Rambling From Olive Garden

I am currently typing this in a highly inebriated state in the southwest corner if the local Olive Garden. Outside, a fair strong snow falls across my fair bastard state, creating the perennial "White Christmas." The booze is slowly insuring that it's a happy one. I am in a desperate attempt to try and keep my neck still, because anytime the muscles flex, my brain functions go haywire. I'm fighting with every weakened fiber of my being to try and maintain some degree of composure here. People in this "America's excuse for Italian" are routinely squeezed into the building like sardines. And on a holiday during lunchtime, it only makes this fact more apparent. Being this close to perfectly sensible strangers makes one's descent into drunkenness much harder to disguise. Of course, since we were the only two lunatics in this place to order pomegranate flavored margaritas at one in the afternoon, we had already started this little trip into madness at
a disadvantage. Any second now, these people are going to see the obvious signs, the gradual slur of the voice, the glazed over staring into space, the desperate need to point aimlessly while talking, and when they do, all hell will break loose.

I'm glancing around nervously, trying to get a feel of the room. Trying to figure out which of these overpriced furry boot wearing white collars is going to rush me first. This is Olive Garden for fucks sake, during lunch time no less. Seating in here at this time is quite the hot ticket. Many folks were being turned away with hour long waits in uncomfortable waiting rooms, just to have a taste of safe elegance. There's no limit what they could have done just to get my seat. It matters not that I paid for soup, breadsticks, and stucco atmospherics just like everyone else. This is the place to be.

Soup's good today. Of course, the soup is always good. Breadsticks too. This is truly miracle bread we're dealing with. Always hot and perfect. We are dealing guaranteed satisfaction here. The fact is, walk into any Olive Garden, and you'll be eating pretty much the same degree of well. This is the stuff people eat when they want to feel like they're eating gourmet, but not take any actual risks. Independent resteraunts try new things with varied ingredients, done in different fashions. It can be touch or go for any person who wants to appear wealthy, since they may pay top dollar and look reputable for food that tastes funny. Not the O.G. There's an Olive Guarden in just about every city nowadays. They're not gonna risk the chain by serving crap. I vaguely remeber that this is what McDonalds used to be before everyone realized they were trying to kill us.

The vibe in Olive Garden is definitely changing. Men and women with dirt on their clothes and the sweat of hard work occupy much of this space. Tattoed and fuzzy faced patrons fill the seats to my north, looking nothing like the happy faced middle-classmen in all those commercials. Olive Garden's changed man. What used to be the height of commercialized snobbery has slowly been taken over by the everyman. Normally, I consider these my people. Brothers in arms with strong alliances. But I am in no condition to wage war today. I'm not even sure I can stand up at this point.

Frank Sinatra's voice keeps coming over the speakers.....or at least I think it does. After all, it's not like I haven't channelled Ol' Blue Eyes in altered states before. The Chairman and I are old friends when it comes to staggering craziness. Something I find myself in a lot of. The waitress is looking at us funny now. it's clear we're past any capacity for appearing rational. I let my thoughts drift to the snow falling outside. Damn, it's coming down. But, 'tis the season I suppose. As I suckle on my cheap chocolate after dinner mints that are apparently wishing me a "Happy Holidays," one thought crosses my mind:

How in the hell am I going to get home?