Keyed into the Keystone State

Greetings yinz! I'm writing to you from the great Keystone state of Pennsylvania. For yous guys that ain't from these parts, you require an explanation. Although I feel that these are things your mum should have taught you.

Today's vocabulary lesson: If you are not from western Pennsylvania you may be unaware of the above mentioned words, so I will translate:
Yinz = you collectively speaking, you as a group
Example: Yinz wanna grab a beer?
English translation: Do you guys want to grab a beer?

Yous guys = you guys (synonym for yinz)
Example: Yous guys wanna grab a beer?
English Translation: Do you guys want to grab a beer?

Mum = mom
Example: My mum didn't raise no fool.
English Translation: My mom did not raise a fool.

Now that we have completed Western Pennsylvania English 101, let's move
on with my rant.

It brings me great displeasure to write to yinz. I had an extremely long workday of 12 hours. The worst part is I had a 9 a.m. meeting. Who works at those hours?

Moving on ... I decided that I could use a drink and a smoke to help unwind after a long day of work. But I'm in the great state of keystone. What does this mean? It means dumb fucking liquor laws. Gas stations and convenience stores do not sell beer. Only "Beer distributors" sell beer and some bars sell 6 packs to go. For liquor you need to find a liquor store. Oh and today is Veterans Day so they are all closed. What the fuck kind of state is this? They
honor veterans on Veteran's Day and they can't even celebrate with a libation!

Absurd, but I can live with this.

So on my way back to the 8 that's not quite Super, I decide to stop at the restaurant/pub the Elephant & Castle. For those of you that have never been, this is yet another great "concept restaurant". The E&C is set up like a traditional English pub complete with Guinness, shepherds pie, dark wood and all the fixings.

It is also a 12-room inn. You can stay at the Inn part for prices starting at around $44.95 a night. We will discuss the reasons that I'm not staying at the inn another time. Lets just say they have to do with me losing $50 in cash and giving a crackhead a ride to the ghetto. Although I did have the opportunity to buy a new car stereo.

So I arrive at the E&C only to discover that tonight a band is playing. I wait in a line of four people and when the host acknowledges my existence, she informs me that there will be a $2 cover charge. I was thinking "what the fuck?" This is another bad concept restaurant / pub / inn what are they doing charging a cover. What are they doing having a band? There is no fucking stage. They have converted the waiting area into a makeshift stage area. Oh this is the recipe for success. How is this part of the concept?

I choose to eat at franchises because I expect the same thing every time I go from every single fucking store in the chain. You don't go to one Best Buy and see them selling lawn mowers at one and CDs at another. They all sell electronics, not fucking lawn mowers.

The hostess who, judging from her size, had sampled everything on the menu at least twice a day since the start of her employment, informed me that I could sit in the bar area and that I could purchase appetizers only, but they were half off.

Without a better option in sight, I paid the cover and enter the restaurant/pub/inn/nightclub/concert hall.

I selected a table that was semi-clean, placed my coat and hat on the chair and went to the bar to order. I was greeted after an annoying wait by an under-cheerful college age girl. I ordered a Jack on the rocks and asked for a menu. She returned with a rocks glass heavy on rocks and light on Jack. Lets just say that I have had stronger drinks made from those little bottles on a fucking airplane.

I ordered some non-English pub food -- Tex Mex Roll ups. I should have known better. Then I sat back and smoked and sipped my drink, trying to make it last until my microwave overpriced half-priced unappetizing appetizer comes out.

Luckily the forward-thinking management has booked a band to play in the waiting area for my entertainment. For the entire 10 minutes that it took the pub chef to microwave my rollups the band performed everyone's favorite song -- sound check.

You know, it goes like this: "check 1, 2, check 1, 2 chhheck ... 1, 1, 1, 2 ... check ... check ... freedom is just another ... check 1, 2, 1, 2 check."

The lead singer was really getting into the sound check. She was definitely of the musical pervasions. She stood at about 5 foot 6 inches, wearing an outfit that could not have fit her when the music she was attempting to perform was new. If I had to guess this broad rolled up in an '88 Monte Carlo SS with leaking T tops, a missing muffler and a car seat in the back. She was a leftover rocker from the 80's that could not afford ample amounts of coke to positively impact her wait. Her outfit was all black and overstuffed. She wore black
leather ankle high boots and fishnet stockings, although one may debate if the stocking were fishnet, or just black ones that were pushed to their physical limits.

All right, they were like cargo nets trying to hold a load that they were not rated to hold. The mounds of flesh that begged for freedom but were restrained by the simple fabric we call nylon. I'm sure that if her stockings made it to the end of the night, upon their removal her thighs would look like waffle fries.

When she went to the bar and ordered a drink and leaned against the bar I could see that the rip had started at the upper thigh/asscheek area. Oh yeah, her black micro mini was that short. The top was equally as tight and the mini jacket was even tighter.

Lets move on to the hair...black & damaged. The back looked as if it had been trimmed with a piece of glass from a broken beer bottle. I don't think that a 55-gallon drum of Vidal Sassoon's Hot Oil Treatment could have helped that hair. It's unfortunate to say that the guy playing the bass had better hair.

Finally my food came out. I scarfed down the shit, grabbed another rock on the jacks and asked for my tab.

I could not stop thinking that only in western Pennsylvania could people fuck up a concept restaurant franchise.

Editor's note: Mike Ray's opinions of Pennsylvania don't necessarily reflect the views of 210 West or its staff. Hell, some of us even live there. Plus, we're getting married there next year. Are you coming? Bring a gift. A cookware set is always nice.