Chris Walker Vs. The Marriage Card

Reluctantly, I’ve been chatting with the couple sitting beside me. They’re nice enough but it’s hard to understand what the man is saying, even though we’re both evidently speaking English. “Maybe you’ll make new friends!” the hostess said when she lead me to my table. Maybe I don’t want to make new friends, I thought; maybe I’ve been bullshitting with strangers and in meetings all day and now I’d prefer to just relax and gather my thoughts alone. Apparently, if you’re eating by yourself in Australia people take great pity on you.

The couple sitting next to me, swilling Corona and Jack and Diets, it’s their one year anniversary today. They’ve know each other over twenty years; they were married to other people prior; each divorced and then they fell in love. They both have their own kids, the youngest of which is three years old. I feign enthusiasm.

Near the end of the meal the woman gets up and leaves. The man, in his purple button-up and black, unbuttoned vest, leans over to me.
“I’ve got a marriage card and it gets me discounts here.”
“Really?” I say, perking up. I’m utterly fascinated. “Your marriage card gets you discounts on meals?”
“Yeah, mate,” he replies in his thick Aussie accent. “It gets you discounts on all sorts of things.”
“Wow. I guess it pays to be married in Australia.”
“Sure; my wife’s just run up to the room to get it.”

Moments later, the woman returns and hands him the card.

“See, mate,” he says, showing me the card. “my marriage card.”
I examine it; it’s a gold Marriott card. Wouldn’t you know it, the restaurant we’re dining in happens to be located inside of a Marriott hotel. I hadn’t had a single drop of alcohol to impair me yet here I was, under the impression that if you got married in Australia the government issued you a card that slashed prices on food throughout the country. Silly American.

Chris Walker Vs. Breaking Up Happy Homes

Exactly when did the internet become psychic? I spent a good twenty minutes trying to book a flight yesterday. It took a long time because, evidently, if you want to fly from Reno, Nevada to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania it will take you a year to get there. If I didn’t know any better I’d swear Harrisburg was somewhere in the Philippines. You can fly to Los Angeles, spend the night, and fly back to Reno in the same amount of time it would take you to get to Harrisburg. As glorious as it may sound, I didn’t feel like spending that much time getting drunk in Red Carpet rooms.

Comparatively, a flight from Reno to Cleveland, Ohio only takes about six hours. To fly from Cleveland to Harrisburg only takes an hour. Do the math. (Keep in mind, Ohio and Pennsylvania are neighboring states.) I don’t know, maybe airlines just hate Harrisburg. Either way, instead of flying direct, I’ve opted to make a detour in Cleveland for a day.

This isn’t as bad as it may sound. I love Cleveland. It might be because I’ve only ever spent a day and a half there. Or it might be because the thought of people surfing in raw sewage in the winter time is awesome. But it’s probably because Cleveland is where I’ve had the best cocktails of my entire life. Not to mention, the Sixth City is a charming place, full of wonderful people, doing extraordinary things. I’m happy to be once again visiting the city of “progress and prosperity.”

But that’s not really the point here. The point is, after booking my flight and briefly looking for a hotel room, every single advertisement I saw afterward, whether on Hotmail or MySpace or wherever, all had to do with hotels: Holiday Inn, Four Points by Sheraton, Days Inn. Days Inn on MySpace? It’s just a little strange. Suddenly, I find myself anticipating a friend request from Motel 6.

I guess I’m a little too awed by what internet cookies are capable of. You all know what “cookies” are, right? The wonderful, little, invasions of privacy that track who you are, where you go, and what you do on the internet. I don’t like the internet keeping tabs on me, giving me suggestions, placing advertisements it thinks I might be interested in. Not only is it evasive and annoying, it has the potential to ruin relationships. Imagine if I’d been looking up gay chat rooms and suddenly all the advertisements became shirtless dudes. I don’t want people looking over my shoulder thinking I’m really into that. It was a one time thing. C’mon!

But perhaps even more troublesome than the advertisements tailored to your web site viewing is the Google Search bar on your web browser. It should be helpful but it isn’t, it breaks up happy homes. Raise your hand if something like this has happened to you:

You: “Hey, honey, where do you want to eat tonight?”
Your Girlfriend: “I don’t know, how about Bistro 7?”
You: “Sounds good, you mind checking when they’re open ‘til?”
Your girlfriend saunters over to your laptop, opens Foxfire, and goes for the Google search bar. She starts typing in “Bistro 7” but as soon as she enters in the ‘b’ and the ‘i’ Google makes “Big Black Booty Bitches” an option.
Your Girlfriend: “Honey…”
You: “Yeah?”
Your Girlfriend: “Do you have something you want to tell me?”
You: “Um, not off the top of my head. Why?”
Your Girlfriend: “Nothing about big, black bitches?”
You [after a healthy pause]: “I haven’t the faintest clue as to what you’re talking about.”
Your Girlfriend: “Mmm hmm.”
You: “Fuck you, woman! Just find out what time the goddamn restaurant is open until! Google is the devil!”

See what I’m talking about? Google: Breaking. Up. Happy. Homes. It’s a fact. So remember, kids, erase that web history on a daily basis lest your girlfriend find out you’re into big, black, booty bitches.

A COUPLE REASONS I LOVE CLEVELAND:

The Velvet Tango Room

Lola Bistro