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: Hip with wrinkles 2
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Feb 4th 2008
(Sorry. Character length violation)
His voice and the sight bread enveloped cooked cow in my foreground jogged a memory. About a year and half ago I worked in a steak house. Many celebrities dined there. Many enjoyed their evenings at my service. I have great success with celebrities because generally I just don't care. They honestly get the same service as anyone I serve. Sometimes worse if they are cunty.
This night we had a celebrity I cared about destined to be served by someone else. Roger Daltry sat with four guests at a booth against the wall full of photographs of our celebrity diners. I had no reason to attend to him except when fate put me beside the kitchen when his food was up.
Roger sat third in and I place his petit filet before him. He stared at it above the tiny, tinted, square lenses of his glasses.
"This isn't mine."
"I'm sorry. You didn't order the petit filet?"
"Yeah. I did. The small one."
"That!?! That's 8 oz?"
"It's enormous. Really...that's an American 8 oz. That's why this country's so fat, you see? They think this is 8 oz. It's ridiculous. And blah. blah, blah. Lovely. Blah, blah, blah."
I felt saddened. Not for America. But for rock n' roll. Sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. I wanted to grab him, shake him, and damn him for selling every song I liked to a Bruckheimer production.
But, I let it go. Sometimes you just have to let it go just to leave some conceptions of cool intact. It wasn't Keith Richards complaining about portion sizes, after all. <em>Who's Next</em> was a long time ago. The Daltry who could eat his share of cow probably went with that album.
I save my fries. Burgers then fries. That's the proper order. You may dabble in fries during burger, but most of the fries must be left once the burger ends. Over fries I considered integrity. Would it be better to die Roger Daltry or hip with wrinkles?
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