HERE’S LOOKING AT YOU KID!

My girl wanted to try this trendy urban restaurant that she’d heard about, so we made reservations and went.  We were immediately impressed with the décor.  It was beautiful, modern, and eclectic, incorporating many different styles and sculptures.  The lighting was sublime, and many candles were placed about to aid llumination.  The menu had many exotic choices, but we both ordered the yellow snapper, then waited patiently, snacking on exotic breads and crackers while enjoying the ambiance.

Soon our red snapper was delivered and I imagine we both must have looked surprised.  Our fish was a fish!  A whole fish! Head, tail, fins, and worst of all, eyes!  There was a small slit exposing the meat.

I looked at her knowing that neither of us had encountered fish served whole like this and said “What do I do? I can’t eat this, he’s looking at me!”

“I know, but it cost twenty five dollars. You can’t just not eat it!  Just try and ignore the looks.”

“No really.  He is looking right at me!”

I moved my head left and then right and the whole time its eyes seemed to follow my movement!

“I think he can see me!”

“Don’t be stupid.  You’re embarrassing me.  Just pull it open like this.”  She pulled hers apart like it was no big deal.

I started to very tentatively poke with my fork at the cut in his side.  “His mouth just moved when I poked him! I’m sure he can feel that!”

“Don’t be an ass.  It's dead.  Eat it!”  My girl took a slow breath and then tried 'the big boy approach'.  She changed her voice to low and smooth with deliberate pauses between words like my mother used to. “Look, I know it’s a little gross, but you have too!  This is how they do it in other countries.  Pretend you’re in some exotic country trying new things … then later you can tell everybody how brave you were.”  Then she smiled patiently at me and I knew that was my cue to try again.

I poked tentatively, trying not to embarrass her.  I think he might have blinked.  "Really, I can’t!”

“Fine, then you can just take it home and eat it there. Thanks for ruining my dinner!” she hissed like a evil serpent.

“I don’t want to take it home! Can’t we just let him go in the lobster tank?  I’m sure once he’s back in the water he’ll be ok, and then I can order something else!”

After that I got the steely stare of death.  She ate hers and occasionally looked up at me glaring.  I sheepishly nibbled on crackers and eventually they wrapped up my fish to go. I had her take it home as I never wanted to see him again. I felt additionally bad knowing he was going to be very cold in her refrigerator. I briefly thought of suggesting she should wrap him in a towel for warmth, but decided I was in enough trouble already.

On the car ride back I was pretty quiet.  She was mad, calling me juvenile, and I started to feel more like Mr. Fish with every block. Eventually, we got back to her house and she told me not to call her because I was immature and other unflattering characterizations.

I can’t help it if I am empathetic to the plight of a poor fish who sat there on my plate exposed, ready to be eaten.  And besides, I’m pretty sure he could see me!  Maybe they didn’t cook him enough and he was only wounded!  How would you feel, lying there blinking at the people, hoping they don’t eat you!

No more trendy restaurants for me! No sir!  I’m sticking to stuff that does not look like anything in particular, or stare at you.  If you want to eat wounded fish, go right ahead, but you can count me out!

THE COWS SAID “HI”

I was recently invited to a party held by my girls work associates. These people are unlike the common folks I meet regularly here in cow town.  They are all doctors or other medical professionals and all are well educated with a sense of class and sophistication. Talking with them is a delight as they are informed about things other than the weather, sports statistics or who got drunk and fell off their stool.

This party took place in Saint Petersburg; it started in a fifteenth floor apartment overlooking the bay for cocktails and appetizers. Our hosts were very gracious and after an hour we all went down and across the street to attend an outdoor fund raiser for the local playhouse.

There was a fun silent auction as well as bidding for lavish prizes including fancy vacations. A lovely buffet and open bar was included, and I ate under an almost full moon while bay breezes blew gently and folks much better off than I bid thousands of dollars for wonderful gifts. They laughed and bantered back and forth as they bid, teasing each other as most attend this event annually. One of the things that stuck out to me was their good sense of protocol. Not that their clothes were fancy or expensive because they were not; however it was the fact that everyone here was dressed appropriately!

Long sleeve shirts?  Dresses?  Dress shoes!!   

If ‘Cow Town’ would have had a similarly sponsored event, half the attendees would have come dressed in T shirts and sneakers with plenty of space to show off their prominent tattoos!    I wasn’t embarrassed for anybody and as a bonus, we talked about the world, literature, theatre, and other interesting subjects, never once mentioning that Becky hit Kyle over the head with a bat and was arrested!

Then when the auction was concluded and dinner consumed, the play ‘Rent’ was performed on a stage outdoors right in front of us.  Afterwards, we all went back to the fifteenth floor for drinks and dancing etc. It was great fun and we didn’t get home till 2 am. 

The next morning, I stuck my head outside of my trailer and my neighbor was there skinning fish on a table in his driveway. A cloud of hungry flies surrounded him.

“Gawllee, you missed a great time last night.  My cousins brought over their cat, though I warned ’em not too.  Why my dawgs chased that cat to tarnation, almost got it too, but it’s up on Scooters roof.  Won’t come down neither, guess it’s just a fearin’ to much.”

“Boy what fun,” I said, glad I was away for the evening.

“We bought a keg, lit a bon fire and sat around till late. Threw some cherry bombs on the fire just  funn’in… woo that sure sent ‘em runnin!  Dickey musta passed out cause he was still sleepin’ outside in a lawn chair this mornin’ when we woke up. Guess no one told him the party was over.  Heck that sure was fun; but you missed it, how come?   Couldn’t had more fun than that!”

Really, need I say more?

I DID IT AGAIN!

I  DID IT AGAIN!

I was once again at the movies on a Tuesday night with my girl. We go during a week night so not to run into any gabby types, and the place is practically empty.

There was only us and two other older folks, he was in his 60s, and she was in her  40s, and they were seated a couple of rows back, an aisle and a railing separated us. As the previews started and they began talking nonstop, my girl shushed them, but they ignored her and they continued throughout!

When the movie began they never stopped and, being aggravated, I walked back to them and leaned over the railing.

“So what are we talking about?” I said interrupting them.

“What are you doing?” The girl asked me looking quite surprised.

“Well I figure this must be a really interesting conversation since you haven’t stopped talking since you sat down.”

“Really, really you’re going to do this here, now?” the girl balked.

“Might as well, can’t hear the movie while you’re talking.”

“The movie just started.” She shot back.

“Yeah and my girlfriend asked you to be quiet, but you didn’t.”

“I didn’t hear her.”

“I figured, with all that talking.”

“Were sorry,” the guy said finally joining in.

“Ok.”  I turned and took a few steps back towards my seat.

“And get out of my face!” The guy says to me.

So now I turn back around walk back and lean my face way over the railing and right in his face.

“What?”

“I said were sorry” the guy says backing down.

“That’s what I thought.” And I walked back to my seat.

During the rest of the flick they were very quiet and that is all I wanted in the first place.   Surprisingly I didn’t get punched and my girl thought I was chivalrous.

So that’s new with me.   Nick

THE CLAMPETS AND THE HOWELLS

Remember Thurston Howell, III from Gilligan’s Island? That’s who I feel like living here in Bradenton Florida.  That’s pronounced Bra-dun-tun by the locals.  I’ve been called a snob, but I’m not really.  Actually, I come from a humble upbringing, but they still think I’m snobby.  For example, I visited some local friends a week back and the contrast was apparent.

My car drives up a dirt driveway that ends at a wooden house.  Around the house are rusty trucks and cars abandoned long ago. Sitting on the front porch in rocking chairs are my friends, hound dogs lie at their feet and he has a shotgun next to him leaning against a roof support.   My friend looks up at us approaching and spits chewing tobacco juice out into the weeds. He is whittling away at some wood with a knife and next to him is his wife is clenching a corncob pipe between her teeth and is sewing on a sole to a shoe. We exit the car and walk up.

“Well looky who came to visit us, if it isn’t the city slickers.”

“Just thought we’d stop by and say hi.” my girl says.

“So what have you so-phis-ti-cated folks been up to?”

“Well last week we went to Sarasota and saw Avenue Q it was a comedic play, an adult spoof on Sesame street, very funny, and tomorrow we are going to see Sade.”

“Ya say you’re gonna go shop at the Safeway?”

“No, no, Sade the jazz vocalist… you know, Smooth Operator?” They shake their heads no.

“Don’t know that one” he stated. Then she looked up from her shoe.  “Didn’t Dolly sing a song about a phone operator?”

“Well we’ve been havin’ some hilariousness ourselves, started out in our Jacuzzi where we had us quite a few a-dult beverages, then, after dark we went into the pasture and pushed over sleeping cows. Huh, now that’s fun!... going coon huntin’ tomorrow if ya want ta come?

Bling bling blang bling blang bling blang bling.  ( Imagine Banjo Music)

Then there was the night at the bowling alley, one of Bradenton’s cultural hot spots. I was sitting at the bar with my bowling team member when across the bar two drunken guys started yelling even louder and began punching each other.

“Great, drunken Hillbillies” I remarked.

“Be quiet! Don’t embarrass me.  Those are my friends!”

“So your brawling drunken friends aren’t an embarrassment, but I am?”

“That’s Dickie and Mickie.  They’re good guys.”

“Well I doubt they heard me as they are now sprawled over the pool table choking each other.”

“Sometimes you are very em-barr-e-sin’, getting’ all snooty like a fightin’ at the bar isn’t natural.   Them boys are just resolvin’ their differences. For gawsh sakes, I bet you gonna tell me you never choked nobody at a bar before, aren’t ya?”

Bling bling bling blang bling blang bling blang bling.

Then there is the city who tries to bring refinement and culture to the unwashed masses. And how do they achieve this? They have an event named ‘Get Down, Down Town’.   Downtown Bradenton consists of one brick paved street which is lined with old quaint buildings and large oak trees. Restaurants and bars are dispersed the length and it is actually quite nice.

One night a month discriminating vendors line the street for this event and display their fancy wares.  Need a coolie for your beer can?  They have it.  A bandana for your sweaty brow?  No problem. Temporary tattoos, earrings that flash with red lights, tobacco, and of course a table where you can meet the actual Bradenton roller derby team, all of Bradenton’s high brows are here in one spot.

But it gets even better.  In addition, they have hired someone’s cousin to play horrendously loud head banger music badly just so you cannot possibly have a conversation! So, a bunch of folks are standing around drinking beer in a crowd on the street wearing fake tattoos and bandanas and screaming at each other.  What could be more fun than that, huh? 

I went once.

There have been classy establishments that have opened up in the past, but alas no classy patrons to frequent said business and they end up closing. There was one particular place that featured an outdoor café patio right on the water.  Very nice.  It was upscale and had a dress code. Collared shirts, no sandals, you know severe restrictions like that!

Well you would have thought they required the hillbillies to wear tuxes as they had to eventually forget the dress code because no one would patronize them. 

Soon after, this upscale cafe was filled with people wearing Nascar T-shirts and sandals who brought their fishing poles so they could fish while sitting at tables with fresh flowers and fresh crisp white linens. Because it was waterfront and had a considerable overhead, the prices were higher than Scooters all –u-can eat, but not overly so. However, I guess that didn’t sit well with the locals as they just brought their own beer and sat at the tables waiting for that big catch. The place eventually closed and the locals just went somewhere else to fish and drink their beer.  They didn’t need those fancy linens on a table they just threw a sheet over the hood of their car.

“Well c’mon along Lovey.  It’s almost time for our cribbage tournament at the club. Lets wash up first as I may have brushed up against one of the local heathens.  Oh dear; I hope they haven’t exposed me to typhoid or some other unpleasantry.”