Ad Libbing

Antique ... or made to just look that way?

2016-06-16T10:23:00.000-04:00

So I say to the lady from Craigslist: "Is this really an antique chair? I mean, it doesn't look that old."
She says: "I think so."
Ad: "I'll give you $50 instead of $100."
Lady: "Uhm. Okay."

I take it home to reupholster the seat, and this is what I find beneath the fabric:

Horsehair and hay and grass.

I'm no furniture expert. But I'm thinking this is antique!

How short should grown men's shorts be?

2016-05-24T13:04:00.001-04:00

To this day, a blog I wrote more than five years ago about the length of men's shorts continues to be the most-read blog post at adhudler.com. Obviously, there's some confusion on the matter, and guys (or their wives) are looking for advice.

At the time, I said that grown men over the age of thirty should not be wearing the rapper-length shorts that almost look like baggy capris. (If they did so, they looked like they were trying to emulate their sons, trying to appear younger.) Grown men, especially we suburban men, could wear chino shorts that were cut above the knee. And we did -- that's exactly what we wore -- and our sons and daughters teased us about our hairy, exposed thighs. If you saw a man wearing above-the-knee shorts you knew he was over thirty, certainly over forty. But we were cool in hot weather and we went about our way.

Turn to today: A friend of mine came by for a visit this week. I opened the door, wearing shorts -- and she said, "Oh! You're wearing boy shorts!"

Yep...some time over the past two years -- and I witnessed this as a mega-hotel concierge -- the length of young men's shorts crept above the knee. Mid-thigh, actually. And now I look like I'm trying to dress young!

Oh, well ... fashion is fickle, and some day young men will be wearing those stupid-looking rapper shorts once again... and I, wearing my mid-thigh Lands End chinos, will be the subject of laughter.

Bring it on, boys!

Nashville Bachelorette Scene #52

2016-05-13T10:22:00.000-04:00

As I work with designers and editors to get my first Nashville-based novel out to the world -- title: "Cashville" -- I'm going to start sharing little scenes from the work in progress. This one shows a group of singer-songwriters cringing as a rowdy bachelorette party invades their favorite bar:

Suddenly, the doors burst open. Along with a blast of humid air blew in a cacophony of drunken women’s voices …
“Ohmygod it’s so humid!” … “I’m so hungry!” … “I gotta pee! You guys! I gotta pee!” … “Okay, go pee!” … “Where’s the hostess? I mean, is this place even open?”
The group of musicians sat, stone-still and quiet, like rodents trying to avoid detection from birds of prey.
The waitresses pushed three tables together to accommodate the ladies.
Gwendolyn had been counting. “Twenty-nine of them!” she said. “That just defies logic. Think of the logistics they’ve been battling with all weekend just to eat. Who in hell would travel in a group that large?”
The musicians did their best to ignore the girls, but as the three rounds of tequila shots began to take effect the volume and pitch of the girls’ voices began swelling. It got worse when they broke into several different conversation clusters. All it took was one loud girl to push a domino effect into play: the girls next to her, unable to hear her own conversation, would start talking louder, and then the girls next to those girls would have to talk even louder, and so on and so on. And, then, someone, feeling uncomfortably too much like a wallflower, would feel the need to turn the stoplight on herself with an exclamation designed to climb atop every conversation in the room: “Oh! My! God!” … “Waaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” … “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHH!” And then every conversation would ratchet up one notch louder.
Gwendolyn shook her head. “They sound like mad turkeys in a tin shed,” she said.

Presenting: The Elevator Pitch for my next book!

2016-04-07T16:50:00.000-04:00

Cash Reynolds is a jaded, Hipster bellman at the Cumberland Plaza Hotel in downtown Nashville, and when he gets fired for sleeping with the guests for money he starts a company – NashvilleGirlfriendWeekend.com – that proves to be the genesis of Music City’s unraveling.

While Cash is getting rich, the city’s crowds of women grow bigger and crazier. They dance on tables in restaurants and have sex in elevators. They leave trails of “penis glitter” all around town. Realizing that bottomless mimosas are replacing the music as the true draw to their city, the singer-songwriters of Nashville organize and begin to fight back. And just when you think they’ve lost the battle, in comes Clay Allen, seven-time Grammy winner and old-school country artist, who is yanked out of his retirement and drunken stupor by the arrival of TMZ in his once-quiet city.

Meanwhile, the mayor of Oklahoma City, sensing opportunity, moves in to seize from Nashville the title of Country Music Capital of the World. The people of Nashville band together with their nemesis to conjure up an idea that will save their city and change tourism forever.

Stop calling ... or else!

2016-03-23T15:38:00.000-04:00

Though I've lived in Nashville for nearly five years I still have my cell number from Fort Myers. Now and then, someone from southwest Florida will call me mistakenly ... and they usually hang up and leave no message.

Well....Mr./Ms. 239-494-3123 will not stop calling me. He/she has called about a half dozen times, even though I've identified myself via text after each call.

Today, this was my response:

Stop calling me or I will begin texting you pornographic images of myself that you will never be able to erase from your mind.

Sanitized for your protection

2016-03-16T10:01:00.002-04:00

'Found this in our Florida motel room a few weeks ago:

New in hospitality:
As the sign promises, "Making your world a CLEAN WORLD. The CLEAN REMOTE has been designed specifically to make it easy to clean and disinfect. This is just another of our many efforts to ensure ... A MORE COMFORTABLE STAY FOR YOU AND YOUR FAMILY."

Kind of reminds me of this:

I feel very safe and ... clean.
Which reminds me of Mr. Clean.
Which reminds me of the year I wanted to dress up as Mr. Clean for Halloween ... although my muffin top made this impossible because Mr. Clean is FIT.
I went to Dillards and asked, "Do they have anything like Spanx for guys?"
Said the male sales clerk: "Man Spanx! I've got some on right now!"
I tried them on. It took me nearly ten minutes to get out of them. It did hide my muffin top. It also bruised my kidneys.
"Are you okay in there?" yelled the clerk over the transom of the dressing room.
I never put them on again.
Until my biometric screening at work this past year, when I knew they'd be measuring my waist.
I passed with flying colors ... though my boss failed his biometric measurement.
"You need one of these," I said, unbuttoning my shirt to reveal my secret.

Life Lesson in Consumerism #443378R45

2016-02-02T10:01:00.000-05:00

Sign that you picked the wrong toilet paper:

Beyond sheer.

And, since I bought it at Costco, we'll run out of it in ... oh ... nineteen months or so.

A word of advice for future Hudler-household guests: BYOTP

Houskeeping Secret #554R2: How to clean crystal glassware

2016-01-20T10:45:00.000-05:00

My wife and I like to entertain, and, being Southerners for most of our adult lives, we like to do it up right. This means crystal glassware, of course.

Problem: streaking due to hand-washing. (There's always some microscopic bit of grease in there somewhere!)

Solution: dissolvable dishwasher pods.

As the sink fills with warm water hold one of the pods under the running water. A very-cool thing happens: the plastic melts, and the pod of liquid and powder dissolves right before your eyes. Let your young children do this part for you -- it's that cool!

Wash and rinse as normal. The water feels very slippery, so be careful with that crystal, but you will have absolutely no streaks in your glassware.

Linc Menner, protagonist of Househusband, would be proud!

Lost in translation?

2016-01-07T14:53:00.003-05:00

'Just saw this ad that promotes tourism in Equador:

On one hand, clever: using the interesting hide of an alligator to suggest the earth's topography. On the other hand ... isn't it a little scary?

... inviting someone to come romp through your lovely country that could, at any second, turn on you and eat you up?

Unpredictable dictators, dengue fever, anacondas, hungry natives ...

Oh, the metaphors!

Wanda, Me, and The Reluctant Ice-maker

2015-07-17T11:31:00.000-04:00

We have an automatic ice maker in the 'fridge that is either lazy or stupid. Twice we've had to get it replaced because it would stop making ice for long periods of time. For several days there would be no ice at all and then ..... clatterclatterkerplunkfssshhhhhh

WHOA THERE! ... Yes! ... It's awake!!!! ... look at this CORNUCOPIA of ice!!!

And then, inexplicably, it would stop again. Sometimes it would work for an hour. Sometimes for a week.

Ice is a big deal in our house because cocktails are a big deal. So I bought three ice-cube trays as a backup. Now ... here's the odd part: Whenever we give up on the machine and start using ice trays, then she (he?) decides to kick in and start making ice, as if rising to a challenge.

We've even started trash-talking him/her to egg him/her on: "We don't even need you. We LIKE the tray ice cubes better because they're bigger."

clatterclatterkerplunkfssshhhhhh

My mother-in-law's spirit having fun with me?

Wanda?

Is that you?

Are you trying to tell me I'm drinking too much?

Yes, you may tip the concierge

2015-03-16T00:49:00.001-04:00

As many of you know, besides writing my books I also work as a concierge in a large luxury hotel. (This is providing excellent fodder for my novel-in-progress) This week we are hosting a group of executives from an industry my wife used to work in, and I know many of them. So ... since we are friends/acquaintances, feel free to heed my advice:

Yes, it is good to tip the concierge. $20 if he gets you a good rez at a popular restaurant, $50 if he walks your dog while you're out partying, $5 if he simply looks cute and/or handsome as he types out your boarding pass.

Also, at the end of your stay you will get an email survey. Feel free to cut and paste the following:

"The hot, bald concierge was perfect in his performance. He made my Nashville experience MEMORABLE in every way, and because of him we are thinking of staying in your hotel every time we come to town, and we are going to write an incredibly cheery review on TripAdvisor.com You def need to give this man a huge raise and consider giving him a private assistant so he can do even more!

Beauty and the Beast: Alternate Ending #2

2015-02-21T13:30:00.001-05:00

Oh, no! Apparently the beast is going to remain a beast for All Time!

A Sneak Peek of my first Nashville book ...

2015-02-09T12:05:00.000-05:00

Here's the description of the security guard at the hotel who's breaking up a fight between two bachelorette parties at the pool:

Patrice Runnels was six feet tall, weighing in around 250, with gold-capped front teeth and hair piled up in a malformed beehive, circa 1970s Dolly Parton, with straightened, stiff tendrils that hung down the sides of her cheeks, bracing her face like big parentheses. Her breasts, somewhere between honeydew and small watermelon, were so large, almost surreal, they’d crossed the line from feminine to male, giving an air of muscle and foreboding.

Can you tell I use a tanning salon? (If you have to ask, the answer is yes.)

2014-12-21T11:02:00.001-05:00

My job is a perfect fit for a fiction writer. As a luxury-hotel concierge I speak with hundreds of people each day -- and, from behind my desk, I watch thousands. I spot patterns and trends and behaviors. During slow times, I dream up back-stories about the people I see.

I've come to realize how adept we humans are at the art of self-deception, all in the name of vanity and self-esteem:

*Remember the Comb-over? The guys who would grow their hair very long on one side of the head, then flip it over the shiny, hairless scalp, covering the bald middle and coming to rest on the other side, like a blanket of hair? Well, the new version of this is called the Stand-up. Guys keep the hair cut short then gel it so it stands on end, as if they've been electrified. (Perhaps this is intended to represent virility?) Gentlemen, I regret to inform you that you're actually accentuating your baldness. You may look in the mirror and see a full head of hair, but what the rest of us see is an act of futility.

*And to those who use tanning beds: Ladies, your skin looks orange-caramel, as if you're glowing from within. It does not resemble a natural tan in the least. It does not say "Palm Beach." It says, "Tanning Salon in the Strip Mall by the DSW Shoes."

*My own vain lie: I try to suck my gut in most of the day, but I realize from occasional photographs that I am failing miserably at this. (Can the pulling-my-pants-up-to-my-sternum-to-"hide"-my-gut be far behind?) Ditto with my double chin. I have to wear a tie to work, which constricts the flesh of my neck. When I am looking down at the computer, typing, and I feel the attractive guest looking at me, I think, "Well, I've still got it!" But what she's really thinking is: I hope my husband never lets himself go like that."

Behold the new Hipster trend

2014-11-17T11:28:00.000-05:00

Because of its huge creative class -- and an abundance of direct flights to both NYC and LA -- Nashville often sets trends. Many call it America's Third Coast. It had a popular speakeasy bar even before the first one popped up in New York. The cupcake-shop phase hit here 10 years ago and, while popular elsewhere, it has grown stale in this town. Our Entrepreneur Center, which helps train young adults in getting their businesses off the ground, is burning so ferociously that the leaders from Berlin, Germany came to visit, and Google has set up shop in Nashville to help them.

Which brings me to Hipsters: those anti-establishment, bearded and pierced and well-flanneled food snobs. (And the male version of hipster is usually very skinny, even wears skinny jeans. They are the Un-Jocks.)

Until now. Something is happening.

I've seen a trend in the two gyms I frequent here in Music City. And what I'm seeing is a growing number of hipsters on the free-weight floor. (And, yes, some of them work out in their flannel shirts). I'm not sure what this means. Is Hipsterism dying? Is it morphing into something else? And please note the significance of seeing them on the free-weight floor instead of the weight-machine room. The latter is for toning, the former is for getting big.

At any rate, it's intrigued me enough that I'm working it into my book-in-progress.

Blue Gold

2014-10-14T15:30:00.001-04:00

My newspaper columnist mother writes about her life with the bravery of a warrior. She sometimes writes about cringe-able moments like "getting my boobs smashed" at her annual mammogram. Once, shortly after she quit smoking decades ago, she publicly shared how her gynocologist, in the middle of giving my mom her pap smear, raised her head and remarked, "Joy! You've quit smoking! When were you going to tell me!" (Evidently, she could tell by the state of my mother's tissue.)

So ... in Hudler fashion, I present you with this report on Viagra.

It's a wonderful drug, a wonderful EXPENSIVE drug, and while I have not found it necessary in my post-50 years I have found it ... umh ... helpful. And since my wife's previous employer's health insurance covered a good chunk of the cost of the prescription, I thought nothing about it.

Then, she retired. And we started using my employer's health insurance, which apparently doesn't cover such elective prescriptions.

"It's, uhm, $219," said the twenty-something young woman behind the counter. (She actually cringed when she said it.)

"What!?" I blurted. "I don't need two hundred of them."

"It's, uhm...that's, uhm, the price for ... six."

"Six. ... Sixty?"

"Uhm...six ... Do you have any questions?"

"Yeah ... how many more years until that patent runs out?"

From my truck, I texted my wife: "Please tell me that we are worth $36.40 a pop."

"I'd pay $50," she answered.

And here they are, in all their splendor, displayed in a manner they so justly deserve:

Inexplicable Dislike #335R2

2014-09-28T14:34:00.000-04:00

'Not sure why, but I've always hated seeing this in my own house (No offense, darlin'... really, I do like you helping around the kitchen, but...)

A wet dish rag resting on the isthmus (look it up here; great word) of the sink. Maybe I don't like it because it reminds me of the doilies grannies used to put on the backs of their sofas. Or is it because Our Nanny From Hell, described in "Househusband," did this every single day?

It's a mystery for sure.

Amazing-but-true Animal Feats! Example #225E5

2014-09-24T11:15:00.001-04:00

Submitted by a reader: These photos of a very-smart bunny engrossed in one of my books.
'Even turns the pages by himself, although he does need a little help holding it up.

(Give that bunny a carrot, Taylor!)

No, it's not your imagination

2014-09-02T10:52:00.001-04:00

I smell something fishy in the men's hygiene department:
1. Deodorant sticks are being made shorter. (They run out much sooner than they used to.)
2. Bar soap is being formulated to evaporate much more quickly. (Remember when a bar of soap used to last months instead of weeks?)
3. The bristles on Sonicare toothbrushes are wearing down and disintegrating faster than they used to.
4. Toothpaste tubes are not as full as they used to be.

We are witnessing a covert operation of deception: manufacturers of hygiene goods have crossed the line of greed.

I am onto you.

I'm about to go all Michael Moore on your ass!

Ask the Concierge: Question #447A

2014-08-30T12:08:00.000-04:00

What is the most-often-forgotten item that hotel guests fail to pack?

Hoarding for the Incandescent Apocalypse

2014-08-26T11:50:00.000-04:00

First, they phase out the 75-watt.
Now, they're phasing out the 65- and 40-watt.
I refuse to give up the warm, irreplaceable glow of incandescent.
With respect to Charleston Heston: "I'll give you my incandescents when you pry them from my cold, dead hands."

Monkey Business

2014-08-22T16:15:00.001-04:00

....that's the name I've given my bathroom. I got to choose my own wallpaper.

It's become obvious over the past few years that not everyone shares my enthusiasm for it.

At any rate, I need to install a new shower valve, which means someone must cut a hole in the wall, which makes me very sad. I can't replace the wallpaper. It was on clearance. Discontinued. Imagine that.

So, a hole must be made. I'm hoping for a teeny tiny hole, please.

Dear Craigslist: Looking for someone who specializes in arthroscopic plumbing.

How to tell when you have a drinking problem ...

2014-08-19T10:34:00.001-04:00

Working as concierge in a huge hotel in a bustling entertainment district, I've learned something wonderful about myself, something that makes me sigh with relief ... and please take note, dear wife: Evidently, I don't have a drinking problem after all!

The proof:
I do not vomit on lobby floors.
I do not kiss strangers in elevators.
I do not lose my telephone while trawling the bars of lower Broadway.
I do not run around hotel hallways in my underwear.
I do not pass out, naked, in hallways wearing nothing but a cardigan sweater.

Yes, bartender, thank you -- I will have another.

Sexy New Word

2014-08-08T11:39:00.000-04:00

Reading Tom Wolfe's "Back to Blood" right now and came across a word I've never seen: lubricious. Say it out loud -- it even sounds sexy.

And sexy it is: Lubricious: Offensively displaying or intended to arouse sexual desire. Smooth and slippery with oil or a similar substance.

BTW: My favorite feature of a Kindle is how you can set the cursor on a word, and a New Oxford American Dictionary definition pops up. So easy. So enlightening. So exciting.

Almost, downright ... lubricious.

Googling the Concierge

2014-06-13T10:19:00.004-04:00

Three or four times a week a guest will come up to me and say, "You didn't tell me you were an author!"

Sometimes, they go right upstairs to their room, download an Ad Hudler book onto their Kindle, and start reading.

One phone call, late one night while I was working the desk: "Ad... this is Mrs. BLANK ... Why did you kill Ellis? He was so sweet! Why did he have to die?"

Another woman came up to me one day and asked me to compare two restaurants. I gave her the pros and cons of each one, and then she asked, "But which one would Donna pick?"

"Donna?" I asked.

"Donna Kabel. The Kroger produce girl in your book. Which restaurant do you think she'd like?"