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A Restaurant Review, the Ideal Male Strip Club, and the Bittersweet Agony of Growth


On the advice of Yelp and Urban Spoon, B and I tried out the Zenzero Bakery today.  Overall, I’d say it was good.  I had half a turkey panini and a salad, and it was one of the better turkey sandwiches I’ve had.  B had the roast beef and said it was okay. The chips were tasty.  However, the coffee was godawful.  I say that, and I’ll drink just about any coffee.  This coffee was disgusting.

B and I agreed that Zenzero felt a little like Austin.  It’s that place in town (and every town has one) where you can be assured of service by only the grandest representatives of the current decade’s most definitive subculture.  So, if you’d eaten there in the 80s, a Goth creature would have served you.  In the 90s, Kurt Cobain’s Grunge doppleganger would have served you.  In the 00s–we couldn’t figure out what subculture the 00s had–but for the 10s, you’ll be greeted by friendly, professional Hipsters.

The place is overpriced, but it is cozy and nice, and my sandwich was REALLY good, and I’d like to get Thor’s opinion of the cupcakes.  I’d go back, but not for coffee.

***************

Somehow, B and I got on the topic of strip clubs.  I maintain that they just aren’t the cleanest places around, and I don’t want to go sit anywhere that it is likely someone just had a fun time with himself, you know?  But I realize when people go to strip clubs, hygiene isn’t what they have on their minds.

I also don’t get the point of male strip clubs because there is absolutely nothing appealing to me about the Banana Hammock.  There is also nothing appealing to me about oiled up men, wearing banana hammocks and work boots, gyrating and pumping their hips. That just looks…kind of dumb.  But, in talking about it, I think I have struck upon the perfect kind of strip club for ladies.

You get men who look like Djimon Hounsou, David Beckham, or any other Calvin Klein underwear model ever, and have them in various states of dress scattered throughout a wine bar/restaurant, where women could walk by and admire them, you’d have something.  Then, it’s less a sausage fest of campy grossness and more an art exhibit of gloriousness.  To  make it extra nice, you could pay these guys to sit down and talk to you for 30 minutes, while looking you in the eye, holding your hand and pretending to be interested in what you have to say–the female equivalent of a man getting a lap dance.

I still wouldn’t go because I would feel creepy about staring at people in their underwear while other people watched me stare, but I wouldn’t laugh at anyone else for going.

********************

I took Thor to a movie last week, and we wandered down to a kiddieland after we saw it.  He started to run in, but I halted him so he could read the sign that said only people 42″ or shorter could play there.  This look crossed his face and it was equal parts agony and delight.  He is now 47″ tall.  He was too tall to play there.  He was too tall to play there!!

He took it in stride, disappointed until I offered to take him to the park instead.  As we headed to the park he said, “Yeah, and I bet I could rule that place!  If only I weren’t too tall.”

 

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Author:

Happy. That about covers it.

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