Today I’m going to have lunch with my old man and his partner JL (read: gay couple, that is relegated to referring to themselves as if they do business together). My Pops is has this celiac thing. That means he is allergic to any thing that has gluten in it. WHAT THE FUCK! No bread, pizza, or pasta. This a nightmare for anyone, let alone a 100% Italian guy who grew up in a bakery. As if this isn’t difficult enough to plan for (finding a restaurant that takes this seriously is very hard) his colleague JL is a vegetarian. They are impossible to cook for (F.U. I can cook some stuff). I think they just have lettuce in their fridge, maybe some salt for spice.
Anyway, Pops and JL are just about the kindest most genuine couple you have ever meet. Hanging out with them is kinda like watching one of those Bob Ross painting shows: very pleasant, kinda boring, but you keep watching. This is hard for me to handle cause I pride myself on my “lowbrowedness” (it’s a word now baby!), and loud obnoxsious nature.
I still can’t figure out where I came from.
So, we’re going to a gluten free restaurant in the Village where I will taunt my dad the entire time with stories of pizza and rigatoni. In turn he will not let me go hang out with my friends unless he can come. When I was in high school he would let me use his car. Every time he would get into the car with me and my Friends and say “Where we goin’ gang!” with a big shitty smile on his face. This made me want to die, but my friends (all high as a kite) loved it. I’m still friends with all of those kids so I guess it didn’t hurt my “rep” as bad as I thought it did.
After some wholesome family time I will go drink my face off till I wake on a park bench somewhere on the island of Manhattan at 6am.
What can I say I like to make him proud.