Cynthia B. and I went to Helen, Georgia to have dinner, last night. The drive was pleasant. Girlfriend let me listen to some tunes. (She sometimes would rather that we chat when we drive.) I didn't hit the button for Mastodon; I played these best of the '70's cds that girlfriend had laying around her house. The first song to play was, "More Than A Feeling," by the band Boston. It is funny that after all the times that FM radio has played this song in my cars, over the years, that I can still listen to this song and enjoy it. It is sad to think that the singer of this band is no longer with us.

"Smoking In The Boys Room," by Brownsville Station was one of the next songs to play. I, still, really dig this song, also, but think it funny that when the character in this song, a high school student, gets stressed out, he heads to the school bathroom to have a smoke. Getting busted for smoking in the high school bathroom is pretty much a high stressor itself; don't you think?

When we pulled into the parking lot, there was this sign that said, "Parking Three Dollars, Pay At The Store Across The Street."

Girlfriend said, "I don't see anyone else paying," but I have seen all kind of parking scams, over the years, where you come back to your car and there is a big metal boot on one of your tires, so I grabbed two dollar bills and four quarters out of the spare change compartment in the car and headed across the street. The guy who took my money handed me a ticket and I said, "should I put this on the dashboard?"

He said, "That won't be neccessary," so girlfriend was right. The parking lot was based on some sort of honors code, where suckers like me, from the city, who had seen many a car towed for not putting money in the parking box at the lot, got beat.

Girlfriend said, "See, I told you so."

Why are women always right?

We got the killer table right by the river. What a view. Water rushed over rocks on the way to the bottom of the beautiful mountain that we were perched on. The hostess was an old grump, though. Back when I was in the restaurant business, they always told me that the host or hostess might be holding down the most important job in the joint, because they were the guests first impression of the establishment; bitch was foretelling evil.

Two couples came up behind us, looking for a table on the water. Dude was drunk, I guess; he kept asking one of the waitresses who had wandered up to the hostess station if she could sing. I guess that he thought that he was funny. Later in the evening, I had to wait for longer than I should have to piss, outside a locked men's room door; when it opened, it was dude and his lady leaving the head. Dude said something to me that was, I guess, supposed to be clever, leaving me to wonder if his lady had just sucked his dick in the filthy bathroom or maybe she was a golden shower freak and he had pissed all over her, before they returned to dinner.

Dinner sucked. We were at a tavern or more aptly a big ole bar and we were eating bar food. Huge margaritas and many pitchers of beer kept coming out of the kitchen. A couple pulled up beside us, at one point in the meal and started lustingly fondling each other before they got their table. I am all down with peace and love, baby, but I've never been into porn and I certainly don't want to watch it live over my bratwurst and sauerkraut.

It sounds like I'm bitching about my dinner, doesn't it? Well, I'm not. Though the food sucked and a couple of the patrons were one toke over the line, baby, the night was beautiful. Girlfriend looked lovely. I wanted to take her into the bathroom and...