Strange Doings


Guess I haven’t been blogging lately.  I’ve been busy with my fledgling web design business so I haven’t had time.  I think I got so tired of the whole lousy New York Times business that I needed a breather, too.  The thing is still going downhill, everyone’s attacking Obama anyway, it’s gray and cloudy out and for some reason I’m in NJ instead of LA.  Big difference, by the way.

I have a dream — a dream to create a new blog about Maltodextrin, my latest enemy.  This stuff is in every food product you can imagine!  Talk about the downfall of society.  Everytime I eat something and feel groggy and stuffed-up, I look at the label, and sure enough, it’s my old pal Maltodextrin.

Advertisements

scarychefdet.jpgYou gotta be kidding — look at this guy. Apparently the joke went right over the collective heads of The New York Times, who published this picture today under the title, “YOUR WAITER TONIGHT…” Is that a threat or a promise?

This is what you see when you grab your first gander at today’s Dining Out section above the fold — this horrible, Manson-like evildoer serving tiny portions of gruel to you, the reader/potential restaurant-goer.

Is this some latter-day John Malkovich with a bad haircut? What about that thousand-mile stare? Or do we now expect sociopaths, recently released from the State Asylum, to serve us dinner at our local upscale NYC eatery? I don’t want my chef serving me dinner, thank you. Just because he can cook doesn’t mean he knows how to hand over my scrod foie gras without dropping it in my wife’s lap.

EyeglassesEyeglassesEyeglassesThree years ago, I worked for some sort of financial company. Toward the end of my run, my supervisor was abruptly fired for calling in one morning and saying he was coming in to kill five people. I wasn’t there that day, but heard about it when I turned up the next day. I found out my man had had some kind of psychic break, not totally surprising based on his usual behavior. We were instructed to be on guard in the wake of his threat. He disappeared into the Los Angeles haze. Secretly, I always assumed I was one of the five.

Yesterday, I walked into a store to buy eyeglasses and heard my name. It was psychoboss, in a blue smock with the company logo on his pocket. I froze. Please don’t be my salesman, I remember thinkGod as Anubising. I was in a dicey mood since I had just returned a bad pair of glasses and was hoping this place could solve my problem. The problem? I couldn’t see, and seeing is one of my all-time favorite senses, so I was pretty focused on having better luck at this store.

I looked up to God for a moment and whispered very funny. I audibly heard a skyborne chuckle. I’m only messing with you because you can take it–you have a sense of humor. As usual, He was right. It’s just so wearying, I thought. I know there’s a life lesson I have to figure out, but sometimes these karmic items are so confusing that my vision blurs and I feel like napping. I have to figure this one out tomorrow.