memo to lula

you are dead to me.

i'm more sad than angry really, it's just a shame. you've been going downhill for a while now but i've pretended to look the other way preferring to remember how great you used to be. i remember our times together fondly - our romantic dinners, funny hangover-curing breakfasts and impeccable style. but those times are gone, and you know what did it? it was that fucking ceaser salad. this was one thing i could count on you to do right, and last night was the last straw. my lettuce was drenched in dressing like a fucking TGI fridays. who are the assclowns you have in the kitchen now? you're too busy. i can't fault you for that. the attention to detail is lost. too many plates going out.

and the clientelle. remember when it was just us? there was some space around us. everyone was from the neighborhood and in a band. now it's a bunch of d-bags from chowhound coming in. fuck you for ruining my love in lula people of the world. fuck you for making its owners some well deserved money for busting thier ass and creating great dishes. fuck you for making it so popular.

i guess this makes me one of those guys who like, well - i liked them better one thier first 7"... and that makes me sad, but fuck you in a general direction to the tragectory of a restaurant and how the world works, cuz i can no longer love you baby, like i once did. i take solace in the fact that my departure will probably not hurt you at all since you're doing well with your new lovers, but believe me when i tell you fair lula, we had special times together, and i will look upon them fondly always.

shhhhhhh. don't say a word baby, it's ok.