I am old, and I am grumpy, and I am lame. My Wikipedia page says as much. On a Saturday night at ten PM, I do not want to listen to the entirety of Alice’s Restaurant while looking hopelessly for parking, only to elbow my miserable way to a sticky table in the prison riot of a popular “night spot.” Where do I go after the evening shift, when all that is desired is a quiet, heated place for fair repast? Bonus points if everyone there thinks that Vampire Weekend is something involving Nosferatu in Ray Bans.
See what I am reduced to? Safeway, 39th and Powell, midnight. Tillamook burger among the family-priced Folgers. A chorus of fey, gauging mongoloids by the Easter candy whines about their distaste for Cadbury’s Crème Eggs; the soundtrack is a tinny fluff of MIDI flutes covering Toto’s Africa. At least I can hear myself buy Chubby Hubby.
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