Never Ending Pasta

The Olive Garden rocks. For under thirty dollars for two people (including dessert) you, too, can experience what someone on South Beach or Atkins wouldn’t dare. An endless bowl of pasta. You can have angel hair or fettuccine, linguine or those little bowtie noodles with your choice of sauces ranging from the garlic alfredo to a spicy little number they like to call “basil marinara.” And you can have any combination you want. Although, they do know their audience. The first bowl is filled with about three pounds of pasta. If you consume all that, and you decide you want more, they will bring you the second bowl, which will have a child size portion instead. So if you were expecting to take home leftovers, you won’t get as much as you thought. But you will have to save the desert for the next afternoon during the football game because dammit, you had to have the neverending pasta bowl, and you had to try at least two different combinations.

Anyway, enough about food for a moment. I just wanted to share the fact that I like school. George Mason’s graduate creative writers organize a bi-weekly reading called the Candid Yak, which is really neat. I went on Friday and got to hear a few good writers read their work, and I got to meet a lot of people who I hadn’t gotten the chance to meet yet in the two weeks since classes started. I even read a poem (it’s been so long!), and I must say it was well received.

The funny thing about the reading on Friday was the interruption. The featured poet was reading a poem that happened to utilize the f-word here and there. Well, someone that was listening (who wasn’t an MFA student) decided that he was going to come up to the microphone and have his say. In the middle of this girl’s poem. Needless to say, even though we all believe in the right to free speech, we believe that the speaker already on the microphone has the right of way against someone who sticks their big mouth in without the use of common courtesy. I don’t care how offended you are by certain language. Tell us about it after the poem is through. It was kind of neat how all the writers in the room told the dude to shut the hell up and get the f- out.

In conclusion, this weekend I consumed fine writing and fine food, including poems with f-words, pasta accompanied by those delectable garlic breadsticks, and all the madness that comes of such things.


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