|"See the LSD in CLOSED and the whole world will OPEN." |
—Eric Nevada, healer, shaman, psychedelic researcher
“Can we have this table?” the gallerist asked, pointing to a large table set for four.
|Susan Feniger (right) all agog.|
The gallerist looked sort of like one half of the Two Tamales, those white women that cook Mexican food at The Border Grill. She looked like the shorter one with the glasses. The one that always has her mouth wide open roaring with laughter. I think the Border Grill lady with the glasses looks like a Muppet. When Muppets make appearances on cooking shows they’re absolutely amazed and all agog all the time. The gallerist, however, was not all agog. She was all a-mad. And, in that sense, she bore a semblance to Howard Stern. Very stern. If Howard Stern had grey hair. She’s a gallerist because Tania thought she looked like a gallerist from New York. “All gallerists look like that,” Tania said. She looked rich. And pissed off, as many rich people tend to look. Entitlement.
|Elmo, all agog.|
“I’m sorry,” the hostess said, “we have a reservation for four arriving.”
The gallerist and her husband grudgingly sat down at the small table they were originally intended for. The gallerist made stank face and continued to grumble after the hostess gracefully departed.
“It’s so dark in here,” the gallerist complained. She scanned the restaurant for another alternative. Huff, huff, huff. The entire restaurant was evenly illuminated, but the gallerist had determined that her corner failed to benefit from the dim luminosity that bathed the other tables. She stood up, despite her husband’s protests.
“You stay here,” she commanded. “Stay.” Like a dog.
|Tania, not all a-mad at the Big Sur Bakery.|
|Lamb. I eat lamb. And thus I ate this lamb with my face.|
The gallerist went to the front of the restaurant and had a short discussion with the hostess. When she returned she told her husband that she hadn’t caused a fuss. “I just said that we’re not sitting in this room on Friday night,” she said. The gallerist had apparently made reservations with friends for another dinner on Friday night. And apparently they’re not going to be messing around with tiny tables in dark corners come Friday night, nuh-uh, no way. The gallerist insisted to her husband that she didn’t complain to the hostess. She merely told the hostess that this dark table in the back corner just won’t do for Friday night, but they’ll tolerate the small dark table tonight, just this one time. It’s okay, we don’t want to cause a fuss. We’re not like that. We’re civilized. But we do hate this table you’ve seated us in so very much.
And it worked. The hostess returned with the manager and the two of them, smiling, offered the sophisticated gallerist from New York City and her glum little husband the table that was intended for four. They sat down at their new, larger, brighter table. The gallerist thanked everyone involved and claimed to be much happier. Though she remained pissed off.