Sunday, February 20, 2011

Pain In The Ass(amundo)

For a while now my laptop has been misbehaving - I place the blame for that squarely on the N-Trig touch screen and its shitty drivers; it's not content to just not work itself, it has to keep other things from working as well - so I decided to do a clean install of Windows 7.
I'm actually going to be buying a diffeent tablet to replace it come bonus time, but I'd like to get it to work in the meantime, and given that it's not that old and, theoretically, at least, could be a decent laptop, I'm inclined to try to sell it. In order to do that with a moderately clear conscience, it would be good to know that it can actually be made to work.
(So far, so good, as I have avoided even attempting to install the N-Trig drivers)
As anyone who's ever done a reinstall knows, the post-install process involves downloading lots and lots of updates, which can take a lot of time - and which require a lot of reboots - even with a really fast Internet connection.
Sometime late yesterday afternoon I was standing around wating for the latest round of updates - that's the other thing: installing one update often necessitates installing an additional update - and, bored, I picked up the "Clipper Magazine" - a coupon book - that was sitting on my table.
I saw a coupon for a place called Johnny Rockets, which is a 1950s-themed diner. I've eaten there a few times, as there's one near a theater that Scott and I like.
I realized that it was probably a bad idea to go to a restaurant near a theater on a Saturday night, but I was hungry, nothing I had at home appealed to me, so I found myself considering going, even though it was against my better judgment.
Eventually I decided to give in, and so I put on some proper clothes (as opposed to my lazing about the house clothes). As I usually do when venturing out into the world, I'd spiked my hair in the morning when I'd ventured out to run my usual Saturday errands, but as the day wore on, the spikiness had abated ant it just kind of sad. So I wetted it and reshaped it a bit. Then I put on my Chuck Taylor's, and moved to grab my jacket. It was a very windy day - gusts up to 60 MPH - so I opted for my heavier, biker jacket, which is impervious to wind.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and realized that, with my slicked hair, tight black T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans, and "classic" Chuck Taylor's, I looked like some sort of sad "Fonzie" wannabe.
And I was going to a place with a 50s theme.
"You are," I said to myself, "fucking ridiculous. Why don't you roll up a pack of smokes in your shirt sleeve while you're at it?"
Still, I didn't feel like changing, and this wasn't about going out to be social. I was just hungry.
"Fuck it."
So I headed out - ignoring the voice in my head that kept asking me if I was going to start saying "Ayyyyyyyy!"and pointing out that I'm actually less cool than Potsy and Ralph - and, eventually - traffic was moving slowly because "ZOMG it's WINDY!" - I arrived. As is my wont, I just picked the first random parking space I could find, since I'd rather walk a long distance - even in the wind - than drive around obsessively looking for the perfect parking space.
I certainly wasn't going to try the parking garages located on either side of the theater, as I could see that they were pretty well packed, so it made sense to go the more sparingly-used parking lot.
This put me a fair distance away, but oh well.
In any case, I approached the restaurant and found that I should have heeded my instincts. The place was actually overflowing.

Also Me: Now what, Fonz?

I considered my options and remembered that there was this pizza place that was okayish nearby - the area is full of shops and restaurants - and decided to check that out.
Just as packed.
Even though I wasn't in the mood for Chinese, I checked that place out. No dice.
Ultimately, I only had two options that weren't filled to overflowing with families, teens, and young couples. One was California Tortilla, which, just, no.
The other was Subway.
On principle, I wasn't about to go to Subway, because if I'd wanted Subway I could have picked something up earlier in the day from the one right next to the comic shop, or I could have walked to the one near my house. I wasn't about to drive for 20 minutes and then walk the same distance to get Subway as I would have walked if I'd stayed in Leesburg.
Defeated, I kept walking and made my way to the Harris Teeter, thinking that maybe I could find some decent pre-made meal in their deli or something. I grabbed something that looked like it could be good (Note: It wasn't), then picked up a few other little things that I needed. All the while there was the piercing sound of a wailing baby who had been crying the whole time I was there. The sound actually seemed to get louder and more nerve-fraying the farther away I got from the baby.
Then I made the long trek back to my car, past giggling teens and happy families and couples enjoying their evening out, and I thought about how much of a hassle it had all been just to go out to get a quick bite to eat a restaurant, and how much more of a hassle it all had been when you consider that I didn't even manage to do that.

1 comment:

Merlin T Wizard said...

That's too bad. I was really looking forward to the Johnny Rockets story. Maybe the hassled manager would have assumed you worked there and yelled at you to start waiting tables, or maybe the crowds would assume you were some kind of mascot and expect a performance out of you. The setup was perfect.