Saturday Manifesto

Saturday was quite a ride. The lawn tractor had a flat when I tried to mow, so I hobbled it down to the carport and plugged in the air compressor. I couldn't find the tire chuck, so I searched everywhere it might be and a few places where it should never end up. I called to borrow one from my bro, but I found myself at Sutherland's where I just purchased a new one. By the time the mower had four full tires, it was 80+ degrees. I sweated a gallon, but the yard looks good. I got rehydrated and tried to get dinner reservations at Pot Pie. Ha ha ha no. That place is booked solid on weekends. So, I picked up Adam and we ate at Cupini's. There's a new one at 12th & Walnut. Then to the Grand Emporium for the Meat Beat Manifesto show. As for electronic music shows, if Orbital is a 9, MBM is purdy near a 10. Technical genius.  Live instruments and video mixing, included. Adam's classical ears couldn't handle the whole show, but Tricia had joined us, so she and I danced til the end. During the drive to the afterparty, Tricia remembered she had left a tab open, so we went back and I got a CD, a sticker, and a t-shirt.  Subsequently, we ended up at Tootsie's instead of Balanca's where we danced our badonks off.  The freakshow was on the dancefloor. . . and in the bathrooms, and the sidewalk, and the back seat of my car bumming a ride back to Westport.  Once everyone was dropped off and we were near Tricia's car, she remembered. . . her. . . tab.  Back to Tootsie's at 3:30am.  It's locked.  Luckily, the security dude in the parking lot across the street saw our dilemma and got someone's attention inside.  Hunger struck and we grabbed breakfast at Town Topic.  There were some big call-in orders and it was SRO.  Every inch of the grill was in use and there was a 45 minute wait, during which we sang into knife and fork microphones whatever was playing on the jukebox.  At one point the whole place was singing along, until the cook got surly.  I traded food notes with a very savvy Italian fellow between Sinatra numbers.  Is the Chicken Samantha really better at Carmen's than Salvatore's?  No way.