At the Market
We went to eat at Central Market on Saturday.Central Market has an indoor seating area plus a large outdoor patio. It’s one of those grocery stores that charge you eight dollars for a banana. Of course, it will probably be from Katmandu. The only toilet paper you can buy there is eco-friendly and is entirely suitable for sanding your deck.
They do have a decent restaurant, though, with quite a few different kinds of food, and it’s all pretty good. There’s an indoor seating section plus a multi-level deck in back. Eli 3.11 (one day before his software upgrade at the time of this story) is a big fan because they have a giant playscape just behind the deck.
On the weekends, they usually have some kind of live music on the deck. We’re walking in from the parking lot and I hear it. So does Eli 3.11. “Daddy, I don’t want to play on the playscape,” he said. “That music HURTS my EARS.”
Not half as much as it hurt mine.
“What IS that?” Gloria whispered.
“Somebody’s beating a cat with a tambourine,” I said.
Now, before you accuse me of being “culturally insensitive,” let me assure you that I am not. I greatly enjoy people from all cultures. That doesn’t mean I enjoy or appreciate all the crazy-ass aspects of their cultures. Hell, I can’t stand my own culture. It’s absolute crap ninety percent of the time. Or ninety-nine. Hell, I’m absolute crap ninety-nine percent of the time.
That’s my philosophy. It’s kind of like Zen, but in reverse. I call it Nez.
We sit inside, but we’re near a door that connects to the patio, so every time someone comes in or out, we get a sonic blast of fifty fingernails on chalkboards, accompanied by the repetitive drone usually associated with automated production lines in giant factories.
“Daddy, is someone HURT?” Eli 3.11 asked, as the door opened.
After dinner, we were in line to buy a cookie. I like the chocolate chip cookies at Central Market—at least, I did until I looked at the label tonight and saw that ONE COOKIE is 540 CALORIES. That’s not a cookie—that’s freaking LUNCH for me.
There was a woman standing at the end of the line, and she was wearing a crop-top.
Don’t expect this story to get sexy. Believe me, that’s not where it’s going. Where it’s going is that this woman looked like she was wearing an inntertube made out of human flesh, and boy, was it fully inflated.
As we walked out of the store, my delightful wife Gloria looked at me. “I see miles and miles of Texas,” she sang, and we certainly had. The musicians had apparently taken a break, but as we walked along the sidewalk we heard the sound of drums. “Daddy! RUN! I think they’re starting again!” Eli 3.11 said.
And run we did.
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