Clearman’s North Woods Inn, La Mirada. On my way up to see Becke.
Throw Peanut Shells On Floor.
They seem to be particularly concerned that you throw the liberally provided peanut shells on the floor. Signs everywhere. Don’t people know that by now? This place seems somewhere slightly more civilized than Pinnacle Peaks, not so much Denny’s as Tyler’s Taste of Texas. But I’ve been to a lot nicer steak joints — one I’m thinking of in Dallas that wasn’t bad, not far from the grassy knoll, I suppose.
I’m listening to South by Ernest Shackleton. A lot of it’s fairly boring — “…On the 20th our position was 72 degrees fifteen minutes south, 20 degrees 45 minutes west, and the sounding showed fifteen hundred fathoms with a bottom of gravel and blue mud…” — but actually I find it entertaining enough to make the time pass.
All dinners include two salads. Does that mean they’re actually dinners for two?
The other folx here are a little odd, and the picture on the wall above my table features exposed nipples, which is certainly a nice touch and scenery that’s at least as nice as the mountains I see on other tables, though still a bit odd.
The waiter doesn’t sound Canadian; he’s from Mexico. Fooled the hell out of me. A sandwich on rye. And I have at least another hour till the ship collapses.
And back on down the road, not really needing to ever stop here again. But I could. If I brought along some screaming women. Never can have enough of those screaming women.