megalope

Note: I wrote this on September 28, 2006. I post it here now that this particular Largo experience no longer exists. Enjoy. (Seriously, since there were very few ways to enjoy the OLD Largo.)

remember that night that your boyfriend made you see Batman Begins at Universal City, and before you even left you said, "Maybe I should get my sweater?" but Boyfriend and Roommate ignored the comment in the interest of getting to the theatre faster, and the parking was a million dollars and in return, you received "Citywalk Cash," and then after the film Boyfriend was stuck with twenty Citywalk dollars (since you can't pay for anything important at Universal with them) and you started freezing and complaining because you were so cold, and he offered to buy you a sweater just so you'd shut up, but then he couldn't use his Citywalk Cash at the store and you didn't see anything you really liked, so you just froze the whole way home (during which he insisted on keeping the windows down because he was "hot")? Then, remember, afterwards he swore a blood oath to never return to Universal Citywalk ever again?

Perhaps men and women with similar experiences will understand my own personal blood oath - to never ever see a show at Largo again. I know it's harsh, but considering my particular grievances, I think the average fan of comedy and music will agree with my decision.

First, parking is ridiculous, if you don't want to pay to park (and if you are under the impression that "parking is easy," as your date deceptively stated). The second you see a spot, a Hasidic Jew will steal it (in my experience - this may have been specific to me). The plus side to parking far away, however, is that you will have time after the show while walking to your car to vomit and/or hit trees and parked cars (we'll get to this later) in lieu of post-Largo road rage.

Then, prepare to turn your phone off and get your wallet out. Don't worry about putting the billfold away, either, until after the show, because it will be an important bonding experience to look at your money (or credit card) and remember the good times, the pre-Largo times, before you went into debt. The maître d' will not only charge you the $10 cover ($5 only on comedy Mondays, which does not include the Paul F. Tompkins show), but he will give you a sarcastic, why-are-you-here? look as you fumble in aforementioned wallet for hard-earned dollar bills.

Next, and most importantly, do not wear a watch. You will be chastised for looking at your cell phone anyways, and it's much better to lose complete track of time, so that the terribly slow service is less noticeable. Do not come thirsty. Short of waving a makeshift flag or bringing in the emergency flares from your car, it will be impossible to get more than one water or soda refill - and the glasses are petite. In fact, you may want to order food that looks fairly bland (almost all of it) in anticipation of the coming drought.

Speaking of food, ... don't order any. The portions are microscopic, the quality disappointing, and the salad may, quite possibly, cause extreme digestive trouble for you 11 hours after the fact. Best to sit at the bar, however uncomfortable it is to turn around to see the stage. The tables (which require reservations) are uncomfortably close together, and the people surrounding you will be overfed, middle class, corporate soul-less types on superficial first dates or middle-aged double dates who could care less about Paul F. Tompkins and more about the bottle of champagne they (foolishly) ordered for this "Night Out." (Hey assholes, you like comedy? I hear Dane Cook is awesome. Please stay away from the UCB. You can keep Largo, too.)

The bill comes, and for five pieces of cheese ravioli, a diarrhea-inducing salad, subpar potato-skins (which resembled unpeeled potato-cheese-tomato mash rather than any sort of "skin" classification), and two Diet Cokes - $51.00. Not including tip (which I didn't feel too compelled to tack on, but ended up giving out of guilt, and regretting said inclusion later).

Perhaps the persevering reader, having made it to this point, will understand my blood oath. Not even Jon Brion was worth this abuse, this ... defilement of an evening. Not even - stammering as I say it - was it worth enduring this maltreatment to see Paul F.

(And like the (ex-)boyfriend I mentioned before, I may end up breaking this blood oath at some later date. Perhaps several dates. The point is, though, that I made it, and for at least a week, I'm sticking to it.)