I'm just here celebratin' what I have got
I sometimes focus on what's missin' too much
when there's so much here for me to listen and touch...
Sometimes you just need a good apple pancakes bacon shake to restore your spirit.
Yeah, you read that right. But in case some of you doubt the existence of such a magical concoction, believing me to be fabricating a bacon, alcohol and shake lover's proverbial unicorn, allow me to give you two thousand words worth of evidence...
What Elysium of deliciousness could provide such a wonder? Allow me to start from the beginning:
Tuesday, February 14th
5:03pm: I am picked up by two of my colleagues in debauchery, Jami and Tason (names have been changed to protect...well I'm not really sure whom or from what but in today's atmosphere of questionable legal precedents let's just play it safe) to join them in their annual ritual of an anti-Valentine's Day. While I do not share a personal animosity towards the Hallmark Holiday I know potential fun when it offers itself. A little work schedule shuffling thanks to a kind co-worker and my Valentine's evening is free to spend with my one true love...bacon. But all in good time. I partake of the curbside transportation service and the evening has begun.
5:06pm: Our arrival at our initial intended destination isn't scheduled until 6pm and in between my home and there lies Mad Mex, a proud purveyor of the Mona Lisa of tequila treats: the 'Big Azz Margarita'. Subtle the name isn't but it is effective advertising. A brief in-car discussion comes to the foregone conclusion that partaking in one of these in our unscheduled spare time is not only a good idea, but almost a requirement to start the evening. Several minutes and one order later we are barside, sipping on the cause of many of my bad life decisions. I feel the night has gotten off to an impressive start.
5:48pm: Pre-gaming complete we pull into our first scheduled venue: the laser-tag establishment on McKnight Road. As we stroll casually into a popular teenage hangout, it occurs to me that at the tender age of 36 I have never engaged in this non-violent combat sport until now. I try to control my nerves at the thought of not excelling at such fictional combat by reassuring myself that I can most likely defend myself against any rogue 16 year olds if the evening degenerates into hand-to-hand combat. My breathing slowly returns to normal and I swagger inside like I own the place. I am greeted by a stunning display of neon lights, garish signs and 80's entertainment technology not seen since my last appearance at a roller rink. Video games, an air-hockey table and a concession stand that makes a movie theater's seem like an upscale steakhouse. It is everything I ever imagined it would be.
5:54pm: We are joined by several former coworkers...and their spouses. My initial jolt at the irony of an anti-Valentine's Day celebration being accompanied by married couples is quickly replaced by an acknowledgement that there are indeed married couples who will shed the burden of contrived expectations for this day and engage in such juvenile fun with friends. I am filled with an overwhelming feeling of joy that such love exists in the world that my eyes begin to tear up but I refuse to let the tears fall. I promised myself I wouldn't cry. Not today.
5:56pm: We are guided into a central room where we adorn ourselves with the militaristic trappings of the game, strapping on a chest unit (for lack of any better term), headset and gun in a display of awkwardness that would make a team of Navy Seals either weep or laugh uncontrollably, possibly both. We are then given our instructions and rules for the game by a 17 year old honor student who undoubtedly aced the verbal section of the SATs (still waiting on that sarcasm font, Microsoft) and is more than likely possessing notable quantities of marijuana in his bloodstream. My wind wanders during the garbled orientation to thoughts of battlefield glory.
6:01pm: My dreams of John Woo film inspired gunplay are fueled by a rush of adrenaline as we all rush into the dimly lit obstacle course seemingly designed from makeshift Ikea furniture, red and green lights and discount party staples. I envision breaking things despite our instructor's monotone warnings not to. I am about to lay the laser-tag smackdown on my unsuspecting targets.
6:02pm: Reality bitchslaps me in the form of being struck repeatedly by flashing lasers from unseen opponents as I become aware that my 6'3, 250lb frame may be a benefit in a bar brawl but also makes me an easy target for my relatively tiny opposition. The notable exception being one 6'6" ex co-worker but his preference for sniper style combat involving a lack of actual movement virtually negated his size weakness. I flashback to watching the Denzel Washington classic Man On Fire the evening before and begin trying to channel the Creasy character...
7:58pm: After almost two hours of being pummeled by tiny lights while dramatic sound effects in my headset repeatedly remind me of my incompetence (and the ineffectiveness of my 'Man On Fire' technique in actual combat) and sweating out Big Azz Margarita, our laser tag adventure comes to a close. Between games the acned employees would issue scorecards detailing the statistics of each encounter, paper proof of why I am not, and never should be, a special forces soldier with lives hanging in the balance of my aim with a weapon. Not having enrolled to serve is my gift to you, all of the brave soldiers protecting our freedom around the world. Thank you...and you're welcome.
8:02pm: We conference around the dilapidated concession stand to formulate our strategy for the next planned phase of our evening. Two of our other acquaintences and their spouses decide to join us, furthering my faith that marriage doesn't have to negate spontaneous fun...only having kids does that.
8:04pm: I once again find myself with Jami and Tason on the open road, speeding towards our next goal in a caravan of fellow hungry laser-taggers. There is good music and conversation but my mind continually drifts towards our dinner destination and the wondrous stories I've heard. They can't all be true. Or can they?
8:40pm: We pull in and I am greeted by the bright neon lights indicating my new personal Mecca:
8:42pm: After we are informed of a potential hour and fifteen minute wait before my life finds meaning, Jami and I are eyeing the sub shop next door suspiciously, as their displays seem to be suggesting they have beer on tap. We debate between enjoying a delicious Yuengling in a climate controlled sub shop or standing outside in 25 degree weather for an hour. The beer does down quite smoothly.
9:02pm: After a surprising 20 minutes we are paged that our table is ready. Despite not having finished our beers we register no complaints. My eyes take in little of the restaurant's accoutrements or our waitress's genetic gifts as we are guided to our table. I am already visualizing ordering the shake I've only heard of in whispered rumors and stories of legend. The holy grail of frozen alcoholic beverages: the apple pancakes bacon shake. Few things in life live up to the hype; not Disneyworld, not college fraternity parties and not Tim Tebow but in mere minutes it is in my hand, overwhelming my palate with a combination of flavors and textures beyond the grasp of mortal tastebuds. I am lost in bacon bliss but there is more.
9:17pm: The second half of my burgatory experience is happening. I am placing my order for my own custom burger from a list of options that would make even the most refined burger afficianado pause:
9:28pm: It is in front of me: Dry, aged wagyu beef in a cracked peppercorn rub, smoked gouda cheese, applewood smoked bacon (despite what those pesky 'doctors' say there is NEVER too much bacon), baby spinach, jalapenos and avocado wasabi, all on a toasted baguette. Calling it a burger the way you would something from McDonald's is the same as saying that the Sistine Chapel and gang signs are both paintings on walls or that Bach and Britney both make music. One is just popular, the other is art. With sips of my apple pancakes bacon shake in between (my heart just flinched a little typing that) I am contentness personified, but twinged with sadness knowing that the next day I will return to my normal life, with normal foods and normal sensory experiences. But that's the future and I am still lost in the now.
9:45pm: We settle our respective tabs and exit the restaurant to say our goodbyes. As we walk outside I can't help but feel that the night seems chillier, the air a little less fresh, colors dimmed and sounds muted. But I am indeed content. As Jami, Tason and I say goodbye to our friends and head home the experiences of the evening settle comfortably into memory. To me it was not a day to throw in the face of Valentine's Day, no angry defiance of lost love or fabricated commercial holidays. It was simply an evening with good friends, trying new experiences and generally enjoying life. And sometimes, when you think you're missing something or someone, especially on a day when you seem to surrounded by people revelling in their own good fortune, that might be all you need. To appreciate our blessings rather than despair for what we lack. We just need to be reminded of that on occasion.
And a bacon shake never hurts.
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