My walk-out (while having dinner with the rich)

     I'm not having a good time, I remember thinking while I sat in this expensive restaurant--I'm definetely not having a good time. And these people--I f****ng hated these people. The very place was bullying my soul, throwing insults at my psyche with its austere interiors, stuffy regional paintings, perfectly set dining table. You don't understand? Let me back up...

     I was on vacation on Reno, Nevada over a week ago, spending sometime with my old friend Shane at his mother's place. The holiday went very well: Plenty of relaxation; little bit of shopping; much good eating; snazzy digital cable. I tell you--having money's something. I guess it's something better though I've generally suspected that having too much money's no good for you. Not promoting communism here. But just having all the money and then a hell of a lot more changes your being. Morals and values and beliefs and philosophies change harshly when the green flows too plenty. All of a sudden lots and lots of "friends" pop up. And unreal, hot women want to "match up" with you. The world opens up like some obscene clam encasing the most largest, much-shining pearl.

     It went like this: My friend's mother was too celebrate her birthday by having dinner with a group of her friends at Adele's, a pricey yet too-dull restaurant in downtown Reno. All day long I had a feeling I shouln't have gone. It wasn't my scene. What will I talk about with these people? My vacation at the Le Chateu De Fart on the French Riviera next month? My brand new silver Porsche? The excellent lay I had last night with that debutante--you know, the senator's daughter? Vomit reflex--I knew I shouldn't have gone but my friend insisted. He was hungry, and there was food. Why not? His mother was paying (she was marvelous during my stay there--I've nothing but great things to say about her)

     We arrived there and Shane and me sat at the bar, not stimulated. There were quarter-poker machines built into the bar but I wasn't interested--I hardly know how to play poker and gambling for cash seems like the most foolish risk ever. Everyone else started drinking, but we weren't in a drinking mood. You see, when I drink, I loosen up, and when I loosen up, I'm funny and tend to say lots of honest things, funny things, and some very un-PC things; sometimes accompanied with some...uh...street language. So I wasn't going to drink around these people. I didn't want to embarrass our host.

     We waited for about an hour for the older folks to finish their cocktails. We just sat there. I don't get the charm of gambling. Gambled a couple of bucks and kept fifty cents. The bartender prepared us a couple of girly drinks (he insisted and insisted) but the walls still felt as if they were closing in.

     The entire crux of the evening didn't sink in until we were seated. There, seated in a room without windows, looking at an menu with overpriced entrees starting at forty bucks, a voice in the back of my head started whispering: Walk.Out. I sat across a thirtysomething brunette named Terry who tried to make conversation with the usual lame questions. When we mentioned we had attended the Nine Inch Nails concert a few days before, she didn't even know who they were. Her boyfriend, some f***head yuppie named Phil wasn't giving us friendly vibes either--he was into Public Relations, which when I think about it, it's one hell of a stupid career. What the hell do you contribute to humanity when you're a PR person? Nada. Even a janitor does more; least he f****ng cleans the place.

     My friend's mom kept asking me questions as to what I wanted to order, but the more she asked me, the more I felt as if I was a damn 13 year-old sitting at my first restaurant. What wine will I drink with the main dish? God almighty, I just wanted a f****ng coke!! F**k this!

     I finally got up and walked out. Told my friend's mother I would meet them outside in an hour. That simple. Sayonara.

     As I stood by some small river which flows thru downtown Reno, I could breathe. I was away from the snottyness and stench of that overstuffed restaurant and the terminally dull wankers within. There, by the river, I recognized once again the beauty of simple things: the water on the river, the sun setting, couples strolling by, taking in the beauty of a Van Gogh painting, the feeling of inner peace and self-assurance, living the life of ideas and convictions. Some older people glare at me when I talk of ideas and convictions. It's the prevalent cliche that as we get older all but a drop of idealism and conviction are extinguished from our beings--I'm twenty-six; maybe I have much living to do before I crumble and become a group-think, negativ-drone as many older folks.

     There willl always be those who will feel that money is happiness, and I gave thanks by that river I wasn't one of them. In fact, if I ever find myself possessing such large amounts of money, instead of buying into the mores of the upper class, I will use it to pursue my dreams. I will share the wealth. I will share it with those truly close to my heart and spirit. Imagine. Recently, Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen used a sizeable amount of his wealth to fund his dream of a place which celebrates the power and spirit of rock'n'roll music, a wondrously funky museum in Seattle, WA. That's what I call spending the wad wisely.

     I walked the streets of Reno, stared at its neon-lit casino lights, looked at the many people strolling out and about on a Saturday. Then went and had dinner at McDonald's. That ubiquitous fast food place, which I usually avoid, was one of the best dining experiences I've had. Because I ate with conviction. Better to eat the everyday burger than to partake on the overpriced scampi shrimp of the rich. Better to be grounded than to forget what I'm about, where I came from, and what truly matters.

     When I met my friend an hour later, I explained to him why I walked out. He understood. As I ate my Mickey D's, the rest came from Adele's and Terry tried to make small talk with me. I said I had proudly just had dinner with the mexicans down at Mickey D's. Phil, the yuppy f***head, immediately lead her away to their car to avoid some scene. I felt such unbridled disgust at them.

     That was my walk-out while having dinner with the rich. Better to live the life of the struggling philosopher-artist than that of a mindless, dispirited PR dronehead.