06 September, 2010

Foreign women, ethnic cuisine, and the filthiest word in the English language.

The vacation / convention season is winding down yet again and with it leaves the last of the patio party-goers and merry-makers and the last crop of beautiful women to come through. This last crop being fairly friendly but like the last few patches of women, closed off. I can understand; there're boyfriends back home and priorities that exist outside of the scope of getting laid. (Such hysterical balderdash!) Earlier this summer, since about mid July in particular, women were plentiful and accessible. They made themselves available and opened up and came out to the patio to drink with the boys. I've arm wrestled with a Canadian jazz singer, chain smoked with an Armenian lawyer, been interrogated about my sexual history by a Californian toxicologist, was given a Zippo by a woman named Berlin, cuddled with a Chicagoan metalsmith, flirted with a Seattlite robotocist, eaten tacos with an Australian, drank with a New York comedian, and watched Little John try to flirt with an Arizonan physical therapist... If I was up until 0400CDT, it was only for the ladies.
The ladies...
But the most recent expats to come through our hallowed halls have been reserved, closed off. The English women would awkwardly accept invitations to join us only to bail and the stray lady here and there would play deaf... Was it so that the season was over? That summer was a summer of change? The departing of Joe Free Lance and Neighbor Vicky? Neighbor Rich on his way out, too? Carson and Little John off to greener pastures and even the Ewok left? The Ewok left, man. You know when that fucking guy leaves, the season is over. And just recently, we had a half dozen women from around the globe - well, from Iowa, but they were exchange students or whatever the hell it's called when you're old enough to not need a host family - we're talking Germany, we're talking Spain, we're talking Russia, we're talking France.
France, man.
Sweet merciful fate.
Like this but French.
She had that pinup look, you know, with the Bettie bangs. Squeaky voice, librarian glasses, ass like a Christmas ham, Converse All-Stars, and one of those keffiyeh scarves that so few hipster girls can pull off. A naughty French librarian? Good fucking night, sir. Good night.
I learn about where they're each from with Carson, as we were out on the patio drinking when they came out to prepare for their night's journey - First Ave or the 7th Street Entry or something - and so, out of curiosity and taking the reins from Carson, I ask them if that's what they're in town for and they say no.
They're actually here for the Mall of America.
I beg them, I plead them not to go.
They ask me why.
And you know my schpiel, you know it well, because every time this accursed structure's name is uttered, I have to say it: They've come Europe, host to some of the world's most beautiful artistic pieces and greatest minds. They've read classical literature, heard baroque music, witnessed renaissance sculpture. They come from the world's single largest archive of human kind's achievements and advancements, and what do they want to see while in the States?
Mount Rushmore?
The Hoover Dam?
The Space Needle?
They want to see a fucking mall.
And when I ask them why they want to see a mall they respond, "Because it's something to see."
"Because it's something to see."
Something to see, a fucking mall.

Damn you!
And then they collected themselves into a huddle and discussed amongst themselves which way was which so they could go out and begin the revelry. Carson and I, resigned to our fate, the fate being that they had no interest in us, decided to proceed with the alcohol. Then Janis came out and and we proceeded to the Black Forest.
You have to understand, I'd put back a six of Tiger before a late lunch / early dinner of lengua tacos then I put back a forty of Cobra and a forty of Mickey's, so the pair of Köstritzers I put back at the Black Forest were a silly, misguided idea. One which lead me to ask the waitress to join us for a drink since the place was closing down anyhow. From there, we decided it was time to leave, I waved goodbye to the waitress and let Janis make fun of me on the walk home.
"You're walking really carefully right now."
Yeah but I'm walking a straight line.
So you know that it stands to order that since I've discussed Mexican food, Bettie bangs, waitresses, and drunk decision making skills that I wind up where I always wind up when those things have been building up over time. The crossroads for all those things: Little T's.

Damn you!
You have to understand, Bettie Fey still works there so of course I'm checking her out. But then my waitress, a 5'4" red head built like a brick smoke house named Peaches, was flirting with me a little, was a little more attentive. And I know that's how waitresses earn their tips, yeah, but, come on... she was willing to arm wrestle me for her tip. Where I'm from, that's a fucking flirt.
Nonetheless, I go home, have a beer, mull it over. Fuck it.
I was shooting for all of those things.
I went back. Like after an hour or two. (So I probably had two beers, taking it slow.) I got up to the counter and said, Yeah, hey, I'm sure you remember me from a couple hours ago -
"Yeah, the arm wrestling guy."
Yeah, look, I know this is pretty awkward but I was wondering if I could get your number, maybe take you out for a coffee or a movie sometime.
[Awkward pause.] "Oh, um - "
No, no, it's cool.
"Well, I already have a boyfriend but [and here we go] you seem like a really nice guy so if you want to hang out sometime, I'd be open to that."
I do my bit with the Right on and whatnot and tell her cool, I'll be seeing her soon blah blah blah. So, no, I didn't score but it felt good. You know why? Because I fucking did it. I can look myself in the mirror and know I didn't puss out. Like I did with Neighbor Vicky. Who I could've made a play for but didn't. Ever since then, I've made up my mind that since I'm sick to death of seeing interesting and beautiful slip through my fingers, I'm going to be a man about shit and just fucking ask them out when one of them piques my curiosity.
Or has a nice rack.
And sure, I never even got the French librarian's name and my only excuse for that is that she was surrounded by fellow Euro-Iowans on a two day field trip to a fucking mall.
A fucking mall.
Jesus tap-dancing Christ, a fucking mall.
I can think of no obscenity worse than the word "mall".
Say it once out loud right now and listen to it come out of your mouth. It makes your skin crawl. I wouldn't say that word to my own mother.
Seriously, you think "cunt" is bad? Say "mall" right now to your mother. She won't give a shit if you're almost thirty, she will smack the shit out of you.
Christ, it's like I'm roasting the baby Jesus over a spit and I don't even have the goddamned decency to season him properly.

Page 11 Google Image Search result for "roasting baby jesus on a spit".
But luck does not turn its back on me simply with the changing of the seasons, no. I will not have to wait until another spring or another summer to have good fortune smile on me, for two Ukrainian women have checked in and are waiting on a third to join them. That's three chances at transatlantic romance. With any one of three Ukrainian women. And you know how I like the Ukrainian women.

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