Two Guys From Italy

As for the name of this restaurant...F that.
As for the rest, it's a little out of my particular way (on Webb Chapel and 635) but it's a prime date spot for the local high schoolers, so that's fun. Whereas Dallas guys take their prom dates to 2 guys from Italy, my prom dates were 2 guys from...no? already saw that one coming? well, SCREW YOU!
I guess it's sort of romantic in a painfully obvious way. In a two-people-sharing-one-booth sort of way. In a let-me-buy-you-a-twelve-dollar-bottle-of-white-wine,baby kind of a way. The ceiling is covered in what I presumed to be fake grape vines? but I suppose they could just as easily be fake bouganvillea? fake ivy? what the hell is that crap and just what about Italy is it supposed to represent? Do Italian people really feel more at home with empty wine bottles and grape vines over their heads? Is Italy primarily a dense jungle region? (I'd like you to note that I refrained from using the word "jungly" there out of pure respect for my readers.)
Apart from the atmosphere, which was bland at best, the food was all right. Gnocchi in orangey sauce and Dr. Pepper with those little crushed ice pieces. Mmmm. If french fries came with it, I'd be in heaven. Or some strange blend of several European countries. Same thing.

Keep on Truckin'

Y'know who sucks? SBC and all the internet service that they DON'T provide. Y'know who still rocks? The Professor.

The Skin Trade

'member when I mentioned these guys? Let's refresh...it was in the context of Rubber Gloves, they were very small, they moved me to the core, there was a question as to whether or not my Heineken wrote my editorial....
Anyway, at least the beer question was answered. Fully sober, I attended another hoedown Skin-Trade-style, and I was again reminded of exactly who "The Man" was and that I was fucking pissed at him. And so it goes...they're still awesome. This evening we discovered that the drummer who was so tinytiny I just wanted to store him in my pocket, or a tupperware (for freshness), had a birthday today and is (get this) TWENTY YEARS OLD! For real. My age guesstimations are going horribly awry. Next show they'll tell me that the singing guy is in his eighties, the bass player is already dead, and I am actually only 6 and a half. Coherent conclusion: Anybody have any beer? When the Heineken was talking (see RGRS; below), I made more sense.

Star Seeds

The Manimal and I went to Austin this weekend to visit Jesus for the big holiday (Passover) and despite the whole anti-leavening-agent aspect of the week, we indulged in some sweet-ass gingerbread pancakes at the Magnolia. Sacrelicious. Then, upon the recommendation of some burger-craving crazies (I have my doubts as to the extent of their sobriety), we opted the next morn to branch out from the Magnolia's unholy offerings and dine at the Stars Cafe, as it is known in the Day's Inn parking lot, or Star Seeds, as it is known inside the place. Forewarning: This cafe should offer in lieu of a requisite height sign, a la the Gravitron, a sign with a prerequisite coolness quotient ("Must be at least THIS hip to eat omelettes herein" or "Must wear at least 67% black leather at all times to enter" or, "If you've had a haircut recently, don't bother"). I walked in wearing tennis shoes and I can't express the shame I felt in blog format.
But, as long as you meet the standards, in the Star Seeds cafe, you will find what can only be described as "some large ass breakfast tacos." I guess I could describe them more...uh, descriptively than that but I'm still suffering from heartburn induced by my Sunbow breakfast plate. Jesus ordered one of the aforedescribed (albeit poorly) tacos and was rendered speechless (which, if you've ever hung out with the savior, you know is nothing short of miraculous). The Lord also appreciated the fact that there were so many vegetarian options available.
Another bonus of the Star Seeds, besides the fact that the hipness even oozed from their crackly stereo system, was the wall decor. Art pieces by what I can only imagine are the hottest young artists of the Austin-area, depicting super-IN topics such as how the Man is oppressing us and how all the latest wars are simply a byproduct of the Man's oppression and also how bikinis were invented by the Man as a way of oppressing women. It was good early-morning contemplation fodder. You know, the kind of stuff that really makes you feel oppressed before you've even had your morning 'ccino.
So, the Main Idea? Those burger-craving crazies are friggin' cool, yo. I would have never thought to look in a motel parking lot to find true breakfast salvation.

On the Subject of Awesome

For those of you who are interested (which should be all..what, four of you?), the Skin Trade will be putting in an appearance at the Rubber Gloves on Saturday, April 17. They'll most likely be the opening act (seeing as how they're neonates), so you can get there at 11, drink a Heineken, let their holy sound renew you, and be out the door before you have to sit through Jackson 8 or 40 Minutes of Hell (seriously, those are the band names; you can't make this shit up). What do you say, Freaky Jesus? Is a trip to Dallas in your near future? It's just post-holy week; you're sure to be resurrected by then.

The Flying Fish

hmmm...what to say about this neon-lovin' place in Preston Square, just west of the Metro Diner, just east of the wig supply shop. Well, i have to show proper appreciation to the place that reminds me of why I haven't run screaming from Texas yet: hushpuppies and catfish. In fact, just getting a "meow mix" combo of food that is all so deeply fried as to be uniform in color makes me want to stick around just a little longer.
But, first things first. This restaurant is one of I think two in the greater Dallas area and was created by the son of the guy who started Six Flags Over Texas, the amusement park, but I didn't learn all that history until after the hushpuppy fact, so it's not necessary for me to debrief you on all of this. The Flying Fish is set in two dining rooms, separated by a screen door. The front dining room has no windows, just open space, attempting (I think) to give it a waterfront or pier-esque feeling. Unfortunately, these charming open spaces offer a view of the majestic Luther Lane parking complex, which is home to much less marine life, but surprisingly smells just as fishy. But it was a really nice attempt at making me feel coastal once more. Rather than being served at the table, one must stand in line to order food, which saves money on tip, but doesn't save time. However, one more bonus: if the line is long, this really tall guy who I'm not sure is actually employed by the restaurant will give you free hushpuppies. mmmmm. how I love food named after baby animals. Plus, the decor is definitely something at which to marvel. Adjacent to the line is the fishermen's hall of fame wall, with pictures of fishermen and all their vital stats, their turn-ons, their turn-offs (I'm not sure of the proper pluralization of that; if you are in a position to advise, please do), and the photos are oddly stuck to the wall with notebook paper reinforcers, which finally gives those things a function in modern times, so that's cool.
The front dining room is home to the world's first Billy Bass Adoption Center, meaning that lame-o's can give their singing fish to the establishment and be rewarded with a free meal. However, the rest of us are punished for this act by having to listen to those damn fish for an entire meal, as children are invariably seated next to the adoption wall and are invariably looking for a good ass-whoopin'.
One caveat: There were several typos and misspellings located all over the restaurant, as though the restauranteurs were in such a hurry to serve catfish to the masses that they thought they would just overlook the rules and intricacies of the English language. Did they not anticipate that they would one day cater to the Professor, with her high standards of quality and almost maniacal urges to proofread? What the hell? Anyway, the misspelling of the word "piece" was understandable; who can remember that whole "i before e" thing in a pinch (besides me). But "chiken"? Please. Your goddamn menu deserves a little more respect than that. On my next visit, I'm getting a magic marker and adding a ^ and a 'c' to that shit. I think we'll all feel a little more comfortable after that.

Beth Marie's

I spent a recent balmy evening in Denton, TX. For those of you (and by you, I mean me) who are unfamiliar with the mini-city of Denton, let me explain that Denton is to Austin as a really smart fetus is to the muthafuckin' Professa'. We clear? So anyway, it was warm out, as Texas is inclined to be (at its coldest), and I felt a yen for some "homemade" ice cream and so headed in to Beth Marie's. I will not delve here into my passionate beliefs about the application of the word "homemade" to for-profit establishments, but I will tell you what I thought of the place. First off, I felt upon entering that this small-town ice cream parlor was unsettlingly bar-like: from the men sitting at the counter who scrutinized my assets, all the way to the hot chicks behind the counter who refused me service in favor of helping my male counterparts, who they thought perhaps would be more likely to tip when intoxicated with Rocky Road. The dim lighting may have been an imaginary byproduct of my general bar-infused-memory of the place, but I could have sworn it was fucking dark in there, man. In fact, this strange tavern quality was so disquieting to me that I hardly remember anything about the ice cream itself. Except that when one is anticipating a shot of tequila in a lime-rimmed glass, a scoop of Tin Roof in a waffle cone is not a bad substitute. Main Idea: In this honky-tonk world of high-speed telegraphs and motorized carriages, it's good to know that there still exist some things that make you go "hmmm.."