Counter Culture ::

Oh, the places you’ll go. And, the stuff you’ll say and the things you’ll occasionally leave behind in tiny chunks on the floor...when you’re drunk. But, while you’re out making merriment, there is a crew of hardworking ladies and gents around town who put in the late shift so you can enjoy the late night. They pour the next drink, they satisfy that slightly odd drunken craving for mozzarella sticks and ranch dressing and they’ll even help you find the door when you can’t seem to help yourself. Although you might not remember everything you did last Saturday night, they probably do. And, of course, FM wants to know about it.

One Saturday night this guy, whom we’ll call Mr. Freestyla’, walked into the Grille and started flowing to a beat that was playing in the background—a flow about “the chick behind the grille” and how he’d like to “take me to his crib.” Keep in mind, Mr. Freestyla’ was a little white boy (sophomore) and while he was decent at freestyling and even decent looking, he was clearly drunk and at a complete loss for inhibition. I stopped enjoying this drunken jam when he got to the part about actually “getting me into his crib.” I put down my spatula and told him to “watch it” in an accepting way (because I’m pretty laid back about these sorts of things). This was apparently his cue to come up to the counter, leaving his two friends behind at the table shaking their heads at him and giving me the “it’s ok, he’s just wasted” smile. Suddenly, Mr. Freestyla’ went from a cool and cocky Eminem to a sensitive yet troubled Marshal Mathers, as he proceeded to profess his deep attraction to me and then asked me what he was doing wrong to get my number and how he could better “spit his game” next time. In essence, he was looking for constructive criticism. I handed him his jalapeño poppers and told him a bigger tip might be a good start.