Sigh. Macamemories.

Seeing Macado's pop up on Facebook got me wistful about all the time I spent there in college; in particular on quarter draught nights when every inch of every table would be covered in those red plastic cups, and one time I left a $60 tip for this waitress I was in love with. No, we didn't end up together, if you can believe it - or probably ever speaking again; although it went better than at the Hooters when I left a $100 tip and actually wrote on the check on the memo line "for being the most beautiful woman in Texas," after which we were halfway down the street before I had realized I had left my coat and belongings at the table, so I had to go back and see her staring at the check, looking horrified. Sigh.

Also, there's my magnum opus:

No matter what else I accomplish for the rest of my life, I find it hard to believe I'll ever top the week in college I got kicked outta Macadoo's five times. My Sgt. Pepper moment being getting busted stealing food from the table next to us, which of course belonged to the restaurant owner. Sigh. I'm a one-hit wonder, and I'll struggle to top it the rest of my days. And that makes me wish there was a Macadoos in my neighborhood sad :(

And for some reason Mission Control reminded me of Macado's which I now see I never spelled correctly once:

A little while ago I bitched about getting all of NASA's flight controllers into a room for an interview; I had forgotten that this was already done in the brilliant Failure is Not an Option (definitive proof of it's excellence HERE), which you can view in it's entirety HERE. Looks like they're sitting around at quarter draught night at MacAdoos, don't it?

Also, the first time I went to Macados my freshman year I went with a friend of mine from my hometown who was a few years older than me and her friends, and in my excitement at their having croissants I ordered five toasted, buttered croissants for myself. You can imagine my horror when they arrived at the table and without hesitating one of the girls started passing them out to the rest of the table. Of course I had to act cool and pretend I had in fact ordered them for everybody, and had no intenetions of sitting there inhaling five croissants in front of these people.

That girl's name was Karyn, whom I mentioned here.

The second semester of my freshman year of pretend college I was supposed to read Don Quixote but never got around to it; I was too busy trying to get into a hot junior's pants by convincing her ("Karyn"...that strange spelling still turns me on!!) that I had written Never Really Been; a gambit that almost paid off one night at a party at her house had I not turned my attentions from her fawning over me to guzzling a bottle of whiskey and ending up passed out in her front yard the next morning. Anyways, it just occured to me for the first time to wonder - is "Don Quixote" some sort of phonetic pun on "donkey"? Am I the last person in the world to ever catch on to this?

Anyways, Karyn...good news!! I'm available!! LET"S DO THIS!!!!

Sigh. Memories.