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You know I never discuss female thermodynamics - Lou; Rescue Me

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The WORD of the Week

Matthew 3:7-10

But when he saw many of the Pharisees and Sadducees coming to where he was baptizing, he said to them: "You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?

Produce fruit in keeping with repentance.

And do not think you can say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our father.' I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham.

The ax is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.

Stupid Fact of the Week

There was only one civilian casualty during the three-day Battle of Gettysburg

29 November, 2005

Tales From NYC: Went To Hell's Kitchen, Going To Hell (Part 7)

Times Square, New York.

7th and Broadway. Tin Pan Alley. The Actor's Chapel. Duffy Square. TKTS. The Palace. Restaurant Row. Schubert Alley. The New Vic. Ochs Street. Rodger's & Hammerstein Row. The Imperial.

Crossroads of the World.

It unfolds before you like a real-time Hollywood Blockbuster. The lights. The sounds. The swearing. The buildings. The history. The street peddlers and merchants. The curbside artists. New York's Finest.

In no other city in America can you stand and feel... this.

And there we were. Two lonely young blokes standing outside the Olive Garden taking everything in and praying to the gods of cruel irony that some true Brit wouldn't decided to ask us for the time or some other such nonsense for the next hour and a half.

We petitioned long and hard. Adam produced a small stick of tobacco which he used as a burnt offering, testing the flavors and aromas himself so as not to upset the gods.

The ladies arrived, upset already since we did not procure a table ahead of time. How were we to know the rules of American dining etiquette?

We entered the Olive Garden through a revolving door and ascended two escalators before finally reaching a hostess and waiting section. While we waited we were introduced to, and chatted it up with, Terri, the elder and married friend.

Before you could say "Bangers and Mash," we were seated. We all ordered, mainly salads and breadsticks with waters, with a few colas here and there, and several appetizer.

The conversation lulled into a dreary silence, which I chose to fill by fiddling around with napkins and such, until I realized that made me look quite nervous. I quickly claimed to be rather tired from the night before and that succesfully set off a bit of conversation.

When the drinks came 'round, Shatarsky was quite taken with his Diet Coke, as it had a wedge of lemon in it. This set him off on a bit of a monologue, which killed an excellent slice of time, about how American's put lemons in and around everything in restaurants. It was lovely. I joined in about halfway through and we tag-teamed it like pros.

Then came something only Shatarsky would do. The lemon bit had just died a wonderful death, as all jokes must, with the last few faint chuckles still lingering around the back alleyways of the mind. And then, right in that moment when you draw that silent breath to close the door on one story or idea or thought or event and move on to the next, he spoke. In perfect seriousness.

"And Ice." He began to look at the ice in his glass as though it were mystical, examining it carefully with his straw. "Only in America do they put ice in your drinks. I've never seen anything like this."

The table froze. There wasn't a breath, a laugh, a snicker, a scoff. Nothing.

I froze.

There is one rule in Improv: Do not block. What this essentially means is, if someone says to you, "Hey, did you hear that Uncle Louie is comin'?" You don't say, "No, he's dead." Kinda kills the flow. Leaves you nowhere to go.

But what am I supposed to do with, "You can't get ice in your drink anywhere outside America"?

As I was approaching a suitable solution to this dilemma, Adam broke my concentration by setting down his drink with a hard thud, leaning back in the booth, and saying, "No. That's all nonsense. You can get ice anywhere."

The ladies laughed. I looked at him and smiled. It was one of my patented smiles. The one that says, You're a very, very funny man... don't ever do that to me again.

I think he got the message. But just to be sure I immediately began planning a way to get him back. My opportunity arose much sooner than I thought.

"So, I must tell you," Christy began, her attempted British dialect, ironically, worse, if possible, now that she was sober, "that when I first met you... chaps... I thought that you were completely full of shit, and that you probably lived right down the street."

I glanced at Adam and chuckled. It was a British chuckle. His eyes had that sharp edge to them that they usually did, especially when we were engaged, as we most often were, in such nonesense and tomfoolery. But there was also a hint of that panic that he had managed to keep fairly well hidden since those first several moments at the St. James. I knew if I was to get him, I had to act right then.

"Well, I've got to tell you," I began, "You're a very perceptive person. You're not too far off at all."

I glanced at Adam, and held a pause for as long as I could stomach it.

"We are completely full of shit, I'll give you that much."

Adam recovered in no time.

"Yeah," says he, "One out of two's not bad."

We all had a good laugh and before you knew it, the food had arrived. We began to gorge ourselves on the delicious breadsticks and various fried appetizers.

And then I caught the panic in his eyes. Deep. Worse than before. Worse even than the previous night at the bar. He motioned ever so slightly for me to lean over towards him. I did. He leaned in close to my ear, his lips almost touching me. He whispered something so low a bat wouldn't have been able to pick it up.

"What?" I whispered back.

He attempted again, only raising his volume slightly. I couldn't make it all out, but the pieces I got caused the panic to fill into my eyes, too, I'm sure. It swept through my body so that I went completely warm and numb all over at the same time.

I cast my gaze cautiously around the table so as not to seem conspicuous, and then I turned my head slightly to get a better view of the table behind us.

A tall woman wearing a straw colored hat and wire-rimmed glasses sat facing our direction. Across from her sat a shorter woman already working on a glass of blush wine. The tall lady was telling her friend, we shall assume, a story about an encounter she had earlier that day.

She spoke in the most beautiful British accent.

posted by Rockel @ 5:47 PM

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