The Straw That Broke...

I glanced at my blog page today and realized it had been two weeks and a day since I posted anything to it.  Obviously the overwhelming volume of fan mail inquiring about the lapse should have alerted me.  [/sarcasm]

Actually, that time of non-post was like a fart on the beach…the days just vaporized.  I’ve been maintaining a very healthy and rigorous rehab schedule while trying to re-involve myself as much as possible into life activities.  Time just zips by.  In addition, though, there have been so many target-rich subjects of which I have been taking note since early April that I really didn’t know what to address first.  Not to mention that most, if not all of them, will likely put me at odds with a significant contingent of my readers and subscribers—perhaps eight or ten people—and I want to spend some real time to ensure that I get my message right.

I likely would have continued to ponder those different blog subject ideas indefinitely (self-induced writer’s block) had inspiration not occurred in the most unlikely of places yesterday.  That event suggested—nay, mandated—immediate attention.  Dateline:  Sonic Drive-In, Jennings, Louisiana.

I love ice cream and ice cream-based novelties.  As a man in his mid-40’s, however, dairy items don’t necessarily return the love.  (I used to think the whole lactose-intolerance thing was just a farce.  I owe the developers of Lactaid a sincere apology.)  Needless to say, I have become rather selective in my indulgences of the treasures of the cow…if I’m gonna end up doubled over with the gut-ache, I sure as heck am gonna enjoy whatever curled me up into that position.  Yesterday, though, following a great win by my daughter’s softball team, I thought perhaps she might enjoy a frozen treat with her old man.  So, we pulled into America’s Drive-In.

Now, I guess this is debatable (why anyone would want to debate it is beyond me) but I believe the modes of ingestion of ice cream-based treats are three in number:  1) by spoon, 2) by straw or sipping, and 3) freehanding, e.g. via stick in the case of a popsicle or perhaps a candy-coated treasure like a Klondike bar.  And I’m quite certain in the earliest interpretations of the Book of Proverbs, there was one which read, “Woe unto him that attempts to consume ice cream by mode unintended of the novelty, for he shall endure a wrath of sticky fingers and stained garment.”  That is to say, if you are tearing into a half-gallon of Blue Bell—I should hear an “amen” on that one—you darn well better be using a spoon and not digging through the caramel ribbon with your nasty fingers.

Anyway, again, there are designed ways to consume the treats, with very few crossovers or exceptions.  I already mentioned the hard-frozen ilk to be enjoyed by spoon, as well as the freehand method of pops, ice cream sandwiches, etc.  Of course, malts, shakes, smoothies, etc. are signature straw consumables, or in a pinch, straight from the side of the glass they reside in.

OK, back to the inspiration found at spot five, Jennings Sonic.   I’m sure you are all aware that Sonic is to ice cream concoctions as Sherwin-Williams is to paint choices.  There is no end to what you can order.  And considering my aforementioned rare indulgence, I was being quite selective in my choice yesterday.  Then my eyes fell on the end of the rainbow, a collision of three of the most sensational terms in the English language:  Oreo, peanut butter, shake.  I started speaking in tongues.  My daughter rolled up her window and shrunk down low in her seat.  I think the salivation running through my goatee alarmed her.

The chorus of angels continued, though at lower volume as I placed our order.  I manually manipulated my lower jaw to form the words, as I continued to experience anticipatory paralysis as my excitement built.  I paid via card and watched the update screen as it told me where in the process the heavenly nectar resided.  I screamed loudly with delight and did a great Arsenio “woof-woof”, complete with fist pump, when the screen declared, “On the way!  Your carhop Lauren is filling your order!”  My beautiful daughter got out and asked the roofers in the truck next to us if they were heading back the direction of Lake Charles, and if so, might she tag along.

Lauren handed me the Styrofoam cups as she approached the window, along with straws and napkins.  My salivation now had rendered me to something resembling a rabid horror film creature.  I attempted to thank her, but the utterance from my lips was more a guttural growl suited for an episode of The Walking Dead.  And then Lauren asked something that froze me.  Solid.  Actually scared me a bit.

“Sir, would you like a spoon for your shake?”

Do what?

Come again?

Would I like a spoon?  For a shake?

Of course I don’t want a spoon for a shake.  If I wanted to use a spoon, I wouldn’t be driving, first of all.  And secondly, I would have ordered something fit for the purpose of a spoon, like a hot fudge sundae or a banana split!  A spoon, pshaw!  It's a shake, doggonit!!!

I thanked the carhop (though questioning her intellect) and she departed.  After the spoon inquiry, my anticipation of the enjoyment of cream-filled cookies and peanut butter smoothly folded into milk and ice cream was growing exponentially again.  I unwrapped the straw from its paper sheath, pulled the cherry out of the whipped cream topping, and attempted to sink the straw into my shake.

I emphasize that I attempted to put my straw into my shake.  Said shake seemed a bit thick and rather viscous.  Actually, that isn’t correct.  Aged molasses that has been in a refrigerator for two weeks is a bit thick and rather viscous.  This stuff could have acted as mastic to repair a bridge.

After considerable time and the employment of a right-hand drilling motion, I finally got my straw into the heart of my dessert.  I allowed myself to forget for a moment the effort it took to position my straw, and I gently touched my lips to it.  I performed the straw-suck motion I learned for the first time at age two, eagerly awaiting creamy sweet goodness flooding my tongue and mouth.

Except it was like attempting to breathe in a SCUBA mask supplied by an empty air cylinder.  I pulled hard.  My cheeks sank in.  At one point, I believe one of my eyes actually broke free from its socket.

And yet, no “shake” (now doubting the moniker) ever contacted my mouth.  At least not through the straw.  My disappointment was deep.  I examined my beverage again, confirming my initial assessment.

This was no shake.  This was an aberration of both the most spiritual and physical tenets regarding the enjoyment of ice cream.  The best way I can describe it is like soft-serve when the machine freezes up right at the nozzle.  The stuff wouldn’t pass through a ¾” garden hose, much less a drinking straw just larger than a swizzle stick.

I will spare you the details of how, but I did manage to consume (with considerable objection and not an insignificant volume of colorful words) my dessert.  And it tasted good.  But the “greatness” of the moment was lost.  It just didn’t seem right…a shake that never made the trip through a straw.  The lost proverb fell upon me, quite literally in fact.  Stained shirt and shorts, sticky hands and steering wheel.

If you have stuck around now through all of this rambling, I do have a point.  This is not about a too-thick shake.  This is a societal statement of how accepting we have become with things that just don’t meet standard.  We are too wishy-washy.  I remember going to a Gallagher performance more than 20 years ago where he alluded to the same slippery slope.  Right before the segue to the Sledge-O-Matic, he stated that as far as he was concerned, we as an American society, had become the equivalent of the spork, unwilling to commit one way or another.  Puff but don’t inhale, in the vernacular of Mr. Clinton.

It is not limited to Sonic happy hour, either.  It is pervading every aspect of our lives, and it relates mightily to the plethora of blog topics I mentioned early in this post.  We live in a state of fear that we will offend if we demand that a product, service, ideal, or rule adhere to some sort of measurable and enforceable metric.  I will not be silenced!

I’m gonna swim upstream…one overly thick shake at a time.

Looking forward to hearing from all of you!  I read all comments!

Like and share below!!!