Doc here, a man who some say knows that the best teacher is experience, with what just may be one of the best adult theater reports to come across my desk in the 6 years I have edited this blog.
It's good to have Johnny Paradise back in the fold here at the Journal, located in The Valley, near the small women's liberal arts college. His reports never fail to take you places. Not only the places within this thing of ours, but the sights, the sounds, & even the smells.
In this report, Johnny has hit the highway, and landed at a familiar haunt. Luckily for all of us, it was a target-rich environment that he will tell us all about.
Take it away, sir.
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HAVE HOT DOG, WILL TRAVEL
or An Evening Spent at A Certain Cinematheque of Ill Repute in the Great Midwest
So, suddenly I wanted an Hungarian hot dog.
It was as simple as that. Nothing else would do, and in the hierarchy of impulsive culinary predilections, the visceral need for this unique staple of a certain city's cuisine is justifiably near the top, and if you've had it you know why.
Saturday had been a perfectly imperfect cold June day in Detroit - no sun, no baseball, no summer, just unstoppable precipitation on wind-swept streets, gray sky, gray pavement, gray everything everywhere and through the window the almost-bitter breeze carrying rain-soaked whispers to just set it all down and GO...
...so I rang Lola who, if anything, had been even busier and more consumed by responsibility lately than I had and I suggested the improbable plan but she had promises to keep and miles to go before etc. etc. so I jumped in the Black Beauty and rocketed down the wonderland that was an interstate to...
(flash flood forward)
* one original with mustard, sauce, and onions
* chili mac on the side
* a cola
