Max: Final Week-end Post

I went to buy some basil this morning. Nothing smells better than onions, garlic and basil cooking together in a pot. They should make a cologne.

I regret the state of Italian cuisine in popular culture. It's one thing to have the arrogant French (a fine culinary society) smugly look down on Italian food (even the dagos taught the French how to cook) but quite another to have it demeaned by the lowest common denominator.

Much of the scrap we see is not Italian food at all but some cheapened version of it. What the fuck is 'Parmesan'? Apparently it's to match the unsophisticated palates of food retarded folk. Italian food is a marvel. Its simplicity is rooted in regional inventions. Its careful balance of ingredients is a marvel of perfection only matched by a Da Vinci painting in his mastery and understanding of the body and its relationship with nature. Italian cuisine is refined to the point it is overlooked, ignored or missed by even people who should know better. It's not just about spaghetti. Anywhatever, as I was sniffing and choosing the perfect basil plant I saw a girl whom I sorta dated but heartbroken by.

I thought I was over her. Guess not. I wanted to both stab her in the eye with a carrot and make love to her on the bed of spinach. It's crazy. Maybe it's lust and not love. Maybe it's both. I think she has kids by now. I'm sure she does. We dated in junior high school 22 years ago. I really should move on, I know. But she started all this. I remember when her friend Rita came up to me, a popular cool kid, to tell me that Gianna was crazy about me. Gianna wasn't one of the more popular girls because her beauty was understated and thus unappreciated. But me, I had the eye.

She was not much into the greedy 80s scene - where 70s punk met 80s new wave dress codes. Some of it was hideous. Needless to say, all the people who dressed according to trends were 'in'. I was cut more from the Petty/Springsteen/Mellencamp cloth. I'm not sure what style she was. A little boring and nerdy but that was just fine by me.

We never could get the relationship going. She was afraid of her father finding out. She never had a boyfriend up to that point in her innocent life and before long the bitch who caused me so much grief just plump decided it wasn't worth the risk. I tried to make her my Rosalita and dreamed I could escape with her to San Diego. Never happened. She later discarded me mercilessly. Despite this, it takes much to damage my ego. Still, those sweet summer nights when we talked at the park were precious and free. Some things stay with you forever even if they did not end up the way you wanted them to. No matter how many chicks'n broads I date since that time, the scar left on me from those days seems always fresh. I was a Vietnam vet in matters of young teen age love. My buddy thinks she owes me a night of passionate sex.

As for the encounter, I used the aisles as camouflage and headed for the cash. There was no need, I suppose, to talk to her.