Are we living in The Matrix? The Matrix Reloaded?? The Matrix Revolutions??? The Matrix Ressurected???? The Matrix Redacted????
You tell me.
I’ll be honest, the past week was wrought with a creative spark I had not encountered in quite some time. Strawberry Yoo-hoo will do this to a man.
So, I returned to the scene a week later to indulge in yet another. I deployed Part Deux to wash down half a leftover burger—courtesy of Lake Grove Diner and now four-time Oscar winner Sean Baker.
The auteur champion of independent cinema and his “Anora” team of course had subliminally decided my girlfriend and I’s post AMC-Stony Brook screening meal for us by writing a scene wherein the titular Anora—though she prefers to go by Annie—and her bumbling kidnappers late-night feast the old-fashioned way. God bless the theatrical experience, alive and well contrary to mass reports, at least this past Saturday night.
I chased down this first half of the medium-rare delight and fries combo with a strawberry milkshake, because if you know your narrator at all, and I believe you’re starting to, it was inevitable.
What transpired next was a bit of a regular date night experience of late; when our food was delivered, I was thoroughly impressed to the point where our waitress suspected otherwise.
Soon enough, my girlfriend and I reflected upon how often we’re subjected to waiters constantly checking in; we’re textbook chatterboxes—a nighttime staff’s nightly nightmare.
When waiters appear at our tableside, they discover everything to be great, as it always is; and that we’re still working on it, because we will be for the foreseeable future.
Moreover: have you ever noticed the second you’re ready for the check, the otherwise ever-present waiters are suddenly nowhere to be found? While you dined, they were transparent with wonder: what's taking you so long?
They hope it’s because you’re simply immersed in an endless stream of scintillating conversation; but, they’ve been burned before, and in these very quarters. Thus, the mild fear that there may be something up with your meal, or that something is not quite to their liking, is always there.
After all, they’ve encountered many grade-A deplorables while on the clock in their day, and therefore pride themselves on smoothly operating with courteous conviction—engaging, but not too intrusive a la Artie Bucco, of “The Sopranos" and Vesuvio fame.
However, this brand of thoroughness ironically creates an undesirable circumstance. Customers extend their stay when they have more check-ins to chuckle about upon each bite.
All of this to say: we had a most pleasant experience. It's no Oconee Diner in Islip, but what is? Not every diner sports endearingly-accented servers rolling out a strawberry milkshake with a lit candle resting atop it as they sing their in-house rendition of “Happy Birthday, to De Customer!”
As it says in the book, all strawberry milkshakes are created differently (rainbow sprinkles nestled in a sea of whipped cream was a bold choice, Lake Grove, and I respect it).
On the flip side of that coin, all Strawberry Yoo-hoo’s—I’ve come to find in my two weeks of enjoying them—sure are created equal. In a world full of unpredictables, sometimes all you’re really in search of is that sure thing.
Here’s to the pair of Strawberry Yoo-hoos I’ve had, and the countless more I’m bound to should my girlfriend keep buying them, and so long as she keeps having me.
As far as newspaper-slated follow-up stories are concerned, we admit this was no “Godfather II” or “T2 Trainspotting” of humor column advancements. We also know it’s not “Caddyshack II” or “Breakin’ II: Electric Boogaloo,” so maybe somewhere in between?
Let us know where this sequelly stacked in the comments below.