Hot Dogs and Fast Cars

You ever drive while doing too many things? Dangerous as hell, I know. But everybody does it, right? So I'm driving my friend Ivan's new 911, which is a tremendously sweet ride. Nothing like it except for maybe something ridiculously exotic like a Ferrari. Only problem is that the horsepower and engineering were totally wasted because of everyone in Ithaca driving their Subarus, Vulva's and Civic Hybrids at about 22.7 miles per hour. What's worse is that they slow down at green lights, ride their brakes down hills, and require a written invitation and a fucking traffic cop to actually make a left turn. But no worries, because Ivan-one-brow, my insanely rich banker friend (who can hardly spell, write a single convincing sentence, or juggle an idea for more than a t.v. commercial break), loaded up on too many gin and tonics and was thereby forced to let me get behind the wheel of the impeccable $80,000 machine. Who pays 80 g's for a car? Assholes like Ivan, that's who. Don't get me wrong - he's a hell of a nice guy: tells a good joke, is pretty generous with his money, and he can open beers with his teeth at parties. But how in the hell did he get to be vice president of his bank when the last book he read was "Lord of Flies" in the tenth grade? Anyway, Ivan was giving me hell about driving his fabulous car while drinking a cherry slush puppy and eating a hot dog (I had just learned that on Friday nights Felicia's Atomic Lounge serves hot dogs boiled in beer and topped with homemade ketchup - I took three to go after last call). 

"You're going to get in an accident, you fat sonofabitch. Hey! You just dripped ketchup on the leather, mutherfucker!" 

I stuffed the entire hot dog in my mouth in defiance and downshifted on a steep curved grade. The engine roared in a perfection of mechanical synchronicity. The low profile Pirelli tires gripped and grabbed at the pavement. And then BAM! We hit something big. Like a person or a large animal or something. I saw tan flanks and wild eyes. A horse? Shit, I didn't know. "Aaahhh!" screamed Ivan. "Fuck!" I shouted as the car fishtailed and I fought hard to keep it on the road, which was no small feat, because the road was slick with icy rain and still curving sharply downhill. I managed not to wreck us and sighed with relief, only Ivan was hysterical: 

"Ahhh! Frank, I'm bleeding! Something's wrong, Frank. I think I'm hurt badly. Look at all this blood..." 

I skidded to a stop. I looked in horror to see the front of Ivan's starched white oxford absolutely soaked in red cherry-flavored slush. 

"Man, that shirt is ruined." I said. 

"Frank, I'm dying! I feel so cold. You've got to help me, man." His eyes were wide with fear.  

"That's because you're covered in cherry slush, dipshit." 

We began laughing until I drove away and Ivan slowly began to put it all together: that we had hit a massive buck, splattered cherry slush, confused it with blood, and ultimately, dented the hood of his beloved Porsche.  Ivan actually suggested that I pay for the damages! I suggested that he kiss my ass, and now I'm no longer allowed to drive his car. BFD, right? 

Good Times

Went to Rochester for a conference this past weekend. Saw some nice old buildings and a lot of crack being passed through not-so-secret handshakes. Rochester is truly another beautiful decaying rust-belt city (New York's greatest natural resource). I saw some guy get wheeled out of an HSBC branch on a gurney with a nasty head would - not sure how that happens waiting in line at a bank. The fireman cleaning up the scene instructed me to step around the puddle of blood, please. 

Best part of the trip was a great dinner at the Dinosaur Barbecue: chicken and ribs, cole slaw, beans, and corn bread. Washed down with a metal bucket filled with ice and bottles of Pete's Wicked Ale. There was a killer band with 3 drummers, 3 saxophones, a trumpet, a bass, and an electric guitar. They were awesome, as was the mismatched crowd of drunken crazy fiends. Why doesn't Ithaca have a similar joint?    

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The date went exceedingly well. I didn't fuck anything up, and there's evidence that I even did a couple of things right! It has long been my impression that women do like a man who knows how to order a great meal. I took the dark haired beauty to Just a Taste where we had a few glasses of nice white wine and an endless succession of small expensive plates of clams, braised greens, salads, arctic char, brussels sprouts with walnuts, quail, etc. We walked around and had coffee and espresso brownies. She smoked a cigarette and I a cigar. We walked around some more. It was great. I made sure to notice what she was wearing. I've always felt that that is important. And I mean noticing beyond the standard, "You look hot in that." It was really easy in this case because my date looked fucking gorgeous in faded jeans with an unbuttoned white blouse and a tightly fitted brown plaid blazer. How can I explain the effect of that loosely unbuttoned white blouse (and the contents within) underneath the tight jacket? Sensual. And classy. Dizzying. Her shoes were simple canvas wedges, a nice touch, really. I couldn't take my eyes off of her and kept grinning madly. "What's so funny," she asked through her own goofy smile. "Nothing's funny," I said. "You just look very beautiful and I am taking it all in, trying to remember all the different aspects which, combined, make me feel like a happy smiling fool." But seriously, that's what I should have said! I can't remember what I actually said, but it was probably something stupid like, "You look hot in those clothes." Anyway, I must have done okay, because we're going out tomorrow for breakfast. My friend Gene is pissed, because he thinks I am ignoring him which I sure as shit am. Got to go... 

DATE NIGHT

Going out tonight with my Special Lady. It's a black velvet smoking jacket night. This means that, in addition to wearing a velvet jacket, the evening will be velvety smooth, if you know what I mean. In case you don't, I'm thinking of drinks, a good cigar, and some appetizers. Maybe a little dancing. A substantial meal (steak and seafood sounds about right) enjoyed to the backdrop of some good music. Then, of course, desert, coffee, and a long aimless walk to talk of nothing and everything. Sounds nice, eh? But, on the other hand, I could just take her to bowl a couple of games and share an order of wings and a pitcher.  That's pretty nice, too. I can't decide. Will let you know...  

Got my fat ass to the polls today. Since Ithaca is such a flamingly liberal place, I felt compelled to wear full John McCain regalia. I bought a John McCain baseball hat, John McCain t-shirt, and half-a-dozen John McCain campaign buttons. Before voting, I stopped off at Greenstar (the local organic grocery store). I parked next to a row of VW TDIs and Toyota Prius sedans plastered with bumper stickers saying stuff like, "I live the alternative," "Coexist," and "Practice Random Acts of Kindness and Senseless Acts of Beauty." I grabbed a cart and made it as far as the organic apples (a steal at $1 each!) before I was accosted by the most serious woman to ever put on a suit of brown and black Flax sack cloth and a pair of Danskos. 

Lady: "Excuse me." 

   Frank:  "Yes? Did you want one of these apples? They look very delicious." 

Lady:  "No. I wanted to talk with you about your decision. Are you really informed about the differences between the candidates? Because if you were..." 

Frank:  "Why yes. At least I think I am. I watch Fox News every single night. And The Colbert Report. I like John Stewart, too." 

Stoney silence for 10 seconds. I notice a faint muscle tic in her shoulder. 

Frank:  "Actually, I'm undecided."

Lady:  "Undecided?"

Frank:  "Yes. Undecided. I don't know who I'm going to vote for."

By this time, a small crowd has gathered. A man with ebony discs in his earlobes and a macrame hat is pretending to pick through the apples. Some lady in a dust mask is standing within earshot, leaning on her carved walking stick. 

Lady:  "Why are you wearing all those... those clothes... if you haven't made up your mind?"

This is the moment. I pause dramatically, as though I'm deciding whether or not to tell the truth. I look a little embarrassed. 

Frank:  "Because they paid me to." 

The crowd stirs and draws closer. Macrame Hat is now in my personal space. He smells like garlic and cheese. 

Lady:  "Who paid you?"

She says this in a conspiratorial tone, like she's about to draw a great truth out of me. I stick out my chin in childlike defiance.  

Frank:  "The guy from the McCain headquarters."

I say it in the most matter of fact way. Like it's a simple fact. Like I'm proud of it. A gasp emerges from the crowd. They are shocked. They are horrified! Macrame Hat drops his apples. Cold hard liberal hate registers in the Flax Lady's eyes. Dust Mask huffs indignantly. And I... well, I take off across the street to the polls to place my vote for Obama.