As I was delivering a blueberry martini, a lobster ice cream float, and a moose antler filled with vodka and chunks of lighthouse to table two, I heard one of my customers say the words “Woody Allen.” So excited by the prospect of getting to discuss interesting culture with someone who was interesting that I nearly shattered the blue martini glass and dropped lobster chunks all over the table. I asked for a clarification of which movie they were talking about only to be disappointed by the fact that the gentleman was simply attempting to remember the name of “that Vicky Madrid movie.” I gave him he answer he was looking for and walked to the back to gently weep away my, yet again, unfulfilled desires for an intellectual conversation.
“Whatever Works” only played one day in Maine. It was last Thursday.
I am going to interject my writing with the conversation I am hearing.
F: “Last time I went to Canada, I got my Guinness roofied.”
M: “Guinness, that’s a weird one to roofie. Usually you go with a bud, or a coors or something.”
F: “Yeah, I think it was a half dose though because I don’t think anything happened.”
M: “Can you imagine that from the guy’s perspective? ‘Yo, so I gave this girl a roofie, but I was a little scared, y’know didn’t want her to throw up and shit so I only gave her a half-dose. I wasted all that money.'”
F: Yeah, good point.
There was a mild sense of irony to this conversation, though it was extremely mild. And, this happened in the health food store.
I don’t understand how people live here. The internet has a max-usage (which I’ve exceeded, thus my need to go into town to use my computer), Woody Allen is that guy who made that movie about the threesome, lobster; blueberry; and moose puns are a staple of conversation, and date-rape is a necessary hassle for the guy. How does one survive in a place like this? I ask this of my readers hoping that one of them will have some advice to make my life not so awful.