Oh I’m Sorry, I Didn’t Mean For My Genitals To Be In The Way Of Your Wildly Gesticulating Hand Motions.

12 Jul

There’s a restaurant very close to my apartment called Knight’s Steakhouse.  When I say close I am not exaggerating.  It takes me exactly 45 seconds to walk there from the door of my building.  (Yes I’ve timed it.) It usually takes me a little more than two minutes to get home, but I will get into the reason for that in a few short paragraphs.

knights-thumb-400x228-5851

The exterior of Knight’s Steakhouse on Dexter rd.

I guess I could go so far as to call myself a regular there at this point, though nobody there knows my name, and I suppose they’re more or less indifferent that I came, but I feel comfortable there. It’s close to home, inexpensive, they have good burgers, coca cola, and their biggest claim to fame (in my opinion at least) is their 7 dollar long island iced teas, which they will not serve you more than 3 of.  (For good reason.)  The place is dark and cozy, and walking through the door is like entering a time warp and emerging from the other end in the 1970’s.  Ironically, most of the people who frequent the place were already senior citizens in the aforementioned decade, which brings me to my favorite thing about Knight’s, (aside from the Long Islands):  I’m often the youngest person in the joint.  I can pretend to be the recently turned 21 year old hanging out in the local Townie Bar all over again.

My favorite place to sit at Knight’s is the booth I have come to affectionately refer to as “The Loser Booth.”  It’s a tiny little two person booth nested comfortably out of sight next to the door to the kitchen.  I sit there a lot, as the vast majority of the time I go there, I do so by myself, and the chair across from me conveniently serves as a place to put my backpack.

THE LONELY GUY, Steve Martin, 1984, (c)Universal

In 1984, Steve Martin made a movie about my life, even though I was only 11 then.

I go through the same routine every time.  I order a cheeseburger and fries, sip coca cola, listen to my headphones on full blast, and write in my journal while waiting for my food to arrive.  Sometimes I pause the music so I can catch bits of conversations from the happy socialites all around me.  Here are some examples of typical “Ann Arborite Conversation” (for your pleasure.)

“Gee Billy Bob, did you catch that NASCAR game on the television last night?”

“No sir.  I was too busy watching FOX news!”

“FOX NEWS! FOX NEWS! FOX NEWS!”  (entire table chanting.)

This is usually when I put my headphones back on, but (in the case of last night) not before hearing a bizarre statement by a waitress walking by which has left me in turmoil ever since.

“A Mixed Drink, and a SandWHICH.”   I know that word is spelled wrong, but she somehow pronounced TWO H’s.  Also, even more alarming, she didn’t really seem to be saying this to anyone else.  She just said it.  For no apparent reason.  Like some kind of mantra.  “A Mixed Drink and a SandWHICH.”   I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since.  WHAT DOES IT MEAN!?!?!?!

Vertigo1

MIXED DRINK AND A SANDWHICH! MIXED DRINK AND A SANDWHICH! MIXED DRINK AND A SANDWHICH! AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

 Eventually my food came, I ate it, then ordered my first Long Island.  At some point I surpassed the 5100th page of my journal.  A Very.  Big.  Deal.

I hung out there in my booth for an hour or so, drank my usual 3 drinks, settled my tab, and prepared to pay my customary visit to the restroom before departing on the perilous journey towards home.  The place had filled up a lot since I’d first arrived, and was pretty much rocking like a hologram Conway Twitty concert on the deck of an Octogenarian’s Only Florida Cruise Ship. Even without booze in one’s system, navigating the labyrinth of peculiarly placed tables and chairs in Knight’s can be a real predicament, and one almost always has to get awkwardly close to other diners while attempting to get anywhere.  At the booth right next to the bathroom was a lively group of Golden Girls, and one was telling a story that apparently required frantic arm waving. They were like the Sirens in Homer’s Odyssey.  They represented a nearly impossible obstacle I somehow had to pass.  There was no way to get around them and maintain my usual comfort zone of at least five feet of empty space between me and any other living thing, but I had to get into that bathroom, and for my trouble I took a painful blow to the groin from “frantic arm waving lady.”

Publication1

The Stuff Nightmares Are Made Of

I just marched on ahead, as if it hadn’t happened, and if there were any awkward apologies or indeed acknowledgement of any kind from “frantic arm waving lady” I was unable to hear it over my headphones.

I’ll never be able to listen to Rocky Racoon by the Beatles, one of my favorite songs, ever again.

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AlyZen Moonshadow

The words and works of AlyZen Moonshadow, digital mixed media photography artist, designer, musician, poet, philosopher, mother, muse, Goddess!

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AlyZen Moonshadow

The words and works of AlyZen Moonshadow, digital mixed media photography artist, designer, musician, poet, philosopher, mother, muse, Goddess!

Are You Finished Yet?

I like to write about stuff. I usually try to be funny. Take it or leave it.

Michael Rios

Sherlock unlocking the past

anewperspectiveperhaps

This site is about everything from my philosophy on life to the little things that make me laugh. IIt is about living, and breathing, and pausing long enough to take it all in. I hope it makes you laugh, sometimes makes you cry, but always makes you want to come back for another visit. It is your words, and your likes that inspire me to keep writing. And it is through my writing that you have a very large window to my soul. Relax awhile, read, and enjoy!

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