--I was sitting in Wendy's a few days ago, enjoying a #1 with
cheese, no pickles, and a Coke, when a gang of rambunctious Brazilians
came in.
I assume it was a large family traveling together, but what do I know
about it, really?There were
five or six adults, a couple in their forties, the rest younger.With them was a half-dozen or so kids, all under the age of
six.And the younglings were running
wild without even a
hint of parental supervision.
But whatever.Children
rampaging through a place of business isn't exactly a novelty
anymore...I continued working
on my lunch and flipping through the copy of Rolling
Stone I'd brought along, so as
not to look like a serial killer (ironically enough).
And the next thing I know there's a little girl sitting across from me
in the boof – eating my fries.
She was probably four years old, from the Brazilian group, and had
calmly climbed into the seat, begun folding french fries into her
mouth, kicking her legs, and smiling.
Gulp.I looked around for help.I've seen enough Nightline
to know this might be a problem for me.What if somebody thought I'd lured the girl over, using
delicious deep-fried potatoes as bait, and was now preparing to slip
out the side door with her and disappear into the Perogie Belt?
I felt guilty, like a blurry fat man in surveillance footage. Or the
subject of a panel discussion on Greta Van Strokemouth. Plus, the
kid was eating my fries!
I tried to make eye contact with one of the Brazilian people, so I
could give them a good-natured, non-threatening smile and shrug of the
shoulders.But nobody was
paying attention.They were all
talking at the same time, laughing, and wedging hamburgers into their
mouths.
The little girl polished off five or six fries, jumped down, and
happily ran away.And nobody in
her group even knew about her visit.
The
episode made me uneasy, but for all I know they don't even get Nightline
in Brazil.Perhaps they're unencumbered by such concerns?They certainly were acting that way.
And apparently they don’t have Wendy’s down there, either?Sweet sainted mother of Walter “Muffin Tins” Kelly!Those folks were putting on a burger-eating clinic.It sounded like stump removal over there.
--
If we don't have anything special going on, Toney and I go out for a
couple of beers on Saturday afternoons. The Secrets are old enough to
stay home for an hour or so by themselves, and it gives the two of us
a rare opportunity to spend some time alone.
Usually we go to a neighborhood restaurant/bar, and have two Samuel
Adams seasonals each.The place
has a lot of character, but only four draft beers to choose from:
Miller Lite (brewed especially for people who like the idea of
drinking beer, but don't really like beer itself), Yuengling Lager,
Blue Moon, and a Sam Adams selection.
We
like the joint, it's perfect for plotting our weekly strategy, but
wish they had a larger selection of beverages.This weekend we'd been talking about Englanda lot, and I was craving
Boddington's, or at the very least, Bass Ale.
So we went over to
the Dark Side:Bennigan's.Yes, I felt like a traitor walking into that cookie-cutter bar,
which was probably delivered in sections from the tavern division of
Bath Fitter Corporation.Especially
after visiting all those great old historic pubs in London…
But
guess what?They had sixteen
interesting (well, mostly interesting) beers on tap.No Boddington's, but Bass, Harp, Smithwick's, two or three Sam
Adams variations, a couple of microbrews, and a bunch of others.
I opted for a Bass and a Harp, and we watched some man across from us
monkey around with a Bloody Mary for an extended period.The bartender brought him a large family-sized to-go order, and
before he left he ordered the drink and a beer.
The
dude put salt into it, then pepper.He
took a sip, and asked the bartender for Tabascosauce.After he dumped what looked like half a bottle into the glass,
he took another small drink, and called the bartender over again.
She listened to his
complaint, and took the glass with her.We watched as she poured half of it into a sink, then topped it
off with Absolut vodka.She
returned it to the man, who immediately launched into the salt,
pepper, Tabascoregimen again.
Then
he stirred and stirred and stirred, took a tiny sip, told the girl it
was "perfect!" and got up and left.He never touched the beer, and only took a tiny slurp off his
Bloody Mary – after making her rebuild it.
So, you see, it was a mighty interesting hour, and the beer was
superior.Where do we go from
here?Do we really throw our
beloved neighborhood spot to the curb, for a chain restaurant?
There aren’t too many viable options near our house.Toney won’t set foot in the scary-ass dive bar I sometimes
visit, so it’s either a pre-fab tavern with a large selection of
beers, or a great old place with not much to choose from.
Yes, it's a moral dilemma.But
if they'd had Boddington's at the pre-fab (like they used to), I
might've been prepared to go down to the crossroads and cut a deal
right on the spot.
Hey, we had a good time there.Am
I supposed to pretend it isn't so?
--There’s a box of broccoli sealed
to the back wall of the freezer in our upstairs fridge.I can’t get it to break loose, and might need Tommy John
surgery after working on it this morning.I don’t know why I care that it’s there, but I do…
And speaking of broccoli, why is it always the hottest item in a
Chinese meal?
--A few days ago I was pawing
through the Surf Report pack-rat collection, looking for the Stephen
King book on writing, appropriately titled On Writing.
I eventually located it, but during the process I also found a dozen
or so issues of an old comic called Beautiful
Stories for Ugly Children. Do
any of y’all remember it?I’m
not really a comics kind of guy, but I loved those things back in the
day.
I might read them again, but probably won’t.You know, realistically speaking.
--Two people who report to me
at work got into an argument last night, and things turned ugly.(I was going to say “pretty ugly,” but that doesn’t sound
right…)Anyway, the woman was
shaking and upset, and the guy was slamming things around and
threatening to “walk out of this fucker.”
It’s constant drama at that place, and I’m not a licensed
counselor or a grade school teacher, or anything like that.I mean, seriously.I’m
all the time being required to fix these kinds of problems, and it’s
not something I have much experience at.
My instincts tell me to do things that would undoubtedly get me
into trouble, like knocking heads together and screaming, “Enough!Just get back to work and quit acting like a buncha ball-baby
bitches!!”I know for a fact
HR wouldn’t approve of my instincts.
So I talked to both of them alone, listened to their stories, and
offered some advice.And the
tension was eventually relieved.Their
tension, anyway.I’ve still
got mine, and it seems to be gaining strength.
Supervising other people eats it from the ass-in.
--Toney called six or eight
tree-removal places yesterday, asking for estimates on having a dead
one extracted from our front yard.And
they keep knocking on our front door. Usually you call eight, and
maybe get two responses.But I
think all eight have been here today already.It’s crazy, and Andy does not approve.
The best price?$275.But the guy looked like a derelict, like he was coming off a
two-week drunk.Another said
he’d do it for $300, and seemed a lot more respectable.The others we were out in left field… including one dude who
quoted $700.
I’ll have to discuss this with the CEO when she gets home from work, but
I’m leaning toward the $300 guy.We
don’t need Cousin Eddie out in our front yard, screwing around with
a chainsaw.Ya know?
And I’m going to stop right here.I
need to get back to the office, in case a warehouse worker needs to
snuggle, or whatever. Sheesh.
