Golden Al

People have really strong feelings about buffet restaurants. Like, some people get mad when you're trying to decide where to go out to eat and you suggest something like Chuck-O-Rama. They're all, "Hmph." And you're like, "Dude, 'hmph' isn't even a word. It's got no vowels." And you're kind of annoyed because they're all acting like they're too good for Chuck-O-Rama. Like they only go to classy restaurants with woody, sylvan names like "The Pine Lodge" or maybe aquatic names like "Swift Eddies" (that would be kind of a cool name for a used car lot, too, or maybe a pawn shop) or foreign sounding names, like "Le Pizzazzio del Bueno Fjord" (I don't really know very many foreign languages).

Other people are all over buffet restaurants. Most of these people are over 75 years old or wear coveralls with their name embroidered over the left breast pocket. There are seriously shuttle buses that run between rest homes and Golden Corral. And, I'm not going to lie, I really look forward to the day when I can wake up at 3:45 a.m. and catch a bus to the buffet counter, eat breakfast while staring blankly at my distorted reflection in the shaft of my walker, ride back to my room overlooking the Circuit City parking lot and try to remember my name for a few hours, then catch the bus back to Golden Al (some of the neon lights are out) for a bowl of applesauce, then go back home in time to sit on a bench in the lobby and make weak and harmless passes at the young female care workers as they walk by while my wife smacks me half-heartedly in the back of the head with her cane and calls me "Jared" because she can't recall if she married me or that other guy she had the hots for back when she had estrogen.

I'm not going to lie, I just talked myself out of wanting to live in a rest home.