Recently at a vegan restaurant, with surprisingly (to me) delicious dishes, a friend, Don, invited me to a dinner prepared by his girlfriend of three months for whom he had become a strict vegan and yoga devotee. He, and his sunken cheeks, proclaimed a loss of 30 pounds.
On arrival I found four guests discussing celibacy politics (note, no comma) and the efficacy of vegan life on menstrual cycles. Incapable of commenting on either topic, I offered a toothy smile and girded my loins for what omened to be a long evening.
The buffet table’s colorful array looked dry and reeking of health-filled nutriments. The loved one asked us to forebear as she was still learning to cook for “my Donky” (No, I will not comment). Her recipes were from her guru’s wife and featured highly spiced rice, quinoa (?) and tofu featuring veggies from the guru’s farm; all reportedly coddled with “nature’s fertilizer.” I dared not inquire further.
The dressing drizzled on my lettuce wedge was of honey, flax oil and cayenne pepper; a tear-inducing mix of matchless horror. When called to comment, my choked “There are no words” seemed to satisfy. Second helpings went unrequested, thus confirming my suspicion the guru’s wife would not soon be opening a restaurant.
The “fruit fantasy” cake somehow held its form, possibly with chalk. A cacophony of coughing ensued, but went stoically unacknowledged. I left with a clearer understanding of Don’s weight loss.
The next day there were no ill effects save for a colossal eruption of foul and fetid farts which may have been due to the three-day old pizza and tube of raw cookie dough I scarfed down once I got home.
All-Star Game
The recent All-Star Game refreshed memories of schooldays when my athletic ineptitude regularly got me assigned to the outfield. There I prayed with all the fervor of Theresa of Avila that nothing would come my way. When it did, I made a show of valiantly attempting to catch it, but was careful not to. Hey, they never wasted a glove on me and that speeding bullet hurt. After picking the damn thing up, my pitiful throw to someone, anyone, invariably produced groans and laughter. Fun years.
As there was no way to escape the recent flood of All-Star promotions, I had no choice but to pay attention to some of the photos of the stars. After careful examination of the players and pondering the size of their bats, I decided to give the game a look-see.
As a Mainiac, there was the added thrill of seeing several guys from the Red Sox, the only team worthy of mention. Truth to tell, however, it was the Kansas City Royals who dominated, especially when teammates Hosmer and Perez hit home runs in the same inning. For the non-sports minded, that’s very good.
Petco Park looked beautiful and the whole event was sensational. I am glad I decided to butch it up and watch (most of it – Jeopardy was on). For the 40,000 fans, the main fun came later when they hit the Gaslamp. The American supporters drank and partied to celebrate and the National fans drank and partied to forget.
It was wonderfully non-violent and acknowledged as a success by all concerned. The bars, restaurants and hotels are hoping the game will be played here again. I do too; hunky sports men and women are always welcomed in my Hillcrest neighborhood.
