IRant part 2

Not much of a rant because there's some beautiful people involved. But I needed a part 2, and my life isn't that exciting. Names have been changed to respect the innocent.


The Jihad in my mouth

I'm not a picky eater. No, really, I'm not. I'll try most anything once. I regularly eat sushi at several of the local restaurants. I once tried puffer fish at a sushi bar in NY and faked a heart attack just to see if the chef would be prepared to fall on his own fillet knife. He didn't, and failed to see the humor in my attempt. Also in NY, it would not be surprising to find me trying such cuisines as Ethiopian, a delicious plate of vegetable side dishes and stew served with no utensils. Instead, one uses the flat bread provided, called injera, as an instrument for eating. Basically, it's like making a taco. The flavors are quite unfamiliar, but not unwelcome and often taste vaguely like barbecue. So from Argentian empanadas and Filipino style tilapia (served with head on) to Jamacian braised ox tail and Senegalese Mafe (peanut butter stew), I may not have tried it all, but certainly quite a bit.

While Raleigh can potentially be diverse, it's not the cultural bastion that NYC or LA might be. With that probably not needing to be said, options can be limited and thus I'm always poised to check out new restaurants. Also, it's nice to test some place before you take a potential date there. And I like to know where the exits are. So it was with diverse palate, slight hunger, and a spring in my step that I found myself pulling into a small Middle Eastern themed strip mall in one of the suburbs of Raleigh. The strip mall contained a Middle Eastern grocery, toy store, and restaurant. It was a pure blend of capitalism meeting culture. I also believe there was some sort of place of worship as a crowd seemed to be exiting en mass. To be clear, this place probably doesn't get much traffic in the form of the average white guy in blue jeans and a bright blue shirt. I received a couple of sideways looks, not really out of anger, but more just confusion. The fact that I pulled up in white cargo van probably didn't allay any hesitation towards me. For all they know, I could be some angry redneck who doesn't support their right not to eat pork. Luckily, for me at least, there was a pregnant lady struggling to load boxes into her SUV. I walked over and asked if I could help. She happily agreed, and any tension in the parking lot, wither perceived or real, was long gone.

As I strode into the restaurant, a modest number of tables with a counter and a buffet....wait buffet?!!? Hell yeah, I am all about the buffet. And man, was it beautiful in all it's brown-ness. Some kind of greenish brown stew here, a darker brown stew her, and a toasted butternut sort of brown here. And of course, the red chicken. More on that in a minute. I joke about the colors, but I was actually pretty excited. It all smelled pretty good, and honestly, most "authentic" food looks ugly anyway. Or I just like to rationalize, take your pick. I walk up and ask if I can take a plate to go. I wasn't quite ready for his response. You'd think he was marrying me off to his firstborn daughter or something. He treated me like a visiting dignitary, beckoning me to try the "Haleem" and other dishes I wasn't able to recognize through his thick accent. I had such high hopes. Especially for the red chicken with peppers and onions.

At this point, I should say that I've had Middle Eastern as well as different styles of Mediterranean food before. So I dove into this expecting some spice. The average American palate is probably pretty bland, or at least that's what pollsters say when they run out of political topics, so I understand that I might need to eat this mixture of dishes with some bread and a glass of water. And personally, I'm not the greatest with spicy food. But I'm willing to try. Nothing could prepare me for what came next. As I was driving home, I leisurely popped a piece of the red chicken in my mouth. It was like a bomb went off. I had no water, only the bread that was offered with the meal. As I mow through that, I try to clear the spots from my eyes, ignore the sensation of my nose bleeding, and desperately cling to the road.

What the hell is in this I think? This is literally the stuff of nightmares and chemical weapons. A bunch of thoughts race through my clouded mind as I try to make it home. If some Islamo-facist (or whatever buzzword we're using) terrorist cell really wanted to fuck us up, this seemed like a viable way. A new weapon of mass destruction, perhaps? Then I wonder if it's something far more localized. Did the restaurant owner suggest dishes knowing that the weak constitution of my American stomach would be adversely affected? Only to laugh with his employees as I made my exit? I clearly saw other families enjoying the buffet. I saw what looked to be a 6 year old boy plating up some red chicken. Maybe it was just me, or maybe it was just that dish.

I reconsider as I arrive home and try the rest of the meal. The "browns" as I'll affectionately call them, offer no reprieve. It's like Spice-a-palooza, with a mash pit wrecking havok in my mouth. The chick pea stew is like kindling, the lamb like a blaze. Ok, now I'm fucking irritated and confused. What the hell do these people put in their food? I mean, honestly, do you have to spice a lamb up that much for it to taste good? If so, maybe sheep should be left for grandma's sweaters and lonely farmers. It was fucking relentless. And I didn't stop. I ate the whole fucking meal. It was challenging me, sharply calling out finish it, as if I were to then execute some sort of Mortal Kombat fatality. I even went back to the red chicken. I knew I shouldn't have. C'mon, red chicken? Red means stop everywhere. It's like the brightly colored defense mechanism of an African tree frog, which predators find appetizing until they realize it's poisonous. So I ate it, and cried, partially emasculated by a plate of food, partially due to the food's effects. Thankfully, the only permanent damage is to my ego and kitchen floor, where I accidentally spilled one of the "browns" and it melted through the linoleum.

I'm headed back next week.

Posted by Poes_Lament @ 1:49 pm EDT | Permalink | 2 Comments

IRant part 1

As if the Internet needed more rants, I thought I'd take some time and share some delightful thoughts with all of you. This is important stuff, so make sure you take everything seriously and respond accordingly. This is, of course, all true.

Welcome to the Jungle, We've got Fun and Games

My headset broke this weekend, marking the third one to have problems in as many weeks. You'd think I was using them as some sort of advanced torture device or as a facilitator in nightly masturbation. But no, apparently talking into the damn thing is just too much. What a stress test, eh? In response, I head over to the local Tar-Jey to replace it only to find none in stock. The next closest store is a GameSuck(tm), but I'm under blood oath not to shop there. Short on time (and patience), I decide to tempt fate and head into the wilds of the worst retail store imaginable. They were five minutes from closing and had partially put the chain-like gates down on the windows, leaving the door as the only entrance point. Though a security measure to keep people out, the gates made the place look more like a zoo whose only inhabitants were social anxiety affected 20 something males in pithy T-shirts. You know the type. These are the guys that actually *read* Maxim, before promptly cutting out the pictures for a future collage.

So it was in utter surprise that I found a cute 20 something female working behind the counter as I strolled into the store. I at first thought she must have had clubbed feet, but it seemed her gait was unaffected. Naturally, she must be brainwashed then, I thought. Her partner in crime, and I use that term rigidly, based on previous experiences with this retail store, was a late 20s, early 30s white dude with half-dollar spacers in his earlobes. As a side note, who in their right mind finds this sexy? No stranger to admiring ink or piercings, I find this type of body modification unappealing in every sense. Only a dude who has never had his ass rightly kicked (and should) would consider even attempting such nonsense. Or is it some sort of GameSuck(tm) tribal ritual based on pre-orders sold? Twenty gets you quarter sized hole, while fifty gets you half dollar sized!

Anyway, amidst my shock, I did manage to check out Cutie's hands, thus confirming her gender. One can never be too careful when entering the hub of evil. Feeling the filth start to wash over me only seconds after walking in, I head over to the Xbox section to look for a headset. Only wireless on the shelves. How can this be? Resigned, I head to the counter where Spacer Boy is embroiled in deep conversation with another customer. The topic seems to be the finer points, as if there were any, of the new Ninja Gaiden Sigma Collector's Edition for the PS3. Cutie looks incredibly confused and casts furtive glances over towards the door, evidently ready to make a mad dash for it. She must be new, I think. There's hope for her yet.

I ask her about the headset and she looks to Spacer Boy for approval. He's too busy trying to sell the NJGCE (fuck if I type that again) to the poor lost soul still stuck in his web of deceit. Never mind the fact that it isn't even out yet, but that's this company's M.O. I really want to have a T-shirt made up that says "Ask me about pre-orders and you'll get a free ass-whopping," but that's pithy enough that GameSuck(tm) might try to keep me as one of the exhibits. And I cannot live on Mountain Dew alone. I decide instead to let Spacer Boy finish his tirade.

While I wait, I intermittently stare at Cutie's impressive chest and watch some displaced 15 year old fail the easy version of "Cherry Pie" on Guitar Hero 2. (noob) The song appropriately sets the mood for Cutie and I, hence the staring. But honestly, I feel altruistic towards both of them. While I'm sure Cutie gets plenty of attention, it's most likely slight glances and the occasional compliment barely recognizable through a deep stutter. Let's face it, most of the patrons have given up the idea of sex long ago and are likely salivating over the games. I see what I think is a slight approving nod from her regarding our eye to breast contact. She digs me.

The 15 year old certainly isn't going to win over any fans with his performance, but I feel for the kid, so I try and support him. No chuckle escapes me. I fear he's got a long road ahead of him if he can't even fit in with the geek crowd. But for a brief moment in time, plastic guitar in hand, I want him to feel like the animated rock star he's trying to emulate. He then moves on to "Heart Shaped Box" and loses me completely. I resist the urge to throw something at him.

Ten minutes later, I'm starting to get bored. I could ask Cutie out, but that would probably require having to come back to this store. My steely resolve offers the better judgement. I politely, because that's how I do things, breach into the conversation and ask for a standard wired headset. Spacer Boy looks at me in annoyance and says that they have one register down, tells me I'll have to wait. And then continues his now 15 minute conversation about Ninjas. I vow to stop him before pirates are mentioned. It doesn't come to that. My interruption is enough for Lost Soul to make his exit, without buying the game. Great, I think, now he's going to be *real* helpful.

After checking in the back, he tells me that they have none available. Apparently, I am required to wait 20 minutes for this information. While at the counter, the 15 year old kid hands in the guitar. I swear I see a tear stream down his eye as he leaves. I cling to the last hope that he's not a picky eater, thus potentially finding some friendships along what's sure to be a rocky road. Spacer Boy snaps me back to attention with the revelation that he has used headsets available. In desperation, I contemplate the idea. My first thought is of the vicious earwig used to control the mind of Chekov in Wrath of Kahn. It is possible that one could hide in the ample foam provided in the headset's earpiece. My second thought is that if my mind is gravitating towards Star Trek, I've already been here too long. But I really want to get a headset. No, I *need* to get one. I'll risk the earwig. But then I think about the mouthpiece and the possibility of some 13 year old using it to practice his human beat box maneuvers. My mind is not my own anymore.

Spacer Boy tries to up sell me on the wireless headgear. Prepared for such a tactic, I respond that those on my friends' list that have tried it have not had good luck. It seems to often cause feedback and buzzing for the recipients of the voice. He agrees, but responds that incoming is fine. I tell him I'm not the kind of asshole that likes to subject friends to uncomfortable noise, but instead the kind of asshole that likes to argue with GameSuck(tm) employees. He doesn't relent. I then tell him I have an extra thirty dollars if Cutie wants to give me a handjob in the parking lot if you *really* want to up sell. It barely registers, so I ask him where I can buy a can of Lysol, pay for the used headset, and head out the door. As I leave, I see Cutie shoot me a slight smile. There's a sadness to it, not unlike watching your cellmate make parole, forced to wonder when, if, you'll ever get out. In this case, her prison is the Communications degree she thought would be so valuable, only to be let down. Now, forced into retail prostitution, life seems hopeless. And as I walk out the door, having these thoughts, feeling a slight sadness myself I think; I should have asked her out.

Posted by Poes_Lament @ 12:24 pm EDT | Permalink | 0 Comments

Don't call me Logan, I once kicked a Seagull

First blog, first post. I thought I'd start out with a reprinting of an email I sent to a friend. It's quick and dirty, but hopefully some of you will find it funny.

I'll cover more serious ground as the weeks advance.

I walked into a gas station to get some drinks and the dude, a very scrawny looking older white guy starts talking to me.
It's better told but you my get the gist. He sorta looked like steve buscemi with more hair. We'll call him Steve.

Steve: How's it going man?
me: good, thanks, you? (bad move)
Steve: Good, (proceeds to stub his thumb) ouch! I gotta get out of this job, it's too hazardous.
me: you ok? (choking down a snicker)
Steve: yeah, I need to get back into Law Enforcement.
me: ah...(trying not to sound too interested and looking for my drinks to be rung up...no dice)
Steve: Yeah, I'm a weapon.
me: oh yeah?
Steve: Well actually my FISTS AND FEET ARE A WEAPON. (he gets loud)
me: well, I don't want any of that, I'm just buying a soda, thanks.
Steve (now pretty much ignoring that I'm a customer): Yeah, I'm a blackbelt in Hopkido (and something even more useless)
me: ahh...
Steve: Bonebreaking, my disciplines are all about bonebreaking...
me: No jui jitsu? all fights end up on the ground, grappling is good. (I've been taught well)
Steve: Pfft. No I train as Steven Seagull did.
me: ahhh...
Steve: He's broken so many bones that guy, I'm surprised he isn't classified as a weapon of mass destruction. (ok, he didn't say that
but something along those lines)
Me: ahh, in the movies tho, it was kinda faked.
Steve: Yeah, you know I once sparred with Seagull, at a Hopkido Tournament.
me: really? (as in really, what else can I fuckin say at this point, I'm a thirsty motherfucker)
Steve: Yeah, he was talkin to his wife, AND I KNOCKED HIM ON HIS ASS. (Seagull, I assume, not the wife)
me: Oh yeah?
Steve: Yeah he wasn't happy about that. I mean, he wasn't mad, just embaressed I think.
me: yeah, I can see that.
Steve: You know, in all those movies, you never see Seagull on his back once. He never gets knocked down.
me: yeah, he's badass, well have a good night man (crackhead)
Steve: yeah, I'm off to apply to NC state to become a security officer, but I don't want to carry a gun, cause I'm a weapon myself.
me: (sound of the door closing and me making my way quickly to my car)

Moral: he may not be a weapon, but don't tangle with a crackhead.

Peace,

G

Posted by Poes_Lament @ 10:42 pm EDT | Permalink | 7 Comments