Performed at SOLID HANG Presents / Mothra : A Night of Epic Storytelling by Dodd Loomis, December 1, 2004

One of those brutal days of class. Those sit staring at the clock "tick, tick, ticking...did the 2nd hand just move backwards?" kinda days. Studying Beckett to boot. The same play, the same theme, the same bleak clipped words... We get it guy... You're obsessed with Mom and wish you were dead. Just say "that" and get it off the stage! Enough to gouge your eyes out. And right when I thought that might actually be a good idea, the smashing clang of the classroom's fire house style bell set me free. With coat already zipped & backpack strapped I bolted out the classroom door and cruised the length of the drab school hallway: chipped grey lockers to my left. With 2 hands, I shoved open both blue steal exit doors and revealed the crisp blue of outside. Freezing cold azure skies & absolutely no wind.

Empty trees peeled of their foliage & a crunchy floor blanketed with shedded orange & brown. With hands tucked in toasty pockets & head downward pitched tossing smoking puffs of frozen breath, I aimed for an adjacent neighborhood I hadn't explored before. In quick clip, I cut through unfamiliar cobble streets & across unsuspecting bridged rivers. I took turns I hadn't taken before & aimed for streets that looked strange. After alley darts, street zips & garden zooms, I found myself hunger-halted in front of "The Viking", a bizarre dark wooden steadfast with nobody home. It was oddly inhospitable and felt as though it should have a cracking hot stone fire & a Mediterranean tart hip shaking with a tambourine. But nothing. Only cold slate floors & empty wood carved chairs. I grabbed 2 candles and a lonely table in the corner. A bar wench revealed herself from behind the keep. Crazy bloodshot eyes in her head like glassy cue balls bagged in red fishing nets. In a sassy swagger or saddle-soar strut, depending on the angle of observation, the leathery woman approached me, then scribbled my demand: a massive bowl of hearty goulash. She grunted, turned and waddled away. I stretched into my bag & found my cow's hide journal, neatly & methodically untwined its leather tether, which bound it closed, then creased a fresh page. The fibrous paper tugged my hand's skin. I pulled a pen from my pant leg pocket, uncapped it, licked the tip & dove in. My 1st words were aggressive & colorful. The rolling ball scratched jagged letters and crooked words jabber-mouthing the day's hellish experiences & workshops in patience as my mouth chewed its lips. The pages flipped. And flipped some more. Then the swaggering wench revealed herself again, only now double clutching the largest bowl of soup imaginable. With her shoulders deep behind her heels, she countered its weight, then plopped it down before me as if it were the Catholic holy water basin. Entire potatoes floated in a vegetable sea, carrots topped & celery sprung. It came with fork & knife. I pulled my leather bound book from under neither the basin's heavy & holy weight, tied it back, put it away, & then went to town. As only seemed appropriate, I snatched my fork & knife from the tub's platter and gripped their steel handles as if headed in to battle. With tight fists & keen eyes I stared down my competitor. My tense hands stereotypically sharpened their utensils upon one another. Shing! Shing! Shing! Sending an echo through the vacant establishment. A drip of salivation landed in my own lap. I could feel myself getting that crazed look in my eye, that crazed look that had plagued me so many years ago in Tijuana. I couldn't contain myself. Eager to tackle this mass of salty stew, I began sawing through its thick vegetation & endless barbs of floating meat. I finished mincing the goulash just as my brow broke in to sweat. Realizing the time had finally come to actually consume these goods, I sent out my tongue to lick its salty lips. I reached to the other side of the goulash's platter & found a large wooden spoon, hand dug & good for ladling. I gripped it like a Celt & plunged it into the soapy broth for the 1st time. Up came heaping a variety of hearty eats, I glanced for a second, then stuck it in my mouth. My dry lips dragged over the bumpy wood, my teeth combed for carnage. I chomped & chewed, swallowed & slugged, devoured & devastated a cow's worth of meat, a field's worth of carrot, a wagon's worth of potato and a St. Patty's Parade of cabbage. Cheek twitching, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, slow & hard. In the Pagan spirit & Bacchus venture, I ordered a pitcher of red & washed it all down. Rosy nosed & bushed; I capped my pen & headed home. A truly excellent way to defuse a sour mood.