![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraSpent the morning in bed reading up on the coming influenza pandemic, courtesy of The National Geographic (which I guess has given up entirely on third world tits and ass as a strategy for moving newsstand copies.)
Don't know when, why, where or how, but when it comes, the flu is gonna be big – kinda like Tony's opening solo in West Side Story or Hurricane Rita, except that now it looks like Rita's gonna avoid Texas altogether and redeluge New Orleans.
So many catastrophes. But only a binary choice: do I scream or do I whimper?
Wait – there's a third! I can just fucking ignore it all and that, I think, is what I'm going to do. I'm gonna die, the world is going to end. The former is a tragedy; the latter, a given. Meanwhile, I have some time to kill.
So. The Food Network came to Steinbeck Plaza this week and spent five hours filming Bobby Flay barbecuing sardines and mussels exactly fifteen feet from SLOW Burn so that the store should be clearly visible in every shot! They made us turn off Homer and remove his PETA apron (People for the Eating of Tasty Animals.) Well. They didn't hold a gun to our heads or anything. They asked us nicely; I sensed invisible muscle, so I complied.
Sardines and mussels, it should be noted, have not played a prominent role in the local marine ecology for many years but they're what Monterey was famous for, back in the day. And Bobby Flay only spent an hour posing in front of the grill. As far as I could see, he did no actual cooking.
Then he came into the store. Trailing his entourage.
He stopped when he saw a bottle of Matouk's West Indian Flambeau on the Caribbean shelf. "You got their Calypso and their Hot Pepper sauce?"
"Of course," I lied. Usually, we do. Right now, we're sold out. September has been so slow sales-wise that I've put off reordering everything till October. But Bobby Flay did not want to hear about that.
"Matouk's is the best sauce ever," said Bobby Flay. He picked up a bottle of Busha Browne's Puka sauce. "This any good?"
"It's great," I said. "But it's Walkerswood under a different label."
Bobby Flay nodded sagely. "You know your stuff." He made a big, sweeping hand gesture. "This is a very cool store."
And then he turned around – his entourage making scuttling motions like tugboats – and walked out. Without buying anything.
What is it about these fucking celebrities? It was Lance Armstrong recidivus. Would it've hurt Bobby Flay to spring for a $7 bottle of Marie Sharp's? God knows those poor sardines and mussels, who were now beating Joan of Arc's record on the barbecue rack, would have greatly benefited.
Well, one good thing: if memory serves me right, Bobby Flay is married to the blonde who used to play the DA on the sex crimes flavor of Law and Order which removes several degrees of separation between me and Maritska whatshername, daughter of mammary queen Jayne Mansfield and the object of my repressed Sapphic lusts.
Don't know when, why, where or how, but when it comes, the flu is gonna be big – kinda like Tony's opening solo in West Side Story or Hurricane Rita, except that now it looks like Rita's gonna avoid Texas altogether and redeluge New Orleans.
So many catastrophes. But only a binary choice: do I scream or do I whimper?
Wait – there's a third! I can just fucking ignore it all and that, I think, is what I'm going to do. I'm gonna die, the world is going to end. The former is a tragedy; the latter, a given. Meanwhile, I have some time to kill.
So. The Food Network came to Steinbeck Plaza this week and spent five hours filming Bobby Flay barbecuing sardines and mussels exactly fifteen feet from SLOW Burn so that the store should be clearly visible in every shot! They made us turn off Homer and remove his PETA apron (People for the Eating of Tasty Animals.) Well. They didn't hold a gun to our heads or anything. They asked us nicely; I sensed invisible muscle, so I complied.
Sardines and mussels, it should be noted, have not played a prominent role in the local marine ecology for many years but they're what Monterey was famous for, back in the day. And Bobby Flay only spent an hour posing in front of the grill. As far as I could see, he did no actual cooking.
Then he came into the store. Trailing his entourage.
He stopped when he saw a bottle of Matouk's West Indian Flambeau on the Caribbean shelf. "You got their Calypso and their Hot Pepper sauce?"
"Of course," I lied. Usually, we do. Right now, we're sold out. September has been so slow sales-wise that I've put off reordering everything till October. But Bobby Flay did not want to hear about that.
"Matouk's is the best sauce ever," said Bobby Flay. He picked up a bottle of Busha Browne's Puka sauce. "This any good?"
"It's great," I said. "But it's Walkerswood under a different label."
Bobby Flay nodded sagely. "You know your stuff." He made a big, sweeping hand gesture. "This is a very cool store."
And then he turned around – his entourage making scuttling motions like tugboats – and walked out. Without buying anything.
What is it about these fucking celebrities? It was Lance Armstrong recidivus. Would it've hurt Bobby Flay to spring for a $7 bottle of Marie Sharp's? God knows those poor sardines and mussels, who were now beating Joan of Arc's record on the barbecue rack, would have greatly benefited.
Well, one good thing: if memory serves me right, Bobby Flay is married to the blonde who used to play the DA on the sex crimes flavor of Law and Order which removes several degrees of separation between me and Maritska whatshername, daughter of mammary queen Jayne Mansfield and the object of my repressed Sapphic lusts.
