thirty days ago i awoke sweaty. thoughts burned; viz, what the hell do maitre d's do with the 95% of their time they are NOT directing people to their tables?? and what are they forever scribbling in their little black ledgers?? a name, a time, and a table is a dozen minims; these guys are like the scribes and the miracle of the septuagint. and of course the obligatory lectern.
and so i began watching.
took a table in a greek dining lounge. full-on maitre d' with ruffle tux and a grease pen. night after night i watched. first weirdo thing i notice is that when the guy thinks no one is looking he starts pumping his leg like a damn seamstress. a closer look an i sees a little pedal on the floor by the lectern. what the hell??!!
then i look closer and realize that the guy isn't wearing shoes, but has really thick, matted fur on his feet that is *trimmed* to look like brogues. long twisted hairs for the laces.
my head starts to swim. suddenly he starts writing like crazy, filling pages with what looks in my spyglass like shorthand or small sketches of sailboats with tiny terrier skippers. then the leg goes; more urgent pumping. what the hell??
i struggle to get up from the table, fighting off vertigo with wild swings of my cane. and that's when i hear it -- the flushing. the little whirlpool whoosh that used to make me so sick cause it reminded me of diesel fumes and heaving seas. one long lurch and i flung back the lectern. the bastard had a manual-pump toilet down there just like the one on the boat. shit.
all hell broke loose. dishes and thick brown insect ichor everywhere (he and all the waitstaff were insects). thirty minutes and a dessicated spaniard later, CNN arrived to spin the whole thing al qaeda. those of us who knew didn't care. probably better that way.
at least i am back to sleep.
― hurley (hurley), Tuesday, 16 March 2004 15:08 (twenty-one years ago)
Was Gregor working that night? Did the show include ichorines? What strange burp of Karma is hitting the poor Iberians these days? How, by the way, was their Choriatiki Salata? The Barbounia? So many queries that now I'm weary. Must be the Retsina, or maybe a bug I picked up.
― Otto Didakt (Hereward), Tuesday, 16 March 2004 23:02 (twenty-one years ago)
Questions this inspires in me:
have you been spying on me?
have you been spying on me?
have you been spying on me?
have you been spying on me?
are you implicitly criticising my insect-only hiring policy?
are you aware that an ant waiter can lift a chateaubriand sixty-four times its own weight?
have you been spying on me?
― Matt (Matt), Wednesday, 17 March 2004 07:47 (twenty-one years ago)
As an absinthe drinker, I can understand that Ouzo might make one feel queer. So please sit back down. Relax!!! Please, plaese stop swinging the cane Ouch! It's really beneath both of us for you to make fun of my shoddy footwear - literally. If you must know about the writing, and I'll assume from the violent swaying, the bloodshot eyes and general reek that your continued bipedal presence indicates a fierce desire for the truth, I am a poet. Yes, I know. A bad poet, but sadly addicted to versification. This was the only job I could get and still scribble away half the night. As to making fun of the involuntary tic in my leg, that shows what a cad, what a rotter and bounder you've let yourself sink to. For shame. Ichor!? Ichor?! You've contrived to break the bottle of Fernet Branca I was using in a strictly medicinal capacity over the head (and rug) of that otherwise harmless Brazilian gentelmen, splashing everyone. Now you have the temerity to muble ominously about terrorists and your, wink, connections in the media. Sir, I really must ask you to leave!
― Theodopolos Photamianos (Hereward), Thursday, 18 March 2004 00:20 (twenty-one years ago)
two weeks pass...
You can take your dream to the Ask Dr Freud thread. I'll answer it there. In private. I'm good. (Reasonable rates, too.)
― Dorien Thomas (Dorien Thomas), Wednesday, 7 April 2004 21:17 (twenty-one years ago)