I went to lunch at a place called Pasta Pasta Pasta. My lunch date seriously asked me what they have there. I assume she meant what kind of pasta, but I can’t be totally sure. So that made me want to order Mexican food to see how’d they respond. But everyone that works there has a heavy Italian accent and I don’t need the mafia coming after me again. Yes, I said again. There was that noodle incident at Gaetano’s back in ’97 that I still don’t think was my fault, but what good does it do to argue with a punk and his two hookers working for a man named Clyde (Gaetano is Italian for Clyde) with a nickname of Flip Flop (gangstah for Clyde I guess). Considering they still have bulletproof glass on the front of their restaurant I think it wise of me to let it go.
So I’m eating my chile rellenos at Pasta Pasta Pasta when I got a text from my office about the stink. Yes, my office is its own entity and has full texting abilities. I met my office at the circus and I rescued it, especially after it saved Little Johnny from the well. How he got stuck in there, I have no idea but Little Johnny ought to be more careful and also lay off the pasta because he is one plump little fellah and is going to have to change his name to Big John if this behavior continues.
Speaking of Big Johns, I went to school at Eastern Illinois University. If you confuse it with any of the other directional schools in Midwestern corn fields, don’t feel bad because I do the same thing.
“Where did you go to college Mr. Bretthead?”
“Ummmmm, it was in a big corn field. I think it was Northern Illinois in Macomb. No wait; it was Western Illinois in Edwardsville. Shit, no I went to Southern Illinois in Bloomington-Normal. Or was it in DeKalb? I don’t know for sure, but I can tell you I had the #2 (Big John) about once a week from Jimmy Johns.”
Now Jimmy Johns is all over the place. The first one was in Charleston, IL, where I ate lots of roast beef sammies, refined my drinking skills and learned the back roads to Champaign-Urbana where I’d crash my friend’s frat parties and tell his lame brothers to get me beer because I was alumni.
The only fraternity I’ve ever been in was the wise-ass one with just about anyone that could hold a witty and stimulating conversation. Hazing was all verbal, constant and often carried over to the people around us. Unless they were Italian and had shifty eyes with slicked back hair and worked for a Gambino or Gaetano named Clyde.
One time at band camp, or rather Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas (not that there are mafia folks there at all), I was playing roulette with my buddies. We were all trying to make $40 last long enough to score a few drinks which amazingly seemed to be happening. The table was hotter than the tamales at Pasta Pasta Pasta. Until a young Italian guy with slicked back hair and a suit that cost eleventy-seven times more than my net worth walked up and pulled a wad of hundies out of his crispy white shirt pocket. He put it all on the top third of the wheel (he wins if the ball falls in numbers 1-12). The dealer counted out ten Ben Franklins. $1,000 on numbers one through twelve.
Normally when people walk up to the table and throw, say, a measly hundred dollar bill on red, we’d all put our five bucks on red too. But we were too stunned with this guy and watched as the ball spun. And it didn’t hit his numbers. So he pulled out another wad of Ben Franklins. It was another $1,000 on 1-12. More stunned onlookers and a spin and a miss. He did it a third time ladies and gentlemen. And lost again. And then he walked away. He lost $3,000 in less than five minutes. I think that was double my entire trip budget which included gambling, food, drinks, cabs, airfare, hookers, hotel room, bail and souvenir fuzzy dice that said “Viva Las Vegas” with a silhouette of a pole dancer for my kids. Okay, I’m kidding about the hookers. And the fuzzy dice. And even the bail.
Crazy Italian. Mmm, the Italian combo #2 at Carbones is awesome. Now that is a crazy good sammie! Carbones is a local Italian deli that has been around for years. Rose is about 150 years old and works behind the counter. She rocks the world. But she is a feisty one. I’m not sure if it is worse to get in a pickle with Rose or with Flip Flop’s henchmen.
Speaking of stinky flip flops, the problem in my office is about a flood from a frozen pipe and the resulting soaked carpet, wood, tile, brick and mortar. So we've had musty and moldy smells for a couple weeks and people have literally gotten ill. Insurance companies are involved now, so it is going to take awhile to get things rectified. I wonder if I should have paid Flip Flop for his insurance?
The moral of this story? I haven’t written much in the last few weeks and I don’t know why. My mind is all over the place and I can’t seem to rein it in. So I’m just going to live in the moment and probably order sushi at the new H-Burger tomorrow for lunch. Capisce?