Italiano Ristorante

All I can say is you bring it on yourself.

I had the unfortunate opportunity to eat at an Italian restaurant the other day, and I can't go on knowing that you...are not knowing.

Standing at the door a patron might think this place is worth giving a shot.

Then, said patron will watch several workers of the fine establishment walk by and look right through them. Luckily, a bus boy has enough sense to point in the direction of the guests standing at the door.

Your server will take you to your table, lazily dragging her feet, as if her entire body is saying, "Mom, Dad, I hate you for making me work." Before you sit down she's asking what you want to drink. She doesn't know what they have...but she'll find out. She comes back and asks again what her patrons would like to drink. Ooh, still don't know if they have that. Patron asks, "do you have a wine list?"
"Yeah, I think...let me go check," server disappears.
Server reappears with wine list in her hand. She seems so proud of herself for recovering it.
She flops the list onto my girlfriends bread plate. The accordion-folded paper was also wrinkled as if it had been thrown away...once. I lift it up and look at it. Curious...there is some illegible writing on the back, too.
"How about beer? Do you have bottled beer?"
"Maybe bud, a bud light or two, I think," server vaguely replies.
I settle for a Heineken.
I freaking hate Heineken.
I have what looks like whip cream on my bottle and patron's girlfriend has a piece of a label on her bottle.
What goes great with beer?
Bread sticks.
Two wrinkly, turd-like bread sticks in a paper towel-lined basket.
The paper towels...probably used before. The corner of one paper towel was stained with what most certainly could have been a spot of blood.
Patrons order, regretfully after asking themselves, "Do we want to stay?"
Our salads arrive quickly. Easy since the salad bar is 20 paces behind our table. That's where our server tonged our salad, a reminder that this place was totally a Ponderosa.
She has the Italian restaurant staple Chicken Parmesan. Other patron orders something Pomodoro...it doesn't matter by this point. Her' s is swimming in Sav-a-lot Marinara Sauce. The chicken breast is so thin it is virtually invisible when looked at on its side. The pasta? Half a box of said brand linguine.
My pasta tastes like week old Waffle House bacon grease.
I didn't even get close to finishing it, and that's saying something because I can put down a plate of pasta.
Oh, did I mention that every 20 seconds our server came by asking, "Are we doing alright...so far?"
No, server, our food sucks.
The service is laughable.
I've been staring at the Ponderosa bathroom tile since I sat down and the only entertainment has been the table of 4 obese people with the fattest sitting legs-spread, so his fat can hang between his legs laughing, snorting snot, and making pig noises.
Do we want dessert? Are you effing kidding?
Server cyphers our bill, a daunting task.
The manager emerges from the kitchen and mumbles something to the servers separated by a lattice partition whom are talking about back tatts and partying after work. She then says a name of someone and how he better get his ass up here if he wants to make any tips tonight. She's rough looking. The manager looks like she rolled out of bed into a hangover and slapped blush on her face. It's 8 something at night, by the way.
Our server returns and places the bill cautiously on the table. She should. I'm still wondering if I should be paying for torture. I didn't even get my rocks off. But then I think, she looks as though she's deciding whether or not she wants to quit tonight based on my tip. No, she's not. She's just standing over my shoulder watching me tip and sign the check. I was extremely uncomfortable to say the least. And believe me I am. Had I possessed a Molotov cocktail at that time, that place would have been toast, man.
So much for fine dining in a dingy, once Ponderosa Italian dive on a Friday night.
Incidentally, my GI has not been right since.
p.s.
If you really want to know the name and destination for the truly horrific dining experience just beg in the form of a comment to the blog.

A poem, A poem, A poem.

This house is empty
this house is cold,
this house is quiet,
this house is home.

I woke up on the couch
peeked my head from under the covers,
and felt the cold
I was hiding from.

The DVD
was on the menu screen,
with no sounds playing,
just some lights flashing.

I was afraid
for only a moment,
thinking the rushing from the electric fireplace,
was the blood pulsing in my ears.

Where are you
and why is the house so still without you?
The draft blows so much faster,
when you're not here to block it.

The way you wrap up
in just one more blanket than my own
has always made me,
keep the thermostat down.

One more toothbrush
leaving a trail of droplets,
back to the holder,
that only collects dust on one side.

Those drops are frozen
in this still house,
that creaks while I'm listening,
but always quiets when you are here.

Get well
get well.

Rumbling Meditation

What is it about the thunder that draws us in?
Why must we sit and listen to the rumbling above?
Why can a flash of light and vibration of foundation distract us from...television?

If you were up late enough last night as I was, you would have heard the storm.
The waves of rain and wind forcing the branches of our battered trees to twist and break again.
But why do we do it?
Why do we sit and watch the storm?

I looked across the street to see neighbors on their porch, just watching.

Is it mere fascination with a force we cannot control?
Is it a primitive calling to harness what once was our only source of fire?
Is it the idea that God could be doing this out of rage or boredom?
The rain ticked on the window and I found myself just staring into space somehow entrenched in quiet meditation at midnight, when most were asleep.
Why?
Ask the thunder, ask the rain.

As Spring, I Sleep

I
too
am the spring,
clinching tightly,
to the blankets of the frosty Earth
hugging them, nuzzling,
up to my chin
as I solemnly mutter
"just not yet."
The sun is hot,
but the ground is cold
and a wicked winter chill
still threatens to blow.
Young lilies
and daffodils
hold fast,
steady your blooms in waiting,
the time is soon,
but just not yet.
Spring will sleep
for another hour or two.

I just could not get out of bed this morning. What was it? Was it lack of sleep? Was it work-related depression? Whatever it was is over now. Until tomorrow. That is of course I could awaken to a sprite(as in blond-haired fairy like creature) slumbering beside me. Now, that would be worth waking up to. And would get spring's ass out of bed.

Your Power and Not

Yesterday was a glorious day!
My power, after being M.I.A. for 2 weeks, was restored.
Let us take a moment, in silence, to mourn the loss of all but one of my house plants. Naturally, Pickles survived since he vacationed at my parents' house with master.
A vacation from using my energy, but a vacation from privacy.
And just as normalcy is returned, Mother Nature threatens to take it away.
Oh, Mother Nature, what can a poor boy do to please you?
I know our relationship has been rocky lately, but I can't have you stomping your foot, blowing, and acting so unstable.
How do you convince the most powerful, bi-polar force on our planet to level out on some Lithium?
What's next?
Calling incessantly in the middle of the night and not saying anything at all?
Or is Mother Nature going to bring me a puppy, and then later sit out in front of my house all night watching me?
I'm happy for the electricity again, but Mother, Gaea, I implore you, mellow out, please.

The Momentum Starts Now

Yes!
Yes!
Yes!
Finally, my city's paper has delivered the news that I wanted to read.
As of today the city and county have approved the tax hike to help pay for the Downtown Development of Owensboro.
Owensboro will have a district. Owensboro will have an area. Owensboro will be a place to go and grow.
Not to mention the newspaper printing that corresponds with the release of VENT's article talking about the future of Owensboro by yours truly.
This is the first step.
The first of so many.
It all starts here.
Now?
Lobby
Lobby
Lobby
for the work to go to local firms.

Hermit Is

This infernal ice storm has finally chapped me entirely, much like the winter does our gentle lips.
Oh, man.
Tuesday, when the rain was freezing down, it was exciting. The thought of being off from work and playing in the snow was fun.
But then more and more kept coming down and the fun started to freeze over. I spent
Tuesday night up to this morning at my parents with varying relatives and friends of the family.
Wednesday night was capped off with the creaking of ice and ancient trees breaking and falling in the night. Not to mention the multicolored transformer explosions. My family sat on the front porch listening to the eerie demise of the once forest that we call our neighborhood. "Creation from disaster, creation," is what I kept saying. Oh, the naivety of my eternal optimism at a time like this. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Luckily, I sought solstice in Jenny and at her house Friday and Saturday. It was a brief period of peace.
Yes, I have no power at my house, and my toilet is leaking, but there are others worse off.
I just am in need of privacy. A person like me has to recharge. I must recharge. It is only now, when I can't recharge that the hermit in me comes out.
If you see me today I will be frowning.
But somewhere inside me my little hermit self is smiling knowing peace is near.