OK, so my friend and failsafe dinner partner Jane met me at Kerbey Lane.
First, let's get it out there: Kerbey Lane, at least at some locations, has come to suck. The South Lamar location is often laden with bad odors, as it was last night, and the bathrooms are so horrid that it seems inadequate that the frequently indifferent staff are expected to wash their hands in there. Self-immolation is the only really sanitary option.
The thing is, it's a block from my apartment. In fact, it's another block closer now than it was from my previous apartment in the same complex. It seems stupid not to go there, particularly when the veggie burger with veggie chili, cheese tots, and cold beer I had post-run four hours earlier is forgotten in the glare of a pancake craving.
So, there's this odor. It's worse near the door, near the restrooms, and it immediately occurs to me, as it usually does, that I've made a horrible dining mistake. We're placed by an only somewhat indifferent host in a booth on the far side, where the odor has diminished to what Jane believes might be the sort of vegetable soup that smells "like sweat" when it's cooking.
Our waiter shows up, and I'm happy that it's a kid that is more like waiters in Austin, and certainly at Kerbey Lane, used to be: personable, even fun, and not visibly annoyed at having to refill your fucking iced tea. In fact, it becomes a race to see if I can get three gulps from the tea before Kevin materializes at my elbow with a pitcher.
There's a couple in the booth behind me. I get a brief look when we pass. The guy sounds like a stoner, and then his phone keeps ringing. The whole time, while I'm rattling on and on to Jane about stuff, he's rattling on and on about stuff, only louder and more... dumbly. And, it's not the kind of dumbly that you can forgive, like from a small child, dog, or person that is doing the best they can with what they've got in the brainpan. Granted, this guy doesn't seem to have a lot more untapped capability under his long, contrivedly disheveled mane.
After lots of separate ringing gone unheeded, he finally answers his phone, and we're treated to his side of a loud conversation. Several times, in my increasingly curmudgeonly way, I half- turn, kind of a mix between "Oh, I'm sorry, I was concerned something might be wrong," and, "I want to beat you unconscious with your Samsung."
To her credit, the girl leaves almost immediately, possibly seeing her chance, possibly to smoke, possibly to have her own conversation, politely outside, or possibly to brave the bathroom. Eventually, finally, after an unbearable length of time, he ends the conversation. By this time, the girl is back.
He's doing well over 90% of the talking, to the point that, though an attractive blonde, she could have sounded like Mike Tyson or Mr. T, and I would never know it. I catch snippets, and he's talking about acting. I hear bits about football, bits about lines...
Then a couple sits in the booth behind Jane. He and his companion talk little. He's in a UT shirt and a ball cap. Their food arrives quickly, and the guy shovels his food in, with his fork gripped like you'd grip a homemade shiv as you jammed it into one of your fellow inmates.
This, of course, impacts or annoys me little. He can eat as he wants, and I won't judge him for it. He's not my date.
SNGNNNNNKT. NGT. HWOCK. I look up from my migas taco in shock. It's the guy behind Jane. No, this can't be. Jane tries to suppress laughter. I can get over it. But no... he does it again. And again. He is clearly on a timed regimen, making the really loud snorting-phlegmy noise with his nose and throat, roughly every minute and a half. When I occasionally catch his eye on accident, he looks at me with the sort of look that says, "Yeah, my pet possum killed your fucking cat, and yeah, I got $8 for the skin. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?"
Meanwhile, the few tidbits from behind me that survive the hocking across from me begin to piece together. He's not just in theater. He's not just some actor schlepping in local commercials and student films. No, this guy's got real work, regular work. It's what he does. He's not actually discussing working construction, he's talking about stage business. He mentions "not having lines in the last eight episodes." He mentions someone named Minca or something, and despite never having dulled my brain on the show, I finally put it all together. I look it up when I get home, and this is the guy. I'm much less certain about the girl, but this might be her. She was far less annoying, with less contrived hair, but her choice of friends/people to know/coworkers to hang out with raises serious questions.
I mention this later to my girlfriend Chirstina, who says, "Christ, what is worse than an actual asshole high school football player with a gigantic ego? A fucking LA actor with a remarkably larger ego playing a high school football player on TV."
I am myself confused by this duality in me: the person who is angrily annoyed at the behavior of the people infesting the world around him, that doesn't see any realistic hope for humanity's resolution into something even mostly worthwhile and noble; and, the love for and belief that any good in people is worth appreciating and trying to nurture.
My friend Amber finally put forth a theory one night, leaving a bar of frats and maneuvering through drivers taking any visible advantage for themselves. "Maybe you like people, but just expect better from them."
That is, no doubt, it. I expect people to be nice to each other. I expect them to make the occasional small sacrifice to help someone out, or just to be courteous. I expect them to be aware that other people are occupying the same space, space that is disturbed greatly by loud cell phone conversations and the harvesting of phlegm from their sinuses and espohagus. And, no doubt, maybe I expect them to not be so judgmental of the ones that fall short; that fall as short as I do.
The thing is, it's a block from my apartment. In fact, it's another block closer now than it was from my previous apartment in the same complex. It seems stupid not to go there, particularly when the veggie burger with veggie chili, cheese tots, and cold beer I had post-run four hours earlier is forgotten in the glare of a pancake craving.
So, there's this odor. It's worse near the door, near the restrooms, and it immediately occurs to me, as it usually does, that I've made a horrible dining mistake. We're placed by an only somewhat indifferent host in a booth on the far side, where the odor has diminished to what Jane believes might be the sort of vegetable soup that smells "like sweat" when it's cooking.
Our waiter shows up, and I'm happy that it's a kid that is more like waiters in Austin, and certainly at Kerbey Lane, used to be: personable, even fun, and not visibly annoyed at having to refill your fucking iced tea. In fact, it becomes a race to see if I can get three gulps from the tea before Kevin materializes at my elbow with a pitcher.
There's a couple in the booth behind me. I get a brief look when we pass. The guy sounds like a stoner, and then his phone keeps ringing. The whole time, while I'm rattling on and on to Jane about stuff, he's rattling on and on about stuff, only louder and more... dumbly. And, it's not the kind of dumbly that you can forgive, like from a small child, dog, or person that is doing the best they can with what they've got in the brainpan. Granted, this guy doesn't seem to have a lot more untapped capability under his long, contrivedly disheveled mane.
After lots of separate ringing gone unheeded, he finally answers his phone, and we're treated to his side of a loud conversation. Several times, in my increasingly curmudgeonly way, I half- turn, kind of a mix between "Oh, I'm sorry, I was concerned something might be wrong," and, "I want to beat you unconscious with your Samsung."
To her credit, the girl leaves almost immediately, possibly seeing her chance, possibly to smoke, possibly to have her own conversation, politely outside, or possibly to brave the bathroom. Eventually, finally, after an unbearable length of time, he ends the conversation. By this time, the girl is back.
He's doing well over 90% of the talking, to the point that, though an attractive blonde, she could have sounded like Mike Tyson or Mr. T, and I would never know it. I catch snippets, and he's talking about acting. I hear bits about football, bits about lines...
Then a couple sits in the booth behind Jane. He and his companion talk little. He's in a UT shirt and a ball cap. Their food arrives quickly, and the guy shovels his food in, with his fork gripped like you'd grip a homemade shiv as you jammed it into one of your fellow inmates.
This, of course, impacts or annoys me little. He can eat as he wants, and I won't judge him for it. He's not my date.
SNGNNNNNKT. NGT. HWOCK. I look up from my migas taco in shock. It's the guy behind Jane. No, this can't be. Jane tries to suppress laughter. I can get over it. But no... he does it again. And again. He is clearly on a timed regimen, making the really loud snorting-phlegmy noise with his nose and throat, roughly every minute and a half. When I occasionally catch his eye on accident, he looks at me with the sort of look that says, "Yeah, my pet possum killed your fucking cat, and yeah, I got $8 for the skin. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?"
Meanwhile, the few tidbits from behind me that survive the hocking across from me begin to piece together. He's not just in theater. He's not just some actor schlepping in local commercials and student films. No, this guy's got real work, regular work. It's what he does. He's not actually discussing working construction, he's talking about stage business. He mentions "not having lines in the last eight episodes." He mentions someone named Minca or something, and despite never having dulled my brain on the show, I finally put it all together. I look it up when I get home, and this is the guy. I'm much less certain about the girl, but this might be her. She was far less annoying, with less contrived hair, but her choice of friends/people to know/coworkers to hang out with raises serious questions.
I mention this later to my girlfriend Chirstina, who says, "Christ, what is worse than an actual asshole high school football player with a gigantic ego? A fucking LA actor with a remarkably larger ego playing a high school football player on TV."
I am myself confused by this duality in me: the person who is angrily annoyed at the behavior of the people infesting the world around him, that doesn't see any realistic hope for humanity's resolution into something even mostly worthwhile and noble; and, the love for and belief that any good in people is worth appreciating and trying to nurture.
My friend Amber finally put forth a theory one night, leaving a bar of frats and maneuvering through drivers taking any visible advantage for themselves. "Maybe you like people, but just expect better from them."
That is, no doubt, it. I expect people to be nice to each other. I expect them to make the occasional small sacrifice to help someone out, or just to be courteous. I expect them to be aware that other people are occupying the same space, space that is disturbed greatly by loud cell phone conversations and the harvesting of phlegm from their sinuses and espohagus. And, no doubt, maybe I expect them to not be so judgmental of the ones that fall short; that fall as short as I do.
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