Bad sushi and fashion overload

Last night, we trusted our local food critic, a guy I once considered extremely dependable, and visited Haru Sushi, a restaurant to which he had awarded four stars (out of a possible five). He had waxed almost rhapsodically about the wonderful creations of this fine establishment, so we set our faces for a sushi feast and showed up at the appointed time.

What a mistake.

Every dish I tasted was at best mediocre and at worst downright bad. The miso soup was bland and too thick. The salad of "field greens" literally was crunchy lettuce bag salad with a bland, thick dressing ladled on it. The negimaki, which should be delicate wisps of quickly seared beef wrapped around perfect little scallions, was instead thick pieces of charred beef caging thick scallions, all in a bland, thick sauce. Are you getting the "bland, thick" trend?

Then came the sushi. They were out of the Spanish mackerel, which the critic had praised. I tried ebi, which was bland but for a change too thin. I also sampled the unagi and the tamago, both of which were, yes, bland and thick--as was the eel sauce on the unagi. I saved for last the Kobe beef of tuna, the one thing you can always count on for high prices and great taste: the toro (fatty tuna). It was thick, chewy, and ice cold in the center. I've never tasted worse toro. I honestly didn't think toro could taste this bad. The only thing it shared with the other toro of my experience was its high price.

At the time, trying to be upbeat because I was paying a high price for this bad food, I labeled the meal mediocre at best. I'm telling the truth now: it was bad sushi.

We then headed to the movie: Sex and the City. I was familiar with the show and thought I knew what I was getting into. I was wrong. I was hoping for an emphasis on the sex part; instead, the porn here was about fashion. The garment budget was more than the GNP of the bottom fifty nations, no shoe had less than a three inch heel, and each handbag would buy a year's tuition at any university in the North Carolina system.

KIDS: STOP READING NOW. TELL YOUR PARENTS I SAID SO.

I WARNED YOU.

Worse, after two hours of watching more clothing lust than I'd ever imagined could exist, I realized that my gear had drawn entirely into my body. My manhood was gone. As the lights came on and the nearly full theater emptied--and we're talking a very large place with at least twenty percent males--I looked at the faces of my fellow men and knew from their saddened, zombie-like countenances that they were experiencing the same thing. There wasn't six inches of gear left in the place; the sheer fashion overload had neutered us all.

I went home, worked, watched the EliteXC MMA fights I'd DVR'd, read a crime novel, and went to sleep. When I awoke, I was back to normal.

Just in case, though, I'm now going to work some more, then watch the WEC MMA fights I DVR'd.

You can't be too careful.