It’s eleven fifteen on Saturday morning. Julie and I are sitting on a park bench waiting for the restaurant to open. Javier was supposed to unlock the doors at 9:30 but hes missing in action. The busboys and kitchen staff are milling around the front
I’m at the dog park with Buster, my joint custody pooch. Sitting on a park bench and drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup, I’m shooting the breeze with Mike, a retiree and fellow dog owner, enjoying a glorious spring afternoon. Overhead the sun burns
“Hello and welcome,” I greet my new table, a prosperous looking couple in their fifties. “And how are you this evening?” “What are the specials?” the woman says, not gracing me with eye contact as she rummages through her purse. “I’m sorry madam,” I reply.
It’s a rainy, miserable Sunday night. I’m watching a chocolate lava cake as it strains and bubbles under the electromagnetic ministrations of the dessert stations industrial strength microwave. You have to be careful when nuking prefab desserts. If you let the cavity magnetron run too
Addendum: There’s a video for this story. Go to this link and click on “Dial Up/Broadband” at the top of the page to see the video. (Must have Real Player) It seems the managers at Telepan, an eatery on the Upper West Side, are being
I’m at the gym doing lat pull downs. The battery in my iPod’s gone dead so I’m forced to listen to the conversations around me. Normally I try and make the gym my dead zone, a place where I shut off the tape recorder in