By Heather Hoch
By Eric Schaefer
By New Times
By Rachel Miller
By Eric Schaefer
By Heather Hoch and Lauren Saria
By Robrt L. Pela
By Heather Hoch
The swelling's down, but your humble narrator still looks like she lost a fight with Mike Tyson. She's already getting tired of that look she's getting that says, "Oh, darlin', get away from that man and check yourself into a shelter." Meanwhile, Editor Man's sympathy lasted about a nanosecond and Bite Me had to get her ass out to another eating establishment. Checking with her usual sources -- friends, neighbors, freaks -- she learned that there existed this amazing place, Postino, that had once been a post office. How cool is that? Yeah, okay, they serve only wine and beer. There ain't no hard liquor for Bite Me to imbibe, but she made an exception since there'd surely be a bounty of diehard Italian men (yum) on a Monday night. Jamma lamma ding dong.
Postino had all the accouterments she holds dear. While there were no martinis to be had, she was sated by the delicious selection of scrumptious sandwiches on focaccia bread and a big spread of all manner of cheeses with bread and fancy extras. She ordered a sandwich and a whopping plate of cheese and stuff to pile it on and a carafe of red wine because she's found it always makes her feel worldly wise and witty. She'd need to be on top of her game if she spotted a hot dude to move in on. Her dinner companion Elaine -- no, not the gay fella she usually harangues into accompanying her -- was happy to tag along and indulge in some good grub as she watched Bite Me do her best to snag a potential paramour. And did Bite Me spot a wealth of hotties? You betcha. Each time she saw one, she gulped down many sips of grape courage, enough to drop off a few cards with a whispered "call me." Any dude who calls a banged-up woman who randomly drops her number is bound to be either psycho or interestingly freaky enough to investigate. She'll keep you posted as to the results.
John Logan and Carla Wade
Musician and bartender
Bite Me: What do you do for a living, buddy?
John: I sing and play guitar for a band called the MadCaPs. (Bite Me would have guessed the dude was in a band. He just had that, well, ya know, "I'm in a band" look, disinterested and aloof but charismatic despite himself. Odds are wonderful that this guy had a gig coming up, an instrument of some sort in his car and an attitude toward some local club owner.)
Bite Me: What did you eat here?
John: A ham and cheese sandwich. (This also fits the bill. Band dudes are meat-and-potato folk. They're used to eatin' just what is necessary to fuel them. They don't ever seem to get a taste for the fancy food. Funny, huh, but think about those backstage requests you hear about from bands. They're always asking for things like Jack Daniel's, Doritos, peanut M&Ms, turkey sandwiches, pepperoni pizza, Coke, Marlboros . . . you get the idea. They never seem to get to the chick singer level of, say, J.Lo, who requires that ridiculous white-on-white everything including, uh, the room, drapes, couches, flowers, etc., and then a mound of cantaloupe, honeydew, watermelon, papaya, mango and grapes and every brand of Snapple and special candles and apple pie à la mode, brownies, chocolate chip cookies and the requisite VCR and CD player. What actually occurs if the beyatch discovers that there ain't no à la mode for her apple pie? Does she refuse to perform? How fancy do you have to get to demand such a ridiculous list of wants and needs? Who's the guy who has to ensure the whole room is white with no exception? Does he have a paintbrush and bucket of paint to cover any inconsistencies? Let's hope John never becomes such a diva. Bite Me believes he'll always remain a ham-and-cheese dude. Thank God.)
Bite Me: What a solid human you are. So how'd you meet this dame I see next to you? She looks like a really skinny and hot Lauren Ambrose who plays the little sister on Six Feet Under.
Carla: Thanks, I think. We met through my ex-boyfriend. John's actually really good friends with my ex-boyfriend, Brian Smith. (Bite Me thinks that's rather gracious of good ol' Brian to be the springboard to a relationship between his ex and his buddy. And people say all men are sacks of shit. Oh, wait, is that only Bite Me? Mmmm.)
Bite Me: That's a terrible name, Brian Smith. Very generic. I have a fucked-up name, but I'm usually grateful. At best it's original. I'm Marnye. (Mr. Editor informed Bite Me that Brian Smith was a staff writer at New Times a couple years back. Bite Me never met the guy, but from what she's heard, he's one swell fella.)