I went to Men’s Warehouse during lunch with the intent of getting new pants. Over the course of lunch, I learned:
Note to Self: Find new pants place
This weekend was looking to be a hot one and I was going to be trudging around an asphalt jungle in long pants so I stopped by Men’s Warehouse to see what options they had for pants cooler than the standard cotton I use, maybe a tissue chino or some other modern fabric.
Me: I’m looking for dress pants that are as thermally cool as possible.
Associate: Do you care about color?
Me: No, dark or light, doesn’t matter.
Associate:Â Do you care what cut the legs are?
Me: No, as long as it covers them.
Associate: Then I know the perfect thing. *Grabs pants* These are a traditional fabric being made of flax, with a stylish short leg cut, and…
Me: You’re proposing I wear linen manpris?
Associate: These also have a stylish draw string for an adjustable waste so that…
Me: Pardon, you’re proposing I wear draw string linen manpris? I don’t consider those dress.
Associate: Well, it does absorb much more moisture before feeling damp, billows lightly, and gets softer as you wash them.
Me: None of those address the fundamental problem I have that you’re proposing I wear, with a straight face, drawstring linen manpris as a “dress pant”.
Associate: How about a light wool?
Me: Wonderful.
I miss you, Lee.
I was happy to find that Chicago’s extravagant food hadn’t affected my waist line as much as I thought so in victory I put on the new pair of paints a size smaller than I normally wear and smiled confidently as I brought them through my normal range of standing motion. The waist was comfortable and the legs had enough space as I did a few kicks and steps. I ended with a pants-testing maneuver I call “The Crucible” where I squat down and then lean forward as if grabbing something from the floor. About 1/2 way through this maneuver a tear propagated like a lightning bolt from crotch to knee with an almost Marvel Comic-esque “RIIIP” noise. Barring kevlar pants, I shall remain at my current pants size.
I wanted to meet Peter Jerde in Chicago for lunch, which turned into a late lunch, which turned into dinner. Â Upon entering the greater Chicago area I encountered something I’d largely missed so far on my trek across vast open landscapes and barely tamed wilds: traffic. Â It was novel at first, the idea of having a car immediately in front of me that was moving at a speed of less than 10 miles per hour seemed neat. Â Maybe I could get out of my car and greet them, see how their driving was going, but as the slowness entered the second hour of moving 7 MPH or less I became…unaffected. Â While being passed by a windblown Arby’s bag was disheartening, having driven about 10,000 miles, the context of traffic was a temporary inconvenience that moved my average speed for the entire trip down on the order of a tenth of a mile per hour, I’ll live.
Pants and I met at a Wendy’s where we were both hoodwinked by a savvy salesperson.  We were both asked “medium or large” a false choice as small was also an option but a question to which everyone I heard picked one of these two.  Tricky.  We ate, he showed me his Prius modifications and I shortly thereafter left for Fort Wayne, a 2.5 hour drive.  I was cruising along thinking I’d get to Banks’ house shortly before midnight, the time I’d told him I’d arrive when he shot me a text asking me where I was.  Oh.  Crap.  Prior to 2006, Indiana didn’t observe DST, making it effectively in the Central Time Zone when the rest of the country was under DST.  In 2006, Indiana started observing DST again, a fact I forgot, making me an hour late.  I floored it.  I screamed across towns and Rt. 30 shaving minutes off of my route… until I hit a speed  trap about 3 minutes from Banks’ house, erasing any semblance of a benefit from my speeding.  The ticket was for $181, but again context, a mere 1.5 cents a mile.
There was a bit more snow in the camping area than I anticipated, but I’m glad I had the requisite gear anyway. Â This is what the parking spot for the adjoining slip was like.
... which is sufficient for RVs.
I wasn’t sure that there was anything to photograph in King’s Canyon after watching more tourists miss the stupidly wide General Grant tree but I was very much happy to find that I was wrong. Â The King river has carved an amazing canyon and the Depart of the Interior has done a wonderful job slapping a road into it.
Roadside View
I stopped three or four times for these photo ops and started to notice that after I’d pull into a turn-out other cars would start to do the same. Â I wonder if anyone can start these touriswarms or if the dusty Matrix plus guy with a long lens on a tripod has some sort of secondary ability to attract people. Â The mountain views were wonderful but nature kept intruding by growing over in areas that’d probably been cleared a decade ago to create nice views. Â Now many of these photo spots had second generation growth that were taking full advantage of the clear growing spot and access to mountain runoff to greet the sun.
After finding the showers closed for cleaning after driving 40 minutes to get to them, I stopped for lunch at a waterfall surrounded by adventurous teens and people shielding their cameras from the wash of water. Â My tactic was to hold the camera like a football until I found one of the nodal points where no water hit and then tried to take a burst of shots before the variance in the supplying water or the wind decided to drench me. Â I think the method worked as the camera still functions and I got this.
This shot is a composite at 17mm, I was less than 10 feet from the main fall and well within the spray region.
I dawdled my way back to Visitor’s Center to see if they had a shower facility and spied a sign for “Panoramic Point”.  This kind of indication is a bit like crack to me and I took the sign “Caution: Road Icy” as a personal challenge.  I drove to the top and started walking up the snow-covered concrete trail towards the point but was confused by a fence that has foot prints on both sides of it.  I took the downhill route and was soon greeted with the crevasses generated by the heat of trees and noted the broken spots where it looked like people had slipped.  I cleared these by a solid foot but I suppose due to my size this was insufficient clearance as the ground gave way as I tried to move around a tree and I quickly found myself doing a split with my right leg dangled into a snow pit and my left looking like it was ready to do a high kick, also my pants were blown out such that it look like an M-80 exploded around my taint.  Stand would be out of the question so I decided to slide to more a stable area, meaning I’d have to avoid trees down hill as well as guard my camera and now blooded arm.  I shifted my weight and slid my right left over the edge of the hole creating new rents in my pants which were poorly designed to accommodate a large man doing a full split and began sliding down the hill.  I picked up more speed than I wanted so I reached out to gab a tree branch which broke off and took off a piece of my middle finger with it.  Stopping consisted of digging in my heels as I rounded another tree and using my left arm as a bumper.  I stood up, gauged the sartorial destruction, saw that despite being bloodied, nothing really hurt, and made my way to the top.  Not quite worth it when one considers the haze and junk damage.
Meh.
I wandered down the hill and felt a throbbing in my arm and fingers. Â The wet snow had quickly numbed my appendages when I fell and I was now experiencing the pain of my stumble. Â The park first aid areas were closed and none of the public places had public running water to even wash myself. Â I placed a call to a friend in San Francisco and he offered to take me in the for the evening and at 10 PM or so I arrived in San Francisco after trying to avoid flashing anyone at my fuel and food stops. Â I now had 7 of every other article of clothing and only 6 pairs of shorts. Â Hm…
Preparing for tournaments is a process of continual refinement. I found that I’ll stay more hydrated by consuming two 1.5 liter bottles of water than a single gallon bottle as I won’t tote the gallon bottle around. I found that if I count to three before delivering a ruling, I’ll probably give a better ruling. Finally, I found that the easiest way to keep an area clean is to remove trash as it accumulates. Once a trash depot appears on a table it will become a magnet for other garbage.
My goal for improvement this tournament was to not flash players while picking up garbage. The judge shirt is a bit shorter than I prefer and bending over either involves me contorting like I’m wearing a miniskirt or doing an impromptu plumber impression. So, I decided to simply wear suspenders which bring the pants up higher causing more coverage and conveniently concealing my dunlop. So, I asked who I thought was the head judge intending it to be a joke and to show my cleverness:
Me: Can I wear suspenders Saturday?
Him: I don’t know, they’re not part of the official uniform.
Me: So? They keep my pants up, that seems like a good thing.
Him: Let me think about it. I don’t know, I’m going to leave it up to the head judge.
2nd conversation with other guy who was the head judge
Me: Can I wear suspenders Saturday?
Him: It’s not part of the uniform, why are you wearing them?
Me: …to keep my pants up.
Him: I don’t know, let me consult some other judges.
Me: YOU HAVE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME.
Him: Hold on.
Him: Ok, I asked some higher-level judges and we’ve come to a few conclusions. Maybe. First, are they tasteful?
Me: They’re black.
Him: Ok, you may wear them, but there’s disagreement, so we’re not going to allow them at PTQ-level events or higher.
It appears alternate modalities of keeping ones pants now requires a pardon from the president or the pope.
Foons are a Lexan reworking of the spork and they are owned in great quantities by Bucks County Council. They were destine to be the financial savior of the council, but there was one problem, they were olive and they kept getting lost in people’s SwitchBacks, the norovirus-generating pants replacements that are entirely responsible for any drop in participation in Scouting. The two deserve each other.
I previously purchased only private label/store brands from eBay to save money but after running into problems with their inferior quality purchased two pairs of Polo shorts marked as New Without Tags (NWOT). I received them today and felt like a bit of a Philistine as I couldn’t tell if the shorts had actually been used. The ends of the cargo tabs were frayed, the pockets were rubbed in and the webbing was a bit gnarly, but the tell-tale sign of fat-man-abuse of a damaged crotch and stretch marks at the knees weren’t present. They also smelled somewhere between sweat sock and springtime baby rain or some equally dumb smell. The front left pocket contained a small scrap of white paper that had a large 14 written in permanent marker. Either the seller’s trying to fake inspection or the inspectors are damn poor.
I was picking up a piece of trash when I heard the distinctive ripping noise that all self-aware fat men fear. Â It is the noise of inferior stitching, mediocre materials, and a profound embarrassment. Â Oddly, this tear was at my knee, but it slowly grew up my leg as the day progressed and with four hours to go a 8″ air vent at my thigh I new action needed to be taken. Â So, during my lunch break I drove around wildly in Jersey streets I’d never seen in what was going to be a vain effort to get new pants. Â As I stepped into my vehicle the tear extended to a “America’s Funniest Home Videos” level and I had to go for broke. Â When all hope seemed lost I saw in the distance “Nick’s Big and Tall”, a look at my watch showed 4:55 PM giving me 5 minutes to find a way to due a U-turn (stupid jug handles) and buy new pants. Â At 4:59PM I bust through the door wearing my judge striped shirt, polished shoes and pants that look like they had contained a crotch-origined mortar blast and state “I need pants!”. Â The help was quick and efficient and I returned to the venue and no one was the wiser… If you’re a giant man with busted slacks in Tom’s River New Jersey I highly recommend talking to a man call Lorenzo at Nick’s Big and Tall.
I was picking up a piece of trash when I heard the distinctive ripping noise that all self-aware fat men fear. Â It is the noise of inferior stitching, mediocre materials, and a profound embarrassment. Â Oddly, this tear was at my knee, but it slowly grew up my leg as the day progressed and with four hours to go a 8″ air vent at my thigh I new action needed to be taken. Â So, during my lunch break I drove around wildly in Jersey streets I’d never seen in what was going to be a vain effort to get new pants. Â As I stepped into my vehicle the tear extended to a “America’s Funniest Home Videos” level and I had to go for broke. Â When all hope seemed lost I saw in the distance “Nick’s Big and Tall”, a look at my watch showed 4:55 PM giving me 5 minutes to find a way to due a U-turn (stupid jug handles) and buy new pants. Â At 4:59PM I bust through the door wearing my judge striped shirt, polished shoes and pants that look like they had contained a crotch-origined mortar blast and state “I need pants!”. Â The help was quick and efficient and I returned to the venue and no one was the wiser… If you’re a giant man with busted slacks in Tom’s River New Jersey I highly recommend talking to a man call Lorenzo at Nick’s Big and Tall.