Monday, February 13, 2006

tuna-head on the house and other tales of freedom during a snowstorm

This weekend was temperature nosedive and multi-inches of snow. A mighty wind blew and the brain was discovered.

Friday night was a surreal dinner at a Korean restaurant. "Happy birthday (pause), my friend…" cycled and cycled through the loop of electro-pop versions of both electro-pop songs and otherwise. There was a dire communication barrier between seven of us and the wait staff, which was not simply a language barrier but rather some amorphism of sound occurring between mouths and ears.

E.g., I ordered the one spicy dish listed under the barbecue section of the menu so I could try out the grill planted into the center of the table. A waiter came out with a large bowl. None of us owned up to having ordered it. The waiter left and returned seconds later with a menu in hand, pointing. "Numba 9. Who ohdahed numba 9?"

Well, I had ordered number 9; however, number 9, I attest, was not a bowl full of noodles, various meats and sea creatures. Such a concoction cannot be barbecued. I took it anyway. A surprise party for my taste buds and digestive system.

The highlight of mishaps was the egg roll. B ordered a sushi roll for an appetizer. She also ordered a couple of egg rolls. A small tray arrived, holding one tasty-looking roll and two bizarre looking rolls, seaweed and rice enclosing something yellow. Ba-dum-bum. Egg rolls.

Then the wait staff came one after another and many at a time, bringing bowl after bowl, until we had approximately 30 bowls and plates of stuff before us. The final non-entrée dish: head of tuna. One for each side of the table. "On the house," said the waitress. Tuna-head on the house.

As we drove away from the Korean restaurant, B, M, and I whim-stopped at the sex shop down the street, where the frumpy male employee who looked like he had enjoyed a lot of lonesome sci-fi features (not that that’s bad) approached as we made our way down the first wall of dildos. What complicated contraptions some of them are.

In response neither to our interest nor our asking, the guy was eager to explain the history of The Rabbit and how it works. He explained the difference between the plastic and metal beads that gyrate. He brought his hand forward from behind his back. "I happen to have one with me right here." How about that.

Afterward we drove to a bar and talked developmental idiosyncrasy and neuropsychology over some whiskey & diets in front of the dart board. Throw caution to the wind.

Saturday night I watched Eraserhead for the first time. What I learned: in heaven, everything’s all right. Even if your cheeks have acquired spongy growths. Possibly there will be worms or mutant babies that the doctors aren’t even sure are babies there. Good god, Grandma could toss a salad. Despite her stupor. Grind my gears, man.

Then snow feet snew.

1 Comments:

Blogger Sara said...

I'd been meaning to see that movie for years. David Lynch is bizarre. He intrigues me. Those of course are understatements.

12:45 PM  

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