In a desperate effort to get up-to-date on my pictures, I’m forgoing cleverness and just posting a buttload of photos from the rest of the Charleston trip. Enjoy. Continue reading
Photo courtesy Corbis.com
Last week the laundry situation got out of control. Code-red out of control. Dirties shot out of the hamper like a pan that’s been loaded with too much popcorn. The wicker lid clung to the top of the clothes for dear life.
Something had to be done.
Overheard in the men’s room at Bohn’s Restaurant in Batavia, New York:
“I’m from the backwoods. We drink out of the urinals.”
A few weeks ago, The Daily Grind repainted the walls in the men’s room. Thus creating a blank slate for public discourse.
It didn’t take long for the first opinion to appear.
“Fuck-a-Hindu.” It stated.
Not surprisingly, someone disagreed.
“Fuck weak athiest hate banter,” he rebutted.
The next day, another urinator added to the conversation. He drew an arrow to the word “athiest” and corrected:
“It’s spelled ATHEIST.”
He underlined the word for emphasis. An unspoken “you idiot.”
With that, I thought the conversation was over. And it was, for about a week.
But this morning, someone else threw in his two cents. He drew an arrow to the spelling correction and wrote:
“Who fucking cares you pretentious ass whipe?!”
This is why I love the Daily Grind.
I’m often humbled by the size of the universe. When you gaze out at all the stars, at the sheer vastness of it all, you can’t help but feel insignificant.
Such is the experience of dining at Paula Deen’s restaurant, The Lady and Sons. The place is a meal factory. After standing in a line that wraps around the outside of the building, you check in at the Maitre D’ stand, halfway down the block. The Maitre D’ leafs through the pages on her clipboard, jots a quick note, then hands you a laminated index card. The card is coded by color and number. You bring this card around to the front door, where you hand it to a second Maitre D’. My card apparently said 3rd floor. The second Maitre D’ handed the card back and escorted me to the elevators. I jabbed the button for 3. The doors slid closed and I was whisked upstairs. There, I was greeted by a 3rd Maitre D’. I handed her my index card and noted that there are fewer checkpoints at the airport. Not amused, Maitre D’ number 3 adjusted her headset and summoned a team of border collies to herd me to my seat.
As ridiculous as the check-in process is, you can’t help but be awed by the efficiency of the place. The restaurant seats 330. Which means thousands of people come through for each and every meal. There’s a traditional menu, but most diners opt for the all-you-can-eat-buffet.
Here, an assembly line of servers frantically bail buckets of fried chicken from the kitchen to the buffet. I smiled, picturing the scene in the kitchen. Food rising from the floor like flood waters. The cooks, waist deep at this point, wildly shoveling drumsticks into buckets. Desperate to keep their heads above chicken.
I grabbed a plate and decided to pitch in.
All-I-could-eat turned out to be a lot more than you’d expect. The problem is, the buffet is huge, so you can’t help but stuff yourself silly. And, being the diligent student of cuisine that I am, I had to eat everything. Fried chicken, collard greens, cabbage, black eyed peas, pot roast, lasagna, macaroni and cheese, corn bread, lima beans, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, a cheese biscuit, a fried corn cake and peach cobbler. To name a few.
I’m pleased to report that the line around the building was for good reason. The Lady and Sons is comfort food at its very best. I overheard one diner say, “this is like the best dish that everyone’s grandmother makes. All brought together on one plate.” Or, in my case, three plates.
After cleaning the last bit of peach cobbler from my dish, I signed my check with bloated fingers and waddled to the elevator. I wondered if it could handle the weight. Fortunately, it could. The doors slipped opened and I lumbered slowly out of the restaurant, apologizing profusely to the buttons on my pants.
Thanks to everyone who’s taken the time to post comments and sorry to everyone whose notes haven’t shown up on the site.
After some serious noodling with the settings on blogger, I think I’ve finally fixed the comments problems.
In theory, blogger is going to e-mail me anytime someone posts a comment and I just have to click approve and, POOF, it’s posted. So if you send a comment, it should get posted within a day.
That said, I have the technical prowess of a retarded hippo. So no guarantees.
I went to use the men’s room yesterday.
While I was standing there, I looked down.
There was a logo on the toilet.
It said “American Standard.”
And I thought, “That’s more fitting than they realize.”
Today is Yom Kippur. And so on this, The Day of Atonement, I ask for forgiveness for my sins oh Lord.
You might want to sit down.
For starters, I skipped synagogue on Rosh Hashannah. So I should definitely apologize for that. It was VERY wrong to ditch Temple in order to go to the Virgin Music Festival at Pimlico Race Course. I should’ve spent the day listening to the Shofar. Not The Flaming Lips, The Killers and The New Pornographers.