elf elf elf
Years ago, when we lived on the south side and I took a bus to and from work, the bus was rolling through the downtown streets and out the window I saw a group of around 50-60 men all dressed as Colonel Sanders. For a brief shining moment I thought it was public performance art, but it turns out they were just getting off work, ending their shifts passing out Kentucky Fried Chicken coupons. A couple of the Colonel Sanders-es were black, which doesn't exactly fit in with my image of the plantation-ownin' good-ol-boy-in-a-string-tie Colonel.
Last night I went with a group of people to this fancy schmancy “pub” that had lots of esoteric and imported beers. I am somewhat clueless when it comes to beer this fancy, so I let someone else order for me, and when he brought the beer back to the table he told me its name was Alpha King. Only I'm going deaf and thought he said Elfin King. So this amused me, and throughout that entire round of drinks I would occasionally break away from the conversation and say, “He's the King of the Elves!” or “All hail the tiny King!” and “I wonder if they brewed this in a hollow tree?” and so on. After about an hour someone asked me what the fuck I was talking about and the true name of the beer was revealed.
What I found so disturbing was that my friends took my psychotic exclamations in stride and it took them SO LONG to question it. What does that say about me? Do I normally just say all sorts of bizarre things? I didn't think so before, but now I'm not so sure.
I'm thinking about going to that Mutiny place tonight on Western. Never been there before. If anyone knows anything about their Friday “goth nights,” get in touch.
—mimi “dos huevos, por favor” smartypants