Hot Time in High Point

You know us, Babetteers. We are always on the prowl for adventure--and sometimes we find it. Because we couldn't call you all at 11:00 on Wednesday night, we give you the story of a food quest. Pretend we are on the other end of the receiver, scrambling to get the story just right. [My input is in italics.--Sam]

It began as a normal Wednesday night. Sam and I ate virtuous vegetable soup before heading over to Erin's apartment for a movie. When we got there, her dog, Brit, tried to knock us all over with her enthusiasm, as usual. As usual, Sam did everything she could to keep Brit in an excited state. Erin presented us with our movie for the night: Paris, Je t'aime, an independent film comprised of something like 20 five-minute vignettes on the theme of love in Paris by various directors. We sat down to watch.

...and fantasize about going to France, where all our wildest dreams can come true.. I was the only one in the room who hadn't made a trek to Europe, and I may have wondered aloud whether or not Paris has a distinct smell.

Now, that would be the end of a rather dull story, were it not for Sam's stomach. Well, all of our stomachs, really, but Sam's was the most vocal. About three-fourths of the way through the movie, around 9:30PM, Sam turned to Erin and told her that she wanted Mexican food. Taco Bell was rejected out of hand because, as Erin says, it's not Mexican food. So we called up Mi Pueblo, a local place that didn't close until 10PM. We placed our order and were told it would be ready in 10 minutes. Accordingly, 10 minutes later, we bundled up, braved the cold night and made our way over to Mi Pueblo.

When we got there, the doors were locked. We could see people inside cleaning up, but when we knocked on the windows, they started turning off lights. Thus, our odyssey for food began.

...and it was a perilous journey. You must understand how vulnerable we were as the night grew and colder and darker. Not one of us thought to bring a phone. Our grumbling stomachs made us forget about all the dangers inhabiting the darkness. Giant spiders. High Point muggers. Aliens. Other people...

We checked another Mexican restuarant. Closed. We realized that Applebee's and Ham's were the most likely to be open, as they are also bars. Erin suggested that we try Ham's. Unwittingly, we stumbled onto the place to be on a Wednesday night in High Point. Ham's, open until 2AM, was packed. We sat in the lobby for 5 minutes until someone noticed us enough to inform us that we could order take-out at the bar. And so, into the bar.

A man in a red shirt nodded at us, and Erin avoided eye contact. This was wise. We later saw the man slowly guiding a beer bottle across a woman's forehead. He was not her date. In fact, when her date arrived, she didn't really have an explanation for why Red Shirt was giving her a beer bath. A man sat at the bar with his laptop, and I figured nothing much could happen in a place where some guy can run numbers while noshing on French fries and gulping his beer.

We find a spot to squeeze in and order. A few minutes later, a guy pulls out a microphone in the corner of the room and polls the room as to whether they'd rather be able to listen to the Carolina game or start karoke night. Karoke wins out due to strong support from the table of drunk ladies in the front. But before we can partake of this particular delicious schedenfreude, another intrudes. Behind us, a fight breaks out.

Seriously.

A guy who looks sort of like this and a guy who looks kind of like this, only with a goatee and considerably less hot, go after each other in front of the pool tables, possibly over a girl. Karoke guy steps in to break it up. The DQ Qualls look-alike very carefully sets down his cell phone on the table before he is escorted out the front door by karaoke guy. The Kel Mitchell look-alike, however, he eludes capture and runs out the back.

Karaoke Guy was like, "Don't buck up at me, man!" The table of drunken ladies ready to belt out Celine Dion tunes followed the action to the parking lot. I heard one woman holler, "It wasn't his fault! That guy started it!"

Now, there must have been a pretty big brawl after that out in the parking lot, because when we finally get our food twenty minutes later, we walk out past people giving statements to the police in the lobby to find three police cars, two ambulances and a fire truck.

All we wanted was food.

...and don't you think this story needed giant spiders?

Everything I Need to Know in Life I Learned From...

Amy Winehouse's Back to Black

A recent heartbreak has led me to embrace the philosophy the 21st-century sage, Amy Winehouse.

1. You don't really want to drink again. You just need friends. In the absence of friends, you are obligated to trash hotel rooms (and possibly hotel workers) while trapped in a drunken haze.

2. It's all right to both cause and be "trouble," as long as you maintain self-awareness.

3. "Fuckery" is a word. In fact, it is the very best word and the only way to describe this business of "playing [yourself] out like that."

4. Guilt can kill you... if your new girlfriend doesn't first.

5. It isn't enough that he loves blow and you love Poe. When he goes back to her (that killer new girlfriend), you feel free to go back to black, which could be a state of emotional oblivion--or that drunken haze from before.

6. Even if love were solitaire, it would still be a losing game.

7. Be your own best friend. He may walk away and make the sun go down, but you're grown, and your tears dry on their own.

8. Not even sleep can cure that ache in your chest. Stay busy until sunset.

9. Ghostface Killah is willing to ride with you and talk about your mistakes--even though you're no good.

Thank you, Amy Winehouse. I think I will have another drink and work on my beehive...

Ransom Note

Dear Stephanie,

I'll begin by telling you it wouldn't be wise to involve the police in this matter. They will tell you they don't negotiate with criminals, and I can tell you I don't negotiate with the fuzz.

This is between you and me... and your December issue of Now Playing featuring Irene Dunne on the cover. If you do not comply with my demands, you will never see that elegant photograph of Dunne, and you will not read the insightful and loving article about her life and work.

I've been watching you. That DVD copy of "My Favorite Wife" has yet to make the return trip from your bedroom to our collection of movies. Dunne's bemused reaction to her husband's bigamy still prompts you to laugh out loud.

You made me watch "Theodora Goes Wild," meaning that you and I are the only people under the age of 50 who even know what a "Theodora" does when it goes wild. You purchased "Penny Serenade," even though it wasn't nearly as amusing as "My Favorite Wife," and you grinned whenever Irene Dunne appeared on the screen.

That's love, baby. And I mean to exploit it.

If you ever want to see your magazine again--and know what classics are playing on TCM in December--you must do the following:

1. Leave $1,000,000 in unmarked bills on my bed.

2. Secure--for me--a dinner date with a celebrity of my choice. Make sure said celebrity brings an engagement ring and a sensible pre-nuptial agreement to this dinner date.

3. Check the mailbox when I'm away on the weekend. (The neglect of our mailbox for two whole days is what got you into this mess!)

If you meet these demands, I might return your magazine. I'd hurry if I were you. Irene Dunne looks so lovely, I could just... cry... right onto the cover of your Now Playing.

You have 24 hours.

Love,

Kidnapper

On Notice! Part 3

Some people think the Hollywood writers' strike is an excuse to neglect their duties as cartoonists. These people are wrong--like, John-Waters'-early-work-wrong. (Also--cardamom is really expensive.)