Behind Dyspepsia

No one knows what it's like
To eat some bad fish
A truly sad dish
Behind a happy guise

No one knows what it's like
To be nauseated
To be fated
To telling only lies

But my meals
They aren't as terrible
As this one seemed to be

I never claimed to be a poet. I’ve ripped off Springsteen and now its Townshend’s turn. As a local radio station says, back to the music in two minutes or less.

I'm generally a loveable individual but I was put in a cross mood by a work lunch Thursday. The company was fine, including my Belgian boss, but we chose a bad restaurant, at least from my perspective. To paraphrase 4M, "What did you expect in Milpitas?" The special of the day was described as "a potato encrusted Chilean sea bass". What arrived in front of me shortly thereafter was a fish of indeterminate lineage that had been boiled to death. As far as the crust, I think they had made a morning stop at a local greasy spoon to pick up some hash browns, equal parts sogginess and grease, that they dumped on that poor fish. I had entrusted my encrusted fish to them and they let me down. The whole mess was served on a bed of well-oiled vegetables. They did do a nice job of dusting the edge of the plate with parsley and seasoning.

Under normal circumstances, I would have indignantly sent it back to the kitchen but being that it was free and my boss was buying, I picked at it a little and loaded up on bread. If you're looking for good bread, this place might work. Fortunately we're going back to Chapeau in SF tonight, which will exorcise memories of that lunch

Returning to the music theme, the jury selection for the Phil Spector trial started this week. It looks like his wall of sound will be replaced by a wall of concrete.

On the political front, I’m forming an exploratory committee to determine if Newt Gingrich is a hypocritical prick.

To close, I’d like to wish Happy Birthday, one day late, to one of my favorite East Coast readers.