Into The Twilight Zone

One deadline met, barely, by the skin of my teeth, and it was the really, REALLY, hard, drop dead, serious consequences, everyone’s really, REALLY pissed at me one – the “slightly softer” one that everyone wanted was two days ago. See the Douglas Adams quote for refereAfter the long dnce.

But once again the hare has been extracted from the chapeau and the water has been turned into wine. Tomorrow we’re going to volunteer and participate at a local event for work (the same one I damn near killed myself at last year) and since that’s a three hour drive from home and we’re supposed to be there only slightly after sunrise (I know, RIGHT??!), we’re down in the charming and lovely suburb of Newbury Park. The local Courtyard by Marriott wanted over $300 a night, but for half of that we’re in a La Quinta that’s remodeling and desperately holding onto its status as “shabby,” trying to not slip over the edge into “sleazy.” It may or may not be winning that battle.

After this whole week, the long hours, the stress, the deadlines, then the three hour drive, we needed dinner. Little did we know that something (my money is on the stress from the deadlines and workload) had ripped a hole in the spacetime continum and deposited us deep in the Twilight Zone.

We drove across the freeway to a really nice Italian restaurant that had good online reviews. They said that without a reservation, they might have a table free in 90 or so minutes. Maybe.

We walked across the parking lot to a small shopping mall diner with generic American food (burgers, salads, sandwiches, various Italian-like entrees. As we approached, we heard music. At first, it seemed there might be (God forbid) karaoke. We should be so lucky.

The place was reasonably crowded, and we might be the youngest folks in the room. On “stage” is a guy dressed up like Willie Nelson, belting out “To All The Girls Who Loved Me.” He’s okay, the guy singing the duet with him needs to improve to merely be terrible. “Nails on a blackboard” level of bad.

Our “star” finally gets rid of his sidekick and does some Louis Armstrong. He’s passable.

Then there’s a quick costume change, and Elvis has entered the building.

Then the 90-year old close-up magician comes to our table and does a card trick for us. Again, he’s passable, likeable enough, but David Copperfield he’s not.

I’m waiting for dinner and watching the crowd. 35, 40, 50 folks, and they’re not eating and watching the show, they’re there for the show. There’s cheering, hooting, hollering, and I hate to be a curmudgeon… Okay, that’s bullshit, I love to be a curmudgeon, but the simple fact is these guys are okay, but they’re a long, long way from great.

I go out to the car for a moment and I notice that next door is an Indian restaurant, with a GINORMOUS big screen TV showing Bollywood musicals. There’s a big crowd in there to, dancing along with the action onscreen.

Taken one element at a time, none of this is too far off of the reservation. Taken as a whole, I expect to see Billy Mumy in the corner, mumbling about sending folks to the cornfield. And Fish Heads.

The food is marginal although the fries are good, which is good because I never got my potato soup. We get our bill and head out, and once the damp, foggy, coastal air hits it’s more than a little bizarre. I was standing by the car, looking into the Indian restaurant on the left and Elvis going for his third or fourth encore to a screaming crowd on the right, and I really do expect to see Rod Sterling (or a Candid Camera film crew) stepping out of the fog.

Tomorrow will be a long (but hopefully fun and not fatal) day, followed by another long drive home in LA traffic. Sunday we’ll do laundry, household chores, and try to find and even footing for next week and the next set of deadlines that are already way too stinking close. But tonight, for just a few moments…