We headed over to Dos Caminos for dinner/drinks on Wednesday. (What is the fascination with “dos” in NYC Mexican joints? Be it toros, molinos, caminos or whatever, the proprietors really want us to know about their redundancy plan). It was a frickin madhouse over there, we got there about 30 minutes before our reservation hoping to score some drinks at the bar, but there were approximately 10,000 people out front waiting struggling to get in. The situation looked bleak, so we headed across the street to the appropriately named “The Diner” and had some $5 margs while we waited. (Helpful hint: avoid margaritas served in diners; apparently they think the ingredients are: cheap tequila, window cleaner and dishwater.)
Once the rest of the party showed, we made another attempt to run the gauntlet at Los Dos Caminos Molinos Toros. Shockingly, we got through and were showed the way to our table upstairs – perhaps because our reputation for large quantity consumption preceded us, they gave us a table large enough to accomodate five or maybe even six people. The hostess breathlessly whispered “you guys are sitting right next to Jessica Simpson.”
This was coincidental because SO had informed me earlier in the day that JSimps only brushes her teeth 3x per week. I often brush my teeth 4x during the middle of the night alone, so I was pretty disappointed in her oral hygiene regimen. She would actually have the chance to ask Jessica herself about this brushing foolhardiness! (Having worked in a mexican restaurant in Arkansas for over three years, I can confirm what they say is true: you are more likely to see a celebrity in New York than in central Arkansas. Although the Burger King Herb guy did make it our way back in 1986.)
JSimps is definitely a “celebrity,” but for what exactly I’m not really sure. There was Newlyweds where she was revealed to be pretty dim and a string of movies that were dismal failures at the box office. She was also once a singer, but I don’t recall ever having heard one of her songs. I’d say her greatest achievement has probably been the “These Boots Are Made For Walking” music video. Or dating a string of famous d-bags or quasi d-bags. I’ll assume it’s the video and not the later chili cookoff / mom jeans episode.
Despite the murkiness of her career achievements, there is little debate as to her best feature (definitely not her breath); even her creepy dad has praised her ample bosom. Evaluating the boob situation was particularly important to me, because I was armed with a famous person carve out: hooking up with Jessica Simpson would not be considered cheating. The breath thing was certainly an issue, but it was important to try and get a good look at the famous rack before proceeding. Degree of difficulty went up as we were moved to a larger, but further removed from JS, table after they realized we were all double fisting sangria and margaritas.
From the second table, I couldn’t really see anything. (Although given how fucking dark it is in there, I really couldn’t see shit anyway. There’s a chance that was just some random blond girl sitting over there – I couldn’t visually ID even the people at my table with any certainty.) Jessica was sitting with about seven other girls, including one chick who was sharing her seat (either to add an additional layer of protection from the masses, or because she’s dabbling in alternative lifestyles and not Jeremy Renner). “Chilly, why no picture of you and Jessica?” Two reasons: 1) No camera can capture my physical form, my image appears only as a puff of purple smoke, and 2) I’m not a gauche asshole that would disturb someone during dinner. (I once sat next to national treasure Matt Dillon at the Soho Cantina for like three hours and didn’t even tell him how much I enjoyed his retard work in There’s Something About Mary).
Then, before we knew it, she was gone. Before we even got a rousing cheer of “Romo sucks!” going. I never even got a glimpse of the bustiness – she was whisked out without fanfare. Suddenly feeling her absence, I realized the fleeting nature of fame and the frailty of the human condition. Then I had another drink and we discussed whether her boobs were accentuated by her smallish stature and whether she’s put on too much weight.
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Clearly, the word of the day yesterday was “fat finger.” (I guess technically I should’ve said words of the day.) They were throwing “fat finger” around nonstop on CNBC trying to explain how all the major indices could drop from about 3% down to over 9% down in like five minutes. Luckily I was paying attention to my screen and turned off the Las Vegas rerun in time to catch what I thought might be a legitimate market crash. SO even identified the 25% drop in P&G as being outlandish. Luckily, as the talking heads explained, the problem was merely that someone failed to use their dialing wand when inputting an order. Simple fat finger error. They repeated that 800 times, as if they were talking about some widely recognized jargon like “advance/decline line” or “jessica simpson’s rack.”
Looks like today might be the market crash – excuse me while I drink this molatov cocktail,