Normally, I wouldn't set foot in a swank joint where the appetizers are more pricey than any main course I'm used to ordering. My culinary motto is that good hamburgers grill all over great Andoulay Serpentini (overpriced Chef Boyardee with prawns) anytime. jOhn is also in agreement with the way I look at food, but that didn't stop him from calling me to request my presence at the Belmont. Earlier in the week, his just-for-the-hell-of-it personal ad on The Onion's webpage had generated a reply from a lady who is employed by the Nor-fawk library system. jOhn and the respondent had spoken at length por telefono on several occasions. During the third or fourth conversation, la chica de Onion had informed him of the reconciliation between her and an old beau. However, she had wanted to know if jOhn would be interested in chatting up an unattached friend of hers. With the settled arrangements, we scarfed down dishes from our prix-fixe-on-a-budget menu before heading off to meet a possible connection d'amour. Two and two, we'll be right back at you...
Inside the restaurant were dining parties partaking in a meal downstairs and drunks with sufficient home equity anticipating some muzak on the second floor. Like Chee-Cho's in Vaaa Beeech, this place hadn't been architecturally designed to accommodate live entertainment. An extremely lengthy bar area covered nearly the entire floorspace, leaving only a small strip for pool tables and...PEOPLE. Making my way through the huddled masses, I sought an adult beverage that wouldn't force me to dip into my 401K. Too many bottles of brew and bubbly with foreign names made me wonder if a passport was required to imbibe. Luckily, a lemonade stand of sorts waved from a corner within the peripheries of the red, white and blue. Pabst Blue Ribbon, an American original that my grandmother had saluted eighteen times daily, was being sold at a Boy Scouts per diem: two U.S. dollars a bottle! I couldn't think of a better way to pay tribute to "Nanny" (my grandma's name to her grandchildren) and stimulate the Ewe Ess economy than to pledge allegiance to four twelve-ouncers and the coasters on which they stood. Twenty-five minutes after declaring independence from Corona ($3.50-4.00 plus tariff), the Onion lady and her garnish found jOhn and asked for his identity. Agent Andrews confirmed that, yes, he was a spy for the FBI (Finding the Badly Intoxicated) and, yes, the New Belmont was his latest assignment. Stuck in second gear, the two ladies were "Friends" in a Jennifer and Courtney kinda way. Not the type of femmes with whom I socialize, I didn't ask about their week or month or even their year. But the rain started to pour from 'em in the form of questions: 1)Who sings this song? ("Can you see it? Feel it? Hear it today? If you can't, then it doesn't matter anyway...") and 2)"What is a compact disc called which contains extra information like videos and such?" I replied to Miss Onion's first interrogative with a simple "I dunno" and suggested that she go to a health spa, get in a car, drive really far and eat a guitar. jOhn assisted with the second inquiry, giving a straight-forward answer ("That would be an enhanced CD") -- his job mandates that he can't be cynical on the clock. A few jabs from the butt-end of cue sticks held by pigeons (some of the worst shot-making I have seen since my everydays at Pocket's Cafe in Aragona Village {"The Portsmouth of Virginia Beach"})hog-called table time to the sharks that would be pig-pickin' on Belmont's picnic bench.
Dottie & Ernest (the female half of this duo had been AWOL at their Taphouse hootenanny) were a four-piece this time 'round, joined by their uncredited drumsticker and Tim from The Crums on bass geetar. Recalling by turns X-ene and John Doe, The Rolling Stones (D&E pissed on "Dead Flowers'" grave with a full bladder) and one of my old faves The Silos (Get Quackin' magazine named Cuba one of the ten-greatest car-drivin' el pees recently), the band as a whole were hard to see ('cept for "Ernest," who stands a horses-head high 6'6") from our down-the-dirt-road positions, but the tuneage reverberated enuff to get me off my hickory stump and dance in a square.
Sadly, jOhn and I only yee-hawed to four or so remnants from the Junkdrawer. But what we heard was some silver-fine rockabilly, blooz and Joe Hoppel-as-a-youngin'-at-WCMS-old-timey caun-try. El harmonica was a nice compliment to the pickin', lickin' and grinnin' filling the not-as-risque-as-before Bell-Mont. An urge to crunch on a pickle and sip some Country Time came over me. That's the message I got from the 'Drawer: enjoy the simple pleasures in life. Tasted like a good ole-fashioned time to me.
At 12:13 EST, the Onion lady and her partner-in-salad became disgusted with us yokels and left jOhn and I standing by the horse trailer as the two sped away in their mid-sized compact. Y'all DON'T come back and see us now, ya hear?
Inside the restaurant were dining parties partaking in a meal downstairs and drunks with sufficient home equity anticipating some muzak on the second floor. Like Chee-Cho's in Vaaa Beeech, this place hadn't been architecturally designed to accommodate live entertainment. An extremely lengthy bar area covered nearly the entire floorspace, leaving only a small strip for pool tables and...PEOPLE. Making my way through the huddled masses, I sought an adult beverage that wouldn't force me to dip into my 401K. Too many bottles of brew and bubbly with foreign names made me wonder if a passport was required to imbibe. Luckily, a lemonade stand of sorts waved from a corner within the peripheries of the red, white and blue. Pabst Blue Ribbon, an American original that my grandmother had saluted eighteen times daily, was being sold at a Boy Scouts per diem: two U.S. dollars a bottle! I couldn't think of a better way to pay tribute to "Nanny" (my grandma's name to her grandchildren) and stimulate the Ewe Ess economy than to pledge allegiance to four twelve-ouncers and the coasters on which they stood. Twenty-five minutes after declaring independence from Corona ($3.50-4.00 plus tariff), the Onion lady and her garnish found jOhn and asked for his identity. Agent Andrews confirmed that, yes, he was a spy for the FBI (Finding the Badly Intoxicated) and, yes, the New Belmont was his latest assignment. Stuck in second gear, the two ladies were "Friends" in a Jennifer and Courtney kinda way. Not the type of femmes with whom I socialize, I didn't ask about their week or month or even their year. But the rain started to pour from 'em in the form of questions: 1)Who sings this song? ("Can you see it? Feel it? Hear it today? If you can't, then it doesn't matter anyway...") and 2)"What is a compact disc called which contains extra information like videos and such?" I replied to Miss Onion's first interrogative with a simple "I dunno" and suggested that she go to a health spa, get in a car, drive really far and eat a guitar. jOhn assisted with the second inquiry, giving a straight-forward answer ("That would be an enhanced CD") -- his job mandates that he can't be cynical on the clock. A few jabs from the butt-end of cue sticks held by pigeons (some of the worst shot-making I have seen since my everydays at Pocket's Cafe in Aragona Village {"The Portsmouth of Virginia Beach"})hog-called table time to the sharks that would be pig-pickin' on Belmont's picnic bench.
Dottie & Ernest (the female half of this duo had been AWOL at their Taphouse hootenanny) were a four-piece this time 'round, joined by their uncredited drumsticker and Tim from The Crums on bass geetar. Recalling by turns X-ene and John Doe, The Rolling Stones (D&E pissed on "Dead Flowers'" grave with a full bladder) and one of my old faves The Silos (Get Quackin' magazine named Cuba one of the ten-greatest car-drivin' el pees recently), the band as a whole were hard to see ('cept for "Ernest," who stands a horses-head high 6'6") from our down-the-dirt-road positions, but the tuneage reverberated enuff to get me off my hickory stump and dance in a square.
Sadly, jOhn and I only yee-hawed to four or so remnants from the Junkdrawer. But what we heard was some silver-fine rockabilly, blooz and Joe Hoppel-as-a-youngin'-at-WCMS-old-timey caun-try. El harmonica was a nice compliment to the pickin', lickin' and grinnin' filling the not-as-risque-as-before Bell-Mont. An urge to crunch on a pickle and sip some Country Time came over me. That's the message I got from the 'Drawer: enjoy the simple pleasures in life. Tasted like a good ole-fashioned time to me.
At 12:13 EST, the Onion lady and her partner-in-salad became disgusted with us yokels and left jOhn and I standing by the horse trailer as the two sped away in their mid-sized compact. Y'all DON'T come back and see us now, ya hear?
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