We lunched at Chuy’s today, where I’ve eaten since about 1983. They’re still using their crappy limited quarantine menu, while every single other restaurant around here has been full menu for months. Still, though, I can’t quit them, as their creamy jalapeno dip runs in my veins. And just as in every trip, someone with far deeper pockets than mine has ordered the fajitas. My head cocks quickly as I smell the meat and hear the sizzle from a black skillet passing our table. The fajitas seem to wink at me, as if to suggest today is my day to give in. I sigh longingly. No, fajitas, not today, my friend. But one day. One day, we will be together.
The advertisers may try to bring your eye to their “geometric touches,” but those zigzag white sandal straps put me in mind of the sour cream flourishes on a Chuy’s Tex-Mex platter.
All this can be yours for just over $10. The shoes? Just over a grand. Which would you prefer?
(spoiler alert: this is not the warm image)
Yes, it’s Elvis’s birthday today. It is my intention to brave the blustery polar vortex and go to Chuy’s Tex-Mex to consume an Elvis Presley Memorial Combo in his honor. New Year’s Resolution be damned. It is my obligation as an American citizen.
Mercy, that looks delicious! But today’s post is not about The King of Rock n Roll; it’s about The King of Pop. You see, my 12-year-old self would have considered it an epic failure on my part to not have been married to Michael Jackson by this point. That was, after all, my master plan. And probably that of a million billion other adolescent girls. And we all failed. Except ironically, for the daughter of the King of Rock. And Debbie Rowe, but she doesn’t count.
No matter that he no longer walks the earth. My 12-year-old self would be disappointed. He was the reason we hit “play” and “record” simultaneously on our jambox that sat atop the television on the night the Thriller video premiered. No, we didn’t have a VCR yet. He was the reason my best friend and I learned to moonwalk in our Bill Blass socks on my parents’ hardwood floors. He was the reason we wore our red zippered Beat It jackets (not ironically, of course) to school and then promptly retired them out of humiliation because for some reason, sixth grade white girls couldn’t quite carry the look. In our defense, we did weigh 115 lbs at that point, just like he did.
I think it’s safe to say that most current musical artists were influenced by Michael Jackson. I imagine his influence spread into other art genres as well. But I was not aware of the magnitude of this until my friend posted this glorious image on facebook today. Apparently she was googling “exotic flowers,” and this gem appeared:
I know what you’re thinking. Sometimes words can’t express our emotions, our awe, our wonder. In that sense, this artwork is like the Grand Canyon. I was only an Art Major for two years before changing to a legit degree (just kidding, art majors), so I am clearly not the authority on this. But I can say that never has there been such a depiction of the soft femininity of flowers balanced with the rugged machismo of Michael Jackson.
Needless to say, there was an instant barrage of comments, including:
- that’s a pretty young lady
- Why? Why? Tell them that it’s human nature.
- i want this person to be my next family photographer.
- Are those cornrows? Seriously?
- i can give your whole family cornrows after your family photographs if you want that with exotic flowers in your hair…lol
- Is there alcohol in your coffee this morning?
- Looks like an Herbal Esssence commercial!
- Much magical.
- Does anyone else feel compelled to go purchase Summer’s Eve products?
- I like how the photo looks wet…
- Or sweaty