Here we are in midsummer… have you had succatash?
“Baby, working at the beauty shop, you make my heart go bippity bop.” Little Joe Cook (with the Thrillers)…
“You’re stupid… you should sleep late man, its just much easier on your constitution.” The Biz
I went out partying with the fellas from the East Coast Tuesday night. The Cambridge stilo dictates late night booze for high prices at the Charles Hotel in the square of Harvard, and thats what I was feelin. A coworker and I split a cab ride home…. I guess I left my cellphone in the taxicab… No problemo. At work I called the Charles Hotel but they didn’t have my device. I spent the rest of the day waiting tables and calling my own cellphone, hoping a human would pick up. The cabbie came on eventually… “Yes, yes, its my phone. No I cant meet you in Harvard Square, Im at work. Yes its my phone! I want to give you some money…” Cabbie gave me his number, and I called him from my house. We met at a gas station Wednesday afternoon and I got my phone back, gave him $10. Both of us were so happy. Why must my life journey be so insane?
Back at the East Coast Grill Wednesday night I ran into my old friend, an oyster. Somewhere in the raw bar’s burgeoning bed of ice there lurks a giant, a true monster. Its a Red Tide survivor, a gangster oyster. This thing weighs over a pound, is the size of a pro ballers baseball glove. I tried to open it three nights in a row but it merely clenched and shucked me up. It is the first impenetrable oyster I have encountered. The pro shucker returns from Connecticut tomorrow… anyone in the Inman region should head over and request it, shucked wide open, for sucking, on a bed of ice, with a lemon. Maybe I’ll go over to eat it. Or perhaps I will steal it, and release it back into the wild. Fucking oyster could tussle with a lobster and win. I know some lobsters, and they have meaty claws.
That the big one lurks does not irk me so much as the ghost oysters. When oysters die they turn into black stinky mud. Sometimes, when they have been dead for a certain amount of time, that stuff gets washed out of the shell. But the ghost shell remains closed, and is oftentimes harder to shuck than a muscly armed oyster. This phenomenon perplexes me. Oysters with bodies in good health have two arms that they hold the shell together with, clenching. These ghost oysters must be holding on with something else, a 3rdarm.
“Slipped into cracks, stripped of all my cash… no more struggle, no more energy, you can write that down, its all too crazy, Im plastic now…” Fugazi
“You’re a moron… Im a victim of hundreds of years of conditioning…”