I walk into Whole Foods thinking to myself, "Why am I in Whole Foods? I'm no California granola willing to pay exorbitant prices for grass-fed free-range left-leaning Stanford-educated goat cheese." But I know why I'm here. Because it's a block from my apartment. Because while I hate shopping, I also know that the three quarter-full half gallons of milk in my fridge resemble water samples from the Dagobah System. So I venture in, knowing I'm going to be assaulted by North Face jackets and people in better shape than I am. But I soldier on.I'm really hungry. And I'm feeling especially edgy today. I don't know if I can brave a full twelve minute shop. F*CK IT, I'LL JUST GET HOT BAR. That's another problem with Whole Foods. As soon as I muster up the courage to do a food shop, I walk in and hot bar stares me in the face. The steam seems to coo at me, "Shaaaaane. You don't reeeeeeally want to boil that water for another meal of tortellini, do you? That's so boring! And frankly, we both know that that's the best case scenario. You'll probably end up throwing an over-priced frozen dinner into your sad little microwave oven, won't you? Wouldn't you rather have meeeee? There's a turkey leg the size of Turkey with your name on it over here. And a greasy pile of macaroni & cheese with that crusty topping you love so much. And look over there! Some vegetables you can throw in to convince yourself that your diet isn't the nutritional equivalent of a heroin addiction. Cooooooome to meeeeeeeeee."
I try to avert my gaze, knowing that one torrid night spent with hot bar is just that: one night. Nobody ever does hot bar leftovers. It just doesn't work. I got this far, I might as well set myself up for the week, right? RIGHT? WROOOOOOONG. There is no escaping hot bar. With a mixture of excitement and despair, I put back my cart and head over to hot bar.
Hot bar always costs at least five dollars more than I anticipate. I put what I think are normal portions into my recyclable container, and somehow my hot bar purchase still adds up to eighteen dollars. That's where the shame starts creeping in. Then I go home and eat, and I realize where that eighteen dollars came from. It's too much food. But I can't stop. It tastes good, and hot bar leftovers are a no no. By the time I'm done with hot bar I have no food for the rest of the week, and I feel so fat and disgusting that I have to take a cold shower to try to wash away the shame.
Every once in a while a song will come on that makes me feel hot bar. It's just slimy. If hot bar was a person, it'd be a smug, middle-aged, slightly rotund man named Fred that makes a good living selling insurance, and wants everyone to know about it. Fred drives a Thunderbird, and likes to fancy himself a ladies man. People kinda hate Fred. The following YouTubes are the songs Fred listens to in his Thunderbird.
Eddie Money is so hot bar. Kinda good hot bar, but still hot bar. He's probably in a dive bar in the Keys right now, hitting on some fifty-seven-year-old lady with leathery skin and a bad boob job.
Classic hot bar. This guy will still be wearing male-camel-toe pants when he's in a nursing home. So uncomfortable. He probably gets really drunk and obnoxious at Squier family reunions. "UH OH. UNCLE BILLY GOT INTO THE TEQUILLA AGAIN."
I was seriously traumatized when this video came out. Uh, Mike? Who's this "Dirty Diana" you speak of? Who have you been hanging out with lately? Come home, Mike. Please.
Tina has always been a trailblazer, and with "Private Dancer," she once again broke new ground for women. That new ground was hot bar. This song came out when I was seven, and I just didn't get it. Is Tina saying she's gonna be a stripper? Why would she write a song about it? Whaaaaa? Add to it a live performance featuring a steamy sax scene with our hero Tim Capello, and this song's got hot bar written all over it. I think the concert promoters gave out gift baskets with Viagra samples at this show.
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