Oh, the places we'll go...

Here are the top ten places that we will go to breakfast if you're visiting me in Dallas, TX:
1. Cafe Brazil-I can't let anyone subject themselves to Dallas without a well-deserved reward of Chorizo Avocado omelets or Fruity PanCrepes. Plus, there's a coffee bar. How often does one enjoy all the comforts of a bar at 8 in the morning?
2. Breadwinners- We will go to the new location of this restaurant on Lover's Lane and Inwood and we will indulge in overpriced mimosas and Miguel's eggs. Then, we will buy a pecan sticky bun and live off of its adhesive nectar for weeks on end (possibly in the woods!)
3. Angela's Cafe- I just love it when old ladies call me hon' whilst they pour me mug upon mug of diner coffee. And, I looooves me some tacos on the breakfast menu, just to keep the option open.
4. Panera Bread- I don't even care that this place is a chain. We will have blueberry bagels and raspberry cream cheese and we shall rejoice in the existence of carbohydrates.
5. The donut place next to Holy Smokes where they give you free donut holes while you're deciding what you want- 'nuff said.
6. Magnolia Cafe- I don't give a shit if we have to drive all the way to Austin to get us some damn breakfast, I WANT GINGERBREAD PANCAKES AND I WANT 'EM NOW!
7. Kathleen's Art Cafe- The walls say artsy and the prices say "we only cater to rich people," but I'm listening anyway. They give you free blueberry thingies while you wait for your we're-too-good-for-omelets-style eggs.
8. La Madeleine- I would like the strawberry crepes, please, with a dozen of them crow-sants on the side.
9. Metro Diner- I like my runny eggs with a side of feminism...or biscuits.
10. Celebrity Cafe- Because by the time you've visited me long enough for ten consecutive breakfasts together, perhaps the mediocrity of Celebrity will serve as impetus to git yer ass back home.

Meta-holy shit...

So, just below, I weblinked a photo of a churchsign from the "real church signs" page of churchsigngenerator.com (a fully legal and heartsmart act, according to blogger terms and conditions). Then, the lord, in the form of some sarcastic bitch ass replaced my curious picture with an even more curious note saying that I am an evil person with unethical web practices. The real irony here is that the church sign said, "God wants to kill you." I thought I was in deep shit then, when the wrath of the lord was upon me, but now, with the wrath of the condescending web imp on me, I feel further immersed in shit than ever before. F you, web imp.

Holy Shit...

Metro Diner

I was not moved terrifically by the Metro Diner (Preston Village area, off Northwest Highway, next to the place that sells a refreshing combination of sunglasses and teddy bears), but there were a few things of note about it that I don't mind sharing on this, the World Wide Web. If you can't share it here, where nobody can hear you, then where CAN you share it, eh? Anyway, the establishment was small, one of the few unfranchised restaurants in the Preston/NW Hwy area, I believe. It was cheap (like me!) and I ordered a breakfast combo called the Woody (insert another cheap joke here...). There appeared no earthly reason for the name; it seemed like your basic Denny's Grand Slam with the added flavor of lard (I'm not arguing). Things to note: Our waitress was female, the girl at the register was female (as most girls are, regardless of the presence of a register), the cook was female, the person who appeared to do nothing save for open and close the refrigerator was female. If the owner of this establishment is a man, then let me struck down dead now because I would really like to think of this place as a little oasis of feminism; the only truly empowering place for a woman to eat her eggs overeasy and get a real shitty cup of coffee with some cream that's been sitting out all day. And there was no cheesy music playing, which would have been a nod to all the mainstream feminist bullshit that doesn't do anything except give women something lame to spend their money on. The fact that the diner was only ten feet by twenty feet (kitchen included) only made me more certain that this was more than a mediocre diner. This was...this was....aw shit, I just lost my whole dissertation. Anyway, main idea: eat at Metro Diner if you don't mind crispy bacon served with a crispier attitude. Thesis statement: Plus, they have biscuits!

RGRS

Last Saturday, I decided to attend a concert. This concert was of the informal variety and was held to honor a band they call Fishboy. Yes, Fishboy: the band, the myth, the legend, dare I say....the legendary myth-band? This legendary band's informal concert (which might also be called a "jam session" or "rocksteady hoedown") was held in the somewhat less legendary and somewhat more informal Rubber Gloves Recording Studio in Denton, TX. This place is bad ass, be forewarned. However, the band, who I had actually never heard of, will remain unheard of and unheard, because I was exhausted early in the night by the absolute awesomeness that is: The Skin Trade. Maybe this is the Heineken talking but when they walked out on stage (or "bunch of 2 by 4's" as it is also known) I was thinking, "This band will not be awesome" and I was proved utterly wrong. Later that night, standing corrected, I instead thought, "That band was totally awesome." Again, this may be the beer, but I've known few beers to be so eloquent.
Their first song started out with some light guitar plucking (visualize: pluck,pluck,pluck) and some subtle cymbal tickling (shishsihsihsihsihishishishishi) and the vocal guy (or "singing vocals guy" as the position is also referred to) starting singing about flowers and sunsets or some shit. But then (oh just wait) the bassist guy who looked about 9 starting fully reminding us all of our respective genders by smashing music out on that thing as though the sweet lord himself willed it. Then the drummer, who was maybe 4 and a half, started drumming those drums like they were....fucking DRUMS, man. And the vocal guy, who hadn't even been born yet, did a 180 and started wailing as though the Man was oppressing him right there in the Rubber Gloves and he had to tell him to shove it at triple the allowable zygotic volume. My cronies and I were like, "Fishboy rocks," but then, it turned out that these gods of rockage were the local band and their name was truly terrible: The Skin Trade. We figured if the local band could move our loins in this manner, Fishboy is going to be off the charts. But then the next band redefined "sucking", so we just left. Our pride was scarred, our logic thrown. We were afraid we would start sucking by association and we just really wanted to continue to think of Fishboy as some elusive, mutant, semi-aquatic band. I think that was achieved. Anyway, the Main Idea: go to RGRS. it's the hipster/fundaddy/cement/ax-bearing/Vans-wearing/gimme-another-32ozCoorsLight swingers club that you've been looking for with a fire in your belly. Supporting Idea: Keep your eye on the Skin Trade. They are sure to moisturize your retinas, if you know what I'm saying. Thesis Statement: Fishboy. Live the Legend.