Poultry, Pastries and Pleasure: An evening with the Night Rider

From spring of 2003 until my graduation in May 2006, I wrote many articles for several sections of my college newspaper, the Los Angeles Loyolan. Here's one of my articles from the now-defunct humor section, Tangent.
Poultry, Pastries and Pleasure
An evening with the Night Rider

James Malins
Business Director
  and
Mark J. Lehman
Assistant A & E Editor

Originally published September 1, 2004

Nightfall. Darkness envelopes the city. Tires screech. Children cry. The Night Rider rides the night.

The equipment: 25 clams, a valid California class C driver’s license, and a bad attitude.
The mission: To have a good time. And to look good doin’ it.

It was a Friday like any other Friday, except this particular Friday was different. Two mysterious strangers known solely as The Night Rider slipped through the shadows of West L.A. in search of three things: poultry, pastries, and pleasure. Dressed to dine and hungry like wolves who haven’t eaten in quite some time, the two strangers scavenged the city for a site that would satisfy their desires. Finally, one man stepped forward to meet the challenge. Like a beacon shining out over the darkness, that man lives by one name only: Roscoe.

Rumors ran rampant that Roscoe had stopped recognizing the sanctity of breakfast and dinner by coalescing two distinct elements of their respective meal. His mother had obviously never taught him that chicken and waffles are separate entities, unable to coexist peacefully, much like badgers and something that doesn’t like badgers. All badgering aside, The Night Rider had come into that particular place on that particular Friday night to get the lowdown on just who this particular Roscoe feller thought he was, particularly. Disguised as a Cuban drug lord and a Vegas lounge singer, The Night Rider played the singleton to Roscoe and his legions of henchman led by the Sunrise-Lemonade-toting Mama Ella. Right off the bat, Mama Ella laid down the law of her kitchen: “Baby, take your feet off the seat.”

The menu was indeed filled with both chicken and waffles, Venn diagrammed together into a single dish of pure soul. Informed that menu item # 13 was bursting with the fatty goodness of 1 part waffle, 1 part chicken, 2 parts syrup, 3 parts butter, and 8 parts funk, The Night Rider surrendered to its heart-clogging majesty. Skeptic and morally mystified, The Night Rider and his victuals danced the forbidden tango of tastefulness and trash, and ultimately, the congenial cuisine enslaved and engorged The Night Rider. As though that unholy matrimony of chicken and waffles was not enough for Mama Ella, her twisting of the tanginess of lemonade with the creamy thickness of orange juice into the Sunrise Lemonade straddled the line between insanity and ingenuity. Needless to say this sunrise illuminated the darkness of the night in which The Night Rider was riding and had ridden thus far.

After all was said and eaten, The Night Rider capitulated to Roscoe and his crazy concoctions and was even coerced into spending more than the 25 bone he was allotted by The Man. Determined to continue riding the night, The Night Rider devised his own savage scheme to restock his pockets. After getting a taste of the tango, The Night Rider came down with a fever… Dance Fever. He stripped off his sombrero, put on his platforms, and cut the concrete of the street with his two cent robot moves. The infection spread with a vigor matched only by the burrowing power of the platypi, and soon enough people had come down with Dance Fever to supply The Night Rider with necessary funds to resume his riding of the night.

The Night Rider rode on to the republic of Burbank, where he would walk the mean streets of Universal City. Having had his precious prize money pilfered from them by the pugilistic parking police and their preposterous $8 fee, The Night Rider pressed on to partake in a performance to end all performances. Surrounded by a crowd not quite old enough to parent The Night Rider, but not quite young enough to associate with him, he spent the concert watching geriatrics reminisce over songs that broke out around the same time The Night Rider broke out in his own rite. Leading the nostalgia this particular night was The Spazmatics, an 80’s cover band, covering 80’s songs in a manner akin to that of other cover bands who cover other types of music at night. After a rousing rendition of “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go,” The Night Rider was sufficiently woken up before he went-went on riding the night.

The winding roads of Los Angeles led The Now Alert Night Rider to a classy cocktail party complete with classy cocktails, classy people, and classy accents. Still dressed in appropriate attire and sensing the onus to assimilate the environment, The Now Alert Night Rider infiltrated the festivities by maintaining a rouse of a proper British snob. Off-the-cuff remarks regarding Father’s yachts and country clubs sufficiently beguiled the crowd and garnered The Now Alert Night Rider admiration akin to that of the finest “Hahvahd” professor. Despite fevered attempts to enjoy the festivities, the party spoiled at the hands of chips that had done the same, proliferating a chewiness that was chewier than the chewiest of Charleston Chews. Fortunately, The Night Rider cannot be not riding the night, so The Night Rider rode on into the night!

If you should find yourself seeking poultry, seeking pastries and seeking pleasure, remember what The Night Rider says, “It’s always the night time somewhere, so RIDE!”
[Los Angeles Loyolan web site does not have archives available this far back.]
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