HOW TO TREAT A MODEL @ FOURTH STORY RESTAURANT I was hanging out at the Emporium of Design, rapping with my partner Dusty (not rapping in the contemporary 'yo, yo, yo' sense but in the more retro 'blah, blah, blah' sense) when my cell began to ring. It was Sean. I told him where I was and to stop by then he said, "Cool, we'll go get something to eat!" As if the last dining fiasco I had endured at his hands never even happened. I said, very simply, "Look brother, in the unlikely event, by some strange twist of fate, we ever go out to eat again, no one would notice because they would be too busy watching monkeys fly out of my butt. It ain't gonna happen man! I died last time!" I guess Sean's phone had cut out before my rant, because there was no response. He was on his way, the impending doom of dinning dread was looming and I was considering running out the door when he walked in. Then I noticed he had internationally renowned model Mariana with him. We passed introductions around and I announced, "Look, this time in the interest of dining decency and the welfare of all involved, I'll pick the place." The dilemma was that I was pretty broke but dragging an international model to Bubba's grease pit was out of the question. Classy but reasonable, hmmm, then it hit me, the Fourth Story above the Cherry Creek Tattered Cover! Mariana and Sean rode together, and Dusty came with me in my SUV since his busted leg wouldn't fit in Sean's sports car. Our entrance looked a little like this: An impeccably dressed photographer and striking international model exited the elevator. They chit-chatted quietly, while pretending not to notice the envious glances of the other restaurant patrons. Just behind them, out of the same elevator, shambled a 6'6" 280- pound tattooed gorilla with an equally tattooed guy (maybe the gorilla trainer) on crutches. They mumbled loudly while completely oblivious to the disgusted stares of the unfortunate diners. Then, much to the chagrin of the onlookers, the unlikely group all sat down at the same table! Mariana's boots: $300. Sean's silk shirt: $75. My and Dusty's entire combined outfits: about $40. The looks of dismay and horror: priceless. Some things you can't put a price on, but for everything else there is the pre-conceived notions card. I ordered the hearts of romaine and grilled chicken salad with creamy garlic anchovy dressing, and mango Ceylon tea. Every one else had cashew and date chicken salad sandwiches. We all shared a basket of various breads and garlic spread while making conversation. Sean recounted stories of photo shoots and Mariana shared pictures and stories about her latest project in Chile. The conversation on our side of the table was a little less continental but nonetheless colorful: tattooing, motorcycles, hot rods, broken bones, etc. (the usual). The food came and the table fell silent for a moment while we all dug in. The conversation started again shortly with Sean commenting on the sandwich; "Stellar," I think he said. I know my salad was beyond belief, but the food and service is always good here, so I wasn't surprised. The thing I did find surprising was Mariana. Here we were sitting at the table with one of Elite Atlanta's international models who has probably been featured in more ad campaigns than I have tattoos ... and she was genuinely interested in our comparatively mundane lives. [Editor's cackling weasel note: tattoo artist, professional wrestler, actor, reverend, food critic ... the stakes on mundane have just gone up.] She shifted gears between stories of her world travels and our tales of motorcycles and tattoos as if they were all the same thing. Some people might think all models are just a pretty face and a bad attitude, just like someone might think that big tattooed guys are thick in the head (okay, that's a bad example, considering), but nonetheless if you open your eyes and look around a little, you might just see something you've never seen before. Or, if you're lucky, you might even see something you've always seen, but you'll see it differently. A [Publisher's note: Several readers mistakenly thought Bobby Black ran around the city with me, Sean Weaver. While I certainly like Mr. Black, and have had several interesting phone conversations with him, I have never been seen in public with a cell phone or a $75 silk shirt. We won't even bring up the topic of models. All Rights Reserved © 2001 Go-Go Media, LLC