Monday, July 6, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
"Low Taste and Low People" or, "Dinner at Texas Roadhouse"
It was with disgust and even pity (brief pity) that I strode confidentally to my designated table, following the overly-fleshy hostess, who had cheerily announced herself as "Paula."
The words of my Father, Charles Emmerson Agan the III, resonate in my mind as I pick my way through the putrid mass of middle America that clogs this once-chic eatery. Oh! Had we ever argued so? The matter at hand is unimportant; what is mortally important is the impudence with which my Father, with the meek support of Mother, had addressed me. This insult, I vowed as I sat down in the polished mahogany booth saymow, would not be forgotten or unavenged.
A vague yet insistent buzzing in my ear. It is "Paula", the hostess, who for some reason is still hovering over me. Concentrating, I offer a nonthreatening smile while firmly focusing on the table-top.
"...the rest of your party arriving?" Ha ha. This rube has assumed that I am to be joined in my repast by a guest (a.k.a. distraction.) I icily stare her into submission, until she slinks away to the safety of her host stand, bedecked as it is with vibrating pagers and clipboards. As she retreats, I both crack, shell and shuck a handful of peanuts, conveniently provided by the Management.
I am wearing a stylish and well-worn three-button polo by Izod (the three-button is often mistakenly thought of as "too country club" for casual wear, but I have found the exact opposite to be true; many assume I am wearing it to be "ironic," while those in-the-know immediately identify me as a gentleman-rogue about-the-town,) jeans by Levi Strauss and modified boots by Doc Marten.
At last, a hardbody, "Libby" arrives, seductively pronouncing that she will "be taking care of" me tonight. If she only knew. I acknowledge her clumsy if interesting double entendre, and, after ordering a Coke (extra ice), I begin to address the basket of biscuits which "Libby" has left. I immediately notice that the basket only contains three biscuits. suckthecumout. Soothing my anger with the Coke that "Libby" has just arrived with, I manage to order my "Cowboy Cut Rib eye," medium-well, as "Libby" giggles and winks at me. Ignoring her advances, I motion impatiently at the now-empty basket of biscuits, then turn to an urgent phone call from E. Wayne Littig.
Last night's episode of The Golden Girls concerned the imminent arrival of a former lover of Blanche (Rue McClanahan). Predictably, Dorothy (Bea Arthur) and Sophia (Estelle Getty) were curious (nosy, even) as to this gentleman's identity while Rose (Betty White) mistook him as her cousin Horshel from her hometown of St. Olaf. Much hilarity ensued, so much so that I slightly cut my thumb while sharpening my Spyderco Black Delica. Swiftly, Buddy and Brisco rushed to my aid, licking my wound as the swelling, comforting strands of "Thank You For Being a Friend" filled the room.
My steak arrives, the sizzle filling the room as "Libby" approaches. I end my business with E. Wayne, and turn with relish towards my steak. boomleinert
boomleinert indeed...
The words of my Father, Charles Emmerson Agan the III, resonate in my mind as I pick my way through the putrid mass of middle America that clogs this once-chic eatery. Oh! Had we ever argued so? The matter at hand is unimportant; what is mortally important is the impudence with which my Father, with the meek support of Mother, had addressed me. This insult, I vowed as I sat down in the polished mahogany booth saymow, would not be forgotten or unavenged.
A vague yet insistent buzzing in my ear. It is "Paula", the hostess, who for some reason is still hovering over me. Concentrating, I offer a nonthreatening smile while firmly focusing on the table-top.
"...the rest of your party arriving?" Ha ha. This rube has assumed that I am to be joined in my repast by a guest (a.k.a. distraction.) I icily stare her into submission, until she slinks away to the safety of her host stand, bedecked as it is with vibrating pagers and clipboards. As she retreats, I both crack, shell and shuck a handful of peanuts, conveniently provided by the Management.
I am wearing a stylish and well-worn three-button polo by Izod (the three-button is often mistakenly thought of as "too country club" for casual wear, but I have found the exact opposite to be true; many assume I am wearing it to be "ironic," while those in-the-know immediately identify me as a gentleman-rogue about-the-town,) jeans by Levi Strauss and modified boots by Doc Marten.
At last, a hardbody, "Libby" arrives, seductively pronouncing that she will "be taking care of" me tonight. If she only knew. I acknowledge her clumsy if interesting double entendre, and, after ordering a Coke (extra ice), I begin to address the basket of biscuits which "Libby" has left. I immediately notice that the basket only contains three biscuits. suckthecumout. Soothing my anger with the Coke that "Libby" has just arrived with, I manage to order my "Cowboy Cut Rib eye," medium-well, as "Libby" giggles and winks at me. Ignoring her advances, I motion impatiently at the now-empty basket of biscuits, then turn to an urgent phone call from E. Wayne Littig.
Last night's episode of The Golden Girls concerned the imminent arrival of a former lover of Blanche (Rue McClanahan). Predictably, Dorothy (Bea Arthur) and Sophia (Estelle Getty) were curious (nosy, even) as to this gentleman's identity while Rose (Betty White) mistook him as her cousin Horshel from her hometown of St. Olaf. Much hilarity ensued, so much so that I slightly cut my thumb while sharpening my Spyderco Black Delica. Swiftly, Buddy and Brisco rushed to my aid, licking my wound as the swelling, comforting strands of "Thank You For Being a Friend" filled the room.
My steak arrives, the sizzle filling the room as "Libby" approaches. I end my business with E. Wayne, and turn with relish towards my steak. boomleinert
boomleinert indeed...
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