The Writing On the Wall

This is how things work. At brunch last Sunday I met up with a cook who works in the kitchen with Seth, a friend I made at the East Coast last summer. Seth is a chef and now operates his own kitchen but stepped in to help out the boys in our kitchen at the time. He still occasionally does catering with the East Coast and thats how his silverware got mixed up with our house silverware. When this happens, and its not that often, I take the unique silverware aside from the rest and name it.

The current list of unique and named silverware that has gotten mixed into our own includes Excalibur, Metropolitan, the Pharoah, Thunderbird, and Pontiac, just to name a few. Portrait, the pretty spoon, has gone missing. Anyway, Seth’s two spoons were serpentine and mixed steel with black steel. Megan named them “Rhythm” and “Cobra.” I gave them to the coworker to bring back to Seth, because sometimes I have to do what feels right and give it all back. And this is where things in the universe begin behaving strangely, start to get interesting, turn me on a little.

Two days later two new spoons magically appear mixed in with our silverware. Heavy, ringed spoons. At first, when I didn’t realize that there were two identical, and I thought it was just one, I named it, “International Space Station.” I was feeling that one, but then the other turned up. Megan or Tina, I don’t remember which, came up with a better system for naming these two: Moon Units 1 and 2. The universe gave us these spoon units as a compensatory gift for the good deed done in the Lord’s presence on Sunday.

This may seem merely parallel, but I assure you its the same phenomena. About a week back I was in the bathroom at Bukowski’s taking cameraphone images of the writing on the wall. I didn’t know why I was doing it: I am not a big graffiti artist. Only when provoked by a long list of names for a penis did I enter the fray. I was compelled to record the bathroom wall; it was a compulsion. Days later all that writing, which had been there for as long as I’ve worked at the East Coast Grill, two years, was gone. Painted over. Washed away by the same forces that tossed us those spoon units, but not before I could save it for posterity.

The first time I wrote on the wall it was in a list of synonyms for penis that the boys had all contributed to. Every imaginable name for a penis was up there. Cock. Dick. Cooli-ooli-oolio. All of ’em. So, to be different, off-beat and truly funny, I wrote “wizard’s sleeve.” There was a public uproar, a strong reaction. A jerk wrote next to my word, “You know that’s a name for a vagina not a penis, right?” No shit, of course I knew that. But I was just trying to change the subject. I decided the next thing I wrote would have to be a lot tougher and more aggressive, something the boys couldn’t shoot down.

That’s why in the first picture, to the right of the strange elephant octopus, it says, “Out of control wild boys writing to one another on this wall – you’re all hot.” Nobody responded to that, and I felt measurably more confident about my wall writing ability. So much so that one restless night, probably a hot one where I get my licks in Grindhouse style, I wrote, “Fuck you bitch you football who can’t transform into a bear. FUCK YOU ANTI-POPPLE!” That right there is about as aggro as I get, and I don’t blame Bukowski’s management one bit for cleaning that wall. That’s some nasty nasty.

And it’s also the way of the universe.

Post script from the mens room at Cambridge Bukowskis Tavern Post script from the mens room at Cambridge Bukowskis Tavern

One thought on “The Writing On the Wall

  1. noamsky says:

    this is the beauty of the internets; bathroom poetry without the stink.

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