Monster Truck at the Library

My wife and I both read a lot. I like to buy my books because I’m shallow, and I like to collect and own them. Seeing them all lined up on a shelf confirms for me, in my simple male mind, that I have an intellect – or at least the illusion of one. She, on the other hand, is content to sign them out of the library, read them, and return them when done. She also fails to see the virtues of Motorhead, so nothing she says can be taken all that seriously. Recently, she returned from the library, glowing red and bubbling with giddy laughter. As she came through the door she blurted out, “There was a monster truck at the library!” Based upon her account of the event, it sounded like your basic pickup truck with a lift-kit, giant off-road tires, and the off-road lights on top. It sounded thoroughly ridiculous. Even more ridiculous is the fact that it was left running and unattended while its driver was inside the library. She said that as she entered the library, it was immediately apparent who owned the truck. There was a big burly guy at the counter signing out books on automotive maintenance. She said he had a whole lot of piercings in his face, a Steelers shirt, and bad tattoos. I asked, “Tattoos of what?” She said he had one of those terrible tribal arm bands, with an Italy boot above it. I cringed. Italy tattoos are one of the many banes of my existence. They’re tacky. I look plenty Italian without a fucking tattoo on my arm to make it official. It reminded me of the San Rocco festival my family had attended the previous week. It’s the second weekend of August every year. I’m originally from Aliquippa, and a huge portion of Aliquippa is comprised of Italians from Patrica, Italy. When they came over in the 1930s to work in the steel mills, they brought the San Rocco festival with them. It’s generally a little goofy, but a good time nonetheless. There’s lots of great food and G-rated family fun. Regardless, at the closing ceremony of the thing, they pass out all of these little Italian flags for everybody to wave while the band plays some traditional Italian music. It’s all in good fun, but I don’t like flag waving of any kind. It really doesn’t matter what country it is, if you’re waving a flag, you’re probably an asshole. Nationalism is poisonous. It divides people and creates conflict were there isn’t any. Flag waving is how the Nazis happened. A friend of mine was telling me about his recent trip to England, where he saw a car with two flapping Union Jacks fixed to the roof, which made him think to himself, “Ah, they have hillbillies in England too.” This all made me want to go find the guy who had left his giant truck running parked in front of the library and explain to him that nobody in Italy drives monster trucks.

Toothpaste

The tube of toothpaste in my wife’s medicine cabinet looks like a murder victim. She squeezes it from the middle, and kind of twists it to get more out as it gets emptier. The current tube is contorted, bulging in some places and flat in others. It’s dirty with whatever sort of fine dirt accumulates on things in women’s bathrooms, and the cap is blown wide open. It’s not just open. It’s open in such a way that it never is going to be closed again. There are caked blobs of dried paste frozen in mid-gush clinging to its gaping mouth. Behind its head, stuck to the back of the medicine cabinet wall, there’s a stray blob of dried toothpaste. How’d that get there? It looks like somebody shot the tube in the face and blew its brains out the back of its head, onto the wall.

Racing for Happy Hour

We were racing back to the hotel for happy hour. We were on foot. We were lost. We were sweating through our clothes. We were red-faced. We were sunburned. We were tired. Nobody seemed able to provide good directions. Nobody could straighten us out. Nobody could help. Happy hour was now almost halfway over. I looked up into the sky, and determined which way was north by the position of the sun as it related to the time of day. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Don’t forget it. We re-oriented ourselves on the city map and took off. We made it. We crashed through the door, red-faced, sweaty, exhausted, irritable, and thirsty. Five minutes left for free drinks. The only free booze left was red wine, some shitty beers, and champagne. Nothing I’d really want, but I drank as much as I could as quickly as I could, because I’d earned it.

Ben’s Chili Bowl

Ben’s Chili Bowl is supposed to be one of the very best places to eat in DC. We took a train to “U” street, found the place very easily, and walked in. It was immediately apparent that we were the only white people in the whole place. There was a sign hanging on one of the heated chili pots that read, “Bill Cosby is the only man who eats here free.” I chuckled. The guy taking our order looked at me quizzically. I said, “I’m Bill Cosby.” He laughed. The chili was incredible. It was, without a doubt, the best chili I’d ever had on fries or a hot dog. Even better than the Brighton Hot Dog Shoppe back home. Seriously. The jukebox was also awesome. Sugar Hill Gang, Parliament, Kool Moe Dee, and James Brown all played during our meal. I was really in the mood to hear some John Lee Hooker. Certain as I was that there would be some on the jukebox, I refrained from going up and putting some on. If anybody in there had disapproved, I would have been devastated.

Dead Gnats

The hotel bar was poorly stocked. They didn’t have much, only the big obvious liquors and a few different beers. There was a daily champagne toast from 5pm to 6pm, with all-you-can-drink free champagne. I hate champagne, but I’m also a sucker for free things. We arrived late and each put down three glasses, fast. Then I bought an overpriced double of Maker’s Mark on the rocks. My wife got a mixed drink. We sat in the lounge. It was hot. Cooler in the lounge than it was outside, but still warm. The constant traffic into and out of the lounge made it difficult for the air conditioning to be effective. We periodically had to swat gnats. About 5/8 of the way through my glass, I noticed something at the bottom of it. I looked closer. Dead gnats. I guess they had been landing in my bourbon for a drink and had subsequently died. There were about five of them at the bottom of the glass. Initially I was half-heartedly angry. Then, lacking the energy to sustain any type of real anger, I just finished it anyway.