This afternoon, Sagar and I drove down to Loveland to see Juno. The movie was quite good (despite a criminally scratched scratched 6th reel–the sort scratched that, running a second-run theater (like I do) makes one mutter angry things under one’s breath about “that projectionist” and “if I ever…” and “a dark and otherwise deserted alley-way”…), but not the point of this post. (If you want a review, go to filmthreat.com. Not here.)
The point of this post is that there was a P.F. Chang’s next to the movie theater, and Sagar and I couldn’t help ourselves but to help ourselves to some delicious Chinese food. (If you’ve ever been to a P.F. Chang’s, you know what I’m talking about. And if you haven’t … you KNOW it must be good because P.F. Chang’s is a national chain and I, Mark Egge, not only choose to eat there when-ever the opportunity presents itself (even when there is potentially delicious local food to be had), but even encourage OTHER people to eat there!). But that’s not the point of this post, either. (If you want a review of my mean, go to zagat.com. Not here.)
The point of this post is that when the food was brought out, there was one vegetarian dish–coconut curry vegetables–and one dish with chicken–Chang’s Spicy Chicken. The person who brought out our food was not our waiter. He looked at me, and then looked at Sagar (who is, despite the goatee and Prana clothing, the son of two Indian–dots, not feathers–parents). Then, he put the vegetarian dish in front of Sagar, and the chicken dish in front of me. When he’d gone, I laughed, and observed what he had done.
“True,” responded Sagar, “but you can’t fault the guy. At least he’s a little culturally literate. I’ll give him props for that.” And, of course, I had to agree. But, at the same time, I enjoyed that little moment of role-reversal. The Indian, ordering the dish with chicken, and the Scandimerican (I just made up a new word! [even though Firefox doesn’t think it’s a word!]) ordering the vegetarian dinner. Ah.
Oh. And, after driving across several parking lots (from the theater to Chang’s) with my door open and head poking out the side (because I was too lazy to scrape my window, just to drive a few blocks), some yuppy had the audacity to yell at me, “are you CRAZY?!” At the time, all I could yell back was, “HALF!” But what I meant to yell back was, “you’re the crass, upper middle-class American, buying overpriced consumer shit, with 2.3 kids, an attached garage, an Audi, and no sense of self, purpose or the world around you! Are YOU crazy?!” But, alas. Perhaps you, dear reader, are the one who yelled at me tonight. Well, now you know what I think–or wonder, rather. No hard feelings.
Which gives me a wonderful idea. Perhaps, to improve readership, I should go to Cafepress.com (not here!) and print an EATEGGS.COM bumper-sticker. I bet people would show up here … and be confused. Mmm.