SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE IN HARRISBURG, PA.

I got into a less than spirited political discussion at The Spot greasy spoon on Second Street in Harrisburg last Saturday night ordering two Spot dogs with cheese please, fries and a diet Coke. A young woman with “God is the greatest thrill ride.” or “Religion is an adventure.” on the back of her sweatshirt, I don’t remember which, was talking politics with The Chef who was grilling the dogs to greasy charred perfection.
The Chef pontificated that if John Kerry becomes President it’ll set the country back 17 years. How he calculated that exact amount of retro-retrenchment of America he did not share, but he repeated it several times with much authority. So I guess he must be right.
He said he liked Kerry’s other guy more, meaning John Edwards. At which point I entered the conversation with “Oh you mean the Breck Girl.” I clarified with that he’s so pretty they call him the Breck Girl on TV.
Rita Religion indicated that they had just zoomed over her head like a low flying fighter jet zipping to its insurgent target inside an Iraqi slum. I added the fighter jet part. Then she said that someone at her church had come and told them that George Bush had started something that God wanted finished. Yeah, Armageddon!
She thought that was very profound and something to pray about, no doubt. I refrained from saying the Armageddon thing aloud knowing that it’s better not to argue, unless you have nothing else to do with the rest of your life, with someone who stencils their deepest religious convictions on their sweatshirts.
After she left, The Chef told me that, until that brief exchange, he could have sworn Gilda Godly was a Democrat. I replied that if she connected George Bush with God, then she wasn’t a Democrat. He eyed me suspiciously as he slapped cheese slices on my buns.
The Chef and political pundit then said that if Kerry gets in it’ll be good for the hombahahs. He said it so low I couldn’t understand him, so I guessed “ Homeboys?” and said so. He corrected me and said “Homos. Good for the homos.” He next guaranteed that then there’d be gay marriages, subtly suggesting in the millions.
He said this probably believing that, because my big belly makes me less than buff and I’m too bald for a gay date on a Saturday night, that I was straight. The fact that I’m married to a woman would solidify that leap to a conclusion of his.
My feelings about gay marriages is that why should all the gays be single and happy? Why not let them be as miserable as many of the married people you meet all the time? Allow them to share in the agony and financial ruin that divorce entails. I’d like to point out that I’m very happily married and any disparaging remarks about marriage would refer to my first wife- Ruby Runaround.
Finally El Chefo said that if gays can marry, then the mother of his girlfriend could get married. I replied “Congratulations” on their impending nuptials in the new Kerry administration, ignoring my initial shocked reaction that this fat sloppy greasy guy has a girlfriend! He looked at me suspiciously and repeated this declaration, not really sure which way I was swinging now.
I took my Spot dogs, fries and drink outside to sit in one of their rock hard plastic chairs at a wobbly sidewalk table and watched the parade of tight jeans, pert butts, jogging cleavage, short dresses, high heels trying to stay out of the sidewalk cracks, sneakers, team t-shirts, baseball caps, muscle shirts, smirks and smiles all hurrying from bar to bar searching for sex, laughs and intoxication. It was dinner with a curbside view.
A super-sized woman in a motorized wheelchair rolled up like a beached whale, packed protectively in a pile of blankets like she was fragile cargo in a container to be shipped half way round the world. She had slippers on and her poor feet were scaly and red rashed. The hand that controlled the knobs of her wheelchair was frozen in a fist with gnarled fingers. We exchanged greetings and pleasantries then she began speaking with the grubby guy that accompanied her.
He mentioned that he’d been sleeping on park benches at night awakening wet with the morning dew. Being a celebrated poet, I added the morning dew part. Then he started yelling for service that was only available in the restaurant and not on the sidewalk. How he fared I do not know, as I left for the Harrisburg Hilton to use their facilities.
Inside the Hilton I encountered black ties, suits and cigar smoking people, and that was just the women. Of course, I don’t mean that, there were some men there looking like that too. Obviously, it was a gala for the rich and powerful of the Burg. In other words, it was a perfect place to take a piss.
Such were the highlights of a Saturday Night Live on Second Street in Harrisburg.