I’m in a mall right now, at the food court, surrounded by neon and bright decorations in a vaguely southwest style. Rattlesnake sculptures with glowing red tongues and rattles, gila monsters with neon haloes, and the like adorn the pillars in this boomy place, and all around me are the classics: Wendys, Dairy Queen, Orange Julius.
Of course I sat with a view of the Hot Dog On A Stick franchise. I don’t think they ever sell any food, rather I think the chain is funded by a sadistic old man performing a long-term social experiment to discover the lower limit of human pride by paying pretty girls to wear the ugliest clothes imaginable in public.
I chose none of the above delights to break my fast; I was drawn to a blue neon sign hollering “Ichiban” into the void. They were just bringing the first trays of chow from the back, and I looked over the vaguely asian fare as it lay glistening under the lamps. The red peppers I call “hot little mothers” were abundant in a couple of the dishes, and I knew I had found my chow.
I am woefully out of shape; the hot little mothers are really hot this morning. Still, after eating a few of them, I can feel the endorphins start to work. Add the fat, salt, and sugar from the food, top it off with a refill of Coke, and I’m processing a chemical cocktail that is working very well with the jet-lag, thank you very much. Synergy at its finest.
Now I’m off to Bigass Bookstore to look for a book about pet therapy that is technical, at least 150 pages long, and hasn’t been translated into czech yet. (It’s for a friend! Really!) Wish me luck.