>Try getting decent service at an all american redneck restaurant like  
>Denny's, or some small town diner, while in the garments and make up of  
>your full gothic glory. See how long it takes for the bloody waitress to  
>take your order, which is 'bout an hour later..... 
 
You could always take the approach the science fiction fans take -- which
is to outwierd everybody until they serve you just to get you the hell out
of there. 
 
True story: 
 
After one of the early Star Trek conventions, a unit of Starfleet Security
was on their way back home. They'd done the security work for the
convention, most of them were regular military in their non-fannish lives,
and so carried themselves properly. They're still in full uniform, and
driving a grey can with NCC-1701D/Galileo stencilled on the side. They pull
into a truck stop a couple miles down the road from the hotel to get some
chow before hitting the interstate. 
 
When they walk in, it's like one of those old Westerns where the piano
player stops. Everybody turns and stares. Lots of truck drivers in jeans
and CAT tractor caps, and a waitress with Big Hair (tm). Starfleet
apparently rates a table in the back. 
 
Lori Tartaglio, who's half Italian, half Mediterranean Jew (long story),
and has the coloring for it, is done up as a Vulcan, and still in full
makeup, ears and all. She looks over the menu. "Captain," she stage
whispers. 
 
The squad commander leans around to see her (she's only 4' 10"). "Yes?" 
 
"They don't have plomeek on the menu..." Lori grits. 
 
"Uh oh." The captain's eyes go wide. He turns to the waitress. "Miss? You
don't have plomeek on the menu." 
 
The waitress is perplexed. "Plo-what?" 
 
"They don't have plomeek," Lori says, a bit louder. She starts making her
face go red, which is an interesting effect considering her olive skin and
the Vulcan makeup.  
 
"It's, well," the captain tries to explain.  
 
"No plomeek!" Lori grinds out. Steam is starting to come out of her ears.  
 
"It's thick," says the captain to the waitress, "and it's orange, and,
well, it's plomeek! Look." He beckons the waitress closer. "She can only
have sex once every seven years. Do you know what sort of frustration she
goes through?" 
 
Lori rolls her eyes back into her head and starts bouncing up and down in
her seat. 
 
"I'll go check..." says the waitress, and flees to the kitchen. 
 
A few minutes later she comes back, very nervous. "The cook says he's never
heard of it..."  
 
"Plomeek!" Lori shrieks. 
 
They finally get her calmed down, and their food arrives quickly
thereafter. About the time they're finishing their meals, however, another
van pulls up outside. The captain recognizes it, and passes the high sign
to the rest of his crew.  
 
Out of the van piles the KDC, the Klingon Diplomatic Corps. When they come
into the restaurant, Security en masse leap to their feet, screaming
"Klingons!" They out with their [hasers and open fire. One Klingon
immediately drops. The rest throw over a nearby table, dive behind it for
cover, and return fire with disruptor pistols. Starfleet throws over their
table. Much exchange of gunfire, with bewildered truckers diving for the
floor. The Klingons grab their dead and wounded and bolt out the door, pile
back into their van, and peel out of the parking lot at 80 per. Starfleet
grabs their dead and wounded, pounds out the door to their van, and engages
ina high speed chase. 
 
Nobody paid the bill. 
 
A couple miles down the road, the two vans pull over to the side, there's a
brief exchange of words, and it's agreed that the Klingons will go into the
next restaurant first, and Starfleet will follow 45 minutes later. 
 
Moral of the story: A customer is a customer, no matter how he's dressed. 
 
-- 
Andrew W. Ragland, Product Support Manager, R & M BioMetrics / BioQuant
bqtech1@usa.pipeline.com   ***  The Internet is a Process, not a Thing