sushi bash

I’m just back from a weekend of pure gama-go ahead fun. It was friendly people and a splashy, campy, real-life adventure. It was my once-a-year treat: rolling on the river in the big WV. And I had would share it this evening. I was going to paint a picture and really take you there, squeezing out the story -- a tale teeming with more life and more promise than a drop of pure river water. Just like last year.

But I can't. I lost it all on the way to get some sushi.



The scene is a dimly lit parking garage in the ‘burbs. Arlington’s little postage stamp sized village of Shirlington. I hop out of the Volvina and walk over to pick up my carry out: yellowtail, tempura special and a just a tickle of the old ivory salmon.

Was it my perfectly coiffed hair? Was it my stylish yet retro shirt? Or was it the perfectly coordinated belt and shoe combo? Did I prance when I should’ve strutted? Or was I too expressively happy about the oncoming wasabi and ginger rush?

I will never know.

All I know is that a shabby red hatchback with Virginia plates drove by me. The window open. The teenage passengers (all girls?) pass by and shout “faggot” at the top of their lungs. One leaned over from the back seat toward the window and shot a crumpled diet Coke can at me. It flew past me harmlessly. It was an attempted Diet Coke bashing. By girls. I got verbally fag bashed by girls.

Or maybe they were just boys whose voices hadn’t changed yet.

It matters not. All that matters is that I kept walking, doing nothing. I let them win. I just stood there in shock.

There was no “Oh yeah, you little cunt faced motherfuckin’ hetero scum? Well that’s ‘Mister Faggot’ to you!”

The rejoinder was not a flashy, “I’m more man than you’ll ever get and more lady than you’ll ever be you sorry-faced proto-neo-con bitch!”

And I can’t say that I had a “Thank you for noticing that I have a better hair, a better education, and more disposable income than you ever will!”

I just stood there and watched the crumpled can of Diet Coke land and spin on the black and shadowy asphalt behind me. The car was out of the parking lot before I had the urge to run. I nearly dropped everything and just raced after it. But there was no stoplight nearby. They could’ve easily outpaced me in the white trash hoopty car. Marathon training or not, I was powerless to pursue them.

And without missing a beat, I start the blame game on myself. Why didn’t I do something? Where was the snappy come-back line? Why didn’t I at least try to chase ‘em down? How can I even let this hurt my feelings?

It reminded me of 9/11: Don’t let this upset you, or the terrorists have already won! God, why can’t I let this go?

A few moments later I’d calmed down. The sushi shop was nearly empty. I grabbed my order, left a generous tip and made it back to my car. I didn’t even realize that I was crying until I tried to pick out the right key for the car door. I guess the terrorists (in this case) did kind of win. Because I let it bother me.

A beer and a meal of yellowtail, tempura special and a just a tickle of the old ivory salmon followed. It was not as sweet as usual. The rice had lost its charm. The yellowtail was kind of waxy. The tempura had too much sauce. But I enjoyed it as best I could.

I’ll try to write about the weekend tomorrow, when I feel better. On a happier note, I found great solidarity when I Googled sushi and gay-bashing and found a similar instance in DC. So I wasn't the only one whose sushi dinner was ruined by hatred recently. Misery loves company. Misery also loves nifty anti-bashing graphics:



Please, parents, stop the cycle. End the violence. All I am saying is, give peace a chance. And let me get a piece of sushi without all this drama!