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We overlooked the ghastly red/green/white decor
at Cocina Italiano (which apparently means "Italian
Pig") since it's Italy's culinary signature; pasta,
slopped with tomato sauce, salad on the side. They
even designed their flag after it. Their national
anthem is probably about tortelini. The WEEKEND WARRIOR respects tradition, and Italian cuisine is about as traditional as it gets.
You think of Italy and what do you think of
(other than irreperable cars and skinny mutant
footwear)--you think of food. The great Italians of
the past are all connected with eating: Ceasar,
inventer of the salads that bear his name; he roman
heroes, and the sandwiches that bare their buns;
Galileo, populizer of the leaning tower of Pizza;
Vivaldi, composer of the Four Seasonings;
Mousillini, inventor of Mousse, (as well as the Lil
Duce Coup). The great La Sagna. Martini, Rossi,
Spumoni, the whole works. Food and history are
inseperable in Italian culture. Rome was the cradle
of cuisine, as well as civilization. Well, not
civilization, exactly, but fascism--which is still
something. Not as big a deal as civilization
itself, but that particular cradle was in
Mesopotamia and when was the last time you saw a
Mesopotamian restaurant reviewed?
Anyway Rome, to get through this history drivel,
came into being in a single day (contrary to
popular myth). It was founded by Romulans and Uncle
Remus, who were abandoned as youths (but then
weren't we all?) and survived by drinking wolf
milk. But don't worry, Italian cuisine has gotten
better since then. In fact, the better places don't
even have wolf tit on the menu anymore. What
replaced it was mostly carbohydrate.
Which was just fine with my dining companion of
the evening, who can metabolize carbohydrate like a
house of burning love. The waiters and patrons did
a good job of not noticing her, although everyone
has seen her doing her perky co-anchor thing on
Channel Nine. Or certainly in those ads for the
body salon gym. The ads that told you how you could
a body like hers for only several thousand bucks in
dues and years of sweat, pain and malnutrition. If
you'd had different parents. Well, neener neener, I
get to have that very same body for the price of an
Italian dinner. What she calls "carbohydrate
loading", a buzzword around the aerobics slums for
an activity that would be called "pigging out" if
done by a person with no lycra suit or subscription
to "Your Gorgeous Own Little Self" magazine.
She and I have been lovers (if that's really the
word for such a sick, demented, twisted, grasping
relationship) for years off-camera (well generally,
I do happen to have a couple of interesting
videocasettes I'd consider renting to
discriminating fans.)
Electronic media people are a weird bunch. Many
are not even really people. There are several
pre-programmed androids in the business--looking
human above the waist and a mass of circuits and
relays below. And there are several
computer-generated characters, refinements on Max
Headroom. My pasta date is neither and therefore,
though she doesn't realize it, is on the way out.
But don't tell her. (Like most television types she
doesn't read print media because the is a little
vague on how the reading thing works.)
As the waiter seated us, I was able to impress
him with a well-turned Italian phrase or two, such
as, "Vini, Vidi, Vici". Meaning, of course, "Get us
some wine and put on a video of Miami
Vice." Little Miss Local Feed, without
italic visual aids to cue her in, was less
impressed by my erudition, displaying the demeanor
that caused her highschool classmates to vote her,
"Most Likely Competitive Little Bitch To Get
Slapped Down With A Veal Scallopini."
"This is the pits," she proclaimed, looking
around the restaurant, "I mean, there's just the
two of us, sitting here...eating."
"Well, at least you're being a sport about it," I
said.
"And speaking of sports, what sort of night did the
Padres have?"
"Will you quit doing that?"
"Sorry. Anyway, here's our waiter with a peek at
what highly visible young media darlings are
consuming these days."
"Keep it up, kid."
"Look I wouldn't even be in this dump with you if
you hadn't told me it was a photo opportunity."
"I know. And you wouldn't have gone to bed with me
if I hadn't convinced you I was scouting for talent
in the Eastern market areas."
"That's not true. It was your camera. My therapist
says it's because I've spent most of my life
projecting my sex appeal into a camera lens and now
that's the only kick I get. Live people bore me,
really. I mean, they're just one person, you know?
What kind of demographic slice is that? But just
the sight of a camera pointed at me gets me horny
as hell."
"Well that sure explains a lot of weird things you
do in bed."
"Probably, but as long as we're explaining away
weird kinky stuff, why the hell can't you fully
aroused unless,,,"
"Look, let's not get into that here and now, okay?
I mean, there's a lot of people reading this column
and..."
"Yeah, but they can't SEE us, can they? God, it's
so frustrating. I don't see how you print media
people stand it."
"Well, it has it's compensations. For one thing, I
can rewrite and edit, make you say anything I want
to."
"You wouldn't."
"You've been sleeping with me three months and
think there's something too rotten for me to do? Go
ahead, say something."
"Look, she said, pulling open her dress and
standing up in the Cocina wearing nothing but
heels, a string of pearls and her prosthesis, "Take
me...right here on the table with my ass squishing
the melons and prociutto. I want you to degrade me,
fill me with vile filth in front of the world."
"Maybe later," I said. The melon and prociutto were
passable by the way, this is a restaurant review,
after all.
"My GOD!!! What am I saying....How did you DO
that?"
"Word processor. Strange, huh? Print media can warp
reality any way I want."
"But....but...we're real people. I mean, more or
less. You can't change what it's my mind by editing
this three days from now."
"Come on, who cares what's in your mind? Or if?
Admit it, your whole world is what all those people
perceive. Isn't it?"
"Of course it is! I'm the token fox on a local news
show in a third-rate media market, for God's
sake."
"So how's your fettucini carbonara? I've gotta ask
so I can write this off."
"It's just wonderful. There's plenty of sauce in
the picture, and you can see how these little
vortecies of olive oil are swirling in here. So it
should be a pretty darn nice weekend."
"So, you approve?"
"No, it's missing something. Excuse me
but...PICTURES! Meanwhile, in local news, it looks
like my other boyfriend's wife is about to tumble
to what we've been up to."
"Now that's breaking news."
"No, that's human interest."
"Well, what should we say about the Italian
restaurant?"
"Well, we both have the same opinion. Check it out
at eleven."
"That about covers it. Now, could you handle the
waiter's tip while you've still got your clothes
off?"
"I do?"
"You do now."
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THE WEEKEND WARRIOR
SAMPLE TEXTS
by Linton Robinson
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