smiling anime dumplings
Welcome back, dear reader. It’s been a while. Let’s skip rocks.
Take a Walk
(This is obviously out of sync time-wise. It’s been a while, cut me some slack.)
It’s Good Friday, and like the good Roman Catholic boy I am, I’m trying to avoid meat for dinner. There’s not exactly a smorgasbord of meatless options in Hyde Park, though, so my pickings are slim.
(I’ve already ruled out cooking for myself, so don’t sit there judging me. I’ve got leftover rice and week-old greens at home, but I’ll be damned if I make “fried rice” and “mixed greens” for the third time this week.)
Both of my roommates are out of the house tonight, so I’m on my own. If you know me, you know I’m a sucker for company. I’m talkative and extroverted, so I’d rarely be alone if given the choice to hang with a friend.
Even so, I’m an advocate for doing self-dates from time to time. I’m not in a committed relationship with myself the way I might make it seem, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t taken myself to a movie a once or twice.
(I was an incredible date for the movie, if you were wondering. Super courteous, very polite, paid for everything. Also very handsome. 10/10 would date again.)
There’s something very cool about exploring solo. It forces you to be observant and attentive to things, and if you’re not, you start to feel awkward sitting on your phone. If you stave off the addictive pull of your portable entertainment center, you gradually float into awareness, and you’re just along for the ride, enjoying shit.
Maybe you’re taking pictures on a walk. Maybe you’re mindlessly daydreaming. Maybe nothing’s happening at all, who knows. Exploration alone doesn’t have to look or feel perfect, and a lot of the time, doing ordinary, of-no-consequence stuff is the point. The mundane imperfection becomes the fun.
With a self-care approach in mind, I was off to find some grub. Hyde Park isn’t really a restaurant mecca, and the few places that piqued my interest weren’t Good Friday-friendly. These included a chicken spot (called Harold’s) that I’m told is unreal. I’m a sucker for some good chicken, and supposedly the one near my place is especially good. It’s right next to the liquor store and complete with an ATM-lotto purchase setup out front, and I’m told that this adds to the store’s authenticity and deliciousness. The other spot that I wanted to try was a Jamaican spot that also allegedly makes good chicken. Tempted I was, truly. I was surrounded by chicken.
The main street of Hyde Park has a lot of stores that you’d find near a college campus, like Dunkin’ Donuts, Chipotle, Five Guys, and a charming local deli. None of these would help me complete my dinner mission, though. As such, I parked at the local CVS (to avoid the street parking fee #frugality) and I walked to a sushi spot that my buddies and I have been before. Another college-town staple, it was one of those places that has (questionable) all-you-can-eat sushi for a low flat rate of $14.99 for lunch, $20.99 for dinner. They’re also BYOB (#sick #college #drinking) and offer complimentary ice cream for dessert.
(The ice cream is actually bolded in the menu, which I think is hilarious. It’s almost the first thing that jumps out at you when you look, as if they’re convincing you to buy twenty dollars worth of bad sushi because they’ll reward you with one (1) scoop of vanilla, chocolate, or green tea dairy in a styrofoam cup when you finish.)
Predictably, the restaurant was busy when I arrived. It’s set up in a long L-shape, and the sushi bar commingles with the dining room; the bar runs parallel on the right to the dining area on the left, and there’s a rectangular reservoir at the front where hungry customers meet clamoring staff. It took me several minutes to get anyone’s attention at the front of the shop; they were absolutely slammed with takeout orders.
It’s funny to watch how people pick up their food. First off there’s the tentative kind who wait to be addressed by someone, often to their own disadvantage. Unfortunately, I fall into this camp. I really just hate asking someone (who’s obviously busy with a ton of shit) to take care of me before they’re ready, as if my dinner’s importance dwarfs that of the tuna avocado roll they’re preparing for someone else. Maybe I spend an extra minute or two waiting because I’m overly cautious, but I’ll bite the bullet. I’m typically not in a hurry.
Diametrically opposed to the pushover (read: me) is the person who walks in like they own the place. These are ride-share delivery drivers, typically, and they always bulldoze their way through traffic, tossing people aside shamelessly. Often dual-wielding a pen and a 2003 bluetooth earpiece, they mangle the takeout orders until they find the one they need. Unless, of course, they don’t, in which case they drop everything to yell at the busy restaurant staff, whose first priority definitely, definitely should be them. (“Can’t you see I’m in a hurry?”)
After a few minutes of people-watching and a quizzical, brow-furrowing “table for…one?” from the hostess who met me, I was finally seated at a table.
My little slice of paradise was equipped with the bare necessities. On my left, a low quality napkin.* In the middle of the table lay a blue, forearm-length paper menu, and to my right, a plastic container shoyu shot and prepackaged chopsticks.
*(Mister author, what do you mean by a “low quality” napkin? Well, dear reader, I’d like you to imagine the thinnest piece of toilet paper you’ve ever used to wipe your ass, and then I’d like you to imagine that in folded napkin form. Right. Good. Please continue.)
The table was also off balance. It was one of those deals where one of the four legs hovers completely in the air, where you’ve gotta be very attentive to elbow placement lest you send the aforementioned shoyu flying across the room, medieval catapult-style.
And to the menu I went. I love the blue-slip menu; it’s really a pick-your-own adventure. Top to bottom they’ve got all the options listed, from starters (like gyoza, edamame, dumplings, soup, and salads) to the main attractions (nigiri, sashimi, and maki rolls). Each option had a little blank line to the left of it, used to denote the quantity of your all-you-can-eat order. Bright orange pens are supplied for you to make your pick, not unlike the school principal’s variety.
At the bottom they’ve hidden the fine print: if you don’t finish your sushi and you succumb to your gluttonous temptations, you pay for the remaining sushi, piece by piece. I’ve been in parties where eyes have dwarfed stomachs in size, and that’s where they really get you. Stay cautious, my feasting friends. Don’t let them fat shame you and take your money. It’s a modern Cersei walk.
I dutifully selected two starters, a miso soup and a small salad. The miso soup was pretty standard: piping hot, cloudy, and complete with bite size tofu cubes and seaweed (kelp?) at the bottom.
The salad was a mixed bag (of iceberg lettuce and shredded carrots, really). The carrots all but trapped the tangy orange dressing that it came with, and once you got a few bites in, you were eating exclusively dry, lukewarm lettuce. It wasn’t the most enjoyable thing, but hey, I ate a salad. It was basically a requirement for my no meat meal.
As for sushi I got, in no particular order, one spicy tuna roll (I’m #basic), one California roll (a waste I’m sure, but we’re going for volume here), one spicy shrimp roll (I’m #basic but now it’s shrimp), one Snow White roll (I have no recollection of what was in this; my hunch is that it was whitefish, hence the name), one Gozilla roll (yes, it was spelled like that and yes, it was gas), and lastly, one Chicago fire roll (too soon? lmao).
As I munched on the lettuce that looked slightly more appetizing than my toilet paper napkin, I continued to scope out the scene.
My table neighbors were an eclectic bunch. Over on my left was an older couple and their two kids. One was a younger girl, couldn’t have been older than six, and the other was a baby in one of those handheld baby-carrying things.
(Do those even have a name? I’m floored by the fact that I just wrote “one of those handheld baby-carrying things” unironically. You know what thing I’m talking about - it’s like a stroller without the wheels and it’s got a wraparound handheld bar at the top. Please text me and tell me I’m an idiot if it actually has a name, because God knows I’m not Googling it and God also knows I’m not editing this out. If this paragraph is any indication, I’m gonna be a shitty dad. Help.)
Speaking of starting families, there was some date night magic going on to my right. The couple was a weird match; the guy was maybe mid-twenties, slightly overweight, wearing a graphic tee, jeans, and black sunglasses on his head. His date, however, was an older lady (she must’ve been over fifty, there’s a serious age gap here), also slightly overweight, sporting an unusual look.
Her hair got me. It was up in a bun and bright bright red (not altogether unusual these days, honestly), but it clashed intensely with her orange shoulder-strap dress. Yes, an orange shoulder-strap dress. Creamsicle orange. I didn’t know that hair and clothing could clash, but this woman did it.
I caught bits and pieces of their conversation, but I swear everything was somehow about chicken, and everything was going amazing. I’m not kidding. One roll came and I heard the guy say it tasted like chicken. Chuckles from the lady. Another came through and he repeated something similar, greeted by even more chuckles from his lady. It must’ve been a running joke of sorts, that all the fish tasted like chicken, because at one point he picked up a piece of his roll, said something indiscernible about chicken nuggets, and started air-dunking it into invisible dipping sauces while making a “shh shh shh” sound. His date doubled over laughing at this one, and it was all I could do to keep from chuckling along. Come on. Chicken guy? At a sushi place? On Good Friday? Go figure. You go dude.
My sushi came after my people watching endeavor, and I sized up the back of the shop while I ate. There’s this huge menu board that I’d never really looked at before, and it takes up the entire wall next to the swinging doors that separate the chefs from us hungry plebs. You’d know the type I’m talking about; it’s a big black chalkboard panel, the same kind that Starbucks and Trader Joe’s use to make their ~fresh~ designs.
I appreciated the spunkiness of the illustration. If I hadn’t been convinced by the crappy sushi, I sure would’ve spent money just after seeing the sign. It was a smorgasbord of menu offerings, personified with faces, expressions, and unique personalities abound. My favorites were the miniature dumplings that would look at home in an anime. They wore kissy faces and sat alongside a bowl of noodles who winked and threw up a peace sign.
There was more humor to be uncovered beyond that. Behold, a piece of nigiri (raw fish on top of a compact portion of rice) with a split personality. The nigiri’s fish-half was happy as a clam, but underneath, you could see a less jovial piece of rice that frowned sheepishly. He was obviously disenchanted with being the pack mule.
The restaurant’s other centerpiece was a small aquarium that fenced in the rearmost dining table. It was small and shoddy, about two feet by four feet and a foot high, and it brandished smudgy fingerprints that patterned the glass. It was an iconic tank; it looked like what would happen if you gave the Tanked guys a handle of scotch, three hours, and twenty bucks to do a job.
I took my time with the meal, basking in the humdrum of it all. At my dinner’s closing, I dutifully and ceremoniously partitioned my scoop of styrofoam vanilla, stuffed and content. My victory lap had arrived. I succeeded in my dinner mission and I executed my self-date. And while the sushi wasn’t five star dining, there was more than enough fun to extract from the mundane. Perfection is the enemy of progress, after all.
Pitter Patter
Playlist link, for convenience:
Elevation - Fabich, SAINT WKND, Olivia Nelson
Yellow of the Sun - Nao
SURF (feat. Masego) - Xavier Omar, Masego
Astrovan - Mt. Joy
Porto Cristo - BROTHER, Zerbin, Peter Mol
Pull It Together - The Greeting Committee
FAMILY VAN - cleopatrick
The Kiss of Venus (Dominic Fike) - Paul McCartney, Dominic Fike
Private Affair - The Virgins
You’ll Never Know - Ariana Grande
Everything is Just a Mess - The Brook & The Bluff
Slow Dances - Winnetka Bowling League
MIA - Robotaki Remix - RAC, Robotaki, Danny Dwyer
Dull - Mircrowave
Silverado For Sale - Morgan Wallen
SoundCloud Banger OTW:
Cabin Shelves
Eric Berne, Games People Play: The Basic Handbook of Transactional Analysis
(Grove Press, 1964, 13.29 on Amazon)
PARENTS, deliberately or unaware, teach their children from birth how to behave, drink, feel and perceive. Liberation from these influences is no easy matter, since they are deeply ingrained and are necessary during the first two or three decades of life for biological and social survival. Indeed, such liberation is only possible at all because the individual starts off in an autonomous state, that is, capable of awareness, spontaneity and intimacy, and he has some discretion as to which parts of his parents' teachings he will accept. At certain specific moments early in life he decides how he is going to adapt to diem. It is because his adaptation is in the nature of a series of decisions that it can be undone, since decisions are reversible under favorable circumstances.
1 LET'S YOU AND HIM FIGHT Thesis. This may be a maneuver, a ritual or a game. In each case the psychology is essentially feminine. Because of its dramatic qualities, LYAHF is the basis of much of the world's literature, both good and bad.
As a maneuver it is romantic. The woman maneuvers or challenges two men into fighting, with the implication or promise that she will surrender herself to the winner, After the competition is decided, she fulfills her bargain. This is an honest transaction, and the presumption is that she and her mate live happily ever after.
As a ritual, it tends to be tragic. Custom demands that the two men fight for her, even if she does not want them to, and even if she has already made her choice. If the wrong man wins, she must nevertheless take him. In this case it is society and not the woman who sets up LYAHF. If she is willing, the transaction is an honest one. If she is unwilling or disappointed, the outcome may offer her considerable scope for playing games, such as "Let's Pull A Fast One on Joey."
As a game it is comic. The woman sets up the competition, and while the two men are fighting, she decamps with a third. The internal and external psychological advantages for her and her mate are derived from the position that honest competition is for suckers, and the comic story they have lived through forms the basis for the internal and external social advantages.
Berne’s book is the foundation of “transactional analysis,” a psychoanalytic theory and mode of therapy where social transactions are analyzed to interrogate behavior using Freudian bases. In simple terms, Berne’s book breaks down social behavior into recognizable “games,” schema that describe the roles people play in their families, marriages, workplaces, and sexual lives. Berne is essentially asserting that most of our social behavior is just a rehearsed pattern of behavior passed along over time, albeit with a few modifications.
If you can deal with the scientific muddle in the beginning and the over-reliance on Freud (most games’ explanations have something to do with psychoanalytic theory and oft-unsettling family dynamics a la Sigmund), it’s a worthwhile read. It’s cool to see how people in your own life play games and fall into certain roles. What’s more, all of the games had funny names. My favorites were “Cavalier,” “If It Weren’t For You,” and the crown jewel, “Let’s Pull A Fast One On Joey.”
Bait and Tackle
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Thanks for reading. Everything sinks eventually.