Fire And Ice Restaurant to Pull Middlebury out of the Dark Ages
March 2, 2008
AP: Middlebury, VT - Fire and Ice Restaurant in Middlebury, Vermont, has taken the lead by hiring a cabaret singer instead of a bearded guitarist. They are the first establishment in the state to provide their customers with an alternative to folk music sing-a-longs and Skin Head acid-rock covers. This picture, in focus, provides a clue. These people are nuts, but in a good way. I wasn’t sure whether to accept the unprecedented offer until I tasted their end-cuts. Negotiations are still under way. If I must live in Bridport, I will need an All-I-can-Drink complimentary bar pass to be used on nights when I am not performing, and for safety’s sake, an on-site futon mattress pad.
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There is somebody in my house in Vermont. A nice man is renting my house and I am thrilled because that man is renting my house and sending me money so that I can rent an apartment in Providence. Now, wait a minute. Does this make sense? I thought so, a few weeks ago, when I was working here, singing, planning, organizing, hob-knobbing, but as of today, as I lugged a bunch of my crap up two flights of stairs on the East Side, all the while knowing I would have to lug the crap back down the two flights of stairs a few months from now— as of today, I thought to myself, “Gee, I don’t feel very good in my head” I sat on the stairs, dirty stairs, very dirty, and considered my situation. I blamed the town of Bridport , Vermont, for not having a Dunkin Donut’s or a Cafe, a bar or a nightclub, a college, tennis courts, health club, movie theater. Then I blamed myself for wanting those things. Then I blamed myself for having those things here in Providence and not taking advantage of them because I like staying home and reading in bed. Now, if I like staying home and reading in bed, why don’t I just move back to my own home, in Bridport, and wait out the winter with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain? Now that I have rented my house, I miss it. It is not available. That is why I was so sad today, moving into what I thought was a nice apartment on the East Side. It is somebody elses house and always will be, no matter how many knick knacks, rugs, paintings, books, personal items I stuff into it. Renting makes me feel insecure, more insecure than worrying about how to pay my property tax. It’s silly, because none of us own anything fully. Still, sombody is in MY house and i am in somebody else’s house, and it’s ridiculous in a way that I can’t quite comprehend and it is making me very very sad.