Only in Los Angeles

Like a heroin addict looking forward to a flame and a spoon, I look forward to Rock of Love 2. I'm not proud about it, it's just something I do. I didn't think it could get scarier and scarier each week, hell, I didn't think the ladies could get scarier than last season. As I watched tonight, though, I saw something so hideous and out of control I couldn't stand it.

I'm talking about the restaurant where Bret took some ladies for a date; a trendy West Hollywood eatery called Opaque where they tout "dining in the dark." From their Web site, Opaque will heighten your senses as you dine in a completely pitch-black setting, while being served by "specially-trained, visually impaired individuals."  It was great for Bret Michaels, as we saw from some risque night-vision footage. For me, the mere concept combines too many fears.

It's like "Dinner on Elm Street."

Not only am I scared of the dark, but I'm scared of food. I also don't necessarily like a surprise on a plate, and even though people frequenting Opaque choose their menu while in the light, who knows what one would actually get to eat? I instantly had horrible visions of the dinner scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where they sit down to a feast of eyeball soup followed by a monkey brain entree with a side of dead bug puree. 

Maybe it's just me.

First off, I don't like my foods to touch each other on the plate. I have to properly separate it and make sure that my gravy-less mashed potato does not co-mingle with the dinner roll, which in turn does not converge with the plain turkey. I do not like sauces, I do not like things that are "squishy," and I've got the gag-reflexes to prove it. That alone would freak me out at Opaque.

Secondly, I am afraid of the dark. For the first few years of my life my parents would put me to bed at night, and just as they turned out the light, I would scream "I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED!" I would continue to scream for several hours until the neighbors grew concerned I was being tortured. To me, the dark was torture. This behavior lasted until just before I got my "big girl bed," when an escape from Alcatraz-like climb ended up in a face-first biff out of my crib resulting in a fat, bloody lip. As my dad iced down my face, thinking of how to tell my mom when she came home from work, his guilt took over and he let me fall asleep with him on the couch each night before carrying me to bed. This behavior lasted clear through several seasons of Miami Vice until I was nearly in junior high. (For those doing the math, Miami Vice ran from 1984 to 1989.)

Stick the two together in a "sensory dining experience" and for me, you've got a meal anxiety case study for any seasoned psychoanalyst. And then what if there are ghosts? I'll bet they haven't even considered the ghosts.

I want to open a restaurant called Bright Light. At my restaurant, you open the fridge-like door and are bathed in florescent glory. After donning sunglasses and a nice slather of sunscreen, you choose from a highly specialized, yet limited, menu of grilled cheese sandwiches, Special K with Red Berries and Diet Dr. Pepper. For dessert, you have Tropical Chex Mix and blueberry vodka. You know what to expect, no surprises, no Freddy in the corner. At Bright Light, you know what you're getting into, and the only people freaked out are the Mogwai.