Saturday, January 14, 2017

Mr. ALOHA





As I sit here in frozen Flusherville, Ontario, typing away on the VIC-20 keyboard that Jimmy Poon gave me to use, I've been reflecting on a number of things about 2016.

Jimmy Poon believes in something called 'side-cycling'. The definition of sidecycling, as far as I can figure it, means either some old piece of shit technology -or- some new, but of dubious origin knock-off piece of shit technology - and foisting it off on me.

Foisting should be a crime - but it isn't. I'm starting an organization, currently un-named, because every fancy six letter acronym that spells a cute word - like J.U.I.C.E.S for the Junior Underachieving Ignorant Crook Equestrians and Secretariats club - was taken.

Every single one.

"Foisting. You don't have to take it."

That's my new anti-foisting slogan.



Anyway, the VIC-20 is working okay I guess, except that it randomly shows a 40 character wide 8 color video game from 1981.

So yeah, 2016. Four trips? I guess? I got my ass kicked on almost every one of them. They were all losers, but the $1000 trip was minimally expensive. I did not get a Royal in Vegas. I was sick on 2 of the 4 trips.

Suckitude.

However. You know me. I'm Mr. Upbeat. I always make the best of every situation, and never complain about shit.

Anyway, I've also been thinking about ALOHA man, and the fact that he didn't get the coverage he deserved in the last trip report.

So let's travel back, back, back in time to the night I ate solo at the California Noodle House.

Not the ALOHA man. Either of them. But anchored in 1977, like my sense of humor.

Let's set the scene. I was really looking forward to a nice, quiet meal during which I could spelunk the new Noodle House menu for various consumables.

The gorgeous hostess greeted me, and I asked for a solo table, and not the Single Lonely Diner table next to the ice crusher and the garbage bins.

She pretended like it would be very difficult - very difficult indeed - to fulfil my request at this unexpected juncture. Didn't I know that they were busy, busy, busy and popular, popular, popular???

As though she was doing me an incredible favor, she said, just above her perky breasts, "blah blah blah this way".

Well, don't blame me, it wasn't as if I got to learn about her hobbies like scrap-booking boy band pictures, and smoking weed in her brothers four foot bong. Since I wasn't given that sort of information, I focused on what was in front of me.

I was seated on the west wall of the establishment, a large nook which contained four tables, deuces in restaurant lingo. Tables for two people.

My deuce was to be the one second from the end. (I want to say that there was a cup on the table and that she explained that that was my Little Deuce Cup...  but goddamn it, that would just be too perfectly fey, now, wouldn't it. So, no, that didn't happen.)

I sat on the padded bench seat which ran the width of the nook, so that I could look out upon the Californial Noodle House, and the various activities, and keep an eye on the gorgeous hostess, if needs must. Because someone had to.

Before long, I'd ordered a large Maker's Mark on the rocks, some Potstickers,some  (to be disappointing) Hot and Sour Soup, and some Short Ribs a la Capital Letters. And I was looking to a relaxed, yummy, exotic dining experience.

Just after my potstickers arrived, the gorgeous hostesses perky breasts brought over another diner.

This guy was in fairly rough shape. He had a claw-foot cane, and did not walk well at all. He was dressed, roughly, for the kind of beach you might wake up still drunk on a Monday morning on, stinking of Sterno. He was had a red, bald, peeling scalp, and wore a huge, fluffy, white beard - he looked like a rubby-dub Santa Claus.

He looked at me and said, "Aloha."

Only, it wasn't really like that. It was just 1 dB short of a full-on shout. Like this: "ALOHA!!!".

I looked up, moving my eyeballs, but not my head.

"aloha"

"ALOHA!!!" he shouted, waggling the 'stay loose' hand signal at me.

OK, I thought, it was the Cal, which caters to Hawaiians.

Mr. Aloha shuffled between our tables, his skanky short-short encased butt swinging wayyyy too many inches over my table top - hell, just millimeters from my pot stickers, which I swiftly moved to safety.  As he swung over to sit, I had to careen left, to avoid getting a skanky butt cheek in the head.

Fuck me.

Mr. Aloha settled in, was given a menu and such.

Mr. Aloha had a bad leg.

Mr. Aloha had a leg that looked like pork crackling, about half-way done, and swollen up like an over-inflated yellow football.

Now, I am not one to make fun of the disabled. I am not one to disparage the disabled. I think it is very likely that I shall be one of the disabled before long. Clearly, Mr. Aloha had issues.

But just as I would not make fun of someone with festering flesh-eating bacteria running up and down their leg like chaser lights, I would not want to actually watch the flesh-eating bacteria consuming the flesh off said leg.

Particularly when I'm eating.

And Mr. Aloha's leg was nicely stretched out, fully extended, in the space between our tables. And at the end of the Aloha leg was the crustiest, funkiest, yellow, crud-encased, rotting, cracked fungus ridden, dirty, stinking toenails you've ever seen.

I looked at my plate.

There was a half a pot sticker on there. A bit wrinkled, and showing it's stuffing. With shaking hand, I forked it, and dipped it in the ginger-soy sauce they gave me.

Someone came and gave the diner to my right a menu.

"ALOHA!"

I shifted my eyes 7 millimeters to the right from the ginger-soy dipping sauce tray, and saw the Cadaver Foot of Mr. ALOHA.

If I had no perception of dimensions, that rotting carcass of a foot would be right beside my pot sticker dipping sauce tray and large Maker's Mark. I couldn't not look at it.

I wanted to yell, "WHY DOES GOD HATE ME", but instead, I shoveled half a potsticker into my maw.

Someone poured water at the table to my right.

"ALOHA!!!!!!!" I heard Mr. ALOHA scream.

My hot and sour soup arrived, and I swore it was full of fungus and toenails. I broke out in a cold sweat as I tried not to look at THE FOOT.

"ALOHA!!! IT'S MY FIRST TIME BACK SINCE 1903. WHERE DO YOU HAIL FROM???" said Mr. ALOHA in his eardrum-busting fashion.

Oh shit. Two single diners. Sitting side by side. Not four feet apart. And one of them, the obnoxious one with the death toenails had decided that we should be 'chatty'.

I had NO interest in being any kind of chatty. I fashioned the perfect response.

"Here and there."

I didn't look up. I didn't smile. I just kept shoveling glutenous potstickers into my face. Absentmindedly I picked up the dipping sauce and drank it.

Then I pretended to have a coughing fit, attempting to mimic tuberculosis.

I tried my soup - it sucked. Not enough vinegar, not enough white pepper, not enough sugar (not that it needs much) - just flat, no flavor.

Some food arrived at Mr. ALOHA's table.

"ALOHA!!!" he exclaimed as the server dropped some food down.

My short ribs arrived, and of course, that would be a good time for Mr. ALOHA Skanky Claus to impose his short-short encrusted slime-ass into my airspace. Because Mr. ALOHA needed the Men's room AND NOW.

I could have cried. I could have stabbed the ass cheek three inches from my face with a fork.

Mr. ALOHA shuffled off. I made the most of the temporary visual peace and wolfed down as much food as I could.

Do I have to describe in exquisite detail all of the toenail fungus flying and 30 hour Mexican bus ride anal incursions that accompanied Mr. ALOHA's eventual return to his table, and my airspace?

I do not.

"ALOHA!!! WHAT'D YOU ORDER?"

"Food. Ribs."

I waited, unblinking, unmoving for a rejoinder from Mr. A, but thankfully, none came.

The short ribs were nothing short of amazing, and I made the most of them, steeling myself so as to not look at the rotting foot-skank just 3 degrees to my right.

Finally, dinner was done.

And, I felt a bit guilty about shunning Mr. ALOHA's attempts at friendliness.

Once I was safe from the danger of barfing into my water glass from the sight of his necrotized toesies, I addressed my dinner companion.

"Aloha."

His eyes lit up like a three-year-old's upon given a lint-covered piece of pocket-candy by a 'funny' uncle.

"ALOHA!!!! I HAVEN'T BEEN HERE IN A WHILE, SURE IS DIFFERENT!"

"I'm from Flusherville - you're from Hawaii?"

"PEOPLE CALL ME SANTA CLAUS FROM THE BEACH!"

He made the 'hang loose' sign again.

We chatted just long enough for me to feel the right amount of 'less guilt' from blowing him off and mentally disparaging the visual disgust of his stink-foot. (Can your rinse it off, do you suppose???)

I flashed my Gold Card and took care of the tip, and dressed down the waiter for the dismal hot and sour soup, arrogantly explaining just what he should tell the chef to fix it.

And with that, I got up to leave. You know what's next.

"Good luck. Aloha."

I covered my eardrums.

I made the 'hang loose' sign.


Postscript

Two days later, I happened to be walking by the keno lounge (all-new chairs!!!!) and who should I spy with his elephant man leg stretched out into the aisle but Mr. A.

Here was my chance.

I mustered up the biggest Flushersmile you've ever seen, flashed the hand sign, and shouted at him, "ALOHA!!!!!!!!!!!"

"ALOHAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"  he shouted back. "HANG LOOSE!!!!"

"Hang loose!"

I think I made his day.









4 comments:

  1. Good on ya, mate! As most of us forget all too often, but all need to be reminded of from time to time - "There but for the Grace of . . . (you know the rest!)

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  2. a note to me- people come to vegas to feel special because in their everyday life they are nobody special doing nothing special. so ya that special table makes your self esteem perk up a little then you think hey they notice me . how about if i flash some cash by dumping thousands of dollars into a machine . then theyll think im somebody in real life. theyll give me free food and rooms and talk to me in that special way because im important even though im not in real life. but hey in vegas they know how to make them feel special as they laugh at the idiots sitting in front of a machine pushing buttons and hoping they win. but they are the winners. we are still a loser. gamblers are losers and they know your nobody special as long as you sit there. The more you spend the bigger nobody you are. they pick your pockets and send you on your way with a smile and thankyou and a generous lets us screw you over again when they send you an offer in a few months. because they know you know your nobody and youll be back again to be noticed and lauded as they sip the sweet nectar of your hard work. So take a pic and post for yourself and save those offers to show your friends what a big nobody you are because thats all youll get from them and theyll be there like a hooker to whisper sweet nothings in your ear. and take your cash. ps. dont forget to bring your own snacks so you can give them more of your cash

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    Replies
    1. "In the eyes of money," Jimmy Poon whispered, "...we are all the same."

      I stopped dead. He was right. Money doesn't care about you. In Vegas, you are just money. But in the eyes of money... we are all the same.
      ---
      It's true. In Vegas the only arbiter of special is how much money you have. Once the money is gone, you're just another chump stuck in the middle seat of a bumpy ride home.

      http://www.royalflushervegas.com/2015/11/the-slick-slipper-strip-trick.html

      Delete
  3. Royal Flusher....where art thou??? It's been a long humorless spell! Are you OK? Hope you're just ardently scheming for your next trip

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