Control That Thing!

September 28th, 2006

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Charlie-

Look at me. Loo- look at me. Please, I can’t do this with you staring off beyond me as some black hole just over my shoulder hypnotizes your gaze. Charlie… Thank you. I want to set the record straight. This has nothing to do with a New York State of Mind, nor does it have anything to do with me not wanting to go to you know what. I would like nothing better than to spend the weekend navigating the mysteries of New England, guided by eighteen pages of cryptic directions and acronyms, accompanied by three of Philadelphia’s finest. But, alas, I am committed to some projects and with my old age I no longer have the muscular strength to pin responsibility to the ground, slap her in the face, and tickle her breathless. The situation is akin to your missing out on something because of the O… although I don’t think I hate these two projects as you loathe the O, which I might add, will bring you to Brooklyn shortly, and I can a get a look at ya.

TC? TC.

Anyway.

So I’m at Maggie Brown’s last night with two friends trying to enjoy a fried fish club sammy and some blissfully creamy mashed potatoes when in waltzes this practically catatonic grandmother and her boisterous grandson. She sits at the table next to us, pack of Marlboro Lights in hand, and orders something Kahlua related which later comes out in a Martini glass. The little guy sits down for about a picosecond before proceeding to terrorize the other patrons in the alfresco section with this muppet of a middle-aged guy wearing a football jersey and those little circular John Lennon-esque glasses. (And I can say muppet since it was truly puppet and marionette combined.) For some reason the freak steers clear of our table, either because some God-type shined his smile upon us or because of my cold, shifty glare and brandished machete - which I should inform you I now include as part of my daily gearing-up. Sadly, a table in the back fell victim, albeit because of their own mistakes: 1. He comes over seeming mildly cute, what with the muppet and all. 2. The female at the table decides to engage him with some cutesy praise or obvious question like “What’s that you got there?? 3. The little fuck overstays his welcome, making the muppet scream “I’m drunk, I’m drunk!? while beating its head into the two guys at the table as they exchange looks of fear and unbridled annoyance.

But in the end, I sort of felt bad because it seemed like the kid had some strange psychological/emotional issues. Yes, he did make the muppet act as if drunk, then, when his grammy’s drink came out he yelled at the waitress to pour it out. He also kept demanding that she bring out the wine he’d ordered. I don’t know, I assume one or both of the parents are/were alcoholics and somehow the poor grandmother, with no energy to control him, ended up with custody. So yeah, I do feel bad and more than that, I really want to know their back story, but in the end, my point is this: If you can’t or won’t control your emotionally unstable child then just stay inside and let him destroy your apartment, don’t bring it to a hip restaurant for twenty/thirtysomethings.

Godspeed this weekend.

-Shababo

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