John Travolta Should Get It Over With Too

It started with a date three years ago. I liked his boyish good looks. His average, boy-next-door, preppy style - benign and DC attorney-like. You know, average. We shared similar tastes in music. He was a "rock star" (for DOG's sake), fronting a college band and he even performed on stage with Paul Westerberg one drunken time in his youth. Now, that's rock and roll - not hair band rock and roll but smoke-a-pack-of-cigarettes-pop-beer-tops-with-your-mouth-punch-a-kid-in-the-mouth rock and roll. He was from upstate New York. He was apple pie.

We seemingly hit it off but for whatever reason never went out again. I guess I expected a full court press because I was popular in those days, what with the Yukkell and The Carson, et. al. He remained passive yet kept in touch over the years. I didn't pluck any "he loves me" "he loves me not" petals.

For three years we exchange very cursory emails. Small talk, if you will. I always thought he had a girlfriend and when things went bad, he would email me for some kind of male ego-stroking.

Like I said, this goes on for three years. Some bizarre online chat with some guy who, at this point now, I can't even remember what he looks like. And all I remember about him is the descriptor I gave you in the first paragraph. We literally are virtual strangers.

But this last time, he sends me a different kind of email. A drunken slur of "ohmigod I can't believe I did what I just did last night! OMG OMG. But don't ask me, I can't tell you. It's sooo embarrassing!" Of course, just like when mom said, "Don't look under the bed or in the closet for your Christmas presents", you look under the bed and in the closet. And so I bite back with "tell me more" and then he lays it out.

The story comes out in layers.
Him: I had a date with a guy I have had a crush on for awhile.
Me: Whoa! Hold the sausage. I didn't know you were gay.
Him: Oh yeah, I thought you knew.
Me: No, I don't even know who you are really, what you look like.
Him: What? This whole time? Three years?
Me: You are they guy I had drinks with at the Mayflower, right? You're a Westerberg fan?
Him: Yes, that's me.
Me: Were you gay then?
Him: No, not out of the closet yet. But I always liked your style and thought you were really pretty.
Me: [blushing]
Him: I'm actually a cross dresser and I like transvestites.
Me: Whoa! Hold the Hairspray. So you came out of the closet WITH A DRESS ON?
Him: In full regalia. I'm actually a passable woman. I never leave the house without my wig and full makeup. It feels good to be telling you this.
(The full description of his lovefest is redacted. The FCC will shut me down.)

So we remain pen pals. But now he signs off with "Luv ya hon, Betsy." And I laugh everytime.

Screaming Blue Iguanas

[Internet General's Warning: Put down the sandwich. Seriously. You do not want to be eating your lunch while reading the following I've-Got-Nothing-Else-For-You post from a dried up blog. Original Me, you are a has been. Oh, sorry, we found somebody more dried up than you. So no food. But wine is strongly encouraged. That way, this might be a little entertaining. And now....the Internet is drunk. This message has been FDA-approved.]

A couple weekends ago Dear Prudence and I bellied up to a bar one rainy Friday night. But in securing these cozy seats for the night we had to entertain some chap who gave them up for us. Nice guys finish last indeed (i.e., standing up in the main thoroughfare of the bar only to be elbowed en route to the bathroom - constantly). So in the goodness of our appreciative thirsty little hearts we "let" him tell us in painstaking and barbaric detail about a trip to Honduras in which he ate endangered iguana eggs and how this came to be: He didn't want to die (i.e., starve to death) hence his "when in Rome" justification (of eating the sweet little innocent baby doll eggs).

Coming to a restaurant near you.

So since we had to hear his story of endangered cuisine and the finger-licking lip-smacking of such a delicacy and mostly because I am THAT NICE (I know! Thank me in champagne!), I will share his meal with you!

We ate it - the story - and that didn't taste good. So, I warned you. Remember put down the sandwich - for the next day or two and digest this.

Now coming to Foodtv.

This story comes with a character and his name is, Gentle Ben. Gentle Ben used to work for the Peace Corps and longs for the days when he wasn't working for the man, he stiffs the bartender a quarter every time he orders his stout, and he frequently strokes his bushy beard while he shares his tale of barbarous woe.

Gentle Ben leans in between DP and I, hand in V formation within his nest of facial hair stroking the words along, and carefully selects his descriptor like any of the best food critics I could imagine,

"Iguana eggs are fluffy."

(NOT) Coming to Bob and Ediths! But foodtv is still interested. Maybe there is a Semi-Homemade cocktail in the works.....

I know you must be famished right now since you have been forced to go without your sandwich for the lunch hour while you read this mouth-watering tale of apparently-ethnic cuisine because see, as Gentle Ben says, "Dude, this is how they survive, by eating the iguana." How many ways can you skin a cat? How many ways can you filet an iguana is what the natives (according-to-Gentle Ben) ask. Seriously, would you order a hamburger at a Mexican restaurant? OK, Gentle Ben, point made.

How To Hunt Iguana, as told by Gentle Ben with help from Me

Shake the cute little guy from the tree.

Dive into the water after him.

Bring him to the cooktop.

Filet the iguana with an incision down the belly.

Munch on the legs at the movies.

Cut the eggs out of the body.

OK, CUT, CUT!! (Or even bad choice of words - no more cutting - stop this Gross Fest!!) Seriously, no more. I am having horrific flashbacks to when I was in junior high and I forgot to skip school on Frog Disection day. And what were we supposed to learn anyways on that day? I'll tell you what I learned: Frogs have sex. And my kermit had lady parts because she was "in that way." Only to be found out after the incision and all the little black eggs (a la caviar) exploded out of her belly onto my lab table. And to this day, I can not try caviar. (But I am sure there are other factors involved in that decision too and they have to do with: gross and eww and a Taco Bell palette.) Alright. That's it. My kid is skipping school on Frog Disection Day. I will send a note: "Susie will have to miss out on your little experiment because she would like to eat caviar SOMEDAY, what with the expensive tastes of her mother. Taco Bell. We'll be at the border."

Gentle Ben says: MMM, tasty iguana tacos.

Screaming Blue Iguanas

[Internet General's Warning: Put down the sandwich. Seriously. You do not want to be eating your lunch while reading the following I've-Got-Nothing-Else-For-You post from a dried up blog. Original Me, you are a has been. Oh, sorry, we found somebody more dried up than you. So no food. But wine is strongly encouraged. That way, this might be a little entertaining. And now....the Internet is drunk. This message has been FDA-approved.]

A couple weekends ago Dear Prudence and I bellied up to a bar one rainy Friday night. But in securing these cozy seats for the night we had to entertain some chap who gave them up for us. Nice guys finish last indeed (i.e., standing up in the main thoroughfare of the bar only to be elbowed en route to the bathroom - constantly). So in the goodness of our appreciative thirsty little hearts we "let" him tell us in painstaking and barbaric detail about a trip to Honduras in which he ate endangered iguana eggs and how this came to be: He didn't want to die (i.e., starve to death) hence his "when in Rome" justification (of eating the sweet little innocent baby doll eggs).

Coming to a restaurant near you.

So since we had to hear his story of endangered cuisine and the finger-licking lip-smacking of such a delicacy and mostly because I am THAT NICE (I know! Thank me in champagne!), I will share his meal with you!

We ate it - the story - and that didn't taste good. So, I warned you. Remember put down the sandwich - for the next day or two and digest this.

Now coming to Foodtv.

This story comes with a character and his name is, Gentle Ben. Gentle Ben used to work for the Peace Corps and longs for the days when he wasn't working for the man, he stiffs the bartender a quarter every time he orders his stout, and he frequently strokes his bushy beard while he shares his tale of barbarous woe.

Gentle Ben leans in between DP and I, hand in V formation within his nest of facial hair stroking the words along, and carefully selects his descriptor like any of the best food critics I could imagine,

"Iguana eggs are fluffy."

(NOT) Coming to Bob and Ediths! But foodtv is still interested. Maybe there is a Semi-Homemade cocktail in the works.....

I know you must be famished right now since you have been forced to go without your sandwich for the lunch hour while you read this mouth-watering tale of apparently-ethnic cuisine because see, as Gentle Ben says, "Dude, this is how they survive, by eating the iguana." How many ways can you skin a cat? How many ways can you filet an iguana is what the natives (according-to-Gentle Ben) ask. Seriously, would you order a hamburger at a Mexican restaurant? OK, Gentle Ben, point made.

Take us back to Honduran cuisine.

How To Hunt Iguana, as told by Gentle Ben

Shake the cute little guy from the tree.

Dive into the water after him.

Bring him to the cooktop.

Filet the iguana with an incision down the belly.

Munch on the legs at the movies.

Cut the eggs out of the body.

OK, CUT, CUT!! (Or even bad choice of words - no more cutting - stop this Gross Fest!!) Seriously, no more. I am having horrific flashbacks to when I was in junior high and I forgot to skip school on Frog Disection day. And what were we supposed to learn anyways on that day? I'll tell you what I learned: Frogs have sex. And my kermit had lady parts because she was "in that way." Only to be found out after the incision and all the little black eggs (a la caviar) exploded out of her belly onto my lab table. And to this day, I can not try caviar. (But I am sure there are other factors involved in that decision too and they have to do with: gross and eww and a Taco Bell palette.) Alright. That's it. My kid is skipping school on Frog Disection Day. I will send a note: "Susie will have to miss out on your little experiment because she would like to eat caviar SOMEDAY, what with the expensive tastes of her mother. Taco Bell. We'll be at the border."

Gentle Ben says: MMM, tasty iguana tacos.

One can only take his word for it. And now after such lovely bar conversation I can't even bring myself to eat a regular American chicken egg anymore.

But I think I will still be good go with the Cadbury eggs come Easter time. Yep, no babies on board in those.

"When I'm At The Beach, Where Do I Put My Chew?"

Missing from Potunkville, USA:

Slightly full-figured man in shiny red man panties, commonly referred to as Speedos, with a ring of dip, probably Skoal, tucked in the left butt cheek. Last seen carousing a popular Delaware beach, carefully treading his way through innocent sunbathers. If you have seen this man, please call 1-800-SO-PCKTS* to have him removed from the premises. His back pocket is missing him and we would like to reunite them as soon as possible.

*Sew Pockets, dba SOPCKTS, is engaged in the unique business of clothing manufacturing and fashion therapy. Our staff will work with the subject to ensure he gets a pocket that fits his vacationing lifestyle. We might fashion his current Wrangler square on his Speedos, or we may delicately guide him towards a longer syle of swim trunk, like, say, a board short that coincidently already has the pockets attached. Either way, we will work to educate him on the utility of a pocket. We at SOPCKTS understand that no man should have to go very long without a can of dip in his back pocket, even when at the beach.

A Dive Bar...Check Your Local Listings*

The Set:
Old decrepit house cum bar. Ramshackle charm. The air thick with smoke. Neon beer signs paste the wall. Maybe a nude painting. No windows. Dark but never gloomy. No cosmos or margaritas ordered here. This is a beer and shooters place - and cheap booze at that. Gloriously out of touch with the other bars in the neighborhood.

The Cast:
J, The Owner. The protaganist. Kind, generous, and compassionate. The kind of guy who when he asked you why you haven't been by in a few months and you tell him because your dad died and your rather sad these days, he hugs you sincerely, lets you cry your millionth cry, shares his own story, and gives you lots of beer. In fact, J always gives you lots of beer. So, J is the hero to all those who know him. And he's a Razorback.

Jimbo. A teddy bear of a man. Big, burly, and cuddly. He gives the best hugs. At first, he harbors a distant melancholy and you often find him slumped over the barstool. But he's the character in this story who experiences the most personal growth. The happy ending? Always a love story. He finds a lady love and now she calls him at the bar to check up on him (maybe to ask him to pick up some milk and eggs on the way home, maybe to find out when he is coming home, maybe to tell him she misses him). He is happy. He is needed. For Jimbo, The Dive Bar truly is a home away from home.

The "Kramer" (aka Do-Me-A-Favor). He's the quirky one. Nobody knows his name but your friends and you amiably refer to him by imitating his "Do me a favor" opening line (done with an accent that is a bit of Boston meets Southern?). He always starts out all his conversations with this line. He likes to ask trivia questions - which are often questions of a subjective nature (i.e., who are the top five philospers of all time?) or questions you are asked week after week. But act like it's new every time.

A typical conversation could be:
Him: Do me a favor...[emphatic flailing of the arms and gesturing with the cigarette]...for $20, what is the deepest part of the earth?
You: The Mar-
Him: The Mariana Trench
You: -iana Trench
Him: [grins...puts money back in pocket]

There is always a noticeable transformation to this character at some point in the evening. He is also a taxi cab driver so he may entertain you with sordid tales.

The Bartender. The straight man with a gruff countenance - the "soup nazi" of the bar. As endearingly crusty as the bar itself.

A DJ who plays the same songs, in the same order, every night. He doesn't take kindly to requests. He also asks trivia questions. For the night, he is in control, and you just have to accept that about him.

Tertiary characters will always include penny-pinching law school students and chain-smoking hard-living locals, but they aren't the real stars of the show. Stay tuned, they could have a starring role some day!

Finally, count on occasional special guest appearances.
Like...The owner of the sports bar down the street, always with a different lady. He's the Lady's Man.
Or The Drunk Guy Who Throws Up On Himself.

Constumes:
You might be thinking - dive bar? Costumes? And you would be right. In typical dive bar fashion, suits/ties, skirts, and high heels are left at the door (unless you are me because, duh, I love high heels). But there is one special article of clothing that no other Dive Bar can boast. A hat. But not just any hat. We are talking an original hog hat with the snout and the horns. And if you know where to find it, you can wear it. Because it's a treat!

Soundtrack:
Your typical oldies-soul mix soundtrack: Beatles, Donna Summer, Aretha Franklin, Rolling Stones, Neal Diamond, Elvis, and Nancy Sinatra, among other various golden oldies. Remember, there is a DJ. So sometimes you can get a special request like Afternoon Delight in. Sometimes!

Scene:
The Dive Bar is the heart of a real drinking culture. You hang your hat at the door and the world of the day is, for the night, shrouded in the delightful fusion of good friends, plenty of beer, maybe some dancing, some trivia-guessing, and good times.

Cheers, indeed.

*I thank the lovely Morgan for her help with this post. She would make a fabulous Director of this here show.