Hal, please play my messages
Assignments really seem to have started picking up at work. It looks like I’m spoken for through the rest of the year which eases my nerves.
When we got home it was one of those “Mexican Standoff” moments regarding dinner. Nobody particularly felt like cooking, nor could we agree on a theme. Then Chad reminded that they just built a Fire Mountain just outside of our subdivision on the main drag.
Fire Mountain is a whack at an upscale reformat of Ryan’s Steakhouse. It’s a spanky new timber and stone structure (sorta ski lodge looking). Inside there’s probably over a hundred yards of buffet with damn near every imaginable food you can think of.
It’s not high-cuisine… but it’s definitely competent, especially if you stick to the home-cooking Americana stuff like chicken and dumplings, salisbury steak, fried okra and stewed tomatoes. Nonetheless – for such a wide variety at $10 a head, it’s a great solution for those nights we can’t agree on what to have.
We got there uncharacteristically early… (we normally don’t get around to eating dinner until around 8pm). The place was packed….
“Packed” not really being the issue at hand here.. “Packed with What” – is what I found troublesome.
Here’s the part of the recollection where I start sounding like a classist prick – but I really don’t mean to. (and actually partially neurotic that I am sounding that way).
The demographic inside was a slice of middle America – the real ugly kind that define the US-Stereotypes held by Europeans and that fuel mockumentary film makers.
I paused half way between my mashed potatoes and gravy course to look around and I nearly lost my appetite.
Obscenely obese couples with their equally obscenely obese children. Ticky-tackey american flag sweatshirts and big church-of-God hairdos.
Most of them were terribly rude – almost in a trance-like feeding frenzy. I took note on my next return trip to the buffet and counted how many times I would side step a fast moving heifer on her way to the German Chocolate Cake and say “Oh.. pardon me… and excuse me”. Not once was my politeness returned… Generally eye contact would be avoided or I would be shot glances which said “Get the fuck outa my way”.
I didn’t finish my last plate of food.. I got way too observant at this point and started looking around… looking closer… Noticing eating habits / manners (or lack there of). I caught myself saying “Wow.. This IS middle America.”
Piggy.. Selfish… Unmannered.. and Self Righteous.
I started struggling with feeling “bad” for eating there…
Fucking ridiculous… My love of stewed tomatoes shouldn’t be thwarted by a genre of folks I don’t care for. Nor does my love of said stewed tomatoes and decision to go to a certain restaurant imply anything about my character…
(Shrug) – We left and I opted to meditate about that later and try to figure it out.
Chad and Kevin are jonesing for new video game content so we detoured our trip home stopped by Best Buy…. Mario Kart isn’t out yet.. (piss!!)…
Our phone at the house is on it’s last legs so I strolled through the telephone isle…
I was quite content to pick up a $60 cheepy cordless answering machine combo… something practical which would do the job… nothing else.
Damn those people at Uniden for hiring a sensitive industrial designer! DAMN THEM.. I’ve never seen a phone before that looked “designed” (with the exception of the stratospherically priced Bang and Olufsen phone).
Pretty black and silver. Shiny in all the right places.. Cool little function icons and nice type.
I didn’t pout for it – but I did stop and get that glazed donut look in my eyes which usually means I’m intrigued… It should be noted that I fully intended to keep with the less expensive purchase and play martyr – but it was Kevin and Chad that pushed me to get the one I really liked.
I don’t really think I’m a high end gadget freak… I “am” however a sucker for design. You could probably sell me a cow-pie as long as it was in a nicely designed package.
Hell – I could probably be sold on the idea of blogging if I could give it a pretty package.