Tag Fun

Decisions, Decisions – and not the easy political kind

Michael Leave a comment

We’re in a quandary.  A friend, a local entertainer, an incredible talent, a vocalist who accompanies himself on the acoustic guitar played his first gig and a nearby lounge a little while ago.  He typically has played in venues that although aren’t far away, are far away enough that you check your gas gauge before you leave home for the evening. So we were quite thrilled when he wrote and told us he’d be no more than 3 miles from He of We’s driveway.

And drive away we did.  We had been to the venue twice before.  Once for a Sunday brunch they no longer do (which was very good), and once for dinner (which was beyond their capabilities).  In neither case was the service anything even approaching average.  It had been at least a year since we had been there so we were anxious to see what changes they had made.

They hadn’t.  But the evening was not a loss.  The food was bad, the service worse, but the entertainment was as first rate as we had anticipated.  We even introduced He of We’s daughter to the acoustic troubadour expanding his influence into the next generation.  The crowd was into his performance and applauded each offering (yes, we’ll say it) wildly.  But the food was so bad.  And the service was so worse.

What we will do if the restaurant brings him back on a regular basis? We don’t want to hurt his feelings not showing up when it’s not even a 15 minute drive, including lights, when we’ve driven over an hour to hear him.  But we don’t want to risk gastro-intestinal distress, possibly irreparable damage, if we have to subject ourselves to their idea of cooking once a month.  We can’t even feign enjoyment and pick our way through the one or two items nobody can screw up because those were the ones they ran out of early in the evening.  Even if they didn’t, we still have to subject ourselves to the worst service we’d seen since the Sixth Grade Washington DC Field Trip Spaghetti Dinner Fundraiser.

We suppose we’re going to have to arrange to be out of town whenever he plays there (“Oh, we wish we knew you were there this week.  We had these airline vouchers we had to use before Monday and thought this would be a good time to see Guam.”), or car trouble (“What bad luck, we were on our way when of all things we couldn’t get the hood to go down.  We thought we could have backed all the way there but the nice police officer didn’t.”), or illness (“Hack hack cough cough sneeze wheeze sneeze.  We’ll make it.  We missed your last 7 sets there.  Well, if you really think you really don’t mind”). 

We don’t know.  Maybe gastrointestinal distress once a month might be good for us.  

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Three Little Words

Michael Leave a comment

We’ve been thinking about this for a while and have come to a conclusion.  There is only one instruction in the English language that people actually pay attention to.  It is not:

Speed Limit = (XX) MPH.  Speed limits are barely suggestions anymore.

Not dishwasher safe.  Everything is safe in the top rack.

Capacity = 20 People, particularly in an elevator, particularly at 9am

Cook at 350 degrees for 45 minutes which really means cook at 450 for 20.  We’re hungry!

No Turn on Red and other traffic suggestions that control movement at intersections. 

Allow to stand for 20 minutes.  Nothing good happens after the first 5 minutes.

Inflate to 23 PSI Front, 21 PSI Rear.  Tires, right?  Just blow them up till the pump stops.

Coupon Expires January 31, 2012.  If you tear it at just the right angle across the top…

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.  Really?

Tools required: Adjustable Wrench, Allen Wrench, Sultry Wrench.  What, no hammer?

Do Not Use After: xx/xx/xxxx.  Come on.  Yogurt is already milk gone bad.

Hand Wash.  Then why do they put a delicate setting on the washer?

Do not mix batteries.  Does anybody even know what this is supposed to mean?

Bulb max = 40 Watt.  For what?  Night blindness?

No, it’s none of these.  Yet there is a rule, a law, a regulation, an instruction that puts fear in Americans.  The one instruction the American public actually follows is:

Dry Clean Only.

It’s on the only clothes that people actually sort on laundry day.  It’s the only instruction that parents pass on to their children when they move out into the world on their own.  In fact, we know people who have actually not purchased clothes because of this instruction.  Although we hesitate to admit it, She of We has actual personal experience that Dry Clean Only means Dry Clean Only.  (In fairness though, she does prefer to send out white blouses and shirts to a Dry Cleaner because they always come back so nice and crisp.)  

Yes, these are the most powerful three words in the English language.  Dry.  Clean.  Only. 

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Just Stuff

Michael Leave a comment

We’ve made no secret that we like to do a little joy riding when we feel the need for a little joy in a weekend.  He of We has a little 2 seat roadster and She of We keeps a bottle of sun screen in her door pocket.  It works.  Usually.  Sometimes we find ourselves scratching our heads over something somebody – sometimes us – has done.  Let us explain.

Once on an afternoon drive through the park we stopped at a “little bit of everything” store.  They have tools, hunting and fishing gear, canned goods, sports memorabilia, boxed candy, various needle-works supplies, furniture, plumbing fixtures, wheelbarrows, doll houses, and trees.  How can you pass up a deal on trees.  We couldn’t.  Just because the tree was about 20 miles from where it was going to be planted might make mere people say “let’s think about this.”  Not us.  We’re Reality People.  And we did not want to drive back and forth a few times to get the right vehicle with the right storage capacity in the right parking lot to transport a tree.  It’s just a tree.  To make a long story short, in order not to damage the trunk or the trunk, it ended up between She of We’s legs in the front seat, extending about 3 feet above the windshield.  We drove slow.  Which made eating the ice cream we stopped for easier.

On another excursion we passed a row of simply beautiful houses.  It’s easy when you seek out a high end housing plan where somebody is turning out mansion after mansion just like a suburban factory project.  Often we find the people in the million dollar homes have the same things in their driveways and side yards we have in ours and we smile happily.  This one afternoon in this one neighborhood we weren’t in a plan.  We were among bona fide multiple million dollar manors rivaling anything Hollywood so to be exes would fight over.  Just beautiful.  And we weren’t but 100 feet from their front doors.  We wanted to walk up each rolling expanse of lawn and ring the bell just to say hello.  And among them, among the carefully landscaped, fenced, fountained, and paved portraits of residential indulgence, lay a deflated 24 foot round, 4 foot tall inflatable portable swimming pool.  Complete with knocked over steps.

Then there was the time we stopped at a farm market.  We’ve stopped at several and usually find the freshest bargains for the evening’s dinner.  If they have a good gift shop we could pick up birthday, anniversary, and Christmas gifts for several occasions.  But this stop took the cake.  Or rather, took the pie.  Not to say it wasn’t home-made but on this display case sat several absolutely identical looking $14 pies.  Right next to the $10 peaches, $6 blueberries, and $16 skirt steaks from “local” beef.  Trust us.  We’re local and there’s no beef where we are.  A little checking and we found that their corn might be theirs.  The rest was bought from the same purveyors that the mega-mart on the hill goes to.  Shame on them!

Not on a weekend drive, He of We recently was at that mart.  He did his shopping (New York Strip, $8 for a 12 ounce cut) and moved over the giant home supply store that shares the hill.  There he found a guy tying a set of mini-blinds to the back of his motorcycle.  “Let me tell you about this tree,” He of We said to him.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Summer Sunny Day Fun Days

Michael Leave a comment

Summer is here in the northern half of the United States.  For some of the country summer isn’t a huge thing.  Is there really much difference between April 1 and July 1 (other than fireworks sales) in Houston or Miami or Anaheim?  But north of the Mason Dixon line, even with the mild spring we’ve had, you really can’t pull out the shorts and sandals until the summer solstice shows up in the weatherman’s graphics. 

This year the first of day of summer harkened in a summertime heat wave like we hadn’t seen for quite some time.  As we write this on the 18th day of summer the temperature in our town has exceeded 90 degrees on 12 of those 18 days.  You’d think that would have altered many’s attempts at fireworks, picnics, vacations, swimming, and so many other outdoor activities that are much more pleasant at 78.  Well they have altered some but not so much that many are complaining.  Even us.  Although we took in the Fourth of July fireworks from a downtown river dock we decided to forgo our annual outdoor jazz festival.  But we’ve still managed to have our fun and not risk our health.

Apparently, many others are also.  The local MLB team is packing them in with sold out weekend games and close to sell outs during the midweek evenings.  Pools are filled to capacity.  Restaurants with outdoor seating are serving some brave ones outdoors in the glorious shade of roll out canopies. 

We have made the weekends our time to hop into the little car, put the top down, turn on the air conditioner to high, slather sun screen on our necks and let our man made 35 mile per hour wind cool us as we drive through the canopies of the tall trees that line our underused back roads.  A couple hours of oohs and ahhs for nature’s companions trying to beat the heat (we got to sit in our car and chat with a young deer not more than 20 feet away while she was resting in the shade), and a couple of oohs and ahhs for some of the biggest, most expensive, and gorgeously landscaped estates we can’t believe are in the same county as our modest middle class just-plain-houses (but even a rich man should put a shirt on if he plans on reading the evening paper on his recliner that is just inside the front window – and backlit to boot).

Now the best part of it all we reminded ourselves of this morning.  As we head into what the weather predictors are saying is going to be our first week entirely under 90 degrees since mid-June, we’ve heard of only 2 unfortunate heat related accidents and neither fatal. 

Quite often our posts here poke fun at the way people have taken so cavalierly to reality.  The reality is that sometimes we can be quite responsible. 

Quite remarkable.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Food Rules!

Michael Leave a comment

“It was some sort of curry but it needed something,” She of We was telling He of We of her supper a little earlier that evening.  It seemed to be not very memorable, but then, “but then I thought ‘I bet it will be better if I add some parmesan cheese to it’ so I did and it did.  You’re probably not supposed to add parmesan to curry.”  And that started us down the path lined with food rules.

Food should be fun to make, to serve, and to eat.  There shouldn’t be any rules.  But there are rules all over food.  Don’t add cheese to fish.  Serve red wine with red meat.  Add oil to vinegar.  Parmesan and curry don’t go together.  As far as we’re concerned there is only one food rule.  Enjoy what you eat.

Recipes are just rules lined up in numerical order.  Sometimes, recipes are so daunting and the ingredients so obscure that it’s impossible to satisfy We’s Rule of Food: Enjoy What You Eat.  The way we figure, unless you’re a restaurant and you want every crab cake to taste exactly the same or the enchilada on Tuesday to taste just like the enchilada on Saturday you don’t really need a recipe.  A guide, yes.  A formula, no. 

When we look for recipe books we look for the ones with the stories about the food and the cooks.  What was the author/chef thinking, or doing, or remembering when he or she first put those ingredients together.  How many times did the middle child serve as tester before it came out right?  What are the stories behind the food?  How your grandmother taught you to spot the freshest chicken is a much more interesting tale than how much chicken to bone for the lemon chicken salad.  If we like the story, we’ll try the food.  And if we don’t like the food, we’ll at least have read a good story.

Food rules (the noun) have no place in your kitchen.  Food rules (the verb) is what makes a kitchen. 

Food Rules!  We like that.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Game On!

Michael Leave a comment

Many people who are just acquainted with us are often shocked to ultimately find out that He and She of We are not married, or at the very least for the 21st century, not even living together.  We spend a lot of time together but we each have our own houses and spend more time in our own houses than we do at either’s others’ houses.  Of course there are evenings we’ll be found on one or another’s sofas usually in the glow of a televised sporting event or a demanded, if not on-demanded movie. 

Last weekend we were on He of We’s furniture, about 4 feet apart, rapturously engaged in a game of words.  No, not the grand-daddy of all games of words Scrabble, not the second cousin of word games without words, Charades.  No, we were sitting next to each other, letting our fingers do the walking through Words with Friends on our cell phones.  In the same house.  In the same room.  On the same couch.

Although both of our children are either young enough, or old enough depending on your point of view, to have discovered and to have played with PlayStation, Nintendo, and Wii, none of them became one of the electronic game junkies who walk around with fingers flailing over tiny controllers of hand-held versions of the gaming consoles that hold so many in mental hostage situations.   And all of them are familiar with games that involve fold-out boards, dice, tiles, poppers, timers, and a pad and pencil to keep score.  We’re pretty proud parents that our children made it into adulthood with having hand-held electronic games listed as dependents on their income tax forms.

So where did we go wrong for ourselves?  How did we manage to find ourselves phoning in our own recreation?  Don’t tell the children this but it is darned convenient having a game at your fingertips.  No boards to pull off shelves, no tables to clear.  No looking for the pieces that fall under the chairs, no pencil sharpeners to wonder if we even still have to look for.  No shaking up bags of tiles to pick from randomly, no wondering if that really is a word and will I look foolish if I challenge it.

So yes, we’ve succumbed to the dark side.  This time.  We’re willing to let a microprocessor randomly select letters and accurately add up scores.  We still get to use the best game piece – our minds.  Yep, of all the things we’ve lost – tile holders, letters, box tops, score cards – we’ve not yet lost our minds.  We’re pretty sure of that.  Yeah, pretty sure.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

UDNTSAY

Michael 5 Comments

For some people, a bumper sticker just isn’t enough.  They have to say it officially with their license plates.  That’s ok.  We like the creativity you see on the back of some cars.  And we like a good challenge.  With many customized license plates we have to figure it out how many words, where the breaks are, then what those words are, and what you mean by them, all at 60 miles per hour.  Just remember, no texting a mobile shout out for help.

Some people like to put their occupations on their license plates.  Usually it’s just a trio of initials and a recognized abbreviation, like ABC RN, or DEF MD.  Recently He of We was driving behind a basic American made sedan with CO PILOT on the plate.  He wondered who was actually driving.

Some plates add a bit of whimsy to the road.  INDULGE might mean the car’s owner indulged himself or herself on the purchase of the vehicle or maybe the car owner is also owns a boutique, or an ice cream stand, or a salon, and is trying to ply a bit of subliminal messaging.

There’s always a message to be delivered in plates.  The big pick-up truck that passed us on the highway had the plate DSL PWR which we figure to mean Diesel Power.  Sometimes between the delivering and the receiving, the message gets blurred.  Was he proud of his diesel because he was maximizing his fuel dollar in such a large pick-up?  Was he proud of his diesel because he had a pick-up truck worthy to be in the truck stop next to the big rig?  Or was he reminding whoever was behind him driving uphill on a cold morning that it might take a while?

Sometimes there is too much frankness on the road.  We recall seeing the plate ALIMONY.  Although it was on a fairly pricey vehicle it wasn’t on a true luxury car so maybe the owner could have worked out a still better deal.   An oft-spotted vehicle for She of We on her way to work is one heralding the owner as CONTESSA.  We wonder what kind of work she must be off to every morning.  And what might be a sign of total excess might have been on a top of the line Mercedes, convertible of course, with the plate EXPNSV, just in case there was any doubt.

Then there are some that defy explanation.  Just this past weekend Both of We walked passed a car in a parking lot with the state issued plate proclaiming BEETLUV.  A perfectly great plate to put on a VW Beetle.  But it wasn’t.  So the only thing we could think was that particular Jeep owner loved beets.  We didn’t try to guess if they were pickled, boiled, or roasted.  A few days ago He of We was passed by a sub-compact bearing the plate DDAY.  The driver wasn’t old enough to have been in military service on the famous June 6.  Nor did he look like the world’s oldest fraternity brother of Animal House fame.  What was he saying?  We’ll probably never know.  Nor will we know the meaning of GRMLIN1.  If it was on a 40 year old American Motors compact we’d think the owner proud of his or her very well preserved car but it wasn’t and we already went down that road with the beet lover.

Sometimes the owner wants you to know where he or she is from.  We think TRACI CA must be from California even though the plate isn’t.  Is the 412 in FROM 412 the owner’s area code?  Or maybe street address?  Apartment number?  Rural route?  Maybe they aren’t always clear.

So do we have vanity plates on our vehicles?  Nope.  Thought of, yes.  And perhaps someday.  Till then we’ll stick to the bumper stickers, window decals, tire covers, and magnets to express our likes and not so hidden messages.  Besides, the best one has already been taken.

Seen on an older, but well-kept every day driver.  PAID 4.  That’s a classy plate.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

The Love Boat That Wasn’t

Michael 1 Comment

Over forty years ago a ship was built that would change the world.  The Queen Mary?  Nope.  The QE2?  No, but she came to her rescue once.  The Nina? Pinta? Santa Maria?  No, no, no.  It was the Pacific Princess, better known as television’s Love Boat.

Cheesy, campy, fluffy, goofy.  All apt adjectives for this show.  But it managed to stay on the air for ten years and for all of them the opening credits featured Princess Cruise Line’s Pacific Princess.  How the show stayed afloat for 10 years is easy to answer.  It was a feel good, don’t have to think about it, everybody lives happily ever after fantasy.  How the ship stayed afloat for so long isn’t that hard to figure out either.  She was built as a boat that happened to entertain people.  Not as a skyscraping hotel that wanted to get its feet wet.

The ship built in 1971 for Flagship Cruises to sail the Bermuda cruise circuit as the Sea Venture was sold to Princess in 1975.  In 1977 she landed the title role in “The Love Boat.”  She continued to sail for Princess Cruises until 2003.  Again rechristened as the Pacific, she sailed for Pullmantur Cruises until sold to Quail Cruises of Spain.  In 2009 the ship was seized by the Italian Coast Guard in Genoa after the owner failed to pay for repairs.  Recently this former television star was sold for scrap.  

That’s a forty year history on the seas for a ship that topped the scales fully loaded at 19,000 ton and hosted only 600 passengers.  Compare that to the other ship still making headlines in Italy, the Costa Concordia.  Weighing in at over 114,000 tons and able to transport over 3,700 passengers, the 950 foot boat is still on its side and may itself end up sold for scrap.  What’s the difference between these two boats?  About 35 years, 10 decks, and 20 million pounds (that’s weight, not English money).

The former Pacific Princess looks like a boat.  A big boat, but a boat.  She measures 550 feet overall and four of her eight decks rise from the center of the ship.  The Costa Concordia looks like a small apartment building, 950 feet long overall with 14 decks, almost all of them spanning most of 900 feet.  And cruise ships are getting even bigger.  Disney’s two newest ships, the Fantasy and the Dream measure 1,120 feet long and hold 4,000 passengers on 14 of their 16 decks.

We seem to recall as children playing with boats and things that float in bath tubs and swimming pools, the more you had above the water the sooner the whole kit and caboodle was going to be under water.  Height plus weight plus waves equal instability.  And not just in the ship’s captain.  Did somebody change the laws of physics over that past forty years?  You can try this experiment at home.  Take a plastic cube or wooden block.  A frustration causing Rubik’s Cube will work.  Load 3,500 very tiny people on it.  If you don’t have that many small people you can use ants, rice, dust particles, or nothing at all.  Toss cube in bathtub.  Remove cube, fill bath tub with water.  Now toss cube in bathtub.  Come back in 15 minutes to rescue survivors.

So one ship now docked in Italy, that many say is responsible for increasing interest in ocean cruises and sparking the cruise industry, its maiden voyage in May of 1971, will soon make its last trip, towed behind a tug to the big boat version of a cutting torch.  Another ship, also in Italian waters, that many say is responsible for the cruise industry’s most sluggish summer since the Love Boat was on TV, its maiden voyage in July 2006, isn’t going anywhere soon.

Our advice to the cruise curious.  The former Pacific Princess sister ship, the Island Princess, which on occasion acted as stand-in for the Pacific on the Love Boat, is still in operation as the Discovery, sailing for England’s Voyages of Discovery alongside their other small ship, the Voyager.  Could there still be another run?

          Love, exciting and new
          Come Aboard. We’re expecting you.
          Love, life’s sweetest reward.
          Let it flow, it floats back to you.

          The Love Boat soon will be making another run
          The Love Boat promises something for everyone
          Set a course for adventure,
          Your mind on a new romance. *

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

(By the way, we’ve in no way been compensated to say anything nice about Voyages of Discovery or to entice you to sail with them.  However, if they’d like to show their appreciation in any way we’d be happy to talk about it.  Have your people call our people.) 

(We have people?)

* The Love Boat theme written by Paul Williams and Charles Fox, 1977

 

I went to a home show and all I bought were nacho chips

Michael 1 Comment

We don’t know exactly how big it is, but we know that the home and garden show business across the country is definitely big.  Our town has multiple varieties of the “everything for your home under one roof” extravaganza with more suburban varieties popping up every year in advance of the big one in town.

It’s a spectacle that we’ve been a part of for years.  Every year it seems to get busier with more people crowding the aisles between the wind chimes and the garage door installers.  We’ve gotten lots of stuff over the years from this show of shows. Everything from plants to hot tubs.  From art to hang on our walls to decks to hang on our houses.  We’ve never walked away from a home show empty handed.  Empty walleted, yes.  Empty handed, no.

This year it was almost hard to buy anything.  Although every installer, builder, and artisan has his or her “show special,” it seems that prices at these events are always higher than on the outside.   But there are things you’ll never see on the outside so you don’t really know.

This year we came across the $29 dog brush, a $22 garlic peeler, a $49 hose nozzle, and (our favorite) the essential $100 iron.  It was at the iron display that the pitchman steadfastly refused to reveal the price until the demonstration was over.  It looked like a good deal, and maybe worth a few extra dollars just for the long cord.  When he quoted the “low price of only ninety-nine, ninety-nine” someone (ok, it might have been us – in unison) exclaimed, “That’s a hundred dollars!  For an Iron!” and a couple other observations about it.  “But it’s the last iron you’ll ever buy,” came the seller’s justification.  We compared our iron history.  Between the two of us we’re on our third iron.  It could have been the second except He of We lost his first iron in an appliance custody settlement.  The most expensive of those was $17.

We don’t know why events like this have to inflate prices so much.  Twenty years ago you at least got some entertainment out of it with the classic pitchmen and the cleaners and tools you couldn’t get anywhere else.  On the main stage the local PBS affiliate would have cooking and home improvement demonstrations.  We remember when they would make enough at the cooking demos that everyone in the audience actually got to eat.  Now two hotdogs and a soft drink eat up three quarters of a twenty dollar bill. 

But we’ll still go every year.  Whether we need anything or not we’ll find something or other.  And it’s always an opportunity to re-visit with truly talented artists and craftsmen.  At our last stop we stayed for a while and chatted with an artist whose work graces walls in both of our houses.  He is a very pleasant man who actually makes a living from his paintings.  Someone who has turned his dream into his dream job.  Someone who makes you feel good that you stopped to say hello.

 And a good thing we did or else the only things we would have bought this year would have been three bags of tortilla chips and a newspaper subscription. 

Hey, when it comes to something of other, you can never have too much of it.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

If Only the ER Served Magaritas

Michael 1 Comment

We almost expected to hear Anthony Edwards, aka E. R. Dr. Mark Greene, shout “Clear!” and apply the defibrillator paddles to the piece of meat in front of him, grilling it to the perfect fajita filling.  The hustle and the bustle far exceeded that of most inner city emergency rooms on a Saturday night after the local team won its first (pick your favorite season) championship in over 50 years.

Ok, let’s catch you up so you can enjoy this tale also.  Last weekend we paid a visit to one of our favorite local eateries.  A very small authentic Mexican restaurant with no designs of growing larger.  On a lucky Saturday night we’ll be led to a quiet table for two tucked into a corner as far from the hostess stand as one can get in a room the size of a generous living room.  Here we’re treated to the basic three courses where we relish in the opportunity to be served by trained, professional waitpersons in our favorite quietly comfortable restaurant.  Good food.  Good service.  Good company.  Good time.

Last Saturday we headed to our dining quarry figuring to have a drink in the bar before dinner.  We’ve ventured into the bar, considerably smaller in scale to the rest of the operation just as another couple was called to their table.  We settled into their vacated seats at the far side of the square cornered horseshoe and decided that we were so comfortable, and since we never had there before, we would have dinner right there at the bar.

Eating at the bar is nothing unusual for us.  We do so quite often.  We’re low enough maintenance that the bartenders aren’t unduly burdened by having to play waitperson while already performing in the role of barperson.  Many of the places we’ve come to call home for dinner out have the bar in the middle of the room and thus in the middle of the action.  The ideal seat for people watching.  So with our history of bar dining and a new opportunity in front of us, we embarked on our first such supper at our favorite comfortably quiet restaurant.  Boy were we in for a shock!

“Clear!”  Well, how about “Smith!  Party of 4!  Jones!  Party of 2!”  Every 15 minutes or so the hostess, a little bitty thing, stood in the doorway of the smallish space and bellowed out a prospective diner like a conductor crying the stops of the local commuter train with a voice that would fill all outdoors.  “Behind you! Cold ice!” the bar back routinely called out with as much frequency as the people search.  And the people kept on coming.

They packed themselves in like they were filing into the afternoon rush hour subway.  Parties of 2, 4, 8.  Eyes slightly glazed after a long day of shopping? housework? painting?  We don’t know what the Saturday afternoon activities but whatever they were those activities led to a need for an adult beverage.  And soon.  Drinks were called for from the second row behind the stools. 

“Ford! Party of 6!”  “Margarita! No Salt!”  “Lincoln! Party of 4!”  “Dos Equis! Draft! Make it two!”  At one time we counted 38 people in the little room.  The fire marshal generously rated the space for occupancy by 50 people.  The designer squeezed 14 stools around the counter.  There wasn’t a time that the other 36 hadn’t conveyed their desperate need to soothe the fever that responded only to the medicine served in a chilled glass.   Ice when it wasn’t being poured into the holder 20 pounds at a time was transferred into quart sized mason jars then filled with tequila and the other makings for their specialty margarita and attached to the industrial blender that sounded like a second cousin to a turboprop airplane.  When at last their names were call, parties would leave for the dining room, clutching their chilled glasses like the secret remedy from the healer of the high desert. 

Standees took their vacated seats, new patients crowded in from the outer room.  “Nachos with queso!”  “Frozen or on the rocks!” “Heinz! Party of 6!” “More chips please!” “Rocks! No Salt!”  “More Ice!” “French! Party of 2!”

All around the conversations bubbled to the top, mixed with the televisions (two, about 20 feet apart, on different channels) and stirred into the bustling chatter of the staff, creating a confused sound track.  “Temperatures will be higher than…the upstairs really need to be…ordered last week and now they say…it’s the third meeting between them…when I said…do you want another…chilly night before…rebounding and that has to get better than… dark blue with gray trim.” 

One of our regular waiters spotted us from the service area waiting for his orders.  “Trying something new?” he shouted across the room.  “You know us, we have to try it all!” we answered.  Our attention divided between the bartenders going through tequila, ice, and chilled mason jars and the patrons going through tequila, ice, and chilled mason jars.  The bar persons whirling into high gear, resembling the blades spinning in the drink mixer.  The bar crowd shifting into lower gears as the cactus juice mellowed them in preparation for dinner.  Eventually.

And so they came, dazed, confused, smarting from spring cleaning, comatose from too much Saturday television, sore and achy, looking for healing in the emergency rooms of bars.  And a margarita.  Rocks.  No salt.  No glass.  Just a mason jar and one really big straw.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?