Hey, leering perv! Take a picture, it’ll last longer!
Stingray had a powerful hankerin for some pineapple salsa, so did we make our own? Hell no we didn’t. We did hie to the Hula Hut on Lake Austin.
To get there, you first abandon your sense of decency. Then you drive down Lake Austin Blvd, turn where the sign says, for some reason, “Oyster Bay,” and leave your car in a distant spot in a remote parking lot. A hearty youth picks you up in a golf cart, like in “The Prisoner,” and drives you down to a marina engulfed by an installation of endisneyed restauranty attractions of which the Hula Hut is but one. To pass the time during this long and asinine journey, the youth suggests you try the “Mexonesian Shrimp Flautas” as an appetizer.
That’s right, Number 6. The Hula Hut is a faux-texhawaiian-psuedo-tiki tourist trap.
Once arrived at the Hula Hut, another hearty youth chucks a beeper at you and shoves you outside to cluster around a bar under a palapa to drink frozen margaritas with about 5,897 other repulsive turistas. They’re all frantically cramming in for a table on the pier overlooking the marina like it’s the only time in their lives they’ll ever, while bolting down a 40-pound enchilada, see such a gripping spectacle as that ugly-ass dam and the distant lakefront hills where the filthy rich live.
I don’t dismiss tourist traps out of hand. Sometimes, when there is a modicum of nauticality involved, and your regular life takes place mostly on land, a watery interlude can impart a surreal sensation of being on vacation when you really aren’t. The Hula Hut is like that: a cheap furlough amongst the vulgar.
Wait, where was this going? Oh yeah. Leering motherfuckers.
What is with these lone middle-aged dudes and all the goddam leering? I’m not talking about the casual ogle, either. I’m talking about the atomic super-leer, which repellent practice I believe to be proliferating. A couple of days ago Stingray and I got atomic super-leered at by a lone middle-aged dude at a coffeeshop. We sauntered in, chatting, as we so often do, about yacht rock, and this creepy middle-aged dude gave us the full-body once-over about 37 times. This leer was piercing, unapologetic, and extraordinarily lengthy. A zombie-like sort of sinister entitlement oozed out of him, too, as though he didn’t realize he was actually out in public male-gazing at live humans rather than crouching in a fetishy sweat over his home computer porn-delivery system. Oddly, at the same time, he somehow conveyed a crushing sense of inferiority. Which of course pleased me through my disgust.
It was much the same with the above-pictured fuckwad at the Hula Hut. Like all middle-aged dudes who hang out alone at fake tourist trap tiki bars, he had a beer and a shot of Jager and a night of quiet desperation in front of him. His demeanor was furtive and pervy, but there was nothing the least bit surreptitious about his leer. He trained his stupid CSI mirror shades on us the minute we materialized and maintained his supervision as we lurched into our seats under the palapa and ordered our stupid frozen margaritas in plastic cups.
“That dude,” observed Stingray, taking a swig. Nobody reviles an atomic super-leer like Stingray.
“Tell me about it,” I said, taking a swig.
The examination continued uninterrupted. We took some more swigs.
“What the fuck?” remarked Stingray. We were endlessly fascinating, apparently.
“There’s a porn flick playing in his tiny brain.”
“Should we just tell him right now we’re not gonna suddenly start making out?”
“Tell me about it,” I said.
He kept us under this prurient surveillance for a really long and highly unnerving interval. Finally I’d had enough. I whipped out my big obtrusive camera and made a big production of snapping him in the act of being a dickface and commenced sneering at him with a jaundiced expression until our dinner beeper went off and Stingray and I were carried along on a tide of humanity toward our 40-pound enchiladas.
Henceforth it will my official policy to photograph, with intent to ridicule and disparage, anybody who performs a pervy middle-aged atomic super-leer at me.