Regret for dessert

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LOCATION: PROVERBIAL FANCY RESTAURANT IN CHICAGO
CAST: MIDWESTERN MAN AND WOMAN

This Kansas yokel is sweating bullets. His clothes are 10 degrees off of a proper fit and the stray stalk of wheat hanging from his mouth is growing limp. Three choices of water are presented, so he asks for familiar well water. He checks the wheat behind his ear.

Presented with further menus, he begins to understand that they only serve bottles of wine. But wait! He remembers some collegiate texts about pagination being the realm of the aristocracy. Flipping further back on the clipboard drink list, he finds a dusty pilsner. Which arrives in a comically large beer stein. Oops.

Enter entree. Füd. He squeaks out something about lemon pasta. His hands, clammy – could he have ordered clams? He looks around for guidance, but everyone friendly has left the restaurant, the neighborhood and the city. The lighting levels are to the point that he’s not sure if he’s eating garnish or his own hair, falling out in clumps.

His date is doing a much better job at this charade, but not enough to prevent an outburst from the idiot. A fistful of silverware meets plate meets glass meets glare from everyone and so on. Each noise bolts him from his seat to bow in apology. Each bow sloshes drink onto the table and floor.

He slurps down a fistful of noodles and empties the toy beer stein. Work lights suddenly crank up in concert with the roar of a leaf blower. Blinded and deafened, damned and defeated. His napkin flies off the lap and hair comes unparted, while the leaf blower operator tries to get under his right foot where he’s keeping a crust of complimentary bread.

The marked couple flees to the “library bar.” No books. Didn’t get memo about black dress. He’s sporting a colored shirt, the only color in the whole hotel. He orders rye whiskey neat, then waffles after googling his doubt. “Throw some water on it, sir!” His voice is so pure and high.

Everyone is screaming happy birthday. A couple is dancing in front of a fireplace. He’s tugging at his Target sweater, trying to lose it and shove it in the flames. He’s got to keep the fun alive.

Death by fromage

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Greetings from Wisconsin, where a man can easily cause great bodily harm through cheese and beer.

And so it was done (mainly through half a dozen cheeses) on our first night in Milwaukee. I won’t bother namedropping, since the names were scratched on a chalkboard under candlelight. Suffice to say that a pretty penny was spent at Wolf Peach and there were no regrets.

There’s some regrettable news about this city. Cabs seem to be the name of the game. Part of this stems from our hotel’s location on the western most west part of Westown, a recently emerging spot of urban renewal. But The Brewhouse Inn & Suites was too strange to pass up. It’s the gothic-adorned former home of Pabst Brewery, with a large Pabst sign bridging two of the buildings and giant gold cauldrons still in place despite the factory closing in 1996.

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The hotel that now resides within has only been open a year. The joint is very nice, undeniably unique, but insists on using a description that makes my face twitch: steam punk.

The interior design of the hotel is Neo-Victorian, Industrial, Steam Punk.

Where else do you think you’ll be able to get any number of menu favorites with a side of steampunk design sensibility ands unparalleled service?

Steam punk or steampunk? And how is either sensible? I’ll dig for answers.

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Episode 57: “Tombstone”

So many mustaches in Tombstone… but we’re most fond of Val Kilmer’s understated nose decoration. We soon veer off to discuss hibachi karaoke, poorly performed Twitter parody and traveling clowns. Listen, Mr. Kansas Law Dog. Law don’t go around here. Savvy?

Love to have lunch with you

This is posted in an effort to help those who squander away perfectly good time on Google, desperately seeking the lyrics to “I’ve Got a Sex Crush on You” by Peter Ivers. All three of you. How can we still live in a world with such large gaps in information?

I like your mind, your thoughts, your voice
Our brains entwine like fingers
Your ears and eyes and nose and mouth
And every other part of you too
But when it comes down to the crunch

I’ve got a sex crush
I’ve got a sex crush
I’ve got a sex crush
On you

Could be chemistry
Maybe not
Could be destiny
Let’s find out
Couldn’t be soon enough
There’s no doubt
Till I get my arms about you
Cause

I’d love to make sex love to you
I’d love to make love sex to you
I’d love to make sex wet love with you
I’d love to make wet set love with you
I’d love to make love with you
Love to make love with you
Love to make love with you
Love to have lunch with you

I like the way you handle kids
You’re such a kid yourself
You’re here with me when I need you
I don’t need no one else
And when it comes down to the crunch

I’ve got a sex crunch
I’ve got a sex crunch
I’ve got a face crush
I’ve got a leg crush
I’ve got a thought crush
I’ve got a heart crush
I’ve got a head crush
I’ve got a thigh crush
I am a little thrush
I am a starling
I am a chickadee
I am a robin red breast
I am all the birds
They are my children