Even a Jaguar XK Convertible Couldn't Overcome the Negatives of a 2.5-Hour Delay

I had a Jaguar XK Convertible waiting for me when I arrived at the Atlanta airport from the Ram 1500 event in Nashville last week. It made me happy.

I wasn't prepared to drive a convertible home, which translates: I didn't have a cap with me. But skin cancer be damned, I was going to drop the top. I mean, if you are going to drive a $100,000 convertible -- the actual price with about $8,500 worth of options and delivery charge was $99,350 -- you want to enjoy the whole enchilada.

This is a primo showing-off car. You can't drive it 10 feet without attracting attention. It's 385-horsepower 5-liter V8 is an ass kicker of monumental proportions. It'll push the XK ragtop to 60 miles per hour from a standstill in just over five seconds.

Whether it's the XK's sultry exterior lines or the opulent interior with its yards of supple leather interrupted by real wood accents, the styling is a rare combination of heritage and timelessness.

Because I am a creature of habit, I hang out at a lot of the same places week after week. People know me and know what I do for a living. Wherever I go, someone is bound to ask, "What are driving?" Followed by, "How do you like it?"

If I'm driving a Ford Focus or a Kia Optima, I fully expect the "How do you like it" question.

But a Jaguar XK Convertible...

How do I like it? What answer are they expecting: "It sucks to be me?"

It's a $100,000 XK Convertible for the love of God!

My stock answer to that question this week has been, "What's not to like?" The "Dumbass" tacked on to the end is implied.

I took an uber-early flight out of Nashville that morning with the -- what now seems silly -- idea that I would get back to Greenville in time to get some work done.

I landed in Atlanta and was in the Jag on the road home by 10:30 a.m. My ETA into Greenville was 1 p.m.

Atlanta traffic seems to be in rush-hour mode about 18 hours a day. Unless I have a late-night arrival into the airport, which is south of downtown, I take the eastern half of the I-285 loop that hooks into I-85 northeast of the city.

Things were going beautifully until I hit a wall of stalled traffic about 3 miles from the Georgia-South Carolina border. With less than 50 miles to go to my driveway, I was stuck.

After not moving so much as an inch in 15 or 20 minutes, I pushed the button to put up the top and watched as several mechanisms and servos kicked into action completing the task in about 30 seconds.

Once protected from the sun, I was free to dig around in my suitcase for a bag of honey-roasted peanuts I had liberated from the Ram hospitality suite at the Nashville hotel.

I got out of the Jag and sat on the guardrail next to the highway munching on peanuts, sipping water and watching traffic simply sit in place.

After an hour and a half of this nonsense, the Georgia Highway Patrol finally released traffic, allowing those of us who were so inclined to get off I-85 at the next exit to take the detour they had established around the accident area.

Apparently a bus from what must be the unluckiest bus company in America caught fire as it was motoring east on I-85. This was another Megabus bus. Only a few days earlier another bus from the same company ran into a bridge, killing one passenger and injuring scores of others. "I believe I'll walk; thank-you very much."

I pulled off of I-85 along with hundreds of other drivers. Unfortunately, this mishap occurred at Lake Hartwell. The detour required looping around the lake before reacquiring I-85 near Anderson, SC.

It added about 30 miles to the trip. It was a miserable 30 miles and a total waste of the show-off car I was piloting.

I had to navigate through two or three little piss-ant towns with more traffic lights than residents. It was stop and go almost the entire way. It's what happens when you suddenly increase the flow of traffic by about 500%.

My drive from Atlanta airport to my door typically eats up two and a half hours. On this day, it took over five.

Thankfully I was on my way home from the airport and not on my way to the airport.

I'm still waiting for that day.

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My Trip to Nashville Was All About the Music and the 2013 Ram 1500 Truck

I spent the past two days in Nashville with Dodge -- ooops, I mean Ram -- getting the lowdown on the 2013 Ram 1500. I learned much about this vastly improved truck; unfortunately, I can't share any of it with you.

The Ram folks were very explicit about no one breaking the ride-and-drive embargo, which is something like August 18th. I didn't pay much attention to the embargo announcement; I'm not doing a breaking story on it.

I would, however, like to be able to tell you about the new stuff under its hood, but I can't. I'd also like to tell you all of the areas in which it will be best in class, but I can't do that either. I don't think I would even be allowed to tell you how many times the name "Ram" or the Ram logo appears in, on, under and around the truck, even if I knew the answer. The Ram boys didn't know either, but are supposed to be researching it for me. "A lot," one of them said in response to my question. Are those guys good or what?

I can't even show you a photo of the new truck -- despite the fact that only a committed Ram geek will notice much difference between the 2012 and 2013. In lieu of a photo of the 2013 Ram, here's a photo of an old Dodge truck. It looks nothing like the 2013 Ram. I think I'm allowed to tell you that.

I can tell you that the roads we drove outside of Nashville, were killer. They are the sort of roads designed to test the mettle of agile two-seat sports cars. I had a great time on the drive and that wouldn't have been the case had the truck not been up to the task.

Because I can't share details of the Ram 1500 or provide my driving impressions due to that pesky embargo, you will have to settle for some impressions of Nashville.

Ram put us up at The Hermitage Hotel on Sixth Avenue downtown. It's only about four blocks off of Broadway, Nashville's premier live music avenue.

The Hermitage has been around for over 100 years, but a new owner totally gutted and renovated it a few years ago. It's now a 5 Star hotel. Nice rooms, friendly and attentive employees and an ideal location.

Ram set up a hospitality suite for us where I was introduced to a beer I've never had before: Hap & Harry's Lynchburg Tennessee Lager. Either Hap or Harry -- can't remember which -- was a Daniels of some stripe. I couldn't determine if Jack Daniels has a direct affiliation with this beer, but it was pretty darn good.

After dinner on our first night, four of us moseyed down to Broadway for a little local flavor. We hit a couple of joints: Roberts Western World and Tootsie's Orchid Lounge.

We saw John England and the Western Swingers at Roberts Western World. Sort of Asleep at the Wheel meets Bob Wills. It was good stuff.

We saw two different bands on the downstairs stage at Tootsie's, but because Tootsie's has such a half-assed Web site, I can't tell you either of their names. What I can tell you is, they were both good. We only heard one song from the first group. After 20 minutes of tear down and setup, the second band tore the joint up. The lead singer performed on top of the bar -- strolling up and down it -- for the entire set we watched.

We all fell in love with the fiddle player -- a blonde hottie -- who was celebrating her 24th birthday that very day.

Three of us -- with me in the middle -- were sitting on stools on one side of a high-top; our fourth was sitting at a stool for the high-top next to us. As the clock struck 1 a.m., we were talking about leaving. Suddenly two rather fetching-looking women approached us. One of them walked by the guy on the end and up to me. Her friend stayed on the far side of my buddy.

"We just had to ask you guys what you do," she cooed.

We were the only guys in the joint wearing sport coats.

The words, "I'm an astronaut," had no sooner escaped my lips than all hell broke loose. Two guys at the bar right next to our table got into it. Well, actually one of them got into it and the other just got it.

Within 10 seconds or so, one of them had popped the other guy on the head five or six times with a beer bottle. The guy on the receiving end was staggering around in a daze with blood going everywhere. Eventually the bouncers sprang into action and hustled the hurt guy out the front door, and dragged the aggressor out the back.

The young lady who was no doubt dazzled by thoughts of my experience in space, basically wound up in my lap and the other scrunched up against me. This couldn't have turned out better for me had I paid that shit-kicker 20 bucks to dance on the other guy's head.

Sadly I couldn't take advantage of my unexpected good fortune because our handler hustled us out the door.

I glanced longingly back at the young lady who I am convinced wanted to hear all about my daring deeds as an intergalactic traveler.

Timing is everything.

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Giovanni's in Travelers Rest: Not All That It Was Cracked Up to Be

I just realized I hadn't posted anything here in four days. Yikes!

I have been -- and still am -- covered up in work. It's a good problem to have; but not only does it eat into the time I might otherwise spend blogging, when I write for six or seven hours a day, I just don't feel like sitting down and writing more.

Besides, when I've got this much work, it doesn't leave time for anything of notable interest to happen.

I did go out to dinner with friends on Thursday. It was a spur of the moment event. I was a little tardy getting to their townhouse because, well, I was wrapping up an assignment and didn't want to quit until it was finished.

Arriving at their place, a bottle of red was already open and a full glass sat waiting for me. Don't you just love friends who anticipate your needs. Of course, in my case, that's not a big mystery. But I was burned out and a glass of vino was exactly the correct prescription.

We discussed our dining options and landed on a new Italian place in Travelers Rest called Giovanni's. Most of the Peddler Wednesday Night Irregulars have been there and spoken well of it. I thought it high time I put in an appearance.

Being a last-minute choice, we didn't have reservations, but we all enjoy eating at the bar whenever the opportunity presents itself.

We managed to time our arrival at the bar to coincide perfectly with some folks leaving their seats; we sat down.

The bartender -- Heather was her name -- was in front of us almost before we settled into our seats. With personality galore, she bantered a bit with us and took our order for a bottle of Cannonball Cab.

Looking at the menu, I'd have to say that the fare is more Mediterranean than Italian. There are some Italian-like pasta dishes, but strictly speaking, it isn't Italian.

We ordered some appetizers, along with our dinners. Dinner salads were included with two of our orders. Within five minutes our entrees appeared. I've had that happen in BBQ joints where everything is basically prepared ahead of time and filling an order is simply a matter of plating the food.

I've never had that happen in an "Italian" restaurant. It made me wonder if everything was premade and microwaved as the orders came in.

After the food runner returned to the kitchen we called Heather over and asked about our appetizers and salads. She seemed as confounded as we were.

She rushed into the kitchen to see what was happening and returned to tell us it was all on its way. With that, someone from the kitchen came out to clarify what kind of dressing I wanted on my salad.

All of that came out a couple of minutes later.

My chicken parm was pretty good. It was served with some sort of round pasta noodles covered in an Alfredo-like sauce. It was OK, but not Alfredo.

This place is new, but it's far from brand new. Snafus like the entrees coming out five minutes before the appetizers should be far in their rearview mirror.

We didn't raise a big stink about it; in fact, we were quite understanding. People who have been out with me when things go South, know I can raise a stink. I've seen me do it many times.

We did like Heather and none of us felt like giving her a rough time, but we were surprised that at no time did a manager come by to apologize, and there was not so much as a glimmer of some compensation like a free glass of wine or desert.

It's more than a 30-minute drive for me to get there; neither the food, the service nor even the Heather's personality was good enough to get me to go back any time soon.

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Swarming Bees: Yet Another Good Reason Not to Mow the Dirt

I mowed my dirt yesterday. I'd like to tell you that I did it in a fit of motivation, but that would be untrue. I didn't want to do it; I didn't feel like doing it; but I had to do it.

Since I managed to bring my dandelion problem under control, I have been able to reduce my mowing to once every two weeks. I could make it every three weeks if I could find a crabgrass killer that works as well as the Bayer dandelion killer. Bayer makes a crabgrass killer too, but it's not nearly as effective.

Hence, mowing remains an every-two-week proposition. Ugh...

I was 98% finished when I felt a hot burning sensation on my ankle. I thought maybe I had run over an ant hill or something. Looking down I saw two bees on my one ankle and another circling for a landing.

I reached down and swatted them off, and began running. Two of them were persistent little buggers and followed me for about 30 feet. Finally giving up, they flew back toward the hive.

I sat on my front step, removed my shoe and sock, and checked the damage. No stinger, but a healthy-looking red welt. I said they were bees, but they may have well been yellow jackets. I'm not sure I'd know the difference.

It was certainly more painful than any bee sting I'd had previously.

The last time I mowed, I noticed a couple of bees (or whatever) flitting in and out of a hole located in a depression in my side yard. I didn't pay much attention and obviously forgot about it. Mowing over the area the last time didn't stir up any problems.

Apparently, in the intervening two weeks, a hive developed somewhere in that hole.

I went in the house and retrieved a can of bug-killing fogger. Popping the top, I depressed the button and shoved the can into the hole. Oh, did I mention that I then ran screaming like a little girl? Yes I did.

After a couple of minutes I walked back over and took a look. A swarm of what appeared to be baby bees (or whatever) were buzzing around the hole opening. A couple of hours later, it had been reduced to just one bee.

Because it's been raining like someone should be building an ark since I got up this morning, I haven't checked today.

Maybe I solved and problem and maybe I didn't. If not, this war is far from over.

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A Cuisinart Disaster: How a Food Processor Almost Ruined Saturday Italian Night!

Saturday night is Italian night at Casa de Heaps.

It's the one night of the week when I am in town that I toss caution to the wind and stuff as much food down me as I can without regard for the three Cs: calories, carbs and cholesterol.

It's not that I necessarily deprive myself the rest of the week; it's just that when I wander off my diet the the other six days, I do so with a great deal of remorse.

No, I really do try to take it easy the rest of the week. I rarely eat out unless it's a special occasion or if I have out-of-town company visiting. I almost never eat red meat at home, and I stay away from from breads, sweets and so forth.

So, Italian night is a big deal to me. I look forward to staying in and relaxing. Around 4 or 4:30, I pop the cork on a bottle of red to let it breathe. I pour myself a glass of white and hunker down in my recliner in front of the TV for an evening of gluttony and movie watching.

My Italian entree of choice is spaghetti. I brew my own meat sauce. I make a batch of it and freeze enough for another four or five Saturdays.

I used to use canned tomatoes, frozen chopped onions and pre-chopped canned garlic, but not any more. In December I bought a small Cuisinart 4-cup food processor, and began using fresh tomatoes, onions, garlic and green peppers in the sauce.

I still use canned tomato sauce and paste, but really like the extra flavor using fresh vegetables provides.

Yes, it's more expensive and takes longer, but it's worth it.

This past Saturday was one in which I had to make a batch of sauce. I ran out to the store early -- I shop at Bi-Lo because it's Greenville based -- and bought everything I needed that I didn't already have.

Arriving back home, I threw the tomatoes into a pot of hot water to remove the skins while I began quartering the onion and skinning the garlic to put in the processor.

With the processor filled, I plugged it in and pushed the button: nada! I removed the plug and plugged into another receptacle -- still nothing. I fiddled with it, removing the container of onions and garlic, and then reattaching it. Nope, still not working.

I got a screwdriver, removed the base and looked inside. I might as well have been looking at the guts of an MRI machine. All the wires were attached and nothing looked out of place.

The damn thing worked fine the last time I used it. Crappy piece of, well, crap.

Yep, after about six uses, this Cuisinart hunk of junk simply decided to no longer perform.

I was forced to chop everything by hand. The tomatoes were a real mess. A tsunami of tomato juice rolled off the cutting board toward everything sitting on the counter within a two-foot radius. I thought I might have to put on my galoshes.

It did, however, give me opportunity to really try out my new ceramic knife -- like the ones you see advertised on TV. In fact, it's actually made by the Fuji TV company. Catchy name, no?

It worked great, but using it rather than the Cuisinart processor added about 30 minutes to the preparation.

I haven't owned a lot of Cuisinart products in my life, and my experience with this piece of junk certainly isn't cause to buy anything else with the Cuisinart name on it.

I only paid about $28 for it at Costco. Prorating the cost means I basically rented it for roughly $4.60 each time I used it. Not a budget buster, but not very economical either.

I'm on the market for a new, small processor. I'm looking at Black & Deckers.

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A Little Jazz, a Little Elephant Room and a Lot of the Hyundai Veloster Turbo in Austin

Just returned from Austin -- Texas that is.

It's a little tree huggy for me, but I love visiting.

Happily this trip included a Wednesday night. Wednesdays are good because the Jazz Pharaohs play the

Elephant room on Wednesdays and have for more than 20 years. My buddy Winker took me there the first time I visited him probably 15 or more years ago.

Also happily, Hyundai put us up at the W Hotel, which is only a couple of blocks from the Elephant Room.

I was there to drive the new Hyundai Veloster Turbo, as well as the Elantra Coupe and Elantra GT. I must admit, I sort of blew off the Coupe. There was only the opportunity to drive two cars on the ride-and-drive route. The third car was left for the 10 minute loop around the hotel when we returned. I drove the two cars I really wanted to drive on the route, so I'll wait until until the Coupe shows up in my driveway for a week to drive it.

I was mightily impressed with the Veloster Turbo. It was a blast to drive.

Hyundai beefed up its appearance both inside and out. The front leather-covered seats are killer.

With a starting price of just under $22,000, it uses a 201-horsepower 1.6-liter four-cylinder turbo-charged engine for its giddy-up.

It handles great with good brakes and responsive steering.

Simply a blast to drive.

But enough business....

After the ride and drive, several of us showered, changed and embarked to the Elephant Room. We arrived there around 4:45 PM. The joint was deserted except for a server and a bartender: no patrons, no barflies, no Jazz Pharaohs. WTF!

I could have sworn it said live music from "4 til 8" on the Web site. What the heck was going on?

As it turns out, the band doesn't begin until 6. I went back to the Elephant Room Web site before starting this blog to see exactly where I went wrong. What they've done is connect two separate thoughts in basically the same sentence. It reads: Live Music Nightly, Happy Hour 4-8 p.m.

I blame myself. My buddies were less than happy with me, but I avoided a lynching by buying the first round.

Yes, we did what any self-respecting group of guys would do: We sat down and poured a few beers down us as we waited.

The band started on schedule and they were well worth the wait. Shy a few members, it wasn't as good a show as I've heard from them, but still great.

We enjoyed about 40 minutes of music before we had to adjourn for dinner with the rest of the group. Hyundai went above and beyond the call of duty by directing the bus to dinner to swing by and pick us up. Otherwise, we would have had to cut our listening time in half to walk back to the hotel.

I love it when a plan comes together!

If you are ever in Austin and want to hear some great music in a joint in the basement of an office building that's so dark you can't see from one end to the other, it's the Elephant Room.

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Cracking Up: My Home's Drywall Needs Some Work

My latest home-repair project, er, debacle involves patching some cracks in my drywall.

Precariously balanced on a hill, my old house is suffering from some serious settling. It's not sufficiently severe to crack the foundation, but it is doing a number on my interior walls.

I've been looking at some of these fissures for three years or more. Finally, I thought, enough is enough.

I'm not tackling all of them. I would, but I don't have the motivation to paint all of the main-level walls and all that that entails: moving furniture and so forth.

So I settled for repairing the cracks on two walls. When finished -- should that day ever come -- I will paint these walls and the one connecting them a contrasting color to what the rooms are now painted. I have that color all picked out; that was the easy part.

I am at least somewhat capable of doing a passable patching job. The secret to repairing cracks in drywall is using several uber-thin coats of mud and sanding each thoroughly. With each coat, use a wider knife, and things should turn out all right.

My problem is that every time I think I'm ready to paint, I find another crack I hadn't noticed. I'm beginning to believe that I will never be done.

Find a new crack, drag out all the drywall-finishing paraphernalia, then mud and sand for another three days.

I'm tired of the mess and cleaning up after every application of mud is a real pain in the...well, it's just not much fun.

In fact, I was going to skip blogging today, but decided that the longer I sit at my keyboard, the longer I can put of working on this damn drywall project.

So much for that strategy....

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