same, too. "Yum, that was delicious. Let me go throw this away at this trash ca....full? Ok, I'll go to the other one...serious? Doesn't anyone around here damn trash out?" I can understand that happening on one visit, but the second? the third? How is it that every other retail operation out there can empty their trash cans often enough, but trash cans that aren't full are just an unrealistic dream at Get Shaved? Thanks, but I'll pass.

The last thing I want to do when flying into an airport is to elbow my way out of the plane so that I can be the first to get to the cab stand. If I can find a way to get to my hotel using public transportation, I'll take it. In this case, Hotel deLuxe's website was immensely helpful in guiding me to their property using MAX.

I didn't have much time to waste in the air, so I took the earliest flight I could and hoped that Hotel deLuxe would be kind enough to hold my bags until check-in. "Mr. C, would you like us to give you a call as soon as we have a room available for early check-in?" Yes, hell yes. I'd like to think it was my charming ways, but I suspect their dedication to going above and beyond led to me getting a call that politely alerted me to the fact that they had a room that I could check into. Certainly beyond my expectations, I was sitting in my room, hours before the usual check-in, using the hotel's wi-fi to keep working.

After a few hours of firing off emails, I started to look around and noticed that this was a pretty swanky joint: quality furnishings, contemporary decor and an HDTV. The best part though was the next morning. I stumbled out of bed and felt my way to the bathroom without so much as a wink of morning light. I step into the tub, turn on the water and start lathering up (no worries, that's about as far as we'll get down that road). A few minutes in, I finally wake up enough to start opening my eyes. There's so much light being let in through the glazed window that it's positively illuminating the white tile, the white wallpaper, the white fixtures, the white bath tub and the white shower curtain. My eyes are trying to adjust to all of this light, but I keep looking all around and I can only see bright white light. That's right about the moment where I say out loud, "Is this a fucking cloud?"