On my way to work I drive past a topless bar and a drag club. They are the last two remnants in what’s a transitional neighborhood changing from scummy to hip. When I see the nudie bar at 7:30 in the morning I think it must be the most depressing thing ever. I’m probably right.
I will admit to going to a Hooters “restaurant” once in my life. I was in college and on a band trip in Toronto. It was the middle of the day and my group was starving. Apparently there are no people in downtown Toronto, or maybe they were all at home celebrating Canada Day with moose-shaped ice cream cakes. Anyway, the only food-serving business we could find was Hooters. “Yeah, man, it’s a HOOTERS!!!”
Once we stepped inside, though, any expectation of titillation melted away. Let me tell you: Tuesday lunch is not prime time for Hooters girls. Our waitresses were just like the jaded chain-smoking pensioners you’d find at a diner off the Jersey Turnpike, except they were wearing low-cut orange tee shirts. They shouldn’t have been wearing low-cut bifocals. Appetite: zero. Then I paid nine bucks for a chicken sandwich. It arrived cold with a long hair draped inside it.
Sorry, Hooters, I won’t be coming back. If the urge to eat spicy buffalo wings ever strikes, I’ll rub Sriracha on my lips and French kiss an exhaust pipe. And if I want to see heaving bosoms and youthful virility, I’ll hang with this crowd. What? You were expecting something else?