The Parking Lot on Vennert Close: Zero Stars. It Offered Nothing and Charged for the Privilege.
I arrived at 7:14 in the evening, impeccably dressed, trailing my customary cloud of distinction. The parking lot on Vennert Close did not greet me. It did not seat me. It offered a faded yellow line where a maître d' should have stood, and a shopping cart, abandoned at a forty-degree angle, that I can only describe as aggressively decorative.
The atmosphere: asphalt. The lighting: one functioning sodium lamp doing the work of four, badly. A second lamp flickered in what I initially interpreted as an artistic choice, then as a structural failing, then as a personal slight. I have been insulted by better-maintained infrastructure. I noted a drainage grate near the southeast corner that smelled of ambition and standing water. The drainage grate, at least, knew what it was.
The menu, which did not exist, was nonetheless overpriced. There was a sign indicating a two-hour maximum stay, which I found presumptuous — I had not yet decided if I was staying, I was evaluating. These are different activities. Kiwi and the rest of the so-called workers at that rival rag would not understand the distinction. They review things people ask to be reviewed. Cowards.
I was asked to leave by a man in a reflective vest whose authority I disputed and whose lanyard I found derivative. I have been removed from finer establishments than this and several worse ones. The parking lot on Vennert Close will not be the last word on me. I, however, intend to be the last word on it.
Zero stars. The pavement is load-bearing mediocrity. The cart goes nowhere. I go everywhere. We are finished here.