A beautiful girl is a long pretzel stick in a short glass on a plain tablecloth waiting for table settings to join it. Brittle, but not peanut brittle, because peanut brittle has flavor (I don’t really know what peanut brittle is). Beauty does not have flavor. You cannot get it all in your mouth at the same time to taste it. The mouth is round and beauty isn’t. The world may not be flat, but beauty is.

(and another thing, I don’t really know what long pretzel sticks are either, have never seen them in a restaurant on a plain tablecloth; what do I know?)

I was in a restaurant, a fancy restaurant, but not, in my opinion (duh!), a good fancy restaurant, and there are good fancy restaurants (fancy, fancy restaurants, I just like saying fancy), in anybody’s opinion. I was there in the bountiful confusion that I lust after to call my life. In other words I had no idea why I was there or where I was. Oh yes I do, I know why I was there, I said yes.

Sometimes it’s the easiest thing to do, some wacky scheme is presented and instead of saying, um, wacky scheme (voice hightailing up at the end to show pause), NO, you say, hey sure, yes. Yes. (I’ve always wanted to lead midnight candle-lit vigils across a college campus with signs reading Yes Means Yes (no I haven’t), although I have wanted to respond to midnight candle-lit vigils across a college campus with signs reading No Mean No, with “I’m sorry actually, it doesn’t, the population of the earth attests to that” (in all fairness, and to parenthesize even more, there may never have been those candle-lit vigils, could have been just mythic righty creations, like the supposed and now disproved spitting at returning soldiers, to tar lefties with)).

[Oh a ‘lil more on beauty, I had an old friend want to show another old friend (“old friend” is sorta a stoopid expression, but I like it here, please read more into it then its first glance of meaning) a garage space as a possible art studio. The landlord had somehow locked it (how’d he lock it? with a key) and so we couldn’t see it. Gawd, that was the most fascinating space I’ve ever not seen.]

BTW, you needed a jacket at the fancy restaurant and I knew that (Zoots Zagats!) so I uh, wore one, Paul Smith, grey, like the grey of a sleek hound (I don’t need to explain that I dunno any sleek hounds, do I?). As we were leaving the girl at the coatcheck (“the girl at the coatcheck” somehow conjures up crooners), said to me,

“Can I have my jacket back.”

I really didn’t understand what she was saying. It was like a waiter coming up to you and saying he’d like the steak please.

“Oh,” she said finally, angrily. “That’s your jacket, sometimes I lend them out, I’m not stupid you know.”