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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Meat
Dropped off The Demon Who Always Does The Right Thing at the airport this morning, after we had gone for coffee. I try to keep myself from talking too much about the impending move to Tokyo, but of course I only talk too much about my impending move to Tokyo. I want her and The Demon Grrlfriend to come visit. The D.Grrlfriend will be babysitting Frida while I am away, and I can't imagine anyone else I'd rather do sumo viewing with. And The Demon herself is interested in Japanese acupuncture and is interested in seeing a few of those sites while she visits. Anyway, so we had coffee, The Demon and I, and chatted about everything from my move to my move--and, yes, I also asked her about grad school, about her mom and the rest of her family. We talked about a soy. There's a 21st century topic of conversation right there. Soy. After that, I came home and ate a post-breakfast/pre-lunch snack. I only had a snack because I was meeting Judi for lunch at this place that I've been dying to go to for years. It's this steakhouse that's been the same for so long that it's been in style, then out of style, then came back into style. And through all that, they kept pretty much the same waitstaff and hung tight to the decor. (Yes, black naugahyde booths and wood paneling galore...) The hostess had spackled on her makeup (barely visible in the dark anyway) and perched her reading glasses atop her teased, upswept 'do. She wore a black sweater decorated with multicolored sequins. She called us things like "hon," in a gruff, gravelly voice while she told us about the specials which were, of course, "to die for." It was so seriously retro--or would have been if not for the fact that it did all of this with a straight face. I mean, this place doesn't even have campy in it's back pocket. The menu's "diet" plate is, yes, a burger without the bun, a scoop of cottage cheese, and some canned fruit cocktail. Seriously. It's called the "waist liner." Our waitress was a lunchtime anomaly, a young woman, the Hispanic version of Marilyn Monroe. She had the most glamorous, wavery smile ever, and no one had yet passed on the news that actresses aren't really "discovered" in dark, dark hole-in-the-wall dark restaurants anymore. But she was working it. I mean, she was really working it old school style, with her ray gun set dialed all the way out to voluptuously stunning. Judi and I had burgers. Big, medium rare burgers smothered in green chile and cheese and bacon and what else have you got to put on my burger that might help the impending coronary along? Yep, put that on too. And, honey, how about fries with that? Wait. You make your own potato chips here? I'll have those. Okay, bring both. A salad? Right. What kind of cheese do you want on that salad? No. It comes with cheese. And do you want ranch or blue cheese dressing? Do you want me to leave the meat off the salad? Vegans weep in horror when they hear of this place. Really. But it was a good burger. And while I ate, I looked around at the clientele. The men who didn't look like Hemingway looked like grandfathers out of Norman Rockwell paintings. The women? Old school Las Vegas some of them. A lot of gold, a number of beehives, and a few gold beehives. Lots of makeup, heavy--now that it's summer--on the bronzer. Done nails--finger and toes--and capris with heels that matched the handbags. I mean, Done. You know what I mean. It was gorgeous. Judi stage whispered at me, "They're going to have to close this place when this crowd dies off." Which should, sadly, be sometime next year. After lunch, I went to the gym. The gym, kids. I'm so turning into Jack Lalanne, what with the red meat and dairy for lunch, followed by an afternoon of pumping iron. The gym was the usual mix of the buff boys and dyke girls. And me, a'ight? Sadly, I'm neither. I'm kind of caught in the middle. There's this one buff boy who is so short and so buff that he's shaped like a rectangle laying on it's long side. He's got the size zero (and IQ zero) girlfriend. They work out together. (And I'm sure there's a joke of a rhyme ending with "...stays together" in that scenario, but I'm just too damn lazy to find it.) And some guys circled as usual, and one finally tried to bite, but I didn't even take off my headphones, just nodded curtly at his friendly, "Hi. How are you?" Because, honey, I'd had my raw meat for the day. Ain't no reason for me to visit the meat market. Besides, he was wearing a weight belt to use the machines. I mean, really. Even Kissy-Kiss used to take off his weight belt to use the machines. And if I weren't spoiled enough, I came home and took a dip in Kev and Kel's hottub. Lewie sat nearby and crunched on cottonwood twigs. (That dog is strange that way. He loves, for example, sunflower seeds. I know this because I dropped a few while I was filling the birdfeeders and he got really excited, ran over to where I was, and started licking the dropped sunflower seeds off the brick patio and crunching them up. Also, he eats flies. Yes, he catches them in mid-air and eats them, but really, he'll eat dead ones too.) So, yeah, I soaked and watched Lew eat twigs and if Fabio's younger, more cleancut brother had been there to bring me a milkshake? Why, it would have been a perfect afternoon. That's living right there, kids. A.M. coffee with a Demon, red meat and gossip for lunch, and a soak in the hottub. Hope your day was equal, demons.
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