Ravyn is my hero
I have been shown the way... the truth... and the light. Homestarrunner.com is the revolutionary work of genetically enhanced Flash animators, whose oversized brains will give you such tantalizing delights as Email Strong Bad. These things will make your day 99 1/44% better. Just like Dove soap... in the butthole.
Tuesday
Cabin Fever
Day two: my bathrobe is making me itchy. I may have developed bed sores. I keep hearing the voice of my dead grandmother calling out to me.
"Daaaaveeey.... it's time to get up."
No... NO.... NO! hALLUcinations continUE.
I am still sick... I am still mostly bedridden... ridden with bed... I have almosted finished Stranger in a Strange Land... I have almost grokked it's entirety... except for the hippie love bits... I am still trying to grok those.
Normally I detest these little online tests... bah... bahahah.. detest the tests... tests I detest..... but my weakness of will let my boredom take over... I have come to find:
"Which Donnie Darko character are you?" by Shay
I'm not too sure if I'm surprised with this result at the moment...
True story... today... while I was alone in my house... I was pooping... and I swear on my Gamecube that I heard someone typing on my keyboard. I'm just really glad that I was already pooping when I heard it.
Day two: my bathrobe is making me itchy. I may have developed bed sores. I keep hearing the voice of my dead grandmother calling out to me.
"Daaaaveeey.... it's time to get up."
No... NO.... NO! hALLUcinations continUE.
I am still sick... I am still mostly bedridden... ridden with bed... I have almosted finished Stranger in a Strange Land... I have almost grokked it's entirety... except for the hippie love bits... I am still trying to grok those.
Normally I detest these little online tests... bah... bahahah.. detest the tests... tests I detest..... but my weakness of will let my boredom take over... I have come to find:
"Which Donnie Darko character are you?" by Shay
I'm not too sure if I'm surprised with this result at the moment...
True story... today... while I was alone in my house... I was pooping... and I swear on my Gamecube that I heard someone typing on my keyboard. I'm just really glad that I was already pooping when I heard it.
Monday
Oi vay...
So, I'm at home nursing some yogurt and wishing my nose would stop running. The floor next to my side of the bed is covered in wads of kleenex. It looks as if a tiny army was trying to raid a castle using catapults filled with soggy tissue.
Alicia was kind enough to loan me three dollars before leaving for work today for the purpose of purchasing soup from the deli next door, but I've decided to opt out. Anything that requires me to get out of my bathrobe doesn't seem worth the effort.
On another note, visited Yur's over the weekend. This bar quickly wormed it's way into my heart and layed it's eggs. The waitstaff was helluva friendly, and the Pabst was exceedingly reasonable in price. I hear the jukebox is free plus they have two tournament sized pool tables. All this I never got a chance to visit since my ass was lovingly caressed by one of the many overstuffed black vinyl booths, and the siren song of PBR was drawing my full attention. Four star drinkin', baby.
Well, that's 'bout it for now. Think I'm gonna go dose up again on Robitussin and watch The Wizard of Oz while listening to Dark Side of the Moon.
So, I'm at home nursing some yogurt and wishing my nose would stop running. The floor next to my side of the bed is covered in wads of kleenex. It looks as if a tiny army was trying to raid a castle using catapults filled with soggy tissue.
Alicia was kind enough to loan me three dollars before leaving for work today for the purpose of purchasing soup from the deli next door, but I've decided to opt out. Anything that requires me to get out of my bathrobe doesn't seem worth the effort.
On another note, visited Yur's over the weekend. This bar quickly wormed it's way into my heart and layed it's eggs. The waitstaff was helluva friendly, and the Pabst was exceedingly reasonable in price. I hear the jukebox is free plus they have two tournament sized pool tables. All this I never got a chance to visit since my ass was lovingly caressed by one of the many overstuffed black vinyl booths, and the siren song of PBR was drawing my full attention. Four star drinkin', baby.
Well, that's 'bout it for now. Think I'm gonna go dose up again on Robitussin and watch The Wizard of Oz while listening to Dark Side of the Moon.
Thursday
Ode to Donald
So, I know this guy who goes by Donnie.
He's a friend to you and a friend to me.
Once long ago, when Donnie was wee,
Donnie was bitten! By a monkey!
Bit on the thumb to the monkey's delight!
Bit on the thumb, such a terrible sight!
His mother shrieked and his father yelled!
They called the cops, and the monkey was jailed.
Thrown in a cell under lock and key,
he dreamt of bananas and those days carefree.
And then came the day for the monkey's release.
He had a tattoo and four types of fleas!
He hopped on a bus, bound for the train.
He looked out the window and sighed this refrain.
It was something he learned from Father O'shea,
a poem to walk the Lord's path without stray.
"A monkey I am, and a monkey I'll stay.
There ain't no cure for a wicked monkey's way.
I bites me some thumbs when I gets the itch,
but time in the hole is a sonuvabitch."
So, I know this guy who goes by Donnie.
He's a friend to you and a friend to me.
Once long ago, when Donnie was wee,
Donnie was bitten! By a monkey!
Bit on the thumb to the monkey's delight!
Bit on the thumb, such a terrible sight!
His mother shrieked and his father yelled!
They called the cops, and the monkey was jailed.
Thrown in a cell under lock and key,
he dreamt of bananas and those days carefree.
And then came the day for the monkey's release.
He had a tattoo and four types of fleas!
He hopped on a bus, bound for the train.
He looked out the window and sighed this refrain.
It was something he learned from Father O'shea,
a poem to walk the Lord's path without stray.
"A monkey I am, and a monkey I'll stay.
There ain't no cure for a wicked monkey's way.
I bites me some thumbs when I gets the itch,
but time in the hole is a sonuvabitch."
Monday
Wanna get high?
Ever have a conversation with someone and realize just how much you don't know about 'em? How a sentence or two can completely deconstruct a previously built (and up until then previously infallible) image of someone's personality? And how quickly we are to assemble a new representation to replace the old.
Like busy little ants after someone threw a car tire on their home.
Random thoughts for the day.
HEY! Quit looking at porn! Look at this instead.
Now mister hand down his pants, how is this going to change you?
Will it?
Should it?
I guess maybe it's a little late to not seem preachy.. sorry, guess I was doing some mental spring cleaning and found my soapbox.
Ever have a conversation with someone and realize just how much you don't know about 'em? How a sentence or two can completely deconstruct a previously built (and up until then previously infallible) image of someone's personality? And how quickly we are to assemble a new representation to replace the old.
Like busy little ants after someone threw a car tire on their home.
Random thoughts for the day.
HEY! Quit looking at porn! Look at this instead.
Now mister hand down his pants, how is this going to change you?
Will it?
Should it?
I guess maybe it's a little late to not seem preachy.. sorry, guess I was doing some mental spring cleaning and found my soapbox.
Friday
Thursday
Butterflies
So, I'm both a little excited and a little nervous. I don't deal well with change.. unless it's hugely, dramatically out of my control. I've been comfortably working part time from five to nine Monday thru Friday with my little alternate Saturdays of doom. This is a very warm and familiar rut I've dug myself into.
-Work
-Drink
-Sleep
-Treat Hangover
-Repeat
But recently, I've come to the conclusion that I'm po' white trash. I specifically came to that conclusion when I couldn't even afford a twenty five cent game of pool exactly one week after pay day. So yesterday I put in a shift bid for full time.
And today I got it.
Eight hours a day. Eight hours a day that I will never have back. And I'm nervous about it. Pretty much anyone, even if they're as lazy as me, can do a part time gig standing on their heads.. but I have serious commitment issues with employment. Sorry, but I just don't like to deal with corporate bullshit. I don't like having to watch executives run around in circles for three months just so they come to a decision that they can save money by switching to non reusable, non biodegradable coffee cups.
And it's everywhere! Rampant! I bet ditch diggers get middle-managed to death, too..
Anyways.. for those of you who know and love me, I'm sure I'll be reading a few comments that sound a bit like, "It's about time" or "don't kill yourself" and I suppose it's true nuff and well deserved...
But deep down I think you're all jealous.. ;)
So, I'm both a little excited and a little nervous. I don't deal well with change.. unless it's hugely, dramatically out of my control. I've been comfortably working part time from five to nine Monday thru Friday with my little alternate Saturdays of doom. This is a very warm and familiar rut I've dug myself into.
-Work
-Drink
-Sleep
-Treat Hangover
-Repeat
But recently, I've come to the conclusion that I'm po' white trash. I specifically came to that conclusion when I couldn't even afford a twenty five cent game of pool exactly one week after pay day. So yesterday I put in a shift bid for full time.
And today I got it.
Eight hours a day. Eight hours a day that I will never have back. And I'm nervous about it. Pretty much anyone, even if they're as lazy as me, can do a part time gig standing on their heads.. but I have serious commitment issues with employment. Sorry, but I just don't like to deal with corporate bullshit. I don't like having to watch executives run around in circles for three months just so they come to a decision that they can save money by switching to non reusable, non biodegradable coffee cups.
And it's everywhere! Rampant! I bet ditch diggers get middle-managed to death, too..
Anyways.. for those of you who know and love me, I'm sure I'll be reading a few comments that sound a bit like, "It's about time" or "don't kill yourself" and I suppose it's true nuff and well deserved...
But deep down I think you're all jealous.. ;)
Tuesday
Friday
Coffee And TV
So, I'm up late last nite watching the Terminator on TNT, when I'm reminded of a past scientific discovery. Check it; this chick in the movie who's about three and a half minutes away from being killed by Arnold (Who, upon reflection, shaved his eyebrows for the part) is in the kitchen dancing around in her undies listening to some god awful music on her headphones (I think it was Casio keyboard selection #182). What is the reason for this prancing about half naked in the kitchen? This unordained using of celery stalks as imaginary drumsticks while her boyfriend is quietly snoozing?
She just had unprotected sex.
"But Dave!" you may say. "I get sleepy and slip off to dreams filled with leggy Swedish women bearing pitchers of Pabst!"
Ah, that's because my dear friend, you are male. And based upon my theory you are having the natural reaction, which is to drop your sweet drooling face into your pillow eight seconds after orgasm. Now, the basis of my theory is such: sperm is loaded to the gills with a very highly concentrated form of caffeine. Ever spent the day masturbating to Mary Kate and Ashley videos and just feel so worn out you can barely hit the slow-mo button again? It's because that pile of kleenex on the floor is housing the only form of motivation we as men posess.
Now, once again, this is a simple fact. After the male orgasm, said male will generally fall asleep. Which brings us back to our original case study. The girl with the teased hair that's roughly *checks his watch* 45 seconds away from being shot in the back by a cyborg from the future.
Why is she so vibrant? So alive? The answer lies in the powder keg of seminal energy that's being burned off by her body. As she's dancing around in her Marky Mark undies, her body is doing it's best to break down this influx of added stimulant and trying to regain a natural balance (Side note: look into why she is making the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Peanut juices may be an undiscovered sedative used to help negate the natural chemical reactions). Simply put, she's high on the love.
Now ladies, you may ask me why you don't leap out of bed a-tap tap tappin' your way to the fridge after you've had unprotected sex. This is due to the common male affliction known as "lazy sperm". You may have heard that term from "thirtysomething" or some other equally melodramatic television show where one whiny bitch is complaining about not being able to knock up another whiny bitch. Lazy sperm is sperm that is not heavily fortified with this distilled form of caffeine. It's sperm that likes to watch TeeVee with it's hand down it's pants and an open bag of Cheetos.
Uh oh.. our case study is running down the hallway and.. ooh, yesss, there's the shotgun blast to the spinal column.
And so this concludes our case study into the stimulant known as spermatoza, please check back with us tomorrow when we take a look into bedwetting. Fact? Or gnomes who like to put my hand in warm water?
Wait, I mean.. no, not my hand... I only meant...
Shit.
So, I'm up late last nite watching the Terminator on TNT, when I'm reminded of a past scientific discovery. Check it; this chick in the movie who's about three and a half minutes away from being killed by Arnold (Who, upon reflection, shaved his eyebrows for the part) is in the kitchen dancing around in her undies listening to some god awful music on her headphones (I think it was Casio keyboard selection #182). What is the reason for this prancing about half naked in the kitchen? This unordained using of celery stalks as imaginary drumsticks while her boyfriend is quietly snoozing?
She just had unprotected sex.
"But Dave!" you may say. "I get sleepy and slip off to dreams filled with leggy Swedish women bearing pitchers of Pabst!"
Ah, that's because my dear friend, you are male. And based upon my theory you are having the natural reaction, which is to drop your sweet drooling face into your pillow eight seconds after orgasm. Now, the basis of my theory is such: sperm is loaded to the gills with a very highly concentrated form of caffeine. Ever spent the day masturbating to Mary Kate and Ashley videos and just feel so worn out you can barely hit the slow-mo button again? It's because that pile of kleenex on the floor is housing the only form of motivation we as men posess.
Now, once again, this is a simple fact. After the male orgasm, said male will generally fall asleep. Which brings us back to our original case study. The girl with the teased hair that's roughly *checks his watch* 45 seconds away from being shot in the back by a cyborg from the future.
Why is she so vibrant? So alive? The answer lies in the powder keg of seminal energy that's being burned off by her body. As she's dancing around in her Marky Mark undies, her body is doing it's best to break down this influx of added stimulant and trying to regain a natural balance (Side note: look into why she is making the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Peanut juices may be an undiscovered sedative used to help negate the natural chemical reactions). Simply put, she's high on the love.
Now ladies, you may ask me why you don't leap out of bed a-tap tap tappin' your way to the fridge after you've had unprotected sex. This is due to the common male affliction known as "lazy sperm". You may have heard that term from "thirtysomething" or some other equally melodramatic television show where one whiny bitch is complaining about not being able to knock up another whiny bitch. Lazy sperm is sperm that is not heavily fortified with this distilled form of caffeine. It's sperm that likes to watch TeeVee with it's hand down it's pants and an open bag of Cheetos.
Uh oh.. our case study is running down the hallway and.. ooh, yesss, there's the shotgun blast to the spinal column.
And so this concludes our case study into the stimulant known as spermatoza, please check back with us tomorrow when we take a look into bedwetting. Fact? Or gnomes who like to put my hand in warm water?
Wait, I mean.. no, not my hand... I only meant...
Shit.
Wednesday
Bang On!
So, in case you all hadn't noticed, I haven't seen a movie in a "movin' pi'ture thee-atur" since Signs. This is due in part to the unyielding power given to me by my bank through this little piece of the future known as a credit card. I haven't had an account with a major video conglomeration for awhile now, and as I'm sitting around at home one day it dawns on me. Since I'm also a proud part of America's debt, I can use this to my advantage and open a Hollywood Video account.
Bitchin'.
Saturday - I choose to throw away my antisocial behavior, and take Alicia out for the classic dinner and a movie. Swung by Country Bill's Restaurant and Lounge for an pretty awesome meal. The Lounge is highly recommended for it's dark, woodsy, overstuffed red leather interior. The wait staff was super, super friendly an' quick with the water refills (I swear, I'm part camel.. and because of this genetic defect I'm constantly storing up water for something like a nuclear fallout).
So, with a fine meal out've the way, we cruise over to the Century 16 to see what we could find in the way of Hollywood's table scraps. Arrived five minutes before the seven thirty showing of Red Dragon.
Bitchin'.
So, belly up to the booth and order two tickets.
"That'll be sixteen dollars, sir."
At this point all of the Jewish blood in my right arm has spiraled upwards into my brain, making it both physically and mentally difficult to remove my wallet. I quietly panic and my brain races to calculate how many new releases I could rent for sixteen dollars at the Hollywood. After about five seconds of silent deliberation and a quick glance at Alicia's expectant, shining, radiant-with-the-love-and-anticipation-for-a-serial-killer-slash-cannabal face, I carefully remove my credit card and hand it over.
"Sorry, sir. We don't accept credit cards, however there's an ATM at the other end of the lobby."
Not Bitchin'
Basically, what our young employee just said roughly translated into my brain as, "Listen, dick with the Visa. Not only do I hate your kind as much as I hate my job, but I'm going to make you get out of line and pay a fee at the ATM just so I'll know in my heart of hearts that you'll be the stumbling-in-the-dark idiot stepping on old ladies' feet and spilling peanut butter m & m's while trying to find an open seat on this, Saturday, day two of the opening weekend."
I think I may have muttered something about how his mother looked like Moby and wandered across the lobby.
Okay, I know that credit isn't accepted everywhere. Prostitutes don't take Visa.. even if it's slogan is "Everywhere you want to be." And I know my friendly neighborhood bodega won't accept American Express. These are things that make sense to me, and I understand that they work off the now outdated concept of physical currency. But, correct me if I am indeed wrong, but we live in the year two thousand two. A year, according to scientists of the nineteen fifties, in which we would be arriving to work in flying cars after a hearty breakfast of something that came out of a toothpaste tube. A year where the American movie multiplex, with all of it's vast technological achievements in the entertainment and recreational industry (Such as cup holders.... and... umm.... reclining chairs...) one may expect to use a form of payment that has in fact been in affect since the time of those scientists back in nineteen fifty one.
I JUST WANTED TO CHARGE MY FUCKING CREDIT CARD. I WANTED TO SEE A FUCKING MOVIE AND NOT PAY TWO FUCKING DOLLARS FOR AN ATM FEE. I COULD HAVE RENTED THREE FUCKING MOVIES AND BOUGHT A PINT OF HÄAGEN-DAZS.
...
Umm... sorry 'bout that...
... Umm...
Well, Red Dragon was really good. Damn that Ed Norton's a sexy bitch.
So, in case you all hadn't noticed, I haven't seen a movie in a "movin' pi'ture thee-atur" since Signs. This is due in part to the unyielding power given to me by my bank through this little piece of the future known as a credit card. I haven't had an account with a major video conglomeration for awhile now, and as I'm sitting around at home one day it dawns on me. Since I'm also a proud part of America's debt, I can use this to my advantage and open a Hollywood Video account.
Bitchin'.
Saturday - I choose to throw away my antisocial behavior, and take Alicia out for the classic dinner and a movie. Swung by Country Bill's Restaurant and Lounge for an pretty awesome meal. The Lounge is highly recommended for it's dark, woodsy, overstuffed red leather interior. The wait staff was super, super friendly an' quick with the water refills (I swear, I'm part camel.. and because of this genetic defect I'm constantly storing up water for something like a nuclear fallout).
So, with a fine meal out've the way, we cruise over to the Century 16 to see what we could find in the way of Hollywood's table scraps. Arrived five minutes before the seven thirty showing of Red Dragon.
Bitchin'.
So, belly up to the booth and order two tickets.
"That'll be sixteen dollars, sir."
At this point all of the Jewish blood in my right arm has spiraled upwards into my brain, making it both physically and mentally difficult to remove my wallet. I quietly panic and my brain races to calculate how many new releases I could rent for sixteen dollars at the Hollywood. After about five seconds of silent deliberation and a quick glance at Alicia's expectant, shining, radiant-with-the-love-and-anticipation-for-a-serial-killer-slash-cannabal face, I carefully remove my credit card and hand it over.
"Sorry, sir. We don't accept credit cards, however there's an ATM at the other end of the lobby."
Not Bitchin'
Basically, what our young employee just said roughly translated into my brain as, "Listen, dick with the Visa. Not only do I hate your kind as much as I hate my job, but I'm going to make you get out of line and pay a fee at the ATM just so I'll know in my heart of hearts that you'll be the stumbling-in-the-dark idiot stepping on old ladies' feet and spilling peanut butter m & m's while trying to find an open seat on this, Saturday, day two of the opening weekend."
I think I may have muttered something about how his mother looked like Moby and wandered across the lobby.
Okay, I know that credit isn't accepted everywhere. Prostitutes don't take Visa.. even if it's slogan is "Everywhere you want to be." And I know my friendly neighborhood bodega won't accept American Express. These are things that make sense to me, and I understand that they work off the now outdated concept of physical currency. But, correct me if I am indeed wrong, but we live in the year two thousand two. A year, according to scientists of the nineteen fifties, in which we would be arriving to work in flying cars after a hearty breakfast of something that came out of a toothpaste tube. A year where the American movie multiplex, with all of it's vast technological achievements in the entertainment and recreational industry (Such as cup holders.... and... umm.... reclining chairs...) one may expect to use a form of payment that has in fact been in affect since the time of those scientists back in nineteen fifty one.
I JUST WANTED TO CHARGE MY FUCKING CREDIT CARD. I WANTED TO SEE A FUCKING MOVIE AND NOT PAY TWO FUCKING DOLLARS FOR AN ATM FEE. I COULD HAVE RENTED THREE FUCKING MOVIES AND BOUGHT A PINT OF HÄAGEN-DAZS.
...
Umm... sorry 'bout that...
... Umm...
Well, Red Dragon was really good. Damn that Ed Norton's a sexy bitch.
Tuesday
So, Alicia's sick in bed at the moment and mildly delusional from taking Robitussin... I was slightly awake at about 10 this morning when she stumbled out've bed, grabbed the bottle and kicked it back like some kind've Gatorade commercial. At the moment, I'm considering the idea of quietly playing some Grateful Dead while she sleeps.
"Man... I had the weirdest dream about Jerry Garcia nude inside of an indian sweat tent... eating a pint of Cherry Garcia... hey, that sounds good.. can you run up to Safeway?"
Dammit...
So, on Friday nite I went to attend the Sleater-Kinney concert over at the Crystal. I'm... pretty sure it was a good concert.. however:
2/3 a pint of Jagermeister,
1/3 pint of Sky Vodka and a
1/2 a pitcher of Fat Tire
Is a pretty good recipe for not remembering much. Afterwards went back to my friend Dave's 'n' picked up some PBR Light... and... then... called... Ryein... and.... something something.... DV8... something.... picked up mixers for long islands... something was closed..... got back to my place and made long islands... no ice... something Pulp Fiction.. something puke.. something pass out.
Yay!
This prequel story is all leading up to another point.
So, on Saturday went over to Madison's to have a couple Bloody Mary's and shake off a very evil, evil hangover. Got to feelin' pretty good an' went home to meet up Wade for our weekend supper date. So, here I am. Haven't bathed yet from the concert, hair is uncombed, the only clean shirt I managed to unearth was my blue and bleach stained hair dying shirt, I can barely walk because I was very bouncy during the three hours at Sleater-Kinney, and probably stank a bit of liquor from the four bloody marys.
In other words, I'm dead sexy.
"Hi Wade."
"Hi Dave.. feeling a bit hungover are we?"
*Some kind of prehistoric animal noise*
We end up going to Newport Bay down on the waterfront. And me? I'm thinking Newport Bay, the same shit located in a strip mall across the street from Club 205. I'm thinking restaurant chain, dime a dozen, faceless cloned employees in white shirts and ties... even the women... I hate that. If you need a body to fill a shirt and tie, put a man in it. Anyways, here I am, hair akimbo and glassy eyed staring at various water fowl as we sit out on the rolling, weaving deck of doom. Part of the charm, I'm sure, of being located on the waterfront.
Tell that to Heir Jagermeister.
Alicia is as hungover as I am this day, and she looks to Wade, then to me, makes some kind of universal gesture that states, "If I don't get off this floating crackerbox I'll puke on a goose."
Needless to say, we move inside. This is where it hits me, this is where I'm taken aback. On the deck we were fairly alone, but inside.. inside I thought I'd walked into a Seventh Day Adventist Church. Couples in their thirties dressed in polo shirts and slacks, old ladies in purple suits with paisley neckerchiefs. A prejudging man in his forties sits alone with only a glass of white wine and his comb over to keep him company. Located around the corner was the icing on the proverbial "Newport Bay is actually fancy" cake... There were four young men and their dates who look like they may very well be on their way to or from some kind of fancy High School formal... dance... thing.
Everybody was dressed nicely. Not necissarily fancy (Except for those lucky prom dates), but nicely. As if they were standing in front of their mirror, spraying aqua net on their hair mulling over if the Alligator polo would go better with the lobster bib, or the Old Navy one...
During my meal (Which, in hindsight, meant eighteen dollars less I'll have for Bankok whores) I exchanged several eye squinting glances with the gentleman alone with his comb over. He wouldn't stop looking at me, and after a while, it became sort've this childish game. I would stare at him until he turned my way, and then innocently study something on the ceiling.. or a passing mallard. We would continue this stare-glance away stand off until he finally left, leaving his blanco vino mainly untouched. As he passed by I hoped for conflict. I salivated more for the possible middle aged scrap fight, than I did for my blackened catfish. But, the only thing that I was confronted with was his five dollar aftershave... c'est la vie.
Anyways, this is turning more into a pointless recounting than anything else really, so here goes. When a restaurant chain is located on the water front, that means it's fancy. It doesn't seem to matter that the river is fairly vile with pollution, it's prime real estate. And as long as there's old ladies with paisley neckerchiefs and rich kids with no clue, these establishments will continue to thrive. Feeding the corporate pig, and in turn, feeding the corporate whore.
"Man... I had the weirdest dream about Jerry Garcia nude inside of an indian sweat tent... eating a pint of Cherry Garcia... hey, that sounds good.. can you run up to Safeway?"
Dammit...
So, on Friday nite I went to attend the Sleater-Kinney concert over at the Crystal. I'm... pretty sure it was a good concert.. however:
2/3 a pint of Jagermeister,
1/3 pint of Sky Vodka and a
1/2 a pitcher of Fat Tire
Is a pretty good recipe for not remembering much. Afterwards went back to my friend Dave's 'n' picked up some PBR Light... and... then... called... Ryein... and.... something something.... DV8... something.... picked up mixers for long islands... something was closed..... got back to my place and made long islands... no ice... something Pulp Fiction.. something puke.. something pass out.
Yay!
This prequel story is all leading up to another point.
So, on Saturday went over to Madison's to have a couple Bloody Mary's and shake off a very evil, evil hangover. Got to feelin' pretty good an' went home to meet up Wade for our weekend supper date. So, here I am. Haven't bathed yet from the concert, hair is uncombed, the only clean shirt I managed to unearth was my blue and bleach stained hair dying shirt, I can barely walk because I was very bouncy during the three hours at Sleater-Kinney, and probably stank a bit of liquor from the four bloody marys.
In other words, I'm dead sexy.
"Hi Wade."
"Hi Dave.. feeling a bit hungover are we?"
*Some kind of prehistoric animal noise*
We end up going to Newport Bay down on the waterfront. And me? I'm thinking Newport Bay, the same shit located in a strip mall across the street from Club 205. I'm thinking restaurant chain, dime a dozen, faceless cloned employees in white shirts and ties... even the women... I hate that. If you need a body to fill a shirt and tie, put a man in it. Anyways, here I am, hair akimbo and glassy eyed staring at various water fowl as we sit out on the rolling, weaving deck of doom. Part of the charm, I'm sure, of being located on the waterfront.
Tell that to Heir Jagermeister.
Alicia is as hungover as I am this day, and she looks to Wade, then to me, makes some kind of universal gesture that states, "If I don't get off this floating crackerbox I'll puke on a goose."
Needless to say, we move inside. This is where it hits me, this is where I'm taken aback. On the deck we were fairly alone, but inside.. inside I thought I'd walked into a Seventh Day Adventist Church. Couples in their thirties dressed in polo shirts and slacks, old ladies in purple suits with paisley neckerchiefs. A prejudging man in his forties sits alone with only a glass of white wine and his comb over to keep him company. Located around the corner was the icing on the proverbial "Newport Bay is actually fancy" cake... There were four young men and their dates who look like they may very well be on their way to or from some kind of fancy High School formal... dance... thing.
Everybody was dressed nicely. Not necissarily fancy (Except for those lucky prom dates), but nicely. As if they were standing in front of their mirror, spraying aqua net on their hair mulling over if the Alligator polo would go better with the lobster bib, or the Old Navy one...
During my meal (Which, in hindsight, meant eighteen dollars less I'll have for Bankok whores) I exchanged several eye squinting glances with the gentleman alone with his comb over. He wouldn't stop looking at me, and after a while, it became sort've this childish game. I would stare at him until he turned my way, and then innocently study something on the ceiling.. or a passing mallard. We would continue this stare-glance away stand off until he finally left, leaving his blanco vino mainly untouched. As he passed by I hoped for conflict. I salivated more for the possible middle aged scrap fight, than I did for my blackened catfish. But, the only thing that I was confronted with was his five dollar aftershave... c'est la vie.
Anyways, this is turning more into a pointless recounting than anything else really, so here goes. When a restaurant chain is located on the water front, that means it's fancy. It doesn't seem to matter that the river is fairly vile with pollution, it's prime real estate. And as long as there's old ladies with paisley neckerchiefs and rich kids with no clue, these establishments will continue to thrive. Feeding the corporate pig, and in turn, feeding the corporate whore.
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