It didn’t take Vladimir Putin to resurrect the Soviet cultural experience. We have it right here in the Metro:
Just another day at the Comcast service center. We were picking up some boxes that would enable our secondary TVs can get more than four channels. Or something. On the Indiana BMV Scale of Existential Misery, it didn’t rate very high — there was a Tigers game on for the line’s viewing pleasure, and I had my phone. And even without it, I’m not a terrible waiter. Those who cannot spend an idle 30 minutes without climbing the walls lack inner resources. I have inner resources in spades (it’s why my butt is so big).
I felt worse for the workers, who toiled inside a bulletproof fortress worthy of a Detroit liquor store. I understand people hate their cable company, and I understand the equipment has some value, but it seemed like overkill for Warren. Note, also, the chartreuse walls of the inner sanctum. Multiply by 40 hours a week. I’d be deploying the escape chute by Tuesday.
Afterward, it seemed time for lunch, and Alan had a suggestion: Lazybones Smokehouse, the best barbecue shack you never heard of. Plunked in a depressing stretch of an ugly road in Roseville, surrounded by machine shops and other places filled with men who think “cilantro” is the dance that took Pam Anderson out of “Dancing With the Stars,” it has the distinction, Alan says, of being “a restaurant where I’ve never seen a woman customer.” OK, happy to be a rarity, then. The building stands out from the gray landscape with a mural featuring pigs pitching horseshoes while cows and chickens watch. It features…where do I start? Every meat you can think of, seven kinds of sauce, combos that either make you smile (“The Hog Trough,” your choice of four meats atop a mountain of fries) or wince (“The Smokestack Lighting,” chopped burnt ends, applewood bacon, cajun sausage, caramelized onions and cheddar on a hoagie bun), but essentially everything that’s worth barbecuing.
We both ordered pulled-pork sammiches with slaw served Memphis-style, Texas spitfire sauce, then sat down to wait. There are two large tables, where you eat family-style. True to form, the only other eat-in customers were men. Young men. Two were discussing dating. One had a night out planned with a young woman, but he wasn’t hopeful, because she didn’t give good text. I think this was an internet or some other sort of blind fixup, and he was, to my mind, unreasonably fixated on the fact she couldn’t summon up witty repartee in 140 characters or so. I weep to think I brought a young woman into this world, who will have to shop for a husband among these scratch-and-dent specials. One arm was heavily tattooed, although the rest of his outfit suggested an office job, one that requires a plastic ID tag in plain sight (i.e., all of them, these days). Again: I weep.
And that’s the sort of day you have when it’s a million degrees outside and even more humid.
I looked at the Rush Limbaugh wedding album y’all were discussing yesterday. Two takeaways: Mrs. Limbaugh the Fourth has an excellent hairdresser, and an even better plastic surgeon. We see so many bad boob jobs, we forget what a good one looks like, and unless I miss my guess, when that lady goes back to the earth she will leave a pair of silicon bags behind. (See no. 16 in this Gawker photo array). Also, ex-squeeze me? He got a military color guard? Does every 4-F Vietnam-era pussy get that? I guess if the check you write is big enough, but I am appalled. I know, I know: Appalling man is appalling. Still.
Speaking of bad boob jobs, Renee, what were you thinking?
I’ve never been a fan of the Huffington Post. Their steadfast advancement of quackery is a big reason.
Writers have elevated procrastination to a high art. As seen here.
And now I’m gone. Gonna go for a bike ride, damn the humidity. The Miley Cyrus tweeting around here has become deafening, and I want to see if she’s drawn a crowd to her set down in the Farms. Wish me luck. I’m taking a camera.