July 11, 2004

• Another Saturday, but this time, at the Mystery Cafe.

  
  

  Live jazz. Live Celtic music every so often. Coffee shop. Amazing food and dining area.

  
  

  These are the voyages of the S.S. Foreman and the prestigious cruiseboat Hood.

  
  

  

  
  

  Le cafe du mysterie, a.k.a. votre maman.
  See if you can spot mystery chef behind shrubbery.

  
  

  

  
  

  Rachel, yet again, orders only an appetizer.

  
  

  

  
  

  I, of course, had the duck. And rice. And some white smeary shit.

  
  

  

  
  

  Here is Rachel's head. I think. Look at the pulsating globules of light behind her. Magnificent.

  
  

  

  
  

  Okay, my cheek looks really fat, but really, it's the beginning of that guy's neck. This face also speaks to me. It says: I'm not paying fucking twenty dollars for this fucking plate of duck. But that was when I didn't know how much it cost.

  
  

  

  
  

  I call this Dragonslayer.

  
  

  

  
  

  Jazz man being hit on by scary wench. After twenty million minutes of conversation, she hands him her "card" with her "phone number" on it so that "she" will hear from him "about" music and/"or" sex.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I call this Boxfan.

  
  

  

  
  

  Fini

  
  

   

  
  

  P.S. Mat, at the end of our escapades, we thought that we should perhaps call you, but alas, we found that we had but twenty minutes to phone within our limited time-frame. Therefore, we didn't. Bye. Consider yourself not called.

  • 4:01 am
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