KEVIN STANIEC DOT COM

Close your eyes to imagine a scorching summer Sunday. You’ve invited the neighborhood for a block party where you’ll be barbecuing burgers in your backyard while surrendering to the soul-sweet sounds of Bloodstone “Natural High”, the Delfonics “Didn’t I Blow Your Mind This Time” and the Spinners “I’ll Be Around”. Friends gather near the grill gossiping about the family who just moved in down the street while kids run wild through the sprinklers which water the lawn.

That is what it tastes like when you bite into a fat burger from Fatburger. I rate their menu by the amount of napkins I need during one sitting. My last visit I used 17 napkins.

Although neither one of us has an uncle named Pete nor have we ever met the infamous relative, we would visit “family” every weekend for breakfast at this quaint diner located in an abandoned strip mall.

We sat outside along the sidewalk watching traffic travel Beach Boulevard. Loving locals shared stories from the morning paper with anyone willing to listen as waitresses warmed your coffee. I ordered my eggs over-easy with hash browns and ham steak. She loved their omelette, sometimes substituting vegetables for variation.

Mr. Glenn Bell is a genius. He has managed to take the same main ingredients and create a multitude of meals. Depending on my mood I will choose between the hard or soft tacos, typically alternating between the chicken quesadilla and the regular nachos for an additional dish.

As if the nifty Taco Bell menu wasn’t already thrifty, my friend and his hockey teammates invented the “poor man’s meal”:

1. Order three plain flour tortillas and a cup of nacho cheese.
2. Roll your thin and flat Mexican bread into a tight tube.
3. Dip into the sauce.
4. Eat and repeat.

They only charge you for the cheese… but that could have changed since college.

I once dared a friend to order the “Choco Taco”. I sat beside him, watching, as he finished the dessert in two bites. He said it was delicious. I was hoping for something a little more climactic.

I walked into the “Caesar Romero” room (an actor better known for his portrayal of the white-faced, green-haired, cackling villain, The Joker, from the 1960’s television series “Batman”) and ironically the television was missing.

It would have been nice to watch the news or some sports, but I was extremely tired anyway and fell asleep on the bed still wearing my shoes.

I was abruptly interrupted from my slumber by a phone call. It was Ruggy. He was going to a concert. I wasn’t invited. I tried to fall back asleep but was caught in the middle of a shouting match between a staff employee breaking up with his girlfriend because she was bipolar.

I turn on the lights to notice the pattern in the carpet moving. I turn the lights off to regroup. I must be dreaming. I switch them back on again to notice cockroaches running around the floor.

I gather my belongings and head down the hall back toward the front desk, “I need a new room”. They give me another key for the “Dean Martin Suite”. Upon opening the door it is freezing. I try to turn off the air conditioning but it won’t stop. I had already lost my patience… I pulled the plug.

To calm my nerves, I decide it best to take advantage of their complimentary drink card and walk toward the bar. Unfortunately, I was too late and didn’t notice the time restriction on the coupon.

I still needed some alcohol. I used the last of my bills in my wallet and ordered a jack and coke, which was served in a large plastic dixie cup. I took the beverage back to my room and sat on the bed with my laptop as I watched television, switching between Charlie Rose interviewing Arianna Huffington and Michael Moore on Larry King Live.

After a strong double drink I would inevitably fall asleep while writing two sad journals.

This Italian coffee shop was playing Eastern Indian electronic dance music as we sat outside on their patio. A group of bicyclists were waiting to continue their ride, sharing friendly farewell and goodbye. One of them was wearing tight spandex shorts several sizes to small and a shirt with a picture of two men riding tandem together through the solar system (“shooting stars”).

Our table was lopsided, shifting balance every time I noted details from my experience in my journal, causing our drinks to spill occasionally. I ordered the apricot croissant, which was delicious. The plates were designed to look like slices and segments of limes, oranges and grapefruit. Suzanne’s plate looked like a Hawaiian shirt.

The people in passing and the occasional motorcycle club cruising the strip would make it difficult to hold conversation but none-the-less it was a momentous morning as the weather was delightful and everyone seemed in good spirit.

The staff was helpful and handsome. My only complaint was that my water tasted like soap. So I say, why not.

During freshman year of basketball our schedule started directly after fifth period when the final bell rang. When we had a home game, whether we won or lost, as coach completed his locker room speech we showered before dressing in sweater and tie. Quickly we ran across campus to order a fast food dinner before tip-off. We would devise plans in an attempt to talk with the cheerleaders from our league rivals.

We sat in the stands dreaming that one day we would be playing on the varsity team as we ate our bacon cheeseburgers while sipping on banana shakes.

Hunter and honey sticks. Tustin vacation visits. Late night, no doubt, trapped in a box.

We sat shy poolside as girls played in the water. We walked midnight empty streets looking for trouble, searching for something to distract us from one another.

I remember listening to George Carlin on tape, talking us to sleep with his theory of religion. Laughing as we would wake, imitating his voice and opinion.