Week 93: 1947 Chevy Fleetline

Week 93: Guest photographer, Racer A, age 5.

This blue Fleetline looks like a father to me - classic, sporty yet old, playful yet with furrowed brows.

I had a great Father's Day, and was able to to go out to dinner with my wife and kids, including my oldest son, who is 22 and doesn't have a nickname on this blog. If he requests one I will come up with something, but for now he is simply Spencer. Spencer's girlfriend, a talented artist and all around nice person, also joined us.

We went to a restaurant / tavern in Cleveland Heights called The Winking Lizard, a place I often frequented before moving to Geauga County. We went for pizza and wings, but even with what one might assume to be safe fare, dinner excursions with kids always hold the potential to go awry. In the the time it takes a piece of pizza to travel from your plate to your mouth, a peaceful family dinner can explode into complaining, crying, tantrums, sprinkler systems going off, even a green olive in the eye. You just don't know what you're going to get.

This time, however, I got a smiling crew with no tears or fights (and I'm not just saying this because I was able to hoist a nice pint, either). A table behind me had a huge family gathering, and three minutes after we were seated one of the kids, leaning back on his chair, tumbled backwards and smackered his head on the floor. He was okay, but, it could have been my table, and it wasn't. Now that's a happy Father's Day.

After finishing up our dinner, Spencer and I began talking about spicy foods, and it finally led to us ordering six Magma wings, the hottest wings on the menu. The deal was we both would eat three.

My wife was concerned, and asked if I wanted a glass of milk on hand. My son and I shook our heads and sighed a laugh. She just didn't understand the unspoken rules of hot foods and guys -- the wings would need to be way higher up on the Scovil scale to make it respectable for milk. There are rules, people.

The wings came and we launched in, both experiencing a mild disappointment after our first wing when we realized that, while hot, it wasn't that bad. Then we began our second wing.

I'm not going to lie -- there was a delay to the burn.

Baby G, amazed at the bravery
of father and son. I was going
to Photoshop the food out of
his mouth, but didn't. My

One piece of celery, folks. And notice
I'm pacing my beer.

Spencer, nonchalantly
checking to make sure his
lips are still there. 
Photographed in Spencer-vision
as the heat from wing three
blurs his vision.

Racer A (left) receiving expert tips in the post game hot wing
eating event. Racer Z (right), possibly thinking idiots.

Yes, I had a great Father's Day. I don't do a lot of traditional guy things, particularly since I'm not a sports fan person, so getting to eat crazy hot wings washed down with a beer was wonderful, and, as I only ate three, I could also feel sensible.

And when all was said and done, the wings weren't that hot. I wonder how Spencer would feel about going for Quaker Steak and Lube's Triple Atomic?

No, maybe not, and if we do, I will order a glass of milk.

The rules, while unwritten, state it's okay.

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