Chapter 15: Grilling in the name of

For today's (sorta) late entry I hand the reigns over to ex-Freudian Slip, ex-Acrobat drummer RJ Mey for his (unintentionally) 666-word strong contribution to this epic of Mini-Burgers proportions. RJ has plenty more Denny's experiences than I do and thus is arguably more qualified to do this than I.

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Denny's was a smoke filled caffeinated womb to my creative spirit. It was my spiritual home for most of the duration of my time in Port Huron. I had spent a great deal of time at the Raven, but ultimately my true home was Denny's.

The Raven had a lot of things that the Denny's didn't; it was clean, with nice food, a smoke free atmosphere with a good staff of friendly, attractive people. Denny's was dirty, it was hard to see across the room, and the wait staff probably hated your guts.

None of these horrible things deterred us; we still had to go. We were drawn to bottomless coffee and greasy food like zombies to a summer camp. We just had to keep ourselves up all night while clogging our arteries.

The relationship with the wait staff was always tenuous; things had been getting especially bad recently. One of the regulars and a member of my crew had been spotted taking waiter's tips when they weren't looking in order to pay for his food. The service got only worse from there, we would have to wait over an hour to get a refill on our coffee.

I tried to improve conditions by ordering more food, tipping better and just being a little nicer. Nothing helped, I was a part of "that" crowd and I felt marked for life. My embarrassment turned into anger; I was tired of spending money there and feeling ripped off. A storm was a brewing.

I remember that night well. I remember stepping out of my shiny black sports car dressed like James Bond. I sauntered into the diner and requested a table for 4. A few of my friends quickly joined me, I ordered my usual coffee (martinis were clearly not on the menu), and waited patiently.

The coffee took about 6 years to arrive and the waiter threw it at me from across the room. I kept my composure and sipped it carefully, my cool exterior unfazed. I felt a small pang of hunger and decided it was time for some food.

There was no waitstaff in sight, they had clearly gone out back to shoot some heroin and water board babies. My frustration matched only my hunger as I waited there in that plastic booth, hoping to the opportunity to fill my empty stomach.

A waiter walked by, he clearly avoided eye contact and I think he might have made an obscene gesture. I felt that spirit of Che Guevera rise up within me, it was time for revolution! I knew tonight was a night to be remembered.

Rage Against the Machine began to play in the background. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone and began to dial. I ordered a few short commands and waited silently trying to conceal my bemused smirk. (Rage Against the Machine kept playing their live set behind me).

The pompous ass of a waiter walked by once more and made no effort to bring me another coffee. I could see the contempt in his eye and I knew the Thoreau would be proud of my upcoming civil disobedience. I waited until I saw a white plastic bag being filled on the counter next to the cash register.

I made my move.

I walked up to the counter and said "I'm here to pick up a to go order". The cashier stared at me blankly. "It's for Sir Robert Mey the 2nd, esquire". The cashier looked at the bag and read it's tag. She then read me my total and I paid for it with my American Express Black Card.

I took the bag of grease and sodium back to my table and proceeded to eat it there. Just at that moment Zack De La Rocha began to chant "fuck you I won't do what you tell me!" repeatedly. The crowed cheered and I munched on some seasoned fries. Victor was mine and evil had been smote.

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