Nice Job Kerry: Going Out To Eat Again
Hey I’m Dan and this is the first of my (probably) weekly series of “Nice Job, Kerry”. This is where I blame Kerry for something regardless of who’s fault it may or may not be. To those of you new to this, Kerry is my sister of 20.5 years. She has brown hair and (in this instance at least) owns a hat that makes her look like an eight year old. Currently she is enrolled as Pitt and probably learning something dumb. You think I take the time to know this stuff?
Every so often Kerry gets hungry and demands that we go eat. Often times my Grandma gives me ten dollars to go out to eat but laments that she, “does not have enough for Jen, Leah, Lindsay, Tommy, Kerry. I mean Kerry.” Sometimes these two events coincide and I take Kerry out to eat with me. We can never decide but for some reason this evening we went to the SouthSide where Kerry estimated we would have an 80% of being dissapointed. I was feeling lucky so we found a parking spot and somehow found ourselves in a place called Papparazzi. I’m sure I’m spelling that wrong but you’ll see why I don’t care in a moment.
It’s a quiet place with a few tables and Kerry and I are seated against a wall and given some menus. About 15 minutes later a man (our waiter?) slams some wine glasses full of water on our table, yells that he’ll be back and walks away. 15 more minutes later he comes back and Kerry tells him she wants a Coke. For some unknown reason the man looks at me and says, “You want a Coke too.” What. Why would he ask that? I said no and kind of expected him to ask me every other drink on the menu until he struck gold. Instead he just starred at me like his brain was gathering energy for the next genius idea and I said “water”.
He returned in about 5 minutes with a glass of water and a Coke. Also, he saw fit that there was a dead fly in my water and all of the carbonation of Kerry’s Coke was eradicated. Good man. I complained, as well as ordered some appetizers. Later, the man brought us a block of deep fried cheese sitting on a throne of marina sauce. It looked alright but tasted like funnel cake filled with cheese. We were starving so we ate it all. In the middle of our conversations, the man would scream from across the restauraunt at us that, “YOUR FOOD WILL COME OUT SHORTLY.” THANKS MAN.
Meanwhile, we were treated to watching a lady set up shop INSIDE the restaurant. A shop inside of a restaurant? Can you imagine? You’re waiting for your food and a bazaar appears right next to your dining table. Except this bazaar was full of tacky jewlery, and shitty assorted items. It would only fuel the burning fire of hatred, trust me.
Finally, the man brought us some food. It was not out main course, but a soup I ordered and a salad Kerry ordered. The man warned me that my soup MAY be cold. Hey guy, why would you serve me a soup you think is probably cold? Why not take the effort and time to heat this up for me instead of me making you run it back after I get hella pissed? It was cold, but I begrudgingly said it was fine because the less interaction with this idiot the better.
Our meal came and my spaghetti and meatballs I ordered tasted like rolled up hamburgers. The pasta sucked and I was pissed. I requested to speak to the manager and some lady came out and I told her how appalled I was. She told me that the “Jerry” (our waiter) was new and was trying his hardest. I told her that what I was eating was banal and I was extremely offended they’d serve this to me then I went on to say, “and there is some lady setting up shop to my left and I’m not even sure what kind of environment this is to eat food in.” She apologized and took 50% off the bill. The bill still came to $18.00. I was real mad, so I told Kerry to put on her eight year old hat, get her jacket on cause we were leaving in a rush. I left $10 dollars on the table and left that hell hole behind.
What a miserable time it was. Kerry and I have learned our lesson. And that lessons is two folds. 1) Don’t go to a dining place that is not full of people and 2) you can pay whatever you want for a meal as long as you leave before they find out.
Side Note: Cashier at the Rite-Aid post-Papparazzis said to us, “Still cold out?” to which we responded, “yes,” and then she said, “Crazy weather we’re having.” And I thought it might be crazy if we were in Ft. Worth, Texas but we’re in Pittsburgh in the midst of December. Nothing out of the ordinary here.
Breakfast of Monte Cristo
Who’s god damn idea was it to create the Monte Cristo sandwich? It’s a vile creation that even the most obese would think twice about eating. Basically, some mad man read “The Count of Monte Cristo” then probably beat his wife then screamed at until he a) was coughing up blood or b) she made him a sandwich that would satisfy his urge to die.
So the lady, fearing for her life, started cooking like a lady who’s life depended on it. She got some ham, some eggs, some turkey, some bacon, and made some French toast for good measure. Oh wait, she then decided to deep fry the French toast then sandwich the other materials in the middle. Holy. Hell.
I’m not sure if you’ve ever had one before. I’ve made it 22 years of my life and have only seen it eaten once (by Pat no less). But to be honest, part of the allure is that this sandwich sounds reasonable on paper. Like a door to door salesman who is selling covers for your steps. It sounds genius, but let’s be honest with ourselves, no one is going to enjoy that.
This sandwich was brought to me covered in powdered sugar and fried stuff. I was kind of excited at first since it seemed like the king of breakfast sandwiches but then I took I bite and was very confused. My taste buds thought they were at some trashy carnival. It was like eating funnel cake covered in eggs, syrup, and ham. Like, why.
It’s safe to say I’m going to continue hating on this sandwich for a while. Breakfast is suppose to be a delicate meal, not something unrefined carnival folk would make for their illegitimate elephant calves.
Commence Brain Melting
There was a weekend that took place not too long ago. It was epic. Words cannot really explain how many hookers followed us to our hotel room, or how much money was spent on strippers. Phrases could not arrive at a conclusion that would make it OK for someone to pass out at the top of the first inning of a Pirates baseball game or at a bar afterwards. Millions of adjectives and nouns working together, like the workers on the Tower of Babel, could not describe the sheer madness that took place in Pittsburgh.
So I give to you this picture. Most pictures are worth a thousand words and this one is no slouch. It spews out a thousand then, when you think you have found the meaning, it crams more words down your throat. Next thing you know you’re throwing up prepositions and articles into your toilet wondering why I did this to you. But the story it tells would make tree roots shrivel and roosters stop roosting or whatever they do.
At first glance it may look like an ad for the Gap and you would probably be right. There was a fires sale on khaki shorts and who doesn’t need an extra pair of those around the house? But underneath that layer of marketing you can see the hurt in our eyes; our souls. No one seems the slightest bit happy in this picture and for good reason. What is there to be happy about when you just shot gunned a beer and threw up in a garbage bag in the middle of a parking lot? Why smile only to be told that, “Hey, most Asians only live to be 24.” It was frivolous.
Our gazes are not centered on one thing but shooting off in every one direction. Perhaps that serves as a metaphor for the quest I drunkily went on (with the help of Rachel) to find our lost friend in the dark unfriendly corner of the North Side.
If only we could see the foreshadowing this picture foretold of a weekend full of antics of the darkest varieties. Well, we probably would not have changed a thing.
I will tell you this. After our friends left the area Pat and I were changed. I’m not sure if we felt like kings of the city or more like a pair of Jews who survived the holocaust. We wanted nothing more than to look at a blank wall and reflect on the weekend that could only occur when every galaxy, asteroid, star and planet lines up perfectly in front of one another sending all of their cosmic juices right into the heart of Pittsburgh. Our minds tried hard to wrap themselves around this phenomenon like a stripper would wrap her self around a pole, but it was fruitless. Let’s hope it does not happen again for some time.
District of Ye Olde’ Columbus Act IV
I always finish what I start. Except for my short stories about a walrus named Woozle, a blog from the perspective of a dog (who works at a creativity factory), podcast aspirations, and writing a comic script.
So when I last left you (sorry I’m not sorry) Pat was tying my tie in an extremely heterosexual way. His soft warm breath tickled my eye lashes as he gently closed the knot around my neck. So then we were dressed and took our 50 printed resumes to the career fair, basically for nothing. Later, we got hammered and ate some banging burritos/enchiladas. We sat on the roof of a penthouse with some of Pat’s political friends and drunkily talked about “smelling” things “later”. We overlooked the National Treasury, which was nice. So it got late and Pat and I peaced. We left the roof belting out a “smell ya later” and went to walk back to our crack whore free hotel room.
But then we remembered we were in D.C. and I haven’t seen any of the memorials.
Sure the Lincoln Memorial was a more than a mile away from where we were currently, and not to mention it was about three miles away from the hotel. But those were regular miles, not drunk miles. We were like .24 drunk miles away from anywhere. So we walked by the White House, which is covered in snipers at night. Hopefully not drunk ones. Can you imagine snipers drunk on the Whitehouse? Oh lord that would that be a mess. The annual Easter Egg Hunt could result in many more causalities than normal. (Did you know four kids ends up in the hospital every year from that?)
We continued on to the capital and walked through some scary woods until we detoured to the Korean War Memorial. Let me tell you how majestically terrifying that is. There are statues of soldiers that are slightly larger than life. They’re just large enough to be like, “Hey we’re here and probably much more important than you will ever be.” So you just stare at them, aghast, as they walk through their marsh like settings with an American flag in their sights. It’s probably a metaphor for freedom. They’re also infused with moonlight which gives them a possessed feel. Any minute I’m watching them I was expecting one of them to look over at me and ask me why I’m not helping them fill the world with democracy.
After that magical wonderland we climbed the steep narrow steps to Abraham Lincoln’s house. This guy is huge. I would reckon that if he were ever inspired enough to get off of his cement throne and exercise he’d be benching thousands of kilos. Kilos of unity and peace. Whoever decided this monument was an extremely blunt man. “Let’s make a monument with logs and a meager lumberjack trying to chop down the trees. The trees will me marked with all sorts of slurs of something.” And then the foreman of the project slapped him in the face and said, “No. We’re going to get the largest amount of whatever stone we can find and carve his body out of it then put him in his own giant house.” I stared into his eyes, agape, waiting for him to come to life like that Ren and Stimpy cartoon. I can only imagine that, much like the other memorials, his words would inspire shame and disappointment. He would confirm that, yes, I will never be as outstanding or grandiose as he. Ever.
Thanks D.C. Only you can take a fun fantastic trip and dip it into a vat of guilt.
Ye Olde District O’ Columbus Act II
Pat and I parked in an exciting looking parking lot, with exciting signs hanging above us, below an exciting hotel with excited sorority girls who were excited to be meeting up for what looked like their 20th anniversary of first meeting each other and Pat and I were less excited to be surrounded by green and pink clad sorority women and even more unexcited to find out a hotel room is much more expensive than we thought. But we pressed on.
We walked through a parking lot and saw a homeless man sleeping. Well he may not have been homeless. For all we know he was just sick and tired of sleeping in his own house. How boring is that? We do it day in and day out and this guy is the only guy with balls big enough to mix it up. While clutching his shoe shining kit. More striking than that was his shoes were made by Brooks. You know, the super awesome running shoe company? Their shoes run at about $100 a pop. I currently cannot afford a pair of these but this man can. I’m clearly doing something real wrong.
We plopped down on a sidewalk looking all homeless like and contemplated our next move. To be fair, Pat looked much more homeless than I did with his old raggedy plain white t-shirt, torn up cargo shorts, socks pulled midway towards his knee, and drinking from a $.99 Arizona Fruit Punch can. No one asked him for money.
Time went by and we decided to change from borderline homeless into respectable citizens. We headed back to the parking garage to put on our dress pants, some shiny shoes, and sports coat. I can only imagine the reaction someone may have if they saw two homeless looking kids putting on full blow suits in a grimy parking garage. Horror? Repulsion? Terror? Intrigue? Seduction? I’m sure if anyone saw us they contemplated reporting a homicide/identity theft to the authorities.
We aren’t homocidal maniacs and if we decided to kill some dudes and steal their outfits we would have done it in some alley way, not a parking garage.
Pat did help me tie my tie which was really nice of him.