Friday, July 22, 2011

Lunch With Evelyn

Lunch With Evelyn
Newport, Rhode Island

If you are one of the obnoxious people I sat next to at lunch today, or if your name is Evelyn, don't read this!

Oh my gosh, spank me if I’m dreaming. We decided to stop in Narragansett, Rhode Island for a few days while traveling. We wanted to be able to hop on into Newport and check out the hot spots and action there. If you’ve ever been to Newport, you know it’s fabulous. It’s a combination of Newport Beach, California: meets San Francisco Bay, on the east coast. They have a glorious bridge that reminds me of the Golden Gate bridge, except they must have a lot of classy gay people in Rhode Island because they painted that bridge a smashing shade of sage green as opposed to that hideous orange color they painted Golden Gate.

For cripe’s sake, why don’t they paint that damn Golden Gate bridge a pretty saffron or ochre yellow? There certainly are enough gay people in San Francisco to get that passed. I mean, what respectable homo paints a bridge, Heterosexual Orange? Bazerkley must have had something to do with it. All those young crazy college kids. They’re nuts you know. Or, maybe it‘s because of Marin that it‘s painted that color. They’re either uptight or they don’t know any better. That orange is an affront to the eye.

It’s true, heterosexuals love primary colors. I call those the straight colors. It’s the primary and secondary colors that heteros seem to love and don’t know the difference. Primary & Secondary colors are:
red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple. On the wheel respectively.

Gay colors are tertiary colors. Tertiary colors are all of the complicated colors, just like gay people: complicated, interesting, intriguing, beautiful and super cool. Gay people love colors like: lavender, violet, turquoise, saffron, salmon, olive, ochre, salmon, tangerine, chartreuse and plum. A lot of straight people call, plum: mauve.
That’s just ‘cuz they’re uneducated and don‘t know better.

I will skip the lesson on hue & tint for now. I’m sure you’re probably confused at this very moment. I know I am.

Okay, so we go into Newport today for lunch. I simply adore The Black Pearl on Bannister’s Wharf. It’s a great restaurant that sits right on the pier, and it’s one of my favorites. The inside is painted a beautiful shade of cedar and all of the tables and accent trim on the walls are high-gloss egg shell and raven black. There are beautiful crisp egret-
white linen table clothes and a single stem of Dendrobium orchid, the color of soft butter on each table. The contrast is striking and lovely.

Lunch at The Black Pearl is a little upscale and elegant. I wanted to dress nicely, so I wrestled with whether to wear socks with my flip flops, or just go sockless since I do have somewhat pretty calves, robust ankles & adorable toes.
Okay, so I go natural because I’ve got a tan and my Olu Kai flip flops look stunning in black leather on my tanned foot. I wore a brand new pair of olive green shorts with an adorable khaki plaid print on them, that I got at Walmart. They look like they cost a fortune even though I only paid seven bucks for them. Well, six ninety five, plus tax. I got four pair, three of the same color, one slightly lighter. If I like something, I buy more than one. It makes sense, right? Honestly, it looks like I have a humongous wardrobe on a thirty dollar budget- plus tax. I also have on a beautiful new,
snow-white heavy t-shirt made by Shacka shirts. I got that on eBay. It looks lovely and crisp, nobody would ever know I order them for four dollars a piece online. I probably have twenty or thirty of them. I also wore a lovely eggshell jacket tied around my waist in case I got cold, or the wind kicked up. Oh, and I also wore that jacket to hold my pants up because let’s face it, I bought them at Walmart and they’re not tapered to fit. Tend to ride low and I don’t want the crack of my ass showing. Not in Newport, anyway.

I also wore my Maui Jim sunglasses that I either paid for or copped,
so they would know who they were dealing with, and not figure me for some street trash. I like to call my look, ‘upscale gay male’.

Alright, I am so excited because, heck, it’s Newport and I love to shop, I love the water and I love to eat seafood. Oh, and Caesar salads are one of my absolute favorites. That’s why I’m going to the Black Pearl. I’ll beg for extra parmesan cheese and tell them not to make the salad too dry. I like a creamy Caesar salad, don’t you?

As long as they’re ice-cold and crisp. I like heavily shaved parmesan curls, and a chilled fork, please.
Serve it to me on a chilled, white china plate.
The salad looks so pretty on a white plate, only they bring it out in one of those really cool large white bowls with a rim on it. When it’s place in front of me, I feel like I’m simply oozing elegance.
They have a nice one here. It’s a little lemony on the vinaigrette however, it’s very passable. Sometimes I will add a ton of pepper to my salad, and I just love fresh anchovy. I told the waitress so. Make sure they put that anchovy on there or I will storm out of here making a hissy fit and such a stink that you won’t know what hit you.

Since we were only a party of two, the hostess tried to give us a table for two. I whined a little bit. The snot who seated us insisted the tables of four could also seat six, and then she turns to me and says, ‘What am I supposed to do if a party of six walks in here and you‘re hogging a big table?’ I winced a smidge and said: yeah, but those are booths. As if she gave a shit. I simply adore scooching down in a black leather booth that has deeply pocketed nail-studs.
It makes me feel cozy & romantic.

She took one look at Tony, glanced down at my toes, and sat us at a table for two. I tried to hate her, but I couldn’t because, let’s face it: It’s the Black Pearl.

The tables for two aren’t as romantic because they are lined up against the wall with the larger tables in the middle of the room. If you can get an end table in the corner, you’ve got a bit more privacy and the viewing pleasures are endless.

So I glance around the room and there are lovely vintage prints on the walls of ships, boats and buildings in antique-stained gold frames with the little picture lights shining down on them.
Id’ say no more than ten watts.
They’re really pretty and create an old-world feeling that I just adore. Don’t you?

Well, after a considerable wait, we got a piping hot bowl of clam chowder. Then they whisked an enormous bowl of Mussels Black Pearl in a butter, white wine & cream sauce with shallots and spinach and a lovely plate of salad a la Caesar. Did you know Caesar salad originates from Mexico?


Okay, so we’re eating and we’re marveling over the enormous oyster crackers and the bread with chilled butter that I hate because soft is better, when some loud mouthed lady, and I use the word:



… sits down next to me with what looks to be her daughter and I am telling you, her daughter is thirty something and scraggy looking and she says in a most-hideous New England accent:


That’s how New Englander’s talk. It’s whiney and nasaly and pinched so tight that it squeaks and squawks like helium being let out of a balloon sideways, only she had a truck driver vibrato. Okay, it’s screechy.
I would have loved to have looked at her and told her it wasn’t necessary to talk so loud, especially with that hideous accent.

And the lady next to me, who I am certain is her obnoxious mother says, "Okay, but I feel guilty awe-derin' a hayum-boigah in a see-food restah-rahnt (she puts the accent on: rant) but they do hava Black Poil boiguh thay-at looks innerestin’ just below da seefood stuff.

I nearly choked on my lemon ice water. I am boycotting the price of tea in restaurants now. Tea prices in restaurants are so absurd, a two-cent tea bag in hot water brings two dollars and fifty cents in most places. Ack! Are they nuts? If you squeeze a bit of lemon in your water, honestly you won’t miss the tea and it’s free.
So I wiped the clay'um chowdah offa my lips, looked at her and said: you should feel guilty for not ordering seafood in this sumptuous and scrumptious restaurant. You’re going to put the fishermen out of business and you don’t want to put the fishermen out of business in Newport, do you?

So, they went ahead and awe-dah’d the Black Poil boiguh and completely disregarded me for the rest of the meal.

It’s okay, I hated them anyway.

And then they seat the table on the other side of me, but thankfully there is a small tit-height partition between us, so I can stare at them without them really knowing, glancing over coyly as if I am not staring at them even though I am.


And the guy isn’t a match. He doesn’t quite fit someone who would be dating the older pinched-nosed woman and besides, she’s wearing a pince′·-nez′ and looks ridiculous. She’s got big fat tits and a tummy that’s had a bit too many hayum boigahs. And he doesn’t really fit the younger woman either, because that would make him an ugly old troll and a lustful letch. Besides, it’s a little bit of a creepy slant, except you know how older men only date younger women these days. As if it‘s going to go ‘in‘.

No, I just couldn’t see him with the younger one. Could you? His face was too pasty-white. Ghostly really. Translucent. Looks like he works in an office on the phone making cold calls, and his wife is home with the kids. He announces loudly, his dog just died. Okay, so one of his kids is sick and we know the dog’s dead. I can picture his wife and feel sorry for her. She’s probably ugly, stuck with kids and a dead dog and him.

Maybe there’s a cat. Yes, if I think hard enough, there might be a cat. An old fat one and the cat food is all over the floor in their kitchen and the baby gets into it. The husband is disgusted with going home to that mess and his wife is a pig, so he’s out with this new honey and thinks that he’s so hot and she’s so hot.

Kids like to eat cat food, right?

So they sit down and the guy started to share with everyone in the proximity of his loud and obnoxious voice, the complete and utterly-disgusting story of his dog's death including all gruesome details about how, 'Sport' held on to the bitter end: cancer infested, blind, deaf and flea ridden. The other guests at his table looked horrified, so I glanced over at Tony and said in a not-so-hushed voice: Charming dinner conversation, don’t you think?

He doesn’t even care about the wife & kids. He’s going to go on about his dog: Rover or Sport or Butch or something equally as vulgar. I hate it when people have crappy names for their pets like a cat named Cat or a dog named Spot or Boils or ‘Here boy’ or some stupid name like that. I actually met someone who named their dog: here boy.

Wow. Talk about stupid. You’ve never heard of anything so stupid, have you?

He goes on to tell them bit by driveling bit, how his old, decrepit, dilapidated tick and flea infested dog died. All the way to the bitter and twisted ending.

You should have seen the shock & horror on pins-nez & young thing’s face. I think both of them wetted up a bit. One held a napkin over her face, probably to keep from throwing up.

Well, I can tell you that if he was interested in seeing young missy as a possible dating partner, that story put him right out of the proverbial ball park and in the arena of unsuccessful and uninteresting bachelors who hit on women with stupid lines that really piss them off. I swear, straight men really have dating issues.

Although, he was probably married and took his wedding ring off
so nobody would know. If I really cared about them, I would have warned her. He’s not for you. After a few months and a new puppy, you’ll have incurable headaches for days on end and you‘ll actually cry when you think of him putting his lips all over your neck in that kissy-faced way that he does.

Oh, and if you’re ever in Newport? Don’t ask anybody where to fuckin’ park because nobody cares where you park until you do and get a ticket. Don’t call the police station to inquire because they really don’t give a shit and God forbid you should call the office of tourism or Visitor's Bureau because you will get the answering machine of someone named,


Who the hell has a name like Evelyn in this day and age anyway? Really… she must be a hundred and four. I got her voice mail and hated her before I even got to talk to her. I left a message as if she was ever going to return my call. She never did. Whore.

So, I just hung up on:


And then I thought to myself: gee, thanks a whole shit-load Evelyn.

I’m glad they picked you for the Tourism & Information lady because you’re probably eating your crummy peanut butter on white bread sandwich on your ten-minute lunch break while talking on the phone to one of your ugly girlfriends. I bet you pick your toes while you eat that sandwich, don’t you, Evelyn?

I know your type, Evelyn. I bet you’re fat and ugly and have had that job for fifty three years and you think you own the whole city.
So if you’re reading this, Evelyn?
You really you need to grow up and get a life. Quit that crummy job because you’re no good at it anyway.

Maybe I’ll just send her a post card, “Having a lovely time, wish you were here”.

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