The wind howls in Rochester like the cries of nearly dead WalMart employees.
Last night, we ate at the one Italian restaurant said by
Chowhownders to offer quality sauce. Lina called it Ragu on a good day. My capers were as hard as, well, use your imagination.
Today, at breakfast, a nice old man asked me: "You goin' for a ride?"
I asked him: "Wha?"
He said, "To the clinic. When you going?"
I smiled, genuinely, and said, "Thank you."
Being vague can be fun.
Plus: How did he know I was going to the clinic? Was he watching my tears stream into the plastic bowl of froot loops on my table just moments before?
I kid. I didn't eat Froot Loops. Or weep.
That is, not until I saw two waffle irons set up to sear right next to a brilliant machine that dispensed artery-clogging batter into plastic cups for your carb-induced suicide pleasure. See above for a picture of said device. If I were Tim Burton, I would have used it for a scene in "Sweeney Todd." Who says meat pies are the only ways to dispose of your victims?
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Note to self: Get a good look at the Rochester business) eco-system. There have to be people in town to do business at or around the Mayo Clinic. Big Pharma reps. CT Scan techs. Construction reps. Hell, medical professionals. On our plane, there was a young sharp-looking whippersnapper with a garment bag that said "University of Pennsylvania Hospital." I've never been much of Philly fan, but is it really worth a year of your life to even come here for a fellowship? Probably, but at what cost? What's more, where do the rich docs and their families live? Not in this iced-over ghost-town. Although, if they did, I could potentially see their children starting some righteously innovative rock bands. Isn't that what happened in Scandinavia? Oh, I forgot: Scandinavia is far more interesting than the heartland of the U.S.A. Or is it? Do they have our waffle tech?
