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Come To The TGIFriday's Old Chum...
Written on 2002-07-12, at 9:46 p.m.

dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

1 Chik-Fil-A Chicken Biscuit 

1 Order Hash Browns

1 Large Sweet Tea

1 Small Bag Chips Ahoy! Minis

1 16oz. Coke

1 Bacon Cheddar BBQ Burger

1 Oreo Madness


John Live*

*Not at all live...


Before I continue with this entry, I'd just like to address something...

To whoever it is that feels it's their place to go running to people I mention in this diary, eager to show them anything they'll think will stir up trouble, guess what?

It's not at all.

I know that this isn't an epidemic problem, but whoever just couldn't wait to show Dan what I wrote in the previous entry, you know who you are.

And I have this to say.

Piss off, you halfwit.

There.

Oh, and I'm sure you're very, very ugly as well.

Eh, just needed something childish as a closer.


Tonight was quite possibly one of the most interesting dinners I've had in a long time.

Cesar and I went out to TGIFriday's tonight for a quick bite to eat.

I actually wasn't very hungry, but Cesar came over, laid across my couch, and put on a starvation scene that would have forced Gandhi into Sizzler's $6.99 buffet.

We entered the lobby, in the only way that two gay men can enter a room, conscious or not...gliding in with an air of ennui, unconcerned with anyone but ourselves.

That is, until Tammy Faye popped up to seat us.

The hostess had more make-up on than I've ever seen in my life. 

Her face and her neck were two altogether different colors, lips protruding in an orgy of unnatural shades, and deep, black eyeliner which answered the question as to why she had an overly amorous raccoon offering her two-for-one white wine spritzers at the bar.

Have you seen that episode of "The Simpsons" where Homer is trying to invent something, and he makes the "Make-Up Shotgun"...'for the lady on the go...'?

Well, it looked like she used that.

Improperly.

As we were led to our seats by this walking Kandinsky original, I couldn't help but notice that we were traveling quite a distance.

Past one section...

Past another...

Past yet another...

Until we came upon a small wing of the restaurant that I didn't even know existed, though I had been going to this very Friday's for years now.

Entering this area, we notice a tall, effeminate boy assisting the two other patrons in this desolate outparcel of the main restaurant.

"Oh, they wanted to put us with the mo." Cesar says.

"Mo" is Cesar's term for gay people.

Gay men, to be precise.

"Mo" is short for "homo", which is short for "homosexual".

Were it to be abbreviated again, the term would simply be the sound of a small burst of air passing through one's clenched teeth.

Taking our seats, we bid goodbye to the walking canvas, and the small but faithful team of Sherpas who assisted us in our trek to this, the uncharted four-top of TGIFriday's, Kirkman Road.

Picking up our menus, we see that the good folks at Friday's have decided, yet again, that their menu needs the old "once over", and have added and taken away things without any discretion to their customer or the laws of God himself.

Albacore Tuna Salad Sandwich?

And the Holy Virgin wept...

Being able to put the food issue aside, we prepare to engage in conversation when we're approached by not our youthful gay waiter, but by an addlepated woman named Kory.

Except it's Kory with two R's, a C, and an I-E.

Corrie.

Isn't that what they use in Indian cooking?

She stumbles through our drink order...having to only ask me twice to remind her that I wanted water, and as she walks away, Cesar turns to me and says...

"Dude, we were just like, totally Rosa Parks-ed."

Delighted in his ability to turn a figurehead of the civil rights movement into a transitive verb, I nodded in sullen agreement.

Cesar's main goal of our dinner tonight was to get chips and salsa.

Which he did.

As he's devouring the bowl of fried flour in front of us, we fall into deep conversation.

At one point, we discuss the predicament that Cesar has found himself in, which is that of a boyfriend by default.

You know, someone who you just don't have the energy to get rid of, and before you know it, they're calling you "the boyfriend."

"How in the world did I just get a boyfriend?" he asks me.

"Well, you kept a trick around too long." I reply.

This nugget of wisdom and more, available soon in John's new book, "Better Living Through Crippling Bitterness."

As we stare at each other, pondering this, our server comes by, and makes a grab for the bowl of chips and salsa, which she had apparently decided we were through with.

Without missing a beat, Cesar slams his left hand down next to the bowl, and with his right hand brandishes his serrated steak knife at the now terrified woman.

There is a tense second before he realizes that he is not, in fact, in a scene from "Goodfellas", and plays the attempted amateur amputation off with a jocular laugh. 

"Wow," I said. "You just pulled a knife on our waitress."

"Sure did..." he replies. "Sure did."

Our entrees finally come, and we sit, talking more about the various nuances of the gay lifestyle in Orlando.

This is going well, as far as deep conversations go, and we make slow, deliberate movements with our eating to emphasize the point that we can be epicurean and philosophical, even at a kitschy chain restaurant.

That is, until Cesar attempts the classic "I don't need to look at my glass to take a drink" move, and ends up using his Diet Coke as a handwash.

After that, it was fairly difficult to keep up the facade of class, so we dropped it, and merely giggled about subjects like tucking ones genitals between one's legs.

Until, of course...Liza Minnelli walked in.

"Holy Shit!" I said, preparing to prostrate myself before her feet.

"These are all tables," she says to the hostess. "Where are the booths? We want BOOTHS!"

Milliseconds later, I realize that this woman is not, in fact, Liza Minnelli, but a Northern tourist who bears the most eerie resemblance to current day Liza that I've ever seen.

As the hostess leads her out to a booth, I look at Cesar, and know that the same thoughts had just gone through his gay little mind as they had mine.

For dessert, we order an Oreo Madness, on my coaxing.

Two bites in, and Cesar remembers that he doesn't like it at all, so I'm left to eat as much as possible, so that it doesn't go to waste.

Not one to pass up sugar, I forego the spoon, and start wiping up caramel and hot fudge with my index finder, then sucking it clean.

I'm finishing up probably my fourth swipe-and-suck when I look up, and across the room to see one half of an older gay couple staring at me intently, eyes locked on the confectionary finger, his expression giving away the thoughts in his dirty little mind.

You know, I just don't care for Oreo Madness anymore.

Be well...

-JOHN-


Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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