There is a restaurant near where I live called The Prado. It’s a bit fancy, but in a nice and unpretentious way that doesn’t make me feel on edge or out of place when I order food. Shortly after the dozen-or-so-year vegetarian chapter of my life came to an end, I found myself dining there and ordered the pork chop. I was confident in my choice of cuisine before I ordered it, but there was no special that day and the waiter recommended that same dish and so my confidence was bolstered considerably. I remember that first bite as if it were yesterday: full of flavor without being overwhelming, the meat cooked to just the right tenderness and texture, basically everything I could possibly want in a dish literally called a pork chop. It went into my top 5 meals so readily I had to make sure that I centered my next birthday’s activities around having that meal again, and it was just as good the second time. Were I to have lunch with George Carlin, I’d take him to The Prado and order the pork chop.
How would I begin a conversation with George Carlin? Better yet, how do I begin a conversation? I keep to myself so much of the time I don’t always remember how etiquette dictates such matters should go. In fact, I usually let others who wish to converse come to me. I have enough insecurities about boring people or leaving them with some horrid impression of me that I don’t initiate contact unless I know I have something to say, and even that doesn’t always totally negate the risk involved. If I’m the one starting a conversation, it says a great deal about my level of comfort with the other party and small talk is just about guaranteed not to be happening.
What you just read is how I skillfully avoid answering the question.
When I imagine I’m eating at The Prado with George Carlin, I see myself well-rested and being sharper than I’ve been in years. That helps me feel less intimidated by the presence of a man I referred to as a comic genius just a few entries ago. He was sharp as a razor ‘til he died, so I ask him for his favorite kinds of music, film, and literature and he rattles off his answers to me like he’s been thinking about how to answer for 20 years. We bond over generic favorites and bits and stories about his comic career make their way organically into the conversation. I try rather stupidly to impress him by injecting bits and pieces of my philosophy studies into my side of the same conversation, and of course I must ask him about Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure at some point. Wherever we go from there, I’ll be wondering about the impression I left on him by the time we leave and my stomach will be full of pork and butterflies.
With care,
~ Grigori