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you wanna know about my mother?


There's a classic scene from Blade Runner in which a skin job / replicant is being interviewed to determine if he is indeed, not human. 

Interrogator:  Describe in single words only the good things that come into your mind about your mother.


Leon:  My mother?


Interrogator:  Yeah.


Leon:  Let me tell you about my mother . . .

Whereupon the replicant, Leon, blows away the interrogator with a weapon he had concealed underneath a table. 

So, let me tell you about my mother.  She is prim, proper, very conservative, deeply Southern, born again, healthy, dresses well, plays bridge, hard-of-hearing, and, she hates my dreads.  As I said in an earlier post, one of the reasons to cut them was that it would please my parents.

Since I was out of town mother's day, I had made plans to have dinner with them at a nice restaurant in Atlanta, after I returned (dreadless) from Seaside.  We met at Bone's, which dictated my attire for the evening: a suit and tie.  My parents were doo-ly impressed with my new doo ("so handsome," "the best hair cut you've had," etc.) and my mother mused out loud that now, I could actually come to her funeral.  (She was only half-joking.)

They were very happy; they hated the dreads.

I had asked for a quiet table, because both parents have a hard time hearing, and we were seated in a section of the "wine room" where there were just two other tables besides ours.  Things are fine for a while, until four burly-guy / expense-account dudes are seated at the table next to ours.  Immediately the volume level goes up about a thousand percent as they yuck-it-up, talk business, revile colleagues, make deals, schmooze, have drinks and generally do what guys do at a business dinner at a fine steak house.  Both my parents are rolling their eyes at this point, huffing disapproval, complaining that they can't hear (I've been through this many times before, so I commiserate) -- until my father gets up to say something to the maitre d', who, of course, can't really go up the the offending table and tell them to shut up.  Still, he apologizes to us and says he'll see what he can do (which, again, is nothing).  So we put up with the noise for another couple of minutes, at which point my prim / proper / conservative deep-South mother pipes up with a voice that could be heard throughout half the restaurant: "EXCUSE ME, COULD YOU QUIET DOWN?  WE CAN'T EVEN HEAR OURSELVES THINK OVER HERE."

That did the trick. 

Oh, and the maitre d' comped our bottle of wine, I overtipped and we had as nice a mother's day dinner as you can imagine.

BTW, my dad is standing directly in front of a caricature of Phil Walden, Southern record impressario and driving force behind the Allman Brothers Band.  You can see his signature just above my dad's head.


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