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How to get cultured in Nashville

Aretha Franklin, possibly singing R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Aretha Franklin, possibly singing R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Courtesy of Ryan Arrowsmith. Thanks!

Okay guys, it’s been a long while, all kinds of drama and one sleazy boyfriend later.  Just last night a new-in-towner said that, according to his sister, “Nashville guys were ‘ayse-hools’”. That is me trying to replicate what someone from Michigan sounds like when trying to make “assholes” sound Southern. I think he said “asshole.” It might have been “shee-it-hayds”. So anyway, I was meditating in the bathtub, and it came to me that what I wanted to be when I grew up was a writer. So here we are.

How Not to Get Cultured: Walk into a restaurant and get ignored for 90 minutes.

There are a lot of nice restaurants with palate-expanding cuisines in Nashville. Unfortunately some of them are staffed by ayse-hools. I have heard horror story after horror story about this scenario occurring, and I always think, “If they really wanted your $45, they would do more than chunk a glass of water and a menu in front of you and disappear.” I can hear it coming, so I’m going to head you off at the pass: no, you cannot ask the hostess/manager/head chef for assistance. Have you ever worked in a workplace? Do you not probably work in a workplace right now? Exactly. The kind of place that retains one really good ayse-hool probably is fully stocked with them, right up to the top. The rest of the employees are secretly plotting their escape, and are therefore also not to be found.

Let’s make an analogy, shall we? If you walked up to a person you knew more or less, but were thinking of trying to get to know better, and said, “Hey, how’s it going?” and they continued doing whatever they were doing as if you weren’t there, would you sit there for an hour and a half hoping to somehow grasp their attention buy increasingly ridiculous measures? NO. Clearly you would immediately look them square in the sideburn (or sidebangs), say “ayse-hool” for all to hear, and prance out, never to speak to them again. (Okay, if you were a guy you probably wouldn’t prance. I tend to prance when I get really mad. So if you see me prancing, run.)

The moral of this story is that we live in a city. Cities have lots of restaurants. Why waste your time at a restaurant that actively doesn’t want to give you food to pay for and eat when you could be enjoying some other venue, and not missing your train or your show, and not having that futile conversation with your co-guests (if present) about whether or not the waitstaff will ever bring you a bread basket? I will answer that question for you right now. No, no they will not. Move on. You are a strong, beautiful woman! (Or man.) You deserve better than that! Leave that conglomeration of ayse-hools before it’s too late and you’ve dedicated any more of your precious time and money to them! R-E-S-P-E-C-T, FIND OUT WHAT IT MEANS TO ME!

More to come in a couple of days. Seriously. Because Conner’s back in town. (I always wanted to say that.)