I saw the proprietor yesterday. I walked out of his restaurant shaking my head. I had no idea what we talked about. It started out as a conversation about Barbara Eden, and the Munster beauties, and segued to the Lakers and the rebuilding process, but after that I got lost. The last thing I heard the proprietor say was "and then we'll shoot the missiles into the air," he gave a whistle that sounded like an incoming bomb and lifted his index finger in the air and twirled it downwards.
Things are getting strange between us I have to admit. When he takes my order and asks me what I'd like to drink. I'll tell him water. And when he brings the water, I'll ask if he warmed up the ice for me? When I order a burrito, I'll order it with spagitti sauce on top. It's really ranchera sauce, but that's how things are going between us.
When he brings me the water, he'll tell me that it's rainwater from the rusty pipes on the roof. I'll take a swig and say, ummm, tastes like Himalayan rainwater to me.
