Eyes on the Back Door Log-6/20/09 (Part III – Italianos Knows…How We Do) by Ranch

Italianos Mission Statement: “Offering complete in-house service as well as a wide range of carry-out and catering. While the atmosphere is friendly and casual, the food is top quality and of a wide variety, carefully prepared by professional and experienced chefs. Our objective is to please.”

Little did Italianos know, the EOTBD rage crew’s objective was to clearly to rage.

More than pleased with a successful banger of an night at the Quality Inn the previous night–we knew it was time to see what a local restaurant had to offer. We piled into the place, quickly filling half the seats available and factioning off into two separate table sections. The menu was vast and strange as I’ve ever encountered. A selection of seafood, Italian dishes, burgers, soups, 10′ submarines, club sangwiches, salads, omelets, and other various breakfast meals lay on oversized menus beneath our tired and hungry eyes. Although it was 1 in the afternoon, myself and many others’ appetites compelled us to make the breakfast move. Adam obviously ordered the gravy fries, and Big Nick probably stuck with a banana protein shake.

Hoots and “doodoo doodoo doodooooo. doodoo. doodoodoodoodoo” ‘s could be heard coming from the larger adjacent table section occupied by the crew. One person would make eye contact with another: “Rage?,” one of us would say. “Rage,” the other would reply with a assuring nodding of their head. Two female Baltimore police officers conversed in the corner (probably discussing any updates on Jon and Kate’s marital status), and I vaguely remember seeing candid camera phone pictures of the two law enforcers taken by a sneaky member of the crew.

Our waitress–a pleasent and helpful younger Baltimore resident–did her best to bear with our choppy meal orders. I recall her laughing with our group jokes(countless) on a few occasions. Overall, our clothing and array of sunglasses probably made up 90% of the color in the room (minus all the red/green Italian decor). Honestly I felt like I was raging out the birthday party table at Chuckie Cheese’s like I did as a young tyke (minus those weird, smelly, nerdy kids who sat quietly while other kids scarfed down chocolate icing and Hawaiian Punch).

The sun was shining, no casualties had been reported post-Quality Inn rager, and Mike was working up a plan to make up for the mistake that was Summer Solstice. We would meet The Egg in Philly, catch their show with Conspirator/Big Gigantic, and nab some slightly more appropriate and respectable (not with us as tenets) hotel rooms. The logistics were yet to be worked out, but excitement could be seen on everyone’s faces. The prospect of Saturday night in a random east coast city to catch a heady live show with 20+ of your homies is as sweet as molecule is sour.

After a strong and swift group effort to close out our tabs at the prestigious Italianos, we all piled out into the parking lot. Some of us stretched and yawned, others did the zombie shuffle. “Im soo full!,” I said as though I was surprised that polishing off a meal could produce such results. After spending more than an hour eating, we had silently been gaining energy for the rest of the day. In a flash, the parking lot became our own personal gathering area. Any cars that pulled into the parking lot had to do so with caution, for’ we were doing our thing and loving living.

A few of the ladies began to spin their hula hoops around their upper bodies. Bass heavy music started playing out of nowhere–probably from speakers attached to Italianos–and womp positions were taken by Grandon, Mack, Deebs, and a number of our fellow fauxhounds ready for round 3. I proceeded to showing off my crab walking skills to Alex and Zack: “I used to own at this shit back in elementary school.”

Once the first few picture were taken of a few of us pointing up at the Italianos sign, it was understood that it was an appropriate time for a group photo. “Go inside and ask that waitress to take a picture,” someone suggested. Sure enough, the waitress positioned the camera at our huddled rage crew. “Ok, I’m going to take the first one,” she said before snapping up the semi-serious shot. “I’m going to take one more,” she said. We automatically knew this meant to get wackier than the previous. Some of us made obscene faces, some of us cheesed, and a few of us crouched in front with our limbs outstretched. A couple shots for our records–we’ll have to send the pics to Italianos to get framed and mounted on their tacky ass wallpaper.

Reyes quickly found his way to the car, and to a sleepy slumberland. We were shipping out for Philly any moment, but Tamara’s vehicle was not so sure where her keys had gone to. “Check..umm…,” I said scratching my head and looking at random patches of asphalt. Not knowing where the keys could be I made my way to the Eyes on the Back Door Mercedes Ragemobile to provide Mike and Adam with some much needed Ranchy company.

Once the missing keys were located, the caravan sped to the nearest gas station. The couple of cars who needed a fill up pulled up to the pumps and began to do so. Those of us who had a few minutes to burn hopped out of our cars and noticed that there was an open space in the station’s parking lot for a little Frisbee action. We tossed the thing too and fro, pleased with how relaxed the day was shaping up to be. Eventually, the disc was tossed wildly (probably by Chaz Zola) and ended up on the other side of a tall fence near the station’s bathrooms and air pump.

Hardy was closet to catching the damn thing. I watched as his flip flops flew off and he leaped up and over the fence like only and Arkansas boy can do. The rest of us took the mishap as a cue to return to our respective cars and get a move on to Philly. I hopped in the silver stallion of an SUV and threw on some Pgroove for myself, the man in the 10 gallon, and the Beard to vibe out to. Onwards and outwards to the Crowne Plaza Hotel.

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