I recently completed a multi-day road trip-- eight hours a day of driving on our nation's interstate system. On a turnpike (which costs $9 to travel across) I started to get hungry for lunch. The first service plaza was just a few miles ahead, and the roadside sign helpfully explained the plethora of dining options available: McDonald's, Sbarro, Panera Bread Company, and Manchu Wok. What a delightful selection, I thought. Five Stars. So then I think but I should wait for the next rest area, which is only 22 miles further ahead, cuz then I 'll be even hungrier, so then I can eat more. Maybe even visit two of the vendors. And even if I wouldn't have such a magical combination of cafeteria style pizza-and-pasta, a sourdough bread bowl of chicken noodle soup, Orange Chicken and Cashew Shrimp on Lo-Mein, coupled with a Filet-o-Fish, I am sure that this expensive turnpike's next rest area will be pretty much the same cornucopia, maybe like Burger King, Cosi, Panda Express. Totally reasonable, right?
Well how wrong I was. The next rest area had a Hardees and Cinnabon. THATS IT. What primitive at the turnpike commission gave out the concession contracts? What, does he like not drive this far down the highway?
Now, I’m not really sure what Hardees is. But dammit if I haven’t seen Cinnabon before. The outrageous profileration of this Cinnamon-Bun-As-Entree Racket across this great land of ours is just a crime, and now its gone too far.
Don’t get me wrong, I've had my share of cinnamon buns in my life, but usually around four at a time, at Christmas breakfast at my Grandma's house, shoved to the edge of a plate piled high with Sausage, Eggs, Bacon, and Potatoes. When and how was this concept of cinnamon buns as a proper meal foisted on our society? How does one make a meal out of little cinnamon buns?? Order them in half dozen batches? Is there really an expectation that this would constitute a satisfactory midday repast? Needless to say, I didn't even stop.
The silver lining/gooey frosting of this doughy, microwaved dark cloud was the third rest area, some 75 miles down the road, which was like Heaven's own food court, and I was so starved that I was able to pack in a bucket of chicken, a Big Mac, and a personal pan pizza.
In a regular mall setting, such snack choices as Auntie Annie's Pretzels can be a delicious option to relieve the exhaustion of shopping, situated appropriately as a minor star in a glimmering fast-food constellation that is any decent food court. But on the highway, where I've been driving for like 2 hours without eating? I'm starving, and I cannot believe that I am expected to see the Cinnabon experience in the same light as a Wendy's, Pizza Hut or KFC. What's next, a roadside lunch of Orange Julius? Jamba Juice?? Please tell me that someone isn’t thinking of launching a chain of Scone bistros across this nation’s roadside dining pavilions (and then not throwing us an Arby's bone to balance it out).
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
September Submission #1
My best friend tequila and I had a fight last night.
Either that or a pants burglar broke in and stole every article of
clothing below my waist.
What am I doing right Now? I'm surveying the damage wearing a
wrinkled blue dress shirt, Brooks Brothers tie, and not much else.
Look, there's a shoe.
Hello there Kitty. Are you enjoying the Chinese food that I purchased
from God knows where? Don't look at me like that -- you have every
right to be up on the kitchen counter. Right next to my belt and
underwear.
And you, Mr. Coffee machine. Your telltale filter with chopsticks in
the grounds explains that dreadful taste in my mouth.
Hmmm. Flashing lights on my cell phone. Do I dare check my outbound
call log? Not yet. In fact, let's shut that thing off. I learned
long ago that nobody worth talking to leaves a voicemail before five
o'clock.
Judging from the matchbooks and crinkled receipts, I was practically a
nomad last night. Golly, I wonder who "Debbie" is and why her phone
number is written on the back of my business card. Ditto that for
"Geoffrey".
Ah tequila, how I long for your sweet embrace.
Either that or a pants burglar broke in and stole every article of
clothing below my waist.
What am I doing right Now? I'm surveying the damage wearing a
wrinkled blue dress shirt, Brooks Brothers tie, and not much else.
Look, there's a shoe.
Hello there Kitty. Are you enjoying the Chinese food that I purchased
from God knows where? Don't look at me like that -- you have every
right to be up on the kitchen counter. Right next to my belt and
underwear.
And you, Mr. Coffee machine. Your telltale filter with chopsticks in
the grounds explains that dreadful taste in my mouth.
Hmmm. Flashing lights on my cell phone. Do I dare check my outbound
call log? Not yet. In fact, let's shut that thing off. I learned
long ago that nobody worth talking to leaves a voicemail before five
o'clock.
Judging from the matchbooks and crinkled receipts, I was practically a
nomad last night. Golly, I wonder who "Debbie" is and why her phone
number is written on the back of my business card. Ditto that for
"Geoffrey".
Ah tequila, how I long for your sweet embrace.
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