As a family we collectively have the attention span of most rodents. My father and I are the worst offenders in this. When either of us hears a long sentence we take in keywords only. It makes sentences containing "Do not..." difficult. So when a receptionist at a hotel in Austria mentions "dinner" and "Mozart" we miss the part where she says "fancy dinner with entertainment like that of of the era of Mozart".
I cannot handle fancy. Fancy to me is like jizz to an octopus, completely out of place and somehow wrong in any situation. Whenever I can avoid wearing a something uncomfortable and "nice", I will. I've gone to weddings in sweatpants because deep inside I fear that if I wear pants with creases, my legs might dissolve.
The biggest travesty against sense is the concept of a fancy dinners. Why complicate dinners? Who needs al those extra forks? What the fuck are the extra forks for? And what's the deal with utensils made of valuable metals? To me, the only real dinner is something you can eat with your hands, preferably out of a bucket or cardboard box.
Now imagine my surprise when, expecting a modest musical dinner, I walk into a room literally fancier (and probably more expensive) than my entire house. My first reaction to the fanciness is to take the complimentary fan provided by the restaurant, hold it onto my forehead, and proclaim myself as King of the Mohicans. My father, who suffers from similar ailments in the face of class, took a photo, much to the horrified shock of the American family seated next to us.
Let me take a moment to talk about this family of Americans. It was a guy, his wife and their three teenage-young adult daughters. The man and the three daughters were all obese, with the man especially requiring a special new classification of obese which I would call "Over 9000". He was the kind of obese where you wonder if he has an IV drip of nacho cheese hooked up to him while he sleeps. His wife on the other hand was the kind of thin that makes you wonder if she eats her food, or merely stares at it as it shrivels while she gains nutrition. I swear I don't even know how she fucked the man. I mean biologically. How was she not crushed or assimilated into him? How did he and his daughters refrain from eating her? I'll never know. Soon after my eyes finally captured the entirety of the Americans the lights were dimmed and six musicians walked on stage and started playing their instruments. Instantly I thought: "hmmm, I don't recognize this one. Besides, isn't six dudes too little for Mozart?" Then I heard the screaming.
Initially I thought it was a waiter who'd dropped hot coffee on an old woman but I was sadly wrong. It was opera. There were two of them. A young man trying to catch his big break in opera (not realizing that he was about 80 years too late) and his mother who'd joined in for the fun of reliving her youth. My analysis of the events that followed is: an elderly woman is screeching into the ear of a very unlucky young man. This young man seems to have taken a single acting class in his life, within which the teacher told him "the eyes are the window into the soul" which he took to mean "I should use my eyebrows to their fullest extent". The end result appears to be a man's mother screaming into his ear and short-wiring his brain.
After about an hour of this, the first course came in. It was good but we'd had better and we'd had it without a man's mother dressed up in a silly costume pretending to be his girlfriend in Italian, communicated at a volume usually associated with fire alarms (and with the same pitch). Fortunately, as far as we knew, we were done with the howling. The food had come, we'd eat it then we'd get more food until the end of this very loud nightmare. We were wrong, very wrong. Right after we finished the singers had a second round. They took a chunk of a completely different opera where the dude's mother didn't want to fuck him (in stark contrast with the first) but instead wanted to fuck other, rather old, dudes (quite understandably). I zoned out and woke up an hour later to clapping. Not for the singers, for the food. Seeing as my father had apparently enjoyed this foray into culture I resigned myself to another hour of misery until I heard him say "Hey kid, let's bounce".
We asked for the bill and got looks from the waiters that are usually saved for murderers and people who torture puppies. When the bill arrived arrived we got even nastier looks from the Americans. The women anyway. The man was looking at us like "Please! Please take me with you! I'll do anything! I'll suck your dicks just please get me the fuck away from here". We paid and left, catching stares of either snobbish hatred or envy all the way through. It was the happiest I have ever been at the idea leaving food. We ended up walking around and listening to street music, it was way better in any case.
I cannot handle fancy. Fancy to me is like jizz to an octopus, completely out of place and somehow wrong in any situation. Whenever I can avoid wearing a something uncomfortable and "nice", I will. I've gone to weddings in sweatpants because deep inside I fear that if I wear pants with creases, my legs might dissolve.
 |
| EYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHH |
Now imagine my surprise when, expecting a modest musical dinner, I walk into a room literally fancier (and probably more expensive) than my entire house. My first reaction to the fanciness is to take the complimentary fan provided by the restaurant, hold it onto my forehead, and proclaim myself as King of the Mohicans. My father, who suffers from similar ailments in the face of class, took a photo, much to the horrified shock of the American family seated next to us.
Let me take a moment to talk about this family of Americans. It was a guy, his wife and their three teenage-young adult daughters. The man and the three daughters were all obese, with the man especially requiring a special new classification of obese which I would call "Over 9000". He was the kind of obese where you wonder if he has an IV drip of nacho cheese hooked up to him while he sleeps. His wife on the other hand was the kind of thin that makes you wonder if she eats her food, or merely stares at it as it shrivels while she gains nutrition. I swear I don't even know how she fucked the man. I mean biologically. How was she not crushed or assimilated into him? How did he and his daughters refrain from eating her? I'll never know. Soon after my eyes finally captured the entirety of the Americans the lights were dimmed and six musicians walked on stage and started playing their instruments. Instantly I thought: "hmmm, I don't recognize this one. Besides, isn't six dudes too little for Mozart?" Then I heard the screaming.
Initially I thought it was a waiter who'd dropped hot coffee on an old woman but I was sadly wrong. It was opera. There were two of them. A young man trying to catch his big break in opera (not realizing that he was about 80 years too late) and his mother who'd joined in for the fun of reliving her youth. My analysis of the events that followed is: an elderly woman is screeching into the ear of a very unlucky young man. This young man seems to have taken a single acting class in his life, within which the teacher told him "the eyes are the window into the soul" which he took to mean "I should use my eyebrows to their fullest extent". The end result appears to be a man's mother screaming into his ear and short-wiring his brain.
After about an hour of this, the first course came in. It was good but we'd had better and we'd had it without a man's mother dressed up in a silly costume pretending to be his girlfriend in Italian, communicated at a volume usually associated with fire alarms (and with the same pitch). Fortunately, as far as we knew, we were done with the howling. The food had come, we'd eat it then we'd get more food until the end of this very loud nightmare. We were wrong, very wrong. Right after we finished the singers had a second round. They took a chunk of a completely different opera where the dude's mother didn't want to fuck him (in stark contrast with the first) but instead wanted to fuck other, rather old, dudes (quite understandably). I zoned out and woke up an hour later to clapping. Not for the singers, for the food. Seeing as my father had apparently enjoyed this foray into culture I resigned myself to another hour of misery until I heard him say "Hey kid, let's bounce".
We asked for the bill and got looks from the waiters that are usually saved for murderers and people who torture puppies. When the bill arrived arrived we got even nastier looks from the Americans. The women anyway. The man was looking at us like "Please! Please take me with you! I'll do anything! I'll suck your dicks just please get me the fuck away from here". We paid and left, catching stares of either snobbish hatred or envy all the way through. It was the happiest I have ever been at the idea leaving food. We ended up walking around and listening to street music, it was way better in any case.
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