Take Back the Birthday a Success

Take Back the Birthday went exceedingly well, if I do say so myself. A few friends, red wine (including a bottle of Irony Pinot Noir—I’m keeping that bottle forever), good cheeses and other sundries, music, and Apples to Apples (a kickass game) make for a wonderful midweek impromptu birthday celebration. Had Take Back the Birthday been on a weekend night, I probably would have gone for a blowout, but perhaps it was a good thing to wade back into being happy about having a birthday. Good times.

The only thing that gives me pause about the whole birthday thing is that I’m now officially in my mid-thirties. There’s nothing “early” about thirty-four. I have one more year of the snappy twenty-eight to thirty-four age bracket, and then the long, slow slide begins.

The thought of aging has always freaked me out. My mother caught me weeping on the porch when I was three, and when she asked me what was wrong, I cried, “I don’t want my little beedes to get big! I want to stay a kid forever!” (This is one of her favorite stories to tell about me. It gets laughs.) Time passed, and I got over my “beedes” getting big, but the essential Peter Pan feeling has remained with me. I loved being young. I loved all the possibility. The choices. Thinking about all those potential paths disappearing breaks my heart.

Still, though the thought of thirty-four freaks me out a bit, I don’t feel so bad today. Maybe I’m finally figuring out that most of our limits are those we place on ourselves. I don’t know. It’s something to think about. But first I'm going to go outside and play. It's beautiful out.

Happy Birthday to Me

Today’s my birthday. For the last six years, I’ve felt guilty for having a birthday at all. The only thing I can say about having a birthday on September 11th is that everyone remembers it now. Not that it mattered. I have not observed my birthday on my birthday since 2001. Whatever celebrating I did took place apologetically on the 10th or the 12th.

Last year and 2002 were the worst days to have a September 11th birthday. On my twenty-ninth birthday, the ground felt haunted. No one smiled all day, and who could blame them. The surreal memories of that day overwhelmed evereyone. Hardly a good day to whoop it up. And last year, I felt like this.

Today, though the day is gray and cool, I feel like it’s my birthday. This day will always mark a terrible event, but it is also a good day. I’m having a few local friends over to celebrate (the whole Tuesday thing made it necessary for Smokestack to come down last weekend, and my intrepid friend and I always celebrate our Virgohood together). I’m looking forward to it.

It’s my birthday! Woo hoo! OK, it still feels weird to say that on September 11th. It is also starting to feel right.

Jedi Mind Trick

David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus just keep saying his name David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus the surge isn’t working David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus we’re in the middle of a civil war David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus George W. Bush has no idea what he’s doing but he’s determined to keep doing it David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus those benchmarks haven’t been met but we’re going to keep fighting anyway David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus if they keep repeating David Petraeus David Petraeus Congress won’t do a thing David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus I had no idea Jedi Mind Tricks really worked David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus

Sassy Sundry Advises

I’d like to do my civic duty and offer some advice to those inspired to do the bump and grind from behind at live shows. You know who you are, and I hope you take this advice in the spirit in which it is intended.

1. Observe your surroundings. There’s a time and a place for risqué dancing in public. If, with the exception of the drunk blonde girls at the bar, the audience is doing the collective head bob and sway, take the cue and save the gyrating for later.

2. Listen to the music. Chipper indie pop doesn’t move most people to do the slow grind and breast grab (let alone the rabbit jumping done later). Maybe it moves you in such a way, but like a yen for picking one’s nose and eating it, it’s something best indulged in private.

3. If you are going to ignore points 1 and 2 and go for the clothes-on screw-from-behind anyway, have a sense of rhythm. And make sure you stop when the song stops.

4. Last, but not least for it being somewhat shallow, if you are going to dance like that at a 7 PM indie pop show, please look hot doing it. Honestly, watching two ugly people old enough to know better (and seemingly sober) “dance” like that made my friends and me throw up a little.

Heads

For some reason, the opening scene of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead* came to mind when I spied these displays at the flea market.

“Heads”

*If you haven’t seen this one, you really must. Time was, you had to send away to the UK to get the DVD (which I did) or score a bootleg copy from Asia (which a friend did for me), but no more. Now it is available in the US, and so you have no excuse. Once you see it, you’ll see that my photos have absolutely nothing to do with the opening scene, except they do.

What Would a Super Demon Do?

I have a question for you. If you were an eight-foot-tall Super Demon, and you accosted some poor soul on a deserted snowy street and could demand anything you wanted of that soul, what would you require?

This question arises from a proposal we received last week at the office. My coworker fielded a phone call from a prospective author who felt compelled to pitch the story of his encounter with such a demon (how one determine the difference between a regular demon and a Super Demon is an outstanding question we have yet to answer). This prospective author encountered the SD while walking home late at night after failing to heed a warning that should he continue walking that route, he would encounter something that would “truly frighten” him.

Our foolhardy correspondent continued down the street and had just turned toward home when the SD appeared in front of a supermarket (see the connection?). Terribly frightening in his visage, this SD sized up our correspondent before making his demand. In a sinister, raspy voice, the SD said,

“Give me a quarter!”

Luckily for our correspondent, he just happened to have a quarter on him. He out his change and delicately crossed the SD’s palm with silver.

And, without a word, the SD closed his hand, turned, and flew through the supermarket window without breaking it. Because, it seems, even Super Demons with the power to pass through windows need to pay for their gumballs.

The SD’s booty has my coworker and I puzzled. Why a quarter? Does this coin posses secret powers we aren’t aware of? Did the SD show mercy (unlikely, as demons don’t truck in grace)? Was the SD merely cheap? Are SDs somehow limited in what they can demand?

We don’t know, and so I thought I would ask you for help. So, if you were a SD, what would you demand and why?

In other proposal news, we recently received this atop a manuscript. The lowercase “me” breaks my heart.

Time Slips Away

In the words of Willie Nelson, “ain’t it funny how times slips away.” Today Sassy Sundry Thoughts turns one. What a great experiment. I know I have not posted much lately, and I’ve commented even less, but I am enjoying this immensely. Thank you for reading. Thank you for posting. This is a blast.

OK. Time for an update about the time that slipped away from me. Some of the time has slipped away in delightful ways, but mostly I’ve just been drifting, adjusting, and trying to figure things out. Here’s what I’ve been up to since last time.

First things first. I met Devin! Oh, the lovely, lovely Devin. She flew into Boston to go horseback riding with her wonderful friend C and suggested a meet-up before her equestrian adventure. When faced with Krappy Koffee as the only option at the airport, she and C had another adventure—driving to Sullivan Square to meet me at the T. They did great.

Devin and C with Fluff on Da Orange Line


When I met Devin, it was meeting an old friend. Hugs and smiles all around. From Sullivan, we went to Newbury Street (ladies who brunch must brunch on the fashionable street). There was much catching up and establishing the “real” details of our lives over mimosas and Bloody Marys (Devin—“See. My drink comes with salad). The only weird thing was that it wasn’t weird at all to be sitting there chatting away with someone I’ve known only in cyberspace. Devin has inspired me in her blog, and she is even more inspiring in person. She’s also hilarious. We laughed a lot.

After brunch, we wandered among the beautiful people (and savaging their outfits—clear bra straps be damned!) and into the public garden before heading back to the T. If meeting blog friends will always be this much fun, I’m game. Bostonian bloggers, I suggest a meet-up somewhere.

Fluff with Devin and I

As I mentioned, life got a little strange on me. The evening after meeting Devin found me at a watering hole (not one in my immediate locale—so don’t think I was doing this at one of the bars I’ve described here), having a couple of drinks while reading my novel. “Excuse me,” this adorable young man said, “Would you mind if I joined you?” Well, we got to chatting, and we really hit it off, despite the TEN-year age difference (he was the beauty). One thing led to another, and well… (*sheepish grin*) At least we didn’t make a scene in the bar.

How does one not crack up when someone says sincerely, “Wow. You really have your life together” upon waking up hungover on a Monday morning after scandalously little sleep with a boy one picked up in a bar in one’s bed? I’m crediting the hangover. I don’t think I have it together at all, but I really needed the distraction.

It didn’t last long. No sooner had I finished giggling over the “Boytoy Incident” with friends that I heard from McI. He invited me to his next gig. Now I’m sure that he was just being nice and friendly, and in a way I’m glad that he invited me, but you know. Seeing his name in my inbox threw me for a loop. A very painful loop. I didn’t respond, which might not have been the best thing, and I didn’t go, which definitely was the best thing, but both were really hard. I would like to be his friend someday, but I just can’t right now.

More time has slipped away with a few entertaining online-dating prospects. None of them have the butterflies fluttering. I hate this phase. It, too, will slip away someday, and someone will excite me.

In other news, I’m really enjoying having a roommate. She also lives for brunch, and we’ve had a great time checking out new spots. Last week, we espied this sign after particularly filling meal.

We vowed to work out more.

Roommate also plugged in the cable, and we spent a very hot Friday evening on the couch sucked into reality television. America’s Next Top Model is strangely hilarious, and inexplicably addictive when presented in marathon format. Now that I’ve connected with my culture, I’ll be very content to remain ignorant of it for the next several years.

So that’s how my time has slipped away. The world goes on around me. Rove’s gone. Gonzales is gone. I’m nearly thirty four. And my blog is now one.

August's Worst Blogger Award Goes to Sassy Sundry

OK, I know. I suck. I haven’t posted for an aeon. I loved, loved, LOVED meeting Devin. I had a blast with her and her dear friend C, and I want to recount the whole adventure, but I’m in a weird space this week. More to follow.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Well, this week featured resolution for me. I’m afraid that I did not pay attention to much else (including all of your blogs—part of this is due to a major crackdown on web usage at work, but mostly it’s because I’ve been in my own head—I’ll be back soon).

Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries, my weekly tally of things political, personal, and nonsensical:

McOver. I’m disappointed that things didn’t work out with us, but I’m relieved to finally have things resolved. At least I’m not seething with anger over how the breakup took place (McAsshole doesn’t hold a candle to McI in the class department). I’m glad that I had the time that I did with McI, and I learned a lot about what I want and what I don’t want in a relationship. My friends and blogpals have supported me, and my therapist is worth her weight in gold. I have no idea how to rate this

I had a fantastic day at the beach with my friend Smokestack. We’ve both been going through some things the last couple of years, and it’s been a while since we had an all-fun-all-the-time day together. I think we both needed it. We’re still laughing over THAT’S NOT HEALTHY! Plus Ten

While writing about habits that freak me out, I remembered the best billboard ever. A couple of years ago, my sister and I were driving into NYC with friends to go to an art opening (she had a piece displayed). All of the sudden we looked up and say a billboard with this on it:



We couldn’t stop laughing for days. Maybe I’m feeling punchy, but this thing still cracks me up. I need to laugh, so I’m giving it a Plus Five

The War’s still going on, and W’s still an idiot. How can he stand there and express confidence in the Iraqi government? How can he say that the safety of Americans traveling on the roads isn’t worth five cents a gallon? Minus Five

Barry Bonds breaks* Hank Aaron’s homerun record. Baseball wishes he’d just go away. I don’t like A-Rod at all, but I have to admit that I’m looking forward to his breaking Bonds’s record. Just so long as it isn’t against the Red Sox. Minus Two

I’m going to have brunch with the Hangar Queen on Sunday! Look for Fluff pictures soon. Plus Ten

Total Plus: 25
Total Minus: 2

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +23 (not counting McOver)

Last Week’s Total: -9

Does Your Routine Freak Others Out?

She slept in the exact same position every night. Flat on her back, arms crossed over her chest, my sophomore roommate looked like she was preparing for entombment. Her blankets never creased.

In the morning, she would lift off the blankets and fold them over, swing her legs around, and sit straight up, ala a vampire arising from the casket. She’d stay there for a few moments before standing up. Then she’d turn ninety degrees to the left and walk over to her dresser. Grabbing her comb like a vice, she’d comb the right side of her short hair twice and then comb the left. She’d then grab her towel, throw it over her shoulder, and walk out of the room to the showers. She never said a word.

It freaked the everloving shit out of me.

I thought of her while laughing my ass off during the opening scenes of Shawn of the Dead, when the good people of London slept through their waking lives, completely unaware that they were already zombies.

And I’ve thought of her again this week while observing the habits of a certain neighbor of mine. See, now that I have a roommate, if I want to have a morning cigarette (I know, I know, but it really is better for me to smoke than hit the bottle in the wake of my McOverness), I have to go downstairs and sit on the stoop (I feel like such a townie doing it, and it makes me laugh). Apparently, I’ve been going down at the same time every morning, because every morning, I see the same guy.

Every day, he emerges from his building, dressed in khakis and a solid-color short-sleeved oxford. He slings his black messenger bag over his shoulder just so. He steps onto the sidewalk, furrows his brow and walks a few paces before crossing the street at the exact same spot (just before the tree). He walks diagonally across the street, and when he reaches the middle of the street, he furrows his brow again and then reaches into his pocket for his cell phone. Checking the screen for important 6:30 AM messages, he then shakes his head and puts his phone back into his pocket as he steps up on the curb. He turns the corner smartly, and then he’s gone.

He freaks me out, too, and has me thinking that I need to shake up my habits a bit. What about you? Do you do something in the exact same way every day that might make someone think you’re a zombie? Does that thought disturb you?

Flying Golf Balls!

Smokestack and I cracked up laughing over this sign spotted at the beach on Saturday while waiting for our snack from the vendor. “Somehow, I think flying golf balls might disrupt the dunes,” I mused aloud, giggling. Perhaps it was the vodka punch, but the picture still makes me laugh.

Nothing, however, could compare with the guffaws after we overheard a woman shouting, “THAT’S NOT HEALTHY! STOP THAT! THAT’S NOT HEALTHY!” while waiting in line for the bathroom. We opted for the other loo.

Just thought I’d share.

McOver

Yesterday morning I woke up, and I realized that I was happy. I’d had a date Friday night—not a good date (the guy was really, really good looking— there was just nothing there)—but a date all the same. Saturday I’d headed up to Portland and had a wonderful day at the beach with my old friend Smokestack. Thirty years of inside jokes came roaring out of us, and we were laughing like fools. I had all these plans with friends set for the week. I had no plans with McI, and it occurred to me that it really didn’t bother me.

My poor roommate’s plan of her Sunday at the beach fell through, and we went to brunch instead. After that I headed home and hung out in the backyard with the paper. Then I broke my moratorium on sequels again and went to see the new Bourne flick (I know, I know, but when The New Yorker gives an action flick a decent review, I figure it’s OK). On my way home, I tried to decide if I was going to let McI know that I was moving on or just let him go. I went with just letting him go.

This morning I woke up to a message from him saying that he just wasn’t in a space where a relationship with me was something he could do but that he had enjoyed our time together and that he’d be happy to hear from me sometime in the future. I messaged back saying much the same thing.

So, it’s over. I’m sad, and I’m cursing the Timing Gods, for timing was the real issue here, but I’m going to be OK. The parts of this relationship that were good were really good, but I deserve something that is all good. It's hard to remain optimistic when I have to keep picking up the pieces of myself, but I'm a survivor because I have hope.

I’m probably going to be offline for a bit, but I will try to get back to commenting form soon.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week(ish) in Review

Happy hazy, hot, and humid Friday! Summer finally made a comeback here on the East Coast. Not only that, but the heat’s going to last through the weekend, so I’ll be hitting the beach. Only eight hours of work to go.

Well, it’s that time again. Time for me to give my numerical tally of events transpiring over the last seven days. This time, however, I’m going to cheat and haul a few dusty items off the shelves of time. I’ve stolen this idea from the Weekly Dig’s Bean Counter column. The Dig finally got their new site up and running. I haven’t looked through it too much, but I’m a little disconcerted about the “User Login” at the top of the page. We shall see.

OK, shut up, Sassy, and start assigning points. Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

I now have a roommate. After the chaos of moving in (and a good therapy appointment), things have settled down. Although I would have preferred to live alone, it is really nice to have someone around to talk to. Plus Five

A bridge collapses in Minneapolis, killing at least five. A steam pipe explodes in Manhattan. Minneapolis and Manhattan join Boston for failed engineering projects. But none of these cities touch Japan, what with that little nuclear plant accident and all. Geeks are weeping. Minus Five

Tammy Faye has begun her mascara sales campaign in the afterlife. Angels and demons wage war over who has to take her, as she weeps tears of black tar. At least we don’t have to deal with her anymore. Even

I have a date tonight with a new guy. I’m pulling a Dive on remaining mum on the whole McI situation. As he says, it’s complicated. Think of the date as heart insurance. Even

W has maintained that he can do whatever he wants because he has Executive Privilege. Alberto Gonzales, our man in the Halls of Justice, lies on the stand. Congress seems powerless to stop them. Another couple of weeks in government. I have to say I miss the days when the most exciting thing going on in politics was a debate over whether or not blow jobs constitute sex. Minus Ten

Things have gotten all 1984 at the place of employment. Minus Two

Fare thee well, Igmar Bergman. Thank you for living and for making so many incredible films. Even

People in Blogland think I’m pretty. Good thing I didn’t post that other one. Plus Three

Total Plus: 8
Total Minus: 17

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -9

Last Time’s Total: -1

Kate's Blogville Challenge (via Dive)

So Dive took up Kate’s challenge and thought that we should post pictures of ourselves to make a fake Photoshop image of the denizens of Blogland.

I’ve resisted posting pictures of myself on this thing, wishing to keep my anonymity, but what the hell. Here I am. Rocking you like a hurricane with Fluff in the background.

Happy, Dive?

Haze

Through the morning haze I could see the sun. I stared at it for a long time through the clouds, a white disc, almost like a full moon against the trees. Eventually the filtered light made me look away. A pink and purple remainder followed my gaze around the neighborhood. When I looked back, the sun had disappeared.

I'm Alive

Sigh… Don’t you just love it when life takes over everything? I’ll be back when my head’s a little clearer.

In Other Words: Reveal Your Belly

I’d like to hand it to Underware, purveyor of fonts, for jazzing up the font purchasing experience. Also, a towel.

My Mind’s on Random: Thoughts Pinging through My Poor Brain (UPDATED)

I have to pay my parking ticket or my registration’s going to be revoked. I think of this almost every day, and still I don’t seem to do it.
I have something in common with Barack Obama. Turns out when he was a student at Harvard, he lived in Somerville and had a number of unpaid parking tickets. He just paid his, and I just paid mine.

Yesterday I started crying when I got ready for work. I really didn’t want to go.
I’m taking Prudence’s advice and taking a couple of days off.

Today is David Hasselhoff’s birthday. KIT got him a Speedo. Also, a ticket to Japan.
Today is not David Hasselhoff’s birthday. It is a better day.

I looked up my birthday on IMDb too. I share a birthday with one Ugo Bologna.
I also share a birthday with Kristy McNichol. Ain't I cool?

“My Favourite Book” is my favorite song on In Our Bedroom after the War, the latest release from Stars. I feel a bit guilty about downloading it from iTunes months before it’s available on CD. It doesn’t give retailers much of a chance in this ever-shrinking music business. What will this world come to, I wonder.
B***** in Tokyo is another beauty. I got a snazzy speaker set up for my iPod, so now my downloaded music is no longer confined to little ear buds.

Why did I take so long to pick up The Wind Up Bird Chronicle? Talk about addictive reading.
What is going on with this guy? He’s having psychic sex and hanging out in the bottom of a well with a portal to a hotel? I want whatever drugs he’s taking.

I finally went to an IKEA store. It was completely overwhelming. I’ve never seen so many shovey people jockeying for Swedish meatballs in my life.
The flies on the wall were laughing their arses off watching me attempt to assemble my clothes rack. I felt like a high school boy—If I just shove it a little harder, this thing will get in there!

There’s a ton of my useless crap in my future roommate’s room, and I have to get it out of the room by Friday. Ordinarily I wouldn’t balk at such a task, but since the last time I schlepped stuff up and down stairs, I couldn’t walk for a month, I’m not eager to try it again.
It’s out of her room and all over the apartment. Hence, the days off.

I’m sick of being an adult. I want summer vacation.
Unchanged. Will probably remain unchanged for the rest of my life.

Fifteen more minutes, and I get to go home.
Sigh… More than that.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Ah, Summer. Hours, minutes, drift by, and it seems as though we have all the time in the world. I’m rather surprised to discover that Friday is already upon us.

It is, I guess, and so here are the Sassy Sundries, my weekly tally of things political, personal, and nonsensical:

About a quarter-mile up the street from me, people wake up to find a dead body wrapped in a sheet. Police have revealed few details. Freaky. Minus Three

Summer weather. The really hot stuff didn’t last that long, but it’s still been lovely. Plus Two

Sometimes I find myself envying W’s rose-colored glasses. If he has not had someone enchant them for him, I want the address of the company that makes them. How else can he stand up and say that the damning progress report on his surge means that things are looking up? It’s got to be the glasses. I don’t think Congress has the wherewithal to rip them off him, but the House did pass a bill calling for troops to be out of Iraq by April 2008. Minus Five

Speaking of envy, I want me some executive privilege (actually, what I’d really like is some vice presidential privilege—that’s some amazing stuff). I want to be able to defy Congress, break the law (not backing up official e-mails), and get away with it. Bush tells former White House aide Sara Taylor not to testify, and Harriet Miers doesn’t even show up. Congress might hold Miers in contempt, but they don’t seem to have the follow-through to stop the White House. Minus Five

I had a number of adventures this week, with friends and alone. I’m really enjoying this whole urban experiment. Plus Ten

Oh. I have a new roommate. She’s a friend of mine, and she’ll be moving in at the end of the month. I’m a little nervous about living with someone again after so many years on my own, but mostly I’m excited. I think it will be fun. Plus Five

Testimony from the former US Surgeon General reveals the extent of White House tampering with scientific judgment for political purposes. Ted Kennedy introduces a bill to make the position more independent. The new nominee once wrote a paper calling male homosexuality a pathology and unnatural. He might toe the line a bit more. This whole country is going down the tubes. Minus Five

Lady Bird Johnson died. Her husband’s disastrous involvement in Vietnam has all but obscured his domestic achievements (Voting Rights Act, anyone?), but I’d like to say that I admire her stance against segregation and her work to get the country to give a hoot and not pollute. Even

Total Plus: 17
Total Minus: 18

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -1

Last Week’s Total: +6

UPDATE: I knew I should have done this later. Two Buck Chuck, the crappy Chardonnay available at Trader Joe's won a prize for best California Chardonnay. Wine snobs everywhere are groaning. I think the week is now in positive territory, don't you?

Dinner Theater

On my way home from work yesterday evening, I decided to go out to dinner. Nothing I could think of to cook sounded all that exciting to me, and I felt up for little exploring. I began to mull over my options.

Chinatown? I thought and quickly dismissed it. I’ve hung out there quite a bit, sampling a lot of the Vietnamese offerings there (as a vegetarian, Chinese food can be a little tricky—if you want a laugh, check out Andraste’s cautionary tale).

Oh, I could try a new Thai place and check out a different part of the city. That sounded tempting, and I decided that’s what I would do as I turned the corner onto Broadway and toward home. That was when I saw Fasika’s Ethiopian Restaurant again. I have not had a lot of Ethiopian food, but what I’ve had I’ve loved. Oh god, it is tasty stuff. When I noticed Fasika’s during my move, I was so excited. That was before I peeked inside.

East Somerville has loads of character, and some wonderful eating options (Taco Loco makes some kickass burritos, and the restaurant in the back of Vinny’s Superette is amazing). It also features a slew of dive bars—the kind that have drunk people outside smoking at ten in the morning, staring at their losing Keno tickets. Fasika’s Ethiopian Restaurant is attached to one such bar.

When I first got here, I had decided to try Fasika’s but turned around and walked out when I saw all the drunk people and the Keno sign. Last night, however, I felt adventurous enough to brave it. Why the hell not? I thought. So I went.

I walked into the restaurant side, checked out the tacky décor, and smiled. A young Ethiopian woman smiled at me and told me to sit where I’d like. I sat at one of the mesobs, and she handed me a menu. A divider partially blocked the view of the bar, where a number of late-middle-aged white people were knocking back Budweiser drafts and providing loud commentary on the evening news. Over the divider, I could see the bartender, sporting a teased, bleach-blonde do, serving her patrons without once changing her facial expression.

I turned to the menu, which had a vegetarian section with lots of tempting options. A lentil dish and a vegetable curry caught my eye, and I decided to ask the server what she recommended. The menu also listed a number of Ethiopian wines, and so I decided to try one of those. When she came to take my order, she recommended the curry but promised to include a bit of the lentil dish for me to try. She suggested the honey wine for the food, so I went with that.

My wine arrived in a little bottle resembling an oil cruet (but without the spout), and the server explained that this was the traditional glass (I don’t think I’d had wine the few times I’d had Ethiopian food). “Great,” I said, and took a sip. The wine tasted different from the mead I’d had before but was no less delicious. I had just settled in with my glass when a song blared out of the juke box in the bar. It was some classic rock song I didn’t recognize (and considering that I grew up in New Hampshire, land of classic rock lovers, that is saying something). The fat guy who played it certainly did. The bar was suddenly transformed into his living room, and he started singing at the top of his lungs.

Then he started banging on the bar for emphasis.

Now I’ve seen this kind of thing before (and, have probably done something similar in my youth), but I’ve never seen so many people take it in stride. There was this guy, shouting to the music and banging on the bar, and nobody reacted. They just kicked back their beers and continued to watch the TV.

The song ended and my food arrived. I tore off some of the bread and dove into the curry. Yeah, that’s some really good food. True to her word, the server had made sure that there were some lentils on my plate, and I sopped some up with more bread. She was right—the curry was better, but I wouldn’t have been disappointed in the lentils. I ate happily, enjoying my adventure.

About half-way through my meal, a group of four white yuppies peeked in the restaurant side, observed the bar scene, and boldly decided to try it too. They sat down at the mesob next to me, and laughed at their intrepidness. The server brought them menus, and they started going over their options.

“I told you,” one of the women said, “This place is attached to a divey bar, but I keep hearing that the food is good.” The other woman turned to look at me eating, and I said to her, “The food IS really good.”

“What an atmosphere,” one of the men said, laughing.

“Oh, you missed the drunken singing.”

“No! Maybe it’ll happen again.”

“One can only hope,” I replied laughing.

The couples ordered as I finished my dinner. I had a little of the wine left, so I sipped it while I waited for the check.

And that was when the Bon Jovi came on. The guy started up again, screaming and banging about being wanted dead or alive. Howling, the couples stood up for a better view. I did, too. Once again, the bar patrons didn’t bat an eye.

“Dinner theater,” one of the men proclaimed, nodding.

“You can say that again,” I said. Another Bon Jovi hit came on, and the guy kept going.

“Did you like Bon Jovi?” One of the women asked me.

“Oh, for about two weeks in seventh grade,” I replied.

She sighed. “I liked them for longer than that. I had a poster.”

The check came, I paid up, and, bidding goodbye to the giggling yuppies, left for home.