Meeting Martha at Pink's
Pink's Hot Dogs
By Arty Nelson
So I'm in a hurry to get across town but I haven't eaten all day, and my stomach feels like a handball court half-filled with battery acid. Dubb Dogg is chauffeuring me around in his newly rented Prius, and we're talking about hitting Barneys for some holiday shirts or some new shiny slacks or something. The problem is that I don't think I can shop on an empty stomach, much less one that's aching and sloshing around, and I'm just not feeling the whole Barney Greengrass thing.
The pros of that particular proposition are greatly outweighing the cons, and to top it all off in an even more dire way, I'm seven days off the caffeine. The headaches are gone, but so too is the beloved false promise that my delightful vice gave me every day, not long after I put on my slippers and broke out of the sleeping quarters. Long story short, I'm all kinds of pathetic wrapped up in blubber and going balder and balder by the day. I mean, seriously, to say that the vultures are circling would be to talk about yesterday. It's worse today, but only because I'm the kind of guy who isn't happy unless he's overthinking everything and wondering what the answer is even when the question hasn't yet been asked.
I'm avoiding work. Fronting for anyone I know who pretends to care. I'm trying to avoid sugary soda because I feel like a deranged Beverly Hills housewife well past her prime when I'm slurping a can of that shit, and there isn't enough footage of Paris Hilton on the Net to make it all seem like part of a day well-lived. The year's winding down. I've allegedly got a kid on the way and, in Debtor's Anonymous lingo, I'm what would be called a Classic Under-Earner.
And yet, weirdly, and despite all that, things aren't really that bad. Maybe they're even kind of good. Life's strange like that. In a single day, I believe in my heart of hearts that a semi-average guy like myself is completely capable of being more grateful than he's ever been. I'm talking tears-of-joy kind of shit, and suicidal not long after that. Maybe it's just the curse of being in the middle, which is really only the middle when you average it out, and in no other way whatsoever. Life comes down to three things in an unrelenting string of combinations: Peaks, Valleys, and Mocking Clocks.
So where does an almost average Schmoo go when it's all going down like this? Well, one place might be Pink's Hot Dogs. I mean, there's a picture of Johnny Knoxville on the wall, and that's got to mean something, doesn't it? But what really sent me halfway to the moon was a small sign tacked to the counter while I waited patiently for my moment at the mic. That's right, a sign, from the gods, or maybe just even from Richard Pink, advertising the arrival of the Martha Stewart Dog. Moments later, I saw the signed headshot, and then it all made sense even more so. Damn, Martha looked good up on that wall. And if you saw Cybill Shepherd playing her in Martha Inc. earlier this year, you'd understand even better what I'm talking about. She's a hottie. Which to me made the whole thing a sort of "no contest" situation when it came to picking between her dog and the dreaded Ozzy Spicy Dog. I mean, maybe the guy's kind of funny, and maybe he even changed rock 'n' roll at one point, but he's no Martha. No contest!
In no time, I'm back in the car with Dubb Dogg, and he's worrying about me spilling in his rental, handing me napkins every couple of seconds, so much so that I almost had a little crush on him for a minute or two, but that's a whole other, much longer story. The Martha Stewart Dog. Ten-inch stretch dog. Mustard, relish, onions, bacon, chopped tomatoes, sauerkraut, and sour cream.
Now, seriously, folks, can you even joke around when you've got a sloppy old bear like that in your hands? Well, I can't. It was all I could do to chew and contain, chew and contain. I mean, I was breathing so heavily at one point, it seemed like me and Redd Foxx would be reunited up in the star condos sooner than I thought. I'm coming, Redd, I'm coming!
But then I didn't die. And lunch ended. And Dubb Dogg went back to his job, and I crawled back up to my house to see what I could do in terms of making something of myself, or if not, at least the rest of my day. I figure if I can just hold out for a few more weeks, I can be somebody's father for the rest of my life, and maybe that will be enough. If not, well, then I guess it's back to the drawing board, one more time. Peace, love, and ciao Main Street.Published: 12/11/2003
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