Sunday, June 10, 2012

It Always Ends Up In the Bathroom


“I hate anyone trying to do anything to me in public.” Chuck

“Do Kegels help with that?”  Lisa in response to a conversation about how the loss of elasticity in muscles is why old people can’t control their farts.

“She unfurled like a shar pei.” Co-worker of Chucks

“My dad was a Jugalo. I’m a Half-a-lo.”  Lisa

“Keep at it and someday you’ll play Red Rocks.” Night clerk at the Hampton Inn

John blasted us across the great boring ass plains of Kansas and eastern Colorado like Matthew Sweet in that one video where he drives a car. We stopped to get gas at a place called Flagler and if you want to film a movie where suddenly everyone is gone, be it from zombies, plague, a bad batch of cocktail wieners, whatever, then start here. I stood on some railroad tracks stretching off into forever, in the middle of a 3-way intersection and there was no one around.  Just a hot wind blowing in the beating sun with Ennio Morricone hiding behind a tree whistling softly.

Here’s what it’s like getting a meal in Wussy. We got into Denver with several hours to spare. After finding the club it was time to find food. We were on Colfax Ave. (the nations longest main street!) and we found a restaurant on the internet Lisa remembered from childhood. Casa Bonita, which was described in a review as a being like a creepy Disneyland on acid, with Black Bart’s cave and cliff divers. Sounded kitchy and awesome. However we screwed up the directions and it took us a good 45 minutes to find it. This is a close approximation of the conversation that followed:

“Not much on the menu.”
"Kind of expensive."
“You’re gonna hate this aren’t you?”
“I already do.”
“Dude, I think it’s a buffet – I think we should go.”
"Go? We spent 45 minutes getting here.”
“It’s stuffy in here, I don’t like eating when it’s stuffy.”
“So what are we doing?”
“I hate this, will someone make up their goddamn mind?”
“I think we should go, this is like a Mexican Chuck E Cheese.”
“Fine, whatever.”

So we leave and go back to the part of town we started from. Picked a little carry-out Mexican place, ate outside, left the bag with the band money on the deck, ran back to get it, decided to not let me carry the band money any more.

20 minutes later Chuck and I got the Mexican restaurant shits (explosive variety) and were forced to use the skanky ass bar restroom with a stall the size of an airplane bathroom and a swinging saloon style door that whacked you in the head every time someone tried to barge in.

1 comment:

  1. Hey, guess what I can do without? "explosive variety." ha ha ha ha