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Monday, December 12, 2005
  an epic quest for the ultimate meal

A couple weeks ago the missus got lost on the way back from the airport, and made a most amazing discovery. Somewhere out on 99, maybe in Everett, perhaps Malden, sits a Kentucky Fried Chicken that is more than it seems. Your standard KFC in the Boston area is a two-headed monster of conflicting fast-food tastes. A Taco Bell is guaranteed to be attached parasitically to the Colonel's gullet, siphoning off the positivity and good will KFC has cultivated over the last several decades. In one or two locations you'll find a Pizza Hut instead of a Taco Bell. Only in Allston can you find a free-standing KFC completely lacking a faux-Mexican/Italian taint. Outside this one exception, to the furthest extent of human knowledge and experience, every KFC in the Boston area has a roommate.

So this day two weeks ago, after dropping a colleague from Georgia off at Logan, my wife made a wrong turn at a rotary, and wound up encountering a truly miraculous vision. The familiar red-and-white sign, the Colonel beaming like a by-stander in an early 20th century lynching photograph, caught her eye first, but did little to prepare her for the amazement which closely followed. Beneath that familiar sign, lower down the pylon, just above the marquee unladen with text, sat a sign with an unfamiliar design, but featuring words in festive yellow and aquamarine that called forth blissful memories of the finest in fast-food dining. Beneath that KFC sign the words "Long John Silver's" cut brightly through the murk like a shining beacon of hope and culinary freedom.

Fleetingly a fantastic future suffused with chicken planks and hushpuppies floated before her. Memories of malt vinegar and captain's bells, Norman Bigfish and muppet shrimp churned in her head as she rushed home as precipitiously as providence did permit. In her haste, though, she neglected to commit her route home to memory. She arrived at our modest abode with wonderful news, but without the information necessary to turn this news into an even more wonderful future. She even came to doubt whether she actually saw what she was certain she did. Perhaps in her desperation to reorient herself and find a proper path home her mind was playing tricks on her. Could this startling revelation of the most felicitous ilk truly exist in our tangible world, or must it have been merely a cruel trick of an overtaxed mind?

Yesterday we planned to make this determination, and, if said mirage did reside physically upon this orb, sup upon its bounty of fried victuals. Shortly before lunch-time I ensconced myself in front of our new-fangled difference engine and directed our robotic courier toward the friendly fishmonger's digital notice board. A helpful program there aids the prospective diner in locating nearby storefronts; the customer provides his address, and in return is shown a map with local establishments indicated in red. All seemed in order, until we realized that our fair Commonwealth was not even listed in their directory of states. Their virtual placard thusly useless, I put aside my disdain for the base and vulgar and deigned to call them directly. A boorish lady of East Indian extract, comportment entirely with out gentility, crudely informed me that the restaurant in question was located in Malden. Armed with this additional information, a quick return to the computational device yielded the proper address, and soon we were off on our horseless.

In route, that damnable rotary confused us yet again, and repeatedly, spiralling us off in the wrong direction five times in a row. We drove through the heart of Everett, straight into Malden, but turned around when the street numbers seemed headed in the wrong direction. We made a round-about in the parking lot of the Target Greatland, next to the PetsMart where we adopted our adorable kitten HammJamm. Somehow we found ourselves in Charlestown, with an immaculate view of the Zakim Bridge previously unseen by us. We headed yet again through Everett and Malden, this time down a different street, and once again in the wrong direction. Finally we deduced that perhaps we had not driven far enough into Malden the first time, and thus repeated our initial path. Sure enough, this took us to the fabled hideaway, after only three and a half hours of intrepid searching.

Chicken planks remain the irresistable balm of the soul I remembered from my youth. The hushpuppies and crunchies were as delectable as ever. The service left much to be desired, however, and the restaurant itself was disgustingly filthy. An obviously destitute family of eight blithely tossed their trash all about the floor, scattering half-eaten corncobs and stray bits of chicken meat upon the dull brown tiles. The women's restroom was out of order, and the men's smelled like the inner workings of Satan's digestive system. Still, those incredible chicken planks, with moist white meat suffocated, like my heart, in golden-brown batter and crunchy breading, made the entire ordeal more than worth it. The wasted hours driving around the seemier sides of Boston, the unbearable repulsion of our mealtime surroundings, and the eventual extreme stomach discomfort (entirely expected and anticipated) were reduced to inconsequence by my blistering, unrelenting passion for Long John Silver's. I look forward to that time when, months from now, I have recovered enough to sally forth yet again and renew the quest for the eternal treat. Lady Fortuna did smile upon us this weekend, as we hope it did for all our friends and loved ones.
 

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MESMERIZATION ECLIPSE RADIO:
Elliott is on AM 1690 the Voice of the Arts on Monday nights from 7-9PM for Radio Undefined
Crews is on WXDU on Tuesday mornings from ten to noon

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Dark doesn't want to own her, but he can't let her have it both ways.

Cocaine Bref is proud of his island heritage & will riff with you.

Elliott is sufficiently breakfast.
PS3 ID: ATLbloodfeast

Crog works in the bullshit industry in Hollywood. He was born on May 7th, 1978.

Jerkwater Johnson (friend to CT Jake Motherfucker) lives in San Francisco. He likes snacking, and the Mets, and is the proprietor of a bar called Duck Camp.

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