Joe Camel stole my identity

I was in Cary Street Cafe and two guys come in with satchels and little handheld computer-y looking things. The first thing you think is suicide bombers, right? I notice they carefully select people to talk to in the bar, and whoever they select opens their wallet for them. What are they selling? They never talk to me, but I see my husband open his wallet for them. I now notice they are approaching only people who are smoking. Then I figure it out. Then I am appalled.

"Did you just let those guys scan your license?" I asked my trusting, naive husband.

"Yes?" he says, already knowing he did something goofy.

"And you did this for....let me guess, a free pack of cigarettes?!"

"Yes," he says, now even more ashamed. He knows he screwed up. "And they're Camels!" my Marlboro Man adds. He sold out for not even his brand.

I'm desperately thinking what kind of information is on his license. They've got our address, so I guess there will be plenty of mail coming. And if they want, they can reprint the license, replace his photo and now there will be hundreds of illegal aliens claiming to be my husband, living at my address.

I suppose there's some legal reason cigarette companies can't just hand out cigarettes to everyone in a bar like they used to; that they are now required to get and record ID, but it all seems sleazy and invasive. A machine that scans in your license for a pack of cigarettes. It's like Esau selling his birthright for a bowl of porridge. (Old Testament shout-out)

No Waffle for You!

For many musicians, Denny's probably means good memories, somewhere to go eat after a gig, even in Richmond (although here, it was often Toddle House, then Aunt Sara's, then Waffle House). But so far I am 0 for 2 for good memories at Denny's.

The first time was after a troublesome gig at a private party on the Potomac. Someone you all know booked our band, with many promises of money and great, free food and an attentive audience, and none of that materialized. The band had to play in a corner. Most people ignored it. After the music, the food was gone and we still had a long drive back to Richmond, none the richer and very hungry. In desperation, all the band cars pulled into a Denny's where the waitress was too busy to attend to us for a very long time even though the most drunk person in the group bellowed continually, "I need FUD."

Last night we went to Denny's because we had a $5 off coupon. There were only a few people there, including our waitress, Dave Chappelle in a wig and dress. We ordered breakfast, and since I really, really wanted a Belgian waffle with strawberries and nothing else, I predicted I would not get one.

I didn't. After awhile, Waitress returned to say they couldn't get the waffle maker to work. I reluctantly switched to pancakes with strawberries. After awhile, Waitress returned with my husband's food, but she just waved my naked pancakes around without giving them to me. "You wanted strawberries, right?"

Right. I told my husband, "I'm not going to get them." Meanwhile, my pancakes are getting cold because she's walking all over the place with them.

Sure enough, after awhile, she comes back, without the pancakes, and says, "You are gonna be hot!" (Unlike the pancakes.) There's no strawberries. Just give me the pancakes then. I have already written off this meal as not part of my life experience. After another long while, she brings back the pancakes, which by this time have congealed into dry, rubbery flaps of tasteless flour.

So I'm finished with Denny's, although as long as I am married to a musician, I have the bad feeling it is not a definitive "finished."

(Although it is now summer of 2012, and I have not been back to a Denny's. So far, so good.)