Hamburgers are for the masses. Most decidedly, I am not a mass.
An ass? Maybe. A mass? Never.
Fact is, it takes a blow-your-dick into-outer-space-great-fucking-hamburger to crowbar me away from my fancy French food and snooty red wine to try out, let alone be so hammerhead and eyes watering impressed with the experience as to write a review about a food joint where the standard fare is burgers and fries, doused with milk shakes and tap beer, where the waitress forgets my iced tea but still calls me “darlin.”
I just spent the whole last week in Fargo, North Dakota.
One wouldn’t expect Fargo to make too many lists of “favorite places to visit.” It’s not what you would call a Travel and Leisure cover story. But the more times I’ve been here and hung out with the locals, with each visit I’ve increasingly looked forward to returning here again sometime soon, and this last trip was no exception. Just don’t book my ticket to North Dakota in mid-February, when it’s been known to get down to 40-degrees below zero in these parts.
If you like your public beaches, then thank socialism.
Were it not for governments having the foresight to acquire, develop, and maintain these common recreational areas, public beaches would cease to exist. The most desirous properties, such as sandy oceanfronts concentrated around urban areas, would be gobbled up by land developers and privatized. Then, beaches would end up much like golf courses. The nicest beaches would become exclusive playgrounds for the rich. And the rest of us working-class people would end up with limited access to far less-desirous areas, forced to pay entry fees just to enjoy the natural beauty of the ocean.
Thank goodness for socialism.
It’s 10:15 on a Saturday night, and I can’t find a parking space. Anywhere.
My restaurant of choice closes in exactly 15 minutes. I haven’t eaten all day. I’m starving. I want Thai food. Problem is, there’s no place to park my rental car within a quarter mile in any direction. Suddenly, I seem to get lucky.
There’s a spot! It’s empty!
Wait, not so fast.
It’s a handicapped space. Shit!
Hmm, let me think about this situation for a moment. Hey, I don’t see any handicapped people around. I mean, it’s not like someone in a wheelchair is going to show up at this late hour, right?
What should I do? What would you do?
With poker commentator Dave Tuchman on our fast boat to nowhere, out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
My morning began with a mouthful of ants.
By mid-afternoon, on a fast boat to nowhere out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, I rescued a dead fish.
Ten hours, one bottle of cheap wine, and a dozen overpriced cocktails later, by 2 am, I was pacing the sidewalk out in front of a downtown art gallery like a vagrant, screaming profanities through a plate-glass window at shitty paintings being sold at mind-numbing prices.
None of which has to do anything to do with poker, of course.
Just another day on location at “Poker Night in America,” this week in Florida.