Q has arrived. He'll be spending most of the week here, but he's assured me he's going to give me some money toward rent; times are tough. I found out he has an interview lined up - he'll be making the big bucks soon - it's the least he could do.
We went to dinner at SPQR, an initialism for the "The People and Senate of Rome," or Senatus Populesque Romanus. The ambience was great (very dark and datey) and the food was outstanding. The only criticism I have is that the tables were really close together. The unfortunate consequence of this, of course, is that you too easily overhear the conversation at neighboring tables. We had the good fortune of being seated beside a vapid and loudspeaking woman and her noticeably older boyfriend. She was stunningly gorgeous, blonde, blue eyed, with an excellent figure and angelic skin that seemed to tug at your eyes - beautiful like a woman that you might see in a painting wearing a red dress (she actually had a red coat) - but her beauty was commensurate with her repugnance. She spoke at loathsome volumes, pontificating on banal subjects, becoming more and more odious as time went on.
Whenever Q and I go out to dinner I always wonder whether the servers think he and I are gay. The thought crossed my mind tonight when the waitress smiled and placed two forks on the table when my desert came out. I wasn't insulted that she thought we might be gay, I was insulted she thought I'd date Q. How could I not take it as an indictment on my taste; I'd be way out of his league.
After we left, we walked down to Fillmore and each experienced a momentary befuddlement, a lapse in space-time, as we stared at The Fillmore but somehow couldn't locate it. I suggested we walk back to my apartment but Q said that I owed him a cab ride so I obliged. I saw our reflections in the window of the cab upon opening the door, and as we sat down I remarked that we looked like Daniel Stern and Joe Pesci from Home Alone. The cab driver, looking back at us with our dark colored coats and burglaresque black beanies, nodded silently in agreement. I met the eyes of the driver and discovered we were being chauffeured by a transvestite Michael Jackson. The posted driver ID read: Billie.
Where you boys headed to tonight he/she asked in a soft falsetto.
We're going home, I said, to The Man in the Mirror.
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