It All Depends Upon Your Appetite
A terrible part of my brain is trying to mash up Dark Tower 2: The Drawing of the Three with "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant."
{{{***beautiful piano***}}}
A bottle of red?
A bottle of white?
Perhaps a bloody firefight?
I'll meet you any time you want
At our Italian restaurant.
A bottle of white?
A bottle of red?
Or just your brother's severed head?
We'll get a table near the street ...
...
See, this is what happens when I don't have an outlet at home.
Recently I bagged up a bunch of my old girly clothes and donated them to Goodwill. Today I realized I needed a jacket for a dinner date tomorrow, as well as some other manly winter clothes, so I went back to Goodwill. Walking through the women's department on my way to the men's, I saw a bunch of the stuff I'd donated out for sale. Clothes have never been a real big part of my life, but it was still a little weird seeing items I'd lived in for years, items that have histories for me, hanging on the racks. They are nice things, though, and I won't be needing them again. (See, that sounds slightly like I died, which I haven't.)
But I got three sharp jackets (including a really snazzy black one with a thin, subtle red check I didn't notice until I got home) and some pants and shirts and S.K. hardcovers and a book called What's My Pee Telling Me? and a ceramic python hide (which started life as a wine bucket) and a single lovely dinner plate, and then had gravy fries at the Parkway Bakery. I'd never quite meshed with this popular po-boy destination before, but I think I've finally found my dish. They do the fries nice and crisp, then smother them in their roast beef gravy with debris. Add a good dose of hot sauce and it's as decadent as foie gras or bone marrow. It was enough to get me through the traumatic experience I had with potatoes (not ones I'd eaten) later in the evening, which gave me flashbacks to that autopsy I observed in Fort Worth in 199-.
{{{***beautiful piano***}}}
A bottle of red?
A bottle of white?
Perhaps a bloody firefight?
I'll meet you any time you want
At our Italian restaurant.
A bottle of white?
A bottle of red?
Or just your brother's severed head?
We'll get a table near the street ...
...
See, this is what happens when I don't have an outlet at home.
Recently I bagged up a bunch of my old girly clothes and donated them to Goodwill. Today I realized I needed a jacket for a dinner date tomorrow, as well as some other manly winter clothes, so I went back to Goodwill. Walking through the women's department on my way to the men's, I saw a bunch of the stuff I'd donated out for sale. Clothes have never been a real big part of my life, but it was still a little weird seeing items I'd lived in for years, items that have histories for me, hanging on the racks. They are nice things, though, and I won't be needing them again. (See, that sounds slightly like I died, which I haven't.)
But I got three sharp jackets (including a really snazzy black one with a thin, subtle red check I didn't notice until I got home) and some pants and shirts and S.K. hardcovers and a book called What's My Pee Telling Me? and a ceramic python hide (which started life as a wine bucket) and a single lovely dinner plate, and then had gravy fries at the Parkway Bakery. I'd never quite meshed with this popular po-boy destination before, but I think I've finally found my dish. They do the fries nice and crisp, then smother them in their roast beef gravy with debris. Add a good dose of hot sauce and it's as decadent as foie gras or bone marrow. It was enough to get me through the traumatic experience I had with potatoes (not ones I'd eaten) later in the evening, which gave me flashbacks to that autopsy I observed in Fort Worth in 199-.