Year: 2008

I don’t understand the motive. We all drive up to traffic lights every day, yet some individuals in our society seem to feel compelled to turn this simple act into a plea for attention, by stopping 23 meters behind the previous car.

Perhaps Mumsy didn’t give them enough love. Perhaps they were picked last for kickball too many times. Now they find the only power they wield is at the traffic lights.

You’ve seen them, too. You may even be one of them. If so, I demand you explain to the rest of us why you do it.

Then we will all step on your neck.

The very next night we had a lovely dinner in Royal Oak. Afterwards, I asked Lizz if she wanted to have a flight of wines at Vinotecca, a trendy wine bar in town. She thought that was a lovely idea and we sat outside on their patio so we could people watch. Our sommelier—in sharp contrast to last night’s waitress—was a consummate professional. His knowledge of wine regions, local soils and minerals was peerless.

After settling on a sinfully good Sauvignon Blanc from northern Italy, we relaxed. Then I noticed something behind my girlfriend’s head. She was seated with her back to the glass window and I was facing the glass. I asked her to turn and look. At the table directly inside, a young woman—who looked like Susan Powter did in the 80s—had hiked her summer dress up to her thong. Her legs were spread like a Thanksgiving turkey and her stiletto pumps rested on the table, giving her husband—and half of Royal Oak—a nice show. She continued spreading, crossing and kicking her admittedly beautiful legs around while we drank.

Then a scream from down the street. Lizz looked to her right and saw a fat gentleman with a silver ponytail screaming at someone trying to open the driver’s side door of a BMW. He looked exactly like David Crosby. I am still not convinced it wasn’t David Crosby. He was sitting in front of the Jimmy John’s sub shop screaming at his inebriated wife, who continued to fumble with her key fob. She was apparently too drunk to open the lock and this was upsetting David Crosby. It was also upsetting his child who became nauseous at the fighting and got the dry heaves. We still have no idea of the gender of the child. Suffice it to say the kid was around 11 or 12, chubby and resembled a young Ozzy Osbourne.

As if this wasn’t enough, there was also a grandmother, wheelchair bound and unable to speak, left on the sidewalk by the mother who will not be applying to be a locksmith anytime soon. At this point, the child was shaking as David Crosby bellowed like a musk ox with ear mites. I picked up the phone to dial 911 and guess what? The call wouldn’t go through. Fortunately the family packed up and left quickly, most likely late for their appearance on COPS.

We went to our favorite seafood restaurant in posh Grosse Pointe (yes, the same one the John Cusack movie was from). A few minutes before our food arrived, two friends of ours showed up and pushed a table up against ours saying, “We’re gonna to join you, m-kay?” They had just come back from a wine tasting and were fairly hammered. We said it was fine if they didn’t mind us eating in front of them. Our food arrived just then.

The waitress
Our waitress was a 40-ish Asian woman named Mai who was a little too eager to please. She also had the puzzling habit of rubbing my shoulders every time she came to the table. The girlfriend was amused by this and said, “She love you long time.”

We’ve got crabs
As I mentioned, our friends had previously tasted 11,204 glasses of wine so there was some slurring and table thumping. The husband was clearly more drunk than his wife and when he saw my girlfriend’s huge plate of crab legs, he stammered out to our Asian massage therapist, “I want shumma those! Crabs! Those look gooooood. Can I—can I have shum?”
Waitress: “Oh, of course you can, sir! I would love to bring you some. It is my greatest pleasure to help you.” Seriously.

Buttered up
The husband friend is a successful attorney who represents several well-known indie bands, so it was no surprise he was in an expensive, Italian suit. But inebriation, Armani and crab legs do not good bedfellows make. Within minutes, his shirt was sporting some rather generous butter stains. In his drunken logic, he determined the best thing to do was summon over Mai and ask her if the restaurant sold t-shirts. They did and she was so delighted to be asked this most wonderful task and rushed off to get one.

Striptease
Meanwhile, our friend was feeling embarrassed by the fiesta of butter on his shirt. I would have framed the shirt and sold it on eBay as an original Pollock, but he began unbuttoning his shirt much to his wife’s displeasure. He had unbuttoned all the way to his navel when Mai arrived with the t-shirt. “Hey I doan want that shirt ennymoar. I was jesh kidding. Did you guys shink I was kidding?”
“No,” we replied in unison.
“Well, I wuzh. Thank you for tracking it down—I’m shir it’s a great shirt but I jesh need t’take this one off.”
“Oh uh sir? Could you please keep your clothes on in the restaurant?” asked Mai.
“Sherious?”

At this point, other patrons were getting visibly disturbed and asked for their checks. We did the same and upon exiting, the bartender whispered to us, “You two are like freak magnets, I swear. How do they find you?”