einstein-robin-hood-blog

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

“Joyfulness of the occasion,” explained.

If you’ve visited the Barnett-Mulligan Writers’ Institute and Indoor Trampoline Park, or if you’ve spent any time with the lovely Barnett-Mulligan children ...

... you’ve encountered the expression “joyfulness of the occasion.” What does it mean and where does it come from? I will tell you now.

What it means

It’s a fancy way of saying “you’re welcome.” For example, when someone says “Thank you so much for driving me to my AA meeting, can I give you some gas money,” the response would be “Oh no, no, no, happy to do it - joyfulness of the occasion and all.” Or, more succinctly, “Not necessary - joyfulness of the occasion.” 

Another, even more succinct example: “Thanks for skinning that rodent,” “My pleasure - joyfulness of the occasion.”

Where it comes from 

When my brother got married, I had the distinct honor of being his best man. And distinct honor was about all it was. If I remember correctly, my brother basically did everything and I wandered around in a daze. It all went smoothly, and he and his wife are still happily married, so I’m declaring my work as best man successful and complete.

One of the tasks I actually performed was paying the priest. My brother had put cash in an envelope and instructed me to give it to the priest when the ceremony was over.

I easily found him, approached him with the envelope in my hand, and said “Father, thanks so much, this is for you.” He replied “Oh no, I couldn’t, joyfulness of the occasion...” Before he sounded the “n” at the end of “occasion,” however, the envelope was out of my hand and in his pocket. Catholic Lightning, I believe they call it. Like the guy who turns the light switch on the wall off and is under the covers before the room gets dark.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

A Tuna Sub in Belgravia, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Chapter One

Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs “Sherlock, there’s someone here to see you about your ad!”

“Please send him up, Mrs. Hudson.”

John Hamish Watson, M.D., recently of the 5th Northumberlund Fusileers and the 66th Berkshire Regiment of Foot, entered the room. He was wearing a bright orange sweatshirt emblazoned with “PROUD AFGHANISTAN VET” in electric blue script. Under his right arm was a foot-long white package, on which was written in thick, black ink - “Watson/Tuna Sub With Olive.” This being the lunch that he had just picked up from the sub shop (”Jolly Wanker’s Grinder Shop”) below Holmes’s flat.

Holmes looked up from his violin and glanced at Watson."You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive." After a pause, Holmes added, “And I believe you will be having a tunafish sub for your luncheon.”

Watson stared blankly at Holmes and nodded slightly.

“Perhaps you are wondering how I was able to ascertain this.”

“Um, not really. I think the sweatshirt is a bit of a giveaway.”

Holmes arched an eyebrow and asked “Sweatshirt?”

“Yes, sweatshirt. See?” Watson thrust out his chest towards Holmes.

“Ah yes. But what about the tunafish?”

Watson held up his footlong (with olive) and waggled it at Holmes. “I suppose you can read English, which is a bit of a giveaway.”

Holmes stood up, made a soft grunting sound, and reached over and cupped his right hand over Watson’s ...

EDITOR’S NOTE: WHOA! WHAT THE HOLY HELL?

He’s responding to the personal ad, and I thought it was time they, you know, got down to business.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The ad is to share the flat, not to do any... cupping.

But what about Grinder?

EDITOR’S NOTE: “Grinder” as in sandwich, not the hookup site.

I misunderstood.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Fine. Let’s move on.

Fine.

Chapter Two

Once again, Lestrade had run into a dead end and reached out to Holmes.

When he arrived at the flat in Belgravia, Holmes was confronted with the corpse of a middle-aged man, in blue and white striped pajamas, face smeared with what appeared to be chipotle mayonnaise. Clenched in his left hand was a fistful of pickles; in his right, a similar amount of black olives. His head was quite efficiently staved in. 

Lestrade told Holmes the little he knew: “He appears to have been bludgeoned to death, but we can’t find any weapon.”

Holmes quickly announced “It was a week-old petrified tuna sub.”

Lestrade was stunned: “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I am looking right at it. It’s under the loveseat.”

Lestrade got down on all fours and reached out for the erstwhile murder weapon. He was dedicated to his nightly pint or two (or three, if necessary), but he was also religious about hitting the gym three or four times a week. The result was a pair of firm, sculpted buttocks that strained, enticingly, against the shiny, well-worn fabric of his trousers. Holmes, his curiosity piqued, cupped his right hand and reached ...

EDITOR’S NOTE: STOP. I THOUGHT WE TALKED ABOUT THIS.

With Watson. You didn’t say anything about Lestrade.

EDITOR’S NOTE: C’mon. Be serious.

And I wasn’t sure what the “loveseat” reference was about.

EDITOR’S NOTE: It’s a piece of furniture.

Fine.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Fine.

Chapter Three

Just as Holmes was about to call out to Mrs. Hudson for tea, she appeared in the doorway with a tray. The boys’ favorites: PG Tips, Ginger Nuts, and McVitie’s Digestives. She was wearing something they hadn’t seen before: a classic French maid’s outfit. Watson shot Holmes a startled glance and he returned an extremely arched eyebrow.

When she turned to leave, it couldn’t help be noticed that the back of her outfit had no bottom. Although well into her sixties, Mrs. Hudson had taken care of herself and it was truly impressive how shiny and taut her...

EDITOR’S NOTE: No more. That’s it. You’re done.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

TUNA ROYALE by Ian Fleming

Chapter One

Bond arrived in M’s office 15 minutes late for their meeting, which was early for him. After giving Moneypenny a chaste peck on the cheek, he sauntered in and helped himself to one of M’s bespoke cigarettes: Turkish tobacco with a hint of chipotle pepper.

M put down his tuna sub and started right in: “Bond, we have a serious situation on our hands. Blofeld and Oddjob have teamed up again and created a new terrorist organization. They call it -”

“Don’t tell me - they call it -”

This time M interrupted Bond, “That’s right, they call it O.D.D.F.E.L.D.”

“Really? I would have thought...”

“Never mind what you would have thought. Blofeld’s scientists have perfected a one-man underwater attack vessel. They’ve designed it so well, that our sonar can’t distinguish it from a fully grown tunafish. They call it - “

“Let me guess - the Tuna Sub.”

“That’s right, the Tuna Sub. And they have an entire fleet of them. The only saving grace is that they look so much like a real fish that Welsh fisherman have been catching them like mad. They don’t suspect anything until they’re sent to Cardiff and the sushi chefs get a hold of them. Which has led to some really interesting maki rolls.”

M continued, “James, It’s up to you to stop them. Find O.D.D.F.E.L.D’s lair and destroy the tuna subs. I’ve got you authorized for 40 hours a week, time and a half for overtime. I’ve also upgraded your dental and vision plans. I want you to meet with Q. He has some new gadgetry that you’ve just got to see to believe.”

Chapter Two

Q put down his tuna sub and showed Bond what appeared to be a small automatic pistol: “Now James, look at this. It appears to be a small automatic pistol.” 

James responded, “Yes, if I’m not mistaken, it’s a standard issue Berretta 418. Eight rounds, .25″ caliber, black finish.”

“That’s what you think, James, but pull the trigger and see what happens.”

Bond pulled the trigger and a small white flag popped out of the barrel of the gun. On it was printed “11:45.”

“What the hell is 11:45?”

Q happily responded: “It’s the time, James. This device gives you the exact time, printed on a nice clean sheet of white linen.”

“Where do the bullets go?”

“Bullets? There are no bullets. This just tells you the time.”

“But I have a watch that tells me the time.”

“Maybe you do now, but you could find yourself in a situation where you don’t have a watch.”

“in which case, I could simply ask someone what time it is.”

“Easier said than done,” Q responded, and moved on to his next gadget.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

Untold Tales of Head Trauma, No.1 - Three Occasions on which I was Knocked Unconscious

One

The first time was when I was eight or nine. My folks went out shopping one evening and brought me along with them. It was Macy’s, Gimbel’s, or that department store in Hempstead that had the weird hidden stairway that always gave me the willies.

These shopping trips were torture for me. I wasn’t qualified to offer any helpful advice about what washer or dryer my folks should buy, so after about five minutes, I was bored out of my mind and had to find ways to amuse myself. (That’s how I came across the weird hidden stairway.)

One easy distraction was looking through a circular racks of clothes. Push them aside, one by one, to look at the different styles. On the day in question, I didn’t notice that there was a wooden mannequin perched atop the circular rack of clothes that I was rearranging. After enough pushing, the mannequin, which had to weigh 80 pounds, got very tippy and came down on my head. Lights out for Little Patty.

I woke up in what appeared to be the room they use to interrogate shoplifters. My folks signed some form - probably agreeing not to sue Macy’s for the indignity visited on Sweetheart (yes, my family nickname, if you must know.)

Two

You all know that I played first base and centerfield for Mr. McHale’s seventh grade baseball team at St. Aidan’s Catholic School, Williston Park, NY, ZIP CODE 11596. I used to think that hitting a home run in the bottom of the ninth inning and winning the game was the ultimate baseball fantasy. (Fantasy that doesn’t involve Rosanna Arquette, that is.) But let me tell you this, catching a flyball in centerfield and then throwing a perfect strike to home plate to get the runner and end the inning is pretty good, too. 

We’re practicing and Curveball Dave is playing third base. I am playing first base. Routine grounder to third. Curveball Dave fields it cleanly and throws to first. Unbeknownst to Yours Truly, Curveball Dave has thrown a curveball. I line it up, make the stretch, and just before the ball hits my mitt, it takes a wicked dip and hits me square on the chin. On the button. Right on the choppers. The kisser. The pancake hole. The tooth house. The potato chute. Lights out for Medium-Sized Patty.

I wake up in Mr. McHale’s car on the way to the hospital. He, I’m sure, breathes a huge sigh of relief. We avoid the requisite Newsday headline: CURVEBALL DAVE CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM; COACH MCHALE JAILED. I eventually lose a tooth years later. But a root canal takes care of that. 

Three

By now, you are sick of hearing about the Renaissance Country Club. But indulge me just one more time. We shan’t unring that bell once bally old Montesquieu has blocked the wheels, eh? WODEHOUSE! I thought I was done with him, but apparently not. 

Before my folks purchased Gertrude - the stalwart 1968 Ford Falcon Futura, that came to be my Chick Magnet and wheels - I rode my bike to the Renaissance. A gold Schwinn 10 speed that my brother Tex won for selling Newsday subscriptions, I believe. He will correct me if I am wrong. 

Students of North Shore planning and geography know that Roslyn and Roslyn Heights have some serious hills. The Renaissance was atop one of these hills. To enter, you went up a long, steep, winding driveway. Impressive entrance. Gets you in the mood to enjoy a delicious meal that is 100% maggot free.

And the driveway is a blast to coast down on your brother’s 10 speed bike.

One night, after a long shift of getting yelled at, I was cruising down the driveway, feeling free and looking forward to getting home and listening to Greetings from Asbury Park and The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle (this was pre-Born to Run) and reading the latest Spider-Man comic. Have I mentioned that the driveway had no lights and at 10:00 on a summer’s night with no moon, it was pitch black? Steven Hawking black hole dark. But my eyes had adjusted and I could just barely make out the road. Until a car came up the driveway with headlights blazing. I went flying into the woods. Lights out for Big Patty. 

I don’t know how much later it was when I woke up, but by some miracle nothing was broken on me or the bike. I got home fine, put on some Bruce and that was that. No more biking to work. From now on, I’d go into the city with my fellow workers and carouse until dawn. Much safer. 

Me, wearing appropriate protective headgear.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

The Catcher in the Tuna on Rye

I guess you’ve heard by now what I did, who I did it to, and how much they complained when I was done doing it. But Mrs. Fortescue thinks it would help if I put it all down in writing. She’s the lady that my parents make me go talk to every week about why I’m not performing up to “Caulfield standards.” She’s not bad for a grown up, but she sits too close to me and she has really terrible breath. It smells like really bad tuna, or really good catfood.

It all started when I missed the train to Boston. I was going to visit my girlfriend. Or I should say, my ex-girlfriend. She had broken up with me after I got thrown out of school for putting chipotle peppers in the cafeteria’s mayonnaise. I thought it was funny, until they told me that Douglas Portnoy ate three tuna subs slathered with the stuff and almost died because he was allergic. I didn’t care about getting kicked out. I was glad to get out of that place. Full of phonies who thought they knew everything about making tuna salad, but who really didn’t know anything. The headmaster always insisted that the cafeteria put olives, pickles, and capers in the school’s tuna salad. I kept telling him it was too much. Olives and pickles, fine. Olives and capers, fine. Capers and pickles, fine. But all three was way over the top. The headmaster kept telling me he understood, but then every Friday, there they were: pickles, olives, AND capers. What a phony.

And I would have made it to the train on time if I hadn’t gotten into an argument with that stupid cab driver. He got me to the train station fine and we were having a nice chat about how toasted the bun of a tuna sub should be. We both agreed - lightly toasted only. But after I paid and gave him a tip, he said “OK son, I have a tip for you.” He then started telling me that the onion in the tuna salad should be coarsely chopped, so you knew the onions were in there. This was crazy talk and I told him so. I kept saying that the onion should be finely chopped or grated, but he kept giving me that smug look that grownups give when they know they’re wrong, but since they’re adults and you’re a kid, they don’t care and think they’ve won the argument, when they really haven’t.

The next train was in a couple of hours, so I had some time to kill. I thought of going to that fancy restaurant on 59th Street next to the midtown Paint and Sip. My aunt Phyllis used to take me and my little sister there for special occasions. They have a bluefin salad that is pretty good: marinated tuna, roasted shishito peppers, distressed leeks, and activated red lettuce. It’s not bad, but I don’t think they marinate the tuna long enough. And I’m getting tired of activated lettuce - all the phony trendy restaurants are using it now. I decided not to go to the fancy place - it was pretty expensive and I wanted to save my money for Boston.

I wandered around midtown for awhile. I almost bought a baseball hat that read “TUNA? I HARDLY KNOW HER”  but I thought it was a little racy and I wouldn’t want my little sister to see it.

I got back to the station in plenty of time for the late train, but all the good places to eat (Tuna Heaven, Tuna-a-Go-Go, Ask Me About My Tuna, Tuna Now Unto the End of Days, and my favorite - Tuna? You Got It!) were closed. I had to go to Subway, and you know how I feel about those phonies. I had no choice and ordered my usual - tuna, toasted bun (lightly toasted, please), pickles, lettuce, tomato, and chipotle mayonnaise. I asked the guy behind the counter if I could have a real piece of lettuce, instead of the shredded stuff that they liked to pile on everything. He told me

“Sorry, we don’t have any whole lettuce leaves. But coming soon, Subway will be offering activated shredded lettuce!”

“But wait - you must have whole lettuce leaves. The shredded lettuce must start as a whole leaf of lettuce. You know, BEFORE YOU SHRED IT.”

“I’m not following you.”

Of course this led to a big argument. The manager came over, then the police, and then the National Guard. The result was that I didn’t get a sub, because I told them they could take the sub and throw it at the third rail. Then they made me take a walk and calm down. By the time I got back, the last train had left and Subway was closed. I’d have to bed down and wait for the first train in the morning. I found a nice bench, far from the winos and the Hare Krishnas, and settled in.

I slept pretty good until the cleaning crews came in around three in the morning and woke me up. I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I took a walk around the station. Way in the back, near the news stand that sold the Polish glamour magazines, I found a vending machine that sold sandwiches. Perfect, I thought. I was starving and a nice sandwich would hit the spot. When I looked inside the machine, though, I got depressed.

They had every kind of sandwich - roast beef, ham and cheese, salami, egg salad, tuna salad, Mediterranean roasted root vegetables with dill and creme fraiche, even tongue - but they all looked the same. Two pieces of dried out bread, with some barely visible filling in the middle, wrapped in plastic. I was having serious second thoughts, when I heard a voice behind me: “Excuse me, sonny.”

It was an old guy pushing a cart full of more of the sandwiches.

“Can you step aside, please? I’ve got to refill the machine”

What was he talking about? What was there to refill? Every slot in the machine was taken up by these sandwiches from hell.

“But it looks full to me,” I told him.

“I know, but they want fresh ones in here every day. In time for the morning rush.”

The morning crappy sandwich rush?Is that a thing? This was too much. I asked him:

“Does anyone actually buy these sandwiches? Have you ever had an empty slot to fill?”

“Now that you mention it, no. I never thought about that.”

Oh brother. ���What happens to the old sandwiches?”

“They go to that orphanage for the blind kids. Down in the East Village, near the Paint and Sip on Christopher Street. They love ‘em.”

“Are there really that many blind orphans in New York?”

“No kid. They can see fine. The parents just send them there because the sandwiches are so good. And free.”

“What?!”

“Of course they’re blind, dumbass.”

I thought he was a nice old guy, but now he was turning out to be kind of cranky

“Could I have a sandwich? I missed the last train to Boston, and now I’m really hungry and Mrs. Fortescue says I should stay open to the possibilities of miracles in my life.”

“Sure kid. What kind do you want? Take a couple, they’re small.”

I took a couple tuna on rye. I didn’t like rye bread, but it was all he had. I was going to start complaining. But then I thought about those poor blind kids, sitting around. Other than eating these stupid sandwiches, I don’t know how they spend their time. Learning how to tie their shoes, I guess. Pretty sad. I felt guilty about whining about tuna salad marination times, lettuce leaves (activated and shredded), toasted buns, onions, and even old Fortescue. I thought about volunteering at the orphanage. It would be great if I could teach those kids how to make a decent sandwich, so they wouldn’t have to eat the crap that this old codger was peddling.

No rye bread, though.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

WAITING FOR SUBBO  by Samuel Beckett

GOGO: Did you order them?

DIDI: Order them to do what?

GOGO: Not them. The sub shop. Order the sub shop to bring us subs.

DIDI: Did I order the subs?

GOGO: Yes.

DIDI: No.

GOGO: I will order them. (Exit stage right; returns)

DIDI: Did you order them?

GOGO: Order them to do what?

DIDI: Not them. The sub shop. Order the sub shop to bring us subs.

GOGO: Did I order the subs?

DIDI: Yes.

GOGO: Yes.

DIDI: When will they come? I’m hungry.

GOGO: Soon.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

NAKED LUNCH WITH POOH AND PIGLET By A. A. Milne and William Burroughs

Chapter One - In which Piglet plans a special luncheon for Pooh’s Birthday

Although Pooh was a bear of very little brain, Piglet was positive that he did, in fact, have a birthday. So he set himself to making plans for a picnic party with all the fixins: pickles, olives, tuna subs with chipotle mayonnaise, and lots of honey. Christopher Robin thought it was a fine idea: “I’ll make my famous brownies!” he shouted. Christopher Robin’s brownies were known all through the Hundred Acre Wood. He packed them with the finest herb. One small brownie would have you drooling buckets and put you over until well into next week. Christopher Robin ate two with every meal. He weighed exactly 375 pounds.

Tigger stopped by and took a look at the piece of paper that Piglet was using for his to do list. The first item was “MAKE LIST.” “Oooh hoo hoo! Listy ma twisty listy! Are you making a list, Piglet?” Before Piglet could respond, Tigger started in: “Humpitty chump chump, who needs a little bump? Bump bump a rump.” He took out a little glass bottle of coke and started waving it around.

“That coke is wack,” said Eeyore as he ambled into the clearing. “Owl cuts it with so much crap that you have to snort half a dozen lines before you feel anything.” He paused a moment before adding: “It’s very disconcerting.”

“Well, no one’s making you do Owl’s coke,” Piglet offered.

“That’s rippity roppity right,” said Tigger. “And Owl says if you keep talking trash about the product, I should pop a cap in your ass.”

“But I’m a donkey,” moaned Eeyore. Then he asked Tigger if he had any Quaaludes. “No,” said Tigger, “but I have some ether that will straighten you right out. Bloopity, sloopity, snoopity.” Eeyore said “Fine, I guess,” and sighed a deep sigh and tromped off to the meadow, his big ears flopping against the can of ether.

Piglet finished making his list, looked it over and announced that he had everything he needed back at his house, except the honey. “We must have lots of honey,” he told the group, “or Pooh will be jonesing really bad.”

Tigger stopped bouncing for a moment and told Piglet “I can get you honey, but it’ll cost you. We’re hard up right now because the bears are done hibernating and they’re raiding every beehive in the woods.”

Piglet asked him how much he wanted, and Tigger said one hundred acorns of the brightest shade of green. With the caps on.

“It’s a deal,” said Piglet, “can I get it by noon Saturday?”

“Does Pooh shit in the woods?” responded Tigger, “no problemo, amigo.”

Chapter Two - In which Pooh’s birthday party does not go as planned

Piglet decided to have the party at the Paint and Sip on West Pico Boulevard. They had a deal - a party of twelve got the first round of refills free. And the Paint and Sip on West Pico was the only one in town that had Tej - the Ethiopian honey wine that Pooh couldn’t get enough of.

Tigger showed up with the honey and threw in a few bags of Turkish opium as a birthday present. Tigger warned Piglet “Tell him no more than two bags at a time. Or else he’ll never come down. Or wake up, for that matter.”

Pooh showed up with guns blazing - literally. He had a chrome plated .357 magnum in each paw and announced his arrival by firing off a few shots into the air. Owl dropped some pellets and took off for the highest branch he could find. Pooh had his entire entourage of low rent she-bears with him - Kim, Kourtney, Khloe, and Kylie.

All of the she-bears squealed with delight every time Pooh fired his guns. Except for Khloe. She hated guns, and wasn’t too crazy about Pooh, if the truth be told.

“Why do you have to shoot your guns so much? It’s so uncool. And someone could get hurt.”

“What you talkin’ ‘bout?” Pooh responded. “Nobody gets shot, unless I want them to get shot.”

“Fine. I’m going to get myself a jar of honey and a glass of Tej and find a shady spot under a tree.” Khloe started to storm off, when Pooh stopped her.

“Now hold on there, darlin’, you know safety is job one with your Pooh Daddy.”

He holstered his guns, grabbed a tuna sub off the buffet table, and led Khloe over to the Honey Tree.

“Baby you stand here, and you’ll see something. Don’t move.”

He had Khloe stand with her back against the tree and balanced the tuna sub on her head. Then he measured off ten paces, drew one of his guns, and turned to face her.

Christopher Robin spoke up: “Ten paces? Kid stuff. My uncle Maurice could hit that sub at ten paces. And he has cataracts and a twitch.”

“Ten paces seems like a perfectly reasonable distance for an occasion like this,” Eeyore said. Then he wandered off to the buffet table, because he had heard that someone had put out a bowl of Quaalude salad.

But Pooh was stung by Christopher Robin’s remark. He was also extremely wired from too many lines of Owl’s third-rate blow. He paced off another 20 yards. Then he turned, faced Khloe, and drew one of his revolvers.

You’ll never guess what happened next.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

The Dharma Subs, by Jack Kerouac (excerpt)

Just outside of Barstow, the needle on the speedometer hit 120. Dean let out a whoop and put his chin back on the steering wheel. He had a tuna sub in each hand (toasted parmesan cheese roll, lettuce, tomato, black olive, extra pickle, benzadrine) and was steering with his chin.

“Sal, grab the wheel for a sec.”

I leaned over and Dean reached into the cooler on the back seat and grabbed another sub (iron foundry bread, wilted Apache lettuce, Hampton tomatoes, jingo weed sauce, crystal meth). Now he was working on three and yelling:

“This is it, man! No one has ever driven 120 while eating three subs!”

We were headed to Denver to hear Carlo Marx read his new poem -

HOW(L) Do You Want Your Sub? - at a Paint and Sip in East Colfax. There was a waitress there that Dean had knocked up on his last trip through town and since he had just gotten divorced, he was all set to marry Gladys (that being her name).

But it had to be a surgical strike, because there was a warrant out for Dean. Last summer, Dean beat up a kid who was working the counter during Sub Night at the Montbello Paint and Sip. Dean didn’t like the way the kid made his sub (Hawaiian longboard bread, Emily Dickinson lettuce, whorehouse tomatoes, Popeye spinach, olive oil, very few pickles (really, it was insulting), peyote). Dean jumped over the counter, knocked the kid out, and then emptied the whole jar of pickles on his sub (Hawaiian longboard bread, Emily Dickinson lettuce, whorehouse tomatoes, Popeye spinach, olive oil, way too many pickles now, peyote). This probably would have been fine, except he then poured a gallon jug of chipotle mayonnaise on the kid’s head. Dean’s bad luck would have it that the kid aspirated some of the mayo and was in the hospital for six weeks. Yeah, that stuff burns. Also turns out that the kid was a nephew of Denver’s mayor, Aloysious “Triphammer” Fortescue. So the whole Denver police force, batons in hand, were on the lookout for Dean.

The sun was going down when we decided to take a detour to Provo. Good sub town. They had a special sub, called The Esteemed Savory Elder Brigham Young, May His Memory Be A Blessing, Sub (Yemeni pita, sundried lettuce, Incan tomato,  pickled forget-me-nots, mescaline), that drew them in from miles around. Folks in Provo got their energy from the mountains and the tumbleweeds that blow through town night and day. True believers who spend their days roping cows, throwing seed on dirt that’s been in their families for generations, or pulling a double shift at the Paint and Sip. At night, they trim their nose hair in the bathroom mirror and wait for the banjo repairman. Say what you will about Mormons, they know how to make a good sub (toasted pioneer bread, double cheese, oil & vinegar, righteous Jesus pickle, amphetamine).

It was around midnight when we spotted her by the side of the road. We had just passed through a ghost town called The Parson’s Handbag and were starting to flag. We were down to our last sub (quinoa loaf, swamp lettuce, moonbeam tomatoes, blind midget peppers, dead coal miner sauce, pineal gland extract).

Her name was Sunbeam and she was dressed as a giant six foot sub (foam rubber bun, styrofoam tomato, green felt lettuce, plasticine chipotle mayonnaise, LSD). And a five gallon tub of pickles under her arm. She jumped into the front seat and sat herself down right between me and Dean.

“Good tidings, hepcats. You fine examples of American manhood wouldn’t happen to be going to Provo, would you?”

“As a matter of fact, sister, we are,” I replied. “Settle in and dig the happenings.” Dean just stared.

“So, milady of the toasted bun, what flame doth draw thy sweet and tender mothiness to the enchanted burg of Provo.” My flirting game was a little rusty, so I may have been laying it on a bit thick.

“Big sub convention! The Mormons are rolling out a new secret sub (?????,?????,?????,?????). They claim just one bite gives you eternal life and your own planet. Makes The Esteemed Savory Elder Brigham Young, May His Memory Be A Blessing, Sub taste like dirt. They call it The Rapture Sub.”

“Far out. I wants in, missy.”

“You gots in, mister.”

Through all this world-class flirting, Dean was quiet as a speakeasy mouse on a three-day cheese and port wine jag. His eyes were glued to the road. Every once in a while he’d reach over and grab Sunbeam by the bun. She’d giggle and slap his hand away playfully.

We eventually ran out of subs and decided to pull over and crash for the night. Being a gentleman, or thinking myself to be one, I offered to sleep in the trunk, leaving Sunbeam the spacious backseat and Dean the front. He liked to sleep with his chin hanging off the bottom of the steering wheel, “Good practice,” he’d say.

I awoke pretty groggy. Climbed out of the trunk, took a quick leak onto sun-bleached desert hardpan, and peered into the car. Sunbeam was nowhere to be found. Half of her sub costume, torn to shreds, was spread all over the back seat. I looked at Dean and saw that his stomach was incredibly distended. Like 12 months pregnant distended.

I shook him awake.

“What did you do? Where’s Sunbeam?”

Dean rubbed his eyes, spit out the window, and asked “Who’s Sunbeam? Man, am I stuffed.”

“Sunbeam is the chick we picked up past night. I think you ate her!” I was starting to panic. This was worse than the kid and the mayonnaise.

“What are you talking about? I don’t remember any chick. All I remember is tripping balls and eating a giant sub that just wouldn’t stop.”

“That was Sunbeam! You ate Sunbeam! You ate an entire chick!” (long brown hair, sports bra, Grateful Dead T-shirt, hold the undies, blue jeans, huarache sandals, giant foam rubber sub costume, peyote).

Just then, Sunbeam sauntered over from behind an ocotillo bush, hitching up her pants and calling out: “Greetings my brothers! I have completed my morning ritual and returned my essence to Mother Earth, as it has been for all generations since Eve trod in the Garden.” She paused and looked at us: “I’m not even going to ask about the sub costume. If you can front a girl breakfast and lunch, we can call it even.”

Dean looked at me and asked who was she and what the hell was she talking about. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and I told him: “Her name is Sunbeam and I think she just took a piss.” Dean nodded, turned on the radio - “Sweet and Dandy” by Toots and the Maytals. I climbed into the back seat, got cozy with Sunbeam, and we were off.

And there we were, two heteronormative men and a lost flower child of yet undisclosed sexuality, burning a sweet black line of rubber to match the white centerline of the road. We had no idea where our next sub would come from, but we knew it was out there somewhere, waiting.

I’m not even going to tell you what the foam rubber sub did to Dean’s digestion.

.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

The Subiad, by Homer  (Sparknotes)

Dramatis Personae

The Great One - King of the Gods

Franzia -  Goddess of Box Wine

Gallo - God of Grown Up Wine in Glass Bottles

Norton - God of the Underworld

Trixie - Concubine to Norton

Schultz - Blind, Deaf, Mute Ferryman to the Underworld

Klink - Schultz’s Caretaker

Ralphie Boy - God of Messengers and Transfers for the Following Lines: M23, M34 (Jacob Javits Center via 34th Street, and M34A (Port Authority/Waterside Plaza via 34th Street)

Alice - Goddess of the Moon

Gomez - God of Love

Morticia - a French Speaker

Jeannie - a Genie

Tony - her Master; an Explorer and Wanderer

Samantha - a Good Witch

Darrin - her Husband, a Mortal and an Advertising Executive

Endora - a Mother-in-law

Kravitz - a Shrew

Luci - Goddess of ‘splaining

Desi - God of Babalu

Mertz - God of High Waisted Pants

Ethel - Goddess of Aprons and Pearls

Agarn - God of War

Parmenter - a Fool

Maxwell - God of Espionage

99 - ensorcelled Concubine to Maxwell

THE CRAW - a Monster

Ward - God of Wisdom

June - a kitchen wench, concubine to Ward

The Beaver - a seeker of wisdom

Wally - a varsity athlete 

Haskell - Two-Faced God of Liars

Lumpy - God of Food and Wine

Bo, Farrah, Mr. Carlin - Gods of Love

Britney, Miley, and Taylor - The Three Furies

Newman, Bilko, and Buddy Sorrell - Gods of Mischief

Bardot, Loren, and Welch - Goddesses of Beauty

Lynde, Simmons, and Charles Nelson Reilly - The Queens

Mitzi, Liza, and Ann-Margret - Goddesses of the Dance

Nipsey - a Jester

Patty and Kathy - The Twin Cousins

Rosie Fingered-Dawn - Bringer of the Day

Gwyneth - Keeper of the Paint and Sips

And introducing:

Gidget - a Nymph

First Line

Come at me, muse, you FREAK BITCH, and stir my heart and mind (those parts not hobbled by radiation therapy) to tale telling …

Plot Summary

Part One: The Judgment of Darrin

The Great One, proclaiming “how sweet it is,” announces that he is hosting a magnificent feast to celebrate the marriage of his daughter Luci to Desi. Newman, God of Mischief, has not been invited because, well, because he’s Newman.

Resentful, Newman toils for weeks in his workshop to create the Golden Sub - the most beautiful, delicious, fragrant tuna sub that this young world has ever seen. You know that bank where the wild thyme grows? Peppers also grow there. Peppers with magical qualities that Newman  uses to make the enchanted chipotle mayonnaise for his Golden Sub.

On the day of the wedding Newman, disguised as a mortal postal worker, sneaks into the wedding. While the mead is flowing and the gods are doing The Chicken Dance, Newman throws the sub onto the dance floor.

The sub is wrapped in a pashmina that Newman bought from a street vendor on 14th Street. It bears the words “To the Fairest.” Each of the goddesses of beauty - Bardot, Loren, and Welch - claim to be the fairest and demand that they be given the  sub. A sexy, R-rated, Kardashian-level catfight breaks out among them. Unfortunately, this is eons before Al Gore invents the YouTube, so sadly there is no record of the torn clothes and exposed goddess flesh. But it’s too late, the guests have seen everything.

Bardot agrees to forego her claim to the sub, if the caterer would just serve the main course already. She also complains that there is no open bar. But the caterer has been enchanted by Franzia and is found naked and unconscious in a lyre-shaped swimming pool. Dinner is delayed and Bardot re-enters the fray. The Great One, growing weary of the discord, announces that he will solve the dispute and award the sub to the most beautiful goddess.

The Great One immediately realizes he has a bit of a situation on his hands: by choosing the fairest, he may make one goddess happy, but he will infuriate the other two. He asks Darrin, one of few mortals present - and the only advertising executive - to choose. “And away we go,” bellows The Great One.

Loren promises Darrin that if he selects her, she will grant him the love of Gidget, the most beautiful nymph in all of Puppetland. He agrees. Loren devours the sub and as a result of Newman’s nefarious magic, she is transformed into a donkey. Newman! When Darrin’s wife, Samantha the witch, learns that he has chosen the love of that little tramp Gidget, she turns Darrin into a donkey.

Donkey Darrin and donkey Loren fall in love and live happily ever after.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

The Maltese Sub, by Dashiell Hammett (excerpt)

I got a nice severance package when they kicked me off the LA police force. I was the only cop stupid enough not to sign up for a cut of the bribes from the Crooked Pinkie Family. The lieutenant figured if I wouldn’t take dirty money, I’d take some clean money and he’d be done with me.

I used my stake to open a private detective agency in Reseda, next to the Paint and Sip on Vanowen. I had two ops working for me: William Wilson and Wilson Williams. They both insisted on being called “Will,” which made it a little difficult to know who was doing what at any given time. Luckily, I had a crackerjack secretary named Della who was able to keep things straight. Della also had a caboose and a pair of stems that made me reach for the whiskey bottle every time she had to file something in the S through Z drawer. As I learned the hard way, Della had a strict “you can look but you better not touch” policy.

Most of the work was what we called “domestic.” Husbands with cheating wives, wives with cheating husbands, or parents looking for kids that had run off and joined the circus. We also had a constant stream of junkies and strung out taxi dancers who would promise me valuable information if I’d only cough up some scratch. I’d give them a fin and a cup of yesterday’s cold coffee, which is probably why I had a constant stream of them. (EDITOR’S NOTE: Why not brew a fresh pot every morning? Tastes so much better, and you’ll have plenty on hand for company.) (GWYNETH PALTROW FOR GOOP!: Or why not try a coffee enema? You’ll get that same coffee “lift,” but without the stained teeth and upset stomach.)(EDITOR’S NOTE: That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of.) (GWYNETH PALTROW FOR GOOP!: Embarrassed about enemas? Don’t be! Invite some girlfriends over for a coffee enema party. Memories that will last a lifetime.)

One fine smoggy LA morning, I had a visitor: Rebecca Fortescue. Yes, that Rebecca Fortescue, star of stage and screen. Were it not for some nose hair issues, Rebecca would be the most luscious dish in Tinseltown. Her husband, Chumley Barnstocking, was a nose hair freak, and the most notorious rake in the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area. Which was saying a lot. Rebecca took a seat and dove right in: “Max darling (that’s me: Max Darling), I want a divorce.”

“I’d be happy to divorce you, Mrs. Fortescue, but I can’t. We ain’t married.”

“Max! You’re so impossibly droll. I mean I want to divorce Chumley. I think he’s cheating on me.” I choked a little on my coffee, gave the eyes a slight roll, and took out my notepad. (GWYNETH PALTROW FOR GOOP!: “Divorce” and “breaking up” are words charged with negative energy. My famous rock star ex-husband and I chose to “consciously uncouple” and have been able to maintain a positive, loving environment for our children. WIth the help of an O-lon B-1000 Ionic Air Purifier, of course.)(EDITOR’S NOTE: Oh for the love of Christ.)

I listened patiently as Rebecca outlined her suspicions, giving me the names of a couple of women that Chumley had been seen with around town. I could have added a dozen or so doxies to the list, but in the interest of maintaining good client relations, I said nothing. (GWYNETH PALTROW FOR GOOP!: Sometimes silence can be the most comforting gift of all. A pair of Swarovski crystal studded noise canceling headphones ...) (EDITOR’S NOTE: SHUT UP, JUST SHUT UP.) When she was done, I responded:

“Alright, Mrs. Fortescue. We’ll put a tail on your husband. In the event we find anything, we’ll contact you.” Like later this afternoon, I thought.

“Max, you’re a doll!”, she exclaimed. “I can’t thank you enough. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” (GWYNETH PALTROW FOR GOOP!: Don’t overlook the power of GRATITUDE in your life. We’re surrounded by so many miracles: ionizing air cleaners, noise-canceling headphones, Paint and Sips on every corner. Expressing GRATITUDE for them can raise our level of ...)

(EDITOR’S NOTE: THAT’S IT. What’s your address? I’m coming over there to kick your puckered white ass.)

(GWYNETH PALTROW FOR GOOP!: Come to Malibu! Living by the ocean is such a dream! I greet every day with a lawn ivy smoothie and a full heart! We’re at 2 Celestial Movement Parkway.I’ll leave the door open.)

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Got it. On my way. I’m going to break every one of your ribs.)

(GWYNETH PALTROW FOR GOOP!: Can you do me a favor?)

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Sure.)

(GWYNETH PALTROW FOR GOOP!: I’m throwing a birthday party this afternoon for my son Kombucha. I need someone to pick up the cupcakes. Do you mind?)

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Sure. What’s the address?)

(GWYNETH PALTROW FOR GOOP!: Great! It’s the Oblivious Privilege Bakeshop, 2933 La Cienega, next to the Paint and Sip. They’re all paid for, you just need to pick them up. I ordered two hundred, so feel free to nibble on the way over. I went with the avocado and pumpkin seed frosting!)

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Got the cupcakes. They’re not bad. I’ve already eaten three.)

(GWYNETH PALTROW FOR GOOP!: Told you! You should stay for the party. I’m making a sackweed casserole.)

(EDITOR’S NOTE: I will! Thanks for the invite. And we can forget about the ass kicking.)

(GWYNETH PALTROW FOR GOOP!: GRATITUDE!)

It didn’t take long to find Chumley. He made it easy for us. He managed to get himself shot four times right through the fracas. They found his body in an alley off of  Sixth Street, right behind the Paint and Sip on the corner of Sixth and Rickenbacker.

Like most murders in LA, this one had some weird twists: Chumley’s cold dead mouth had been stretched wide open. Wide enough to fit half a tuna sub. Which it did. On his forehead was a large “X,” written in chipotle mayonnaise. And the kicker: in his pocket was part of a recipe for that very same chipotle mayonnaise. Written with a pencil stub, it read: “One cup mayonnaise, 1/4 cup chinese black vinegar, tablespoon cumin, handful chopped parsley, and then ask Jack to come over and finish it.” Kind of puzzling. Where was the chipotle? Was that something Jack would add? And who was Jack? Lots of guys named Jack in LA.

I thought it wasn’t my problem, until Rebecca Fortescue stopped by my office to pay her tab. She didn’t seem bothered that Chumley had gone to the big nightclub in the sky. But when I told her that the cops had found part of a chipotle mayonnaise recipe in Chumley’s pocket, she stiffened like she had been given a dry ice cold brew enema. “Sam, I must have that recipe. Jack will...” and then she stopped short. “I simply must have it. For sentimental reasons.”

She was hiding something, but most of my clients were. I agreed to take the case and started calling my friends on the force to see what they knew about chipotle mayonnaise, black chinese vinegar, and if they knew anyone named “Jack.”

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

The Lord of the Subs, by J.R.R. Tolkein (excerpt)

Part 1 - The Fellowship of the Sub

“The subs have changed. I feel it in the bread. I feel it in the cheese. I smell it in the wide variety of fresh vegetable toppings - always available at no extra cost. Dressings that once were are lost,” Flotilla Baggins mused as she bit into her tuna sub.

“Maybe if you didn’t smoke so much pipeweed, things would taste bettter,” her husband, Bongsilt Baggins, responded.

“I don’t smoke that much pipeweed,” Flotilla barked.

“Oh yes, you do, my dear,” ventured Bongsilt.

“Oh no I don’t.”

“Oh yes you do.”

“Oh no I don’t.”

(EDITOR’S NOTE: 14 lines omitted.)

“Oh yes you do.”

“FINE! I’M GOING OUT,” Flotilla erupted.

“AND WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?”

“TO THE PAINT AND SIP, WHERE THEY TREAT PEOPLE DECENTLY.”

“LIAR!  IT’S WEDNESDAY AND THE PAINT AND SIP IS CLOSED ON WEDNESDAYS,” Bongsilt responded.

“YOU MORON. THAT’S THE PAINT AND SIP IN HOBBITON, I’M TALKING ABOUT THE PAINT AND SIP IN HARDBOTTLE.”

“The Paint and Sip in Hardbottle closes at eight o’clock on Wednesdays. You better hurry if you want to have enough time to paint. And sip.”

“OK. Fine.”

“Fine.”

Part 2 - The Tuna Towers

Bongsilt Baggins was one of the richest hobbits in Hobbiton. He owned  six Paint and Sips, spread throughout the Shire: franchises in Hobbiton, Hardbottle, Mansocket, Hairypits, Festering Toe, and Odd Discharge. He also owned the vineyard that supplied the wine to the Paint and Sips, and the mine that was the source of the ores needed to make the paint pigment used at the Paint and Sips.

Bongsilt had been raised in a life of privilege. He was sired by John D. Rockefeller, founder of Standard Pipeweed and widely considered to be the wealthiest hobbit of all time. John D. was descended from the Mansocket Bagginses, whose distant ancestor was Backbeard Baggins, renowned for his long, luxurious back hair. Backbeard was father to Crooked Pinkie Baggins, who was father to ... (EDITOR’S NOTE: 36 lines omitted.) ... who was father to John D.

Bongsilt’s wife Flotilla, on the other hand, was raised in Squalidtown. She was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. Her mother, Peaches Downbelow, was a woman of impressive girth who was unstoppable on the rugby pitch. Flotilla was Bongsilt’s first hire at the Hobbiton Paint and Sip. Once Bongsilt gazed upon Flotilla’s own mighty hips while she wrestled a keg of wine into place behind the bar, his heart was hers.

Part 3 - Return of the King-Sized Sub

It was a warm June evening in Hobbiton. Bongsilt sat alone at the rough hewn oak table in his Great Room. Flotilla was down at the Hobbiton Paint and Sip, now open until 10 on weekends. Bongsilt’s repast was simple: an artichoke waffle, activated watercress balls, and some rubbed spelt.

As he lifted a third watercress ball to his mouth, a knock came to the door. It flung wide open before Bongsilt had a chance to get up.

“BONGSILT, YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARD, LET ME HAVE A LOOK AT YOU,” a thunderous voice filled the room. It was Jerkalf, master wizard of Sodden Earth.

“Jerkalf, my friend, um, to what do I owe this honor,” Bongsilt managed to get out.

“I’ll tell you what, homeslice: I’ve got twelve hearty dwarves coming up the path, and we aim to hunt for the lost chipotle mayonnaise recipe. The evil wizard Soretoe has a fleet of boats that supply him with all the tuna he needs, and his fields and gardens in Stinktown keep him fully stocked with flour and fresh vegetables - always available at no extra cost. If he acquires the recipe for chipotle mayonnaise, he will have cornered the tuna sub market and he will be unstoppable.”

Just then, as promised, twelve hearty dwarves burst through the door. Their apparent leader, who went by the name of Gizmo, embraced Bongsilt and exclaimed: “A fervid hello from the dwarves of Shortytown, Master Baggins. Tales of the splendor of your larder have reached as far as Crapville. Before we partake of your legendary hospitality, allow us to regale you with a song.”

All twelve dwarves then began to sing:

Hi dee ho,

Skippity dee dee dees,

Hi dee ho,

Pass me the chee chee cheese ..

(EDITOR’S NOTE: 125 lines omitted.)

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

The Old Man and the Sub, by Ernest Hemingway

The tuna sub was long. A foot long. He knew because the men at the store had told him so. They were good men, honest men, and he believed them.

When he got home, he decided to measure the sub. His ruler was yellow and cracked, and most of the black numbers had worn off. The metal strip along one edge was gone. The sub was 12 inches long.

When he finished measuring, he cut the sub into two pieces. A small piece for his Tireless Caretaker Bride, and the rest for himself.

His youngest daughter, The Fair She, did not eat tuna. She made herself a bowl of rice, with pickled vegetables, tofu and homemade peanut sauce. (EDITOR'S NOTE: No time to make peanut sauce? Check out Thai Kitchen Peanut Sauce! $10.89 for 8 ounces at Amazon! It's gluten free!) The Fair She watched her parents eat the sub, but she did not judge them.

He always ordered the same thing: tuna sub, lettuce, tomato, spinach, pickles, olives, and mayo. (EDITOR'S NOTE: Customize your sub the way you want it! Never a charge for fresh veggies! Use coupon code ERNYLOVESTUNA and get two subs for the price of one!) He would look at the fancy dressings, and think of ordering one of them someday. But he never did.

When they were done eating, he and his Tireless Caretaker Bride would go upstairs and lie down on the wooden bed he had made many years ago and where two of his children were born. (EDITOR'S NOTE: Therapedic® Luxury Quilted Deluxe 3-Inch Memory Foam Bed Topper now available at Bed, Bath, and Beyond. $199 and up.) They smiled at each other. He was happy because he knew he only had to order two more subs to get a free one.

Coming soon: The Crying of Sub 49, by Thomas Pynchon.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

The Crying of Sub 49, by Thomas Pynchon (excerpt)

Travis Titwillow sat in the living room of his Reseda bungalow, drinking vodka and orange juice and waiting for the doorbell to ring. His best friend, lawyer, and dope dealer, Choco Martini, was due to arrive at any moment. “Flash yer Lights” by Lucky Stripe and his Polecats was playing on the radio:

     If you like what you see,      And got some time to spare,      Wave your arms like you don’t care and      Pull over and flash yer lights.

When the doorbell rang, Travis yelled for Choco to come in. After a minute, he yelled again: “It’s open, dumbass.” When Choco didn’t appear, Travis grunted and got up from his chair, which wasn’t easy. The chair was the latest thing: a Laz-E-Boy/beanbag hybrid. The marketing team at Perpetual Rentals on LaCienega had come up with the concept, which they called the “Laz-E-Bean.” Perpetual Rentals was owned by a bunch of junkies who also ran a Norwegian-Moroccan restaurant next door. It was a sweet set up: the Moroccans provided the Norwegians with all the smack they wanted, and the Norwegians supplied the preserved fish that the Moroccans were crazy about. The big attraction was the lutefisk tagine, which Porter Lowload, restaurant reviewer for the Los Angeles Times, called “the beginning of a new era in Nordic-Arab cuisine.”

After a few olympic gymnast level contortions, Travis got out of the Laz-E-Bean and made his way to the door. Choco was nowhere in sight. Travis was about to swear vengence on neighborhood punks playing ring and run, when he saw a package on his steps. It was a white paper bag, about a foot long, and crumpled up at one end. Travis picked it up and brought it inside. He pulled out a flyer for a rave being held at the Blind Fisherman’s Home in Highland Park.

SUMMER RAVE! Midsummer’s Eve at the BFH! GO HARD ALL NIGHT LONG

With

DJ PORKY BLOODHAMMER DJ GRAVYMASTER w/ Lady Worcesteshire Sauce DJ ROSY-FINGERED DAWN DJ INDECISIVE and

Special Guests: Lucky Stripe and his Polecats

Travis stared at the flyer for a minute, and then reached inside the plain white paper bag and pulled out a sub. He unwrapped it, and lifted the top bun off to see what he was dealing with. Tuna. And on top of the lettuce, written in dusky rose letters that could only be chipotle mayo, was a message: DON’T GO.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

100 Years of Subitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (excerpt)

Many years later, as he faced the Cracker Barrel buffet, Colonel Guillermo Healy O’Reilly was to remember when his grandfather Xeljanz gave him his first tuna sub. No one was ever sure where Xeljanz got the tuna. San Latuda was not only landlocked, but there were no roads that connected the village to the rest of the country. To get there, travelers would have to scale a rugged cliff, swing on a poison ivy vine, and cross a river on a ferry whose pilot closely resembled Ryan Seacrest.

Every month, after all the village women had their menses and performed the cleansing ritual, Xeljanz would push his five-wheeled wooden cart into the village square and sell tuna subs. The Most Beautiful Girls in the village, the triplets Adcestris, Jevtana, and Gralise would always be served first. Xeljanz was in love with Jevtana, and did everything he could to win her heart. The subs that Xeljanz gave to Jevtana were always made with the freshest rolls, extra pickle, and the special chipotle mayonnaise that Farxiga, Xeljanz’s great grandfather, had created. On his deathbed, Farxiga had told Xeljanz the secret: Grey Poupon, with a touch of rapamycin.

But Jevtana’s sisters would not allow her to have anything to do with Xeljanz. Nor would Xeljanz’s wife, Benlysta. Every month, Benlysta would sit by Xeljanz’s side in the village square, watching him like a hawk.

One year, it became necessary for Benlysta to make the long journey to the capital to have some work done. Not much, just dealing with the bags under her eyes and a face peel. She and sister, Cisplastin, left early one morning after completing the cleansing ritual.

On the evening of the day that Benlysta left for the capital, Jevtana cut her tuna sub in half and gave a piece to each of her sisters. The subs were so full of tuna and extra pickles that the sisters fell into a deep sleep. When the moon went down, Jevtana climbed out her window and made her way to Xeljan’s house. In the village square, she stopped at the shrine to Saint Metaxalone and said a quick prayer.

Jevtana crept into Xeljanz’s bedroom, leaned over his bed, and whispered “You have enchanted me with your mastery of overstuffed sandwiches and mysterious dressings. I am helpless before you, like the vine-ripened, tomatoes that you slice so extremely thin, so very, very thin. Slice me, my lover.” With those words, Jevtana pulled back the covers, cried out, and dropped to the floor dead. In the bed lay a fully grown Atlantic Bluefin tuna (Thunnus thynnus), six feet long, wrapped in damp rags, and gasping for breath.

Meanwhile, far away in another part of town, Xeljanz was climbing the trellis outside the window of the room where the three sisters slept. In the dark, Xeljanz could not tell Adcestris and Gralise from his beloved Jevtana. He did notice, however, that there were two women in bed with him, and decided to go with it.

Nine months later, the sisters gave birth to identical cousins. Adcestris named her daughter Paxil and Gralise named hers Nexium. They grew to be even more beautiful than their mothers. Paxil spent most of her time in the woods, studying medicinal plants. She married Duexis, the most handsome man in the village. He was blind in his left eye and had a birthmark on his left buttock in the shape of a tuna.

When she turned 16, Nexium left the village to seek her fortune in the capital. As a parting gift, Xeljanz had given her the secret chipotle mayonnaise recipe. After kissing Nexium goodbye, Xeljanz stopped at the shrine to ask Saint Metaxalone to look after his daughter. As soon as Xeljanz opened his mouth, the statue began to shiver. Before Xeljanz could utter a sound, Saint Metaxalone’s massive head sprang into the air and landed on him. He was buried on a hill in an unmarked grave.

Once in the capital, Nexium married a man named Hydrochlorothiazide and opened a chain of successful sandwich shops. Cracker Barrel Old Country Store, Inc., a publicly held company trading on NASDAQ as CBRL, eventually bought the chain and began using Nexium’s recipes in its buffets, including the one for chipotle mayonnaise. That’s why many years later, when Colonel Guillermo Healy O’Reilly bit into his tuna sub, he grunted and nodded thoughtfully.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

Untold Tales of the Proletariat, No.13. - Renaissance Country Club. Hijinks, Tomfoolery, and Grab Ass. Part 3 of 3.

The Classics

Yes, we did all the classics - go get a sky hook or a room stretcher. Child’s play. If I was coming in late, they’d stack every pot in the place in the sink for me to wash. The pile would literally reach to the ceiling. Har-de-har-har.

Lovely Butter Sculptures. With apologies to Elaine Khosrova, esteemed author and butter expert.

Notwithstanding what you might think, we were a pretty sensitive artistic bunch. We liked to make funny sculptures with the table butter that came back to the kitchen. Each table got a little dish of butter. Any leftover butter would go back to the kitchen to be used again. Health code violation? I’m not even going to look. For a party of 150 people, you got quite a pile of butter.

The pile we’d get back from dinner kind of looked like this, except it was smaller and made of butter, not dirt, and Kim Kardashian was not involved.

And by “funny sculptures,” of course I mean sculptures of huge penises. We’d put one in the refrigerator, placed front and center, so you couldn’t miss it. Then we’d ask one of the waitresses to get something from the fridge. Cue: loud screaming (from the young and innocent) or a series of sarcastic remarks denigrating the manhood of the the kitchen staff (from Alice). As time went by, the penises got larger, more realistic, more angry, and more threatening. They often featured Italian curly parsley (the flat leaf parsley, although more flavorful, didn’t really work).

Trapped in the Bathroom. With Ammonia. Perhaps the worst prank of all.

When one of the meal courses was over, the waiters would clear the tables, put the plates on large trays, and pile up the trays on tables in the narrow hallway leading to the dishwashing room. The interesting thing about the tables was that, when turned sideways, they were just about the width of the hallway. And, even more interesting, when turned sideways and placed against the door of the bathroom in the hallway, they’d prevent the bathroom door from being opened.

Inevitably, when a novice went to use the bathroom in the hallway, clever pranksters would slide the table over, trapping said novice. If we felt someone had gotten too big for their britches, we’d also pour a bottle of ammonia under the door. However, if the novice climbed up on the sink, balanced himself precariously, stretched way out and stuck his head out the window, he could manage a few whiffs of fresh air. Not to be thwarted, we’d respond by shooting them in the face with a water bottle from outside. 

Karma and canned peas

And yes, I feel bad about this, except with regard to one victim. If I am remembering correctly, said victim used to torture his claustrophobic little sister, who was a member of our tribe, by encasing her in a mattress, with just her head sticking out, and then pour a can of green peas into her mouth. The laws of karma dictated that he got the full ammonia treatment. 

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

Untold Tales of the Proletariat, No.12 - Renaissance Country Club. Hijinks, Tomfoolery, and Grab Ass. Part 2 of 3.

Feed the Goats

One of the first jobs we’d have a new person do was Feed the Goats. Take the 40 lb. bag of carrots down to the golf course (pretty far away), find the goats, and give them all the carrots.

These are 25 lb. bags, so the new guy was carrying a bag that weighed about the same as two of these. He’d go trudging across the huge parking lot, then over to the golf course, and who knows how long he’d wander around there, looking for the goats. Carrying a 40 lb. bag of carrots in the hot blazing sun can be quite tiring. When he came back, unable to find the goats, he’d get yelled at, given some crazy directions to find the goats (look for the big oak tree and then go straight), and sent out again. You have guessed by now that there were no goats. (Not many upscale country clubs have goats wandering around. Yes, I checked.) Eventually, it would be time to get ready for the next meal, and Big Bob would yell at the new guy to quit fooling around and get to work. 

Feeding the goats came to an abrupt end when one young genius returned with an empty bag. “Where are the f-ing carrots?” Bob would yell. “I couldn’t find the goats, so I just threw them on the lawn,” was the new guy’s response. You can imagine what happened next. Lots of yelling along the lines of “There are no goats, YOU MORON.” Go figure.

Electric Refrigerator

Way back in the corner of the kitchen, past the deep fat fryer, was a small refrigerator. It had some kind of exposed wire, so when the puddle that it sat in got too deep, the whole mishegas would become electrified, giving anyone grabbing the handle a shock that would freeze them in their tracks. NOT UP TO CODE - I checked. 

Of course, we capitalized on this by asking various waiters to do us a favor and grab something from the fridge for us. Hilarity and mild nerve damage would result.

This drawing pretty much captures it. Waiter on the left, kitchen staff on the right. Except no one was playing power drill croquet.

Change Lightbulb in Dumb Waiter

The kitchen was downstairs, so when a party was upstairs, the dinners would get loaded into the dumb waiter and hauled upstairs. Pull on the rope, and it’s like a mini elevator. Ours looked kind of like this, except we didn’t have all those shelves. A small person could climb into the box and take a little ride. Fun. 

We’d often ask a new employee - or one time, one of Frank the Owner’s daughters - to change the lightbulb in the dumb waiter. “Just climb in, and we’ll haul you up. The light bulb is about halfway up. Thanks!” Of course, if you think about it, this makes no sense. There’s no need for a lightbulb in the passageway, and I’m not sure where you’d put one. 

So, in they’d go and when they were halfway up, we’d take one of the big wooden soup paddles and tangle the rope with it, so that the dumbwaiter wouldn’t move. After much begging and pleading, we’d relent and let them out - usually pretty shaky and with a twitch that took a few days to go away.

Here’s a fancy dumb waiter set up, with a lighted portrait and fancy china. We didn’t have those.

[einstein-robin-hood-blog]

Untold Tales of Rock and Roll No. 24: Every Night is Bob Dylan Night

There are many days in competition for the sobriquet “MOST GLORIOUS DAY OF THE YEAR” - Christmas Day, Father’s Day, my Tireless Caretaker Bride’s Birthday, my Loving Children’s birthdays, and the Village of Chatham’s Village-Wide Cleanup Day. But the one day that belongs in everyone’s Top Ten is the birthday of America’s Nobel Prize winning song-and-dance-man: BOB DYLAN.

To commememmemeraate (note: check spelling) this holiday, the management of the Peint o Gwrw Tavern in Little-Chatham-by-the Sea, in association with Ron Delsener Presents, held an annual Bob Dylan Birthday Party and Open Mic. ‘twas a celebration of all things Bob. And, as always, the good people of Chatham responded spectacularly and filled the joint every year for ten years.

We made posters.

I put this last poster up on Facebook, and some genius complained, bitterly and profanely, that why was Bob Dylan getting Obamacare?, and that this proved that Obamacare was a worthless farce. I know we all have our moments, but it does seem like the right wing has more than its share of ignorant loudmouth pinheads. END OF POLITICAL CONTENT.

We made party hats. PHOTO CREDIT: PAT BARNETT-MULLIGAN That’s John Hammond on the far right.

At one time or another, all three of my children wore Dylan party hats. So proud.

One year Cake Master Jill  honored us with this masterpiece. It was beautiful and delicious. I think smoke actually came out of the cigarette. How’d she do that? Oh, a candle. Another year, we had a trivia contest. Sample questions: “What color are they painting the passports?” “How many cows has Bob sucked the milk out of ?” Answers below.

Tireless Caretaker Bride and Patient Zero. No one ever wanted to go first. So we always went first. This is probably When I Paint My Masterpiece.

We always had a great turnout. Lots of people out there who are passionate about Bob. Acoustic Bob, Electric Bob, Gospel Bob, we saw it all. We often had an extremely loud Highway 61 (courtesy of The Rev), a slinky Gotta Serve Somebody (Brother Green), and Mr. Tambourine Man. I always sang Girl From the North Country for Jim the Bartender (he’s from Minnesota). And we’d finish with I Shall Be Released. No one ever sang Blowin’ in the Wind. Which is fine with me.

Were there congas? Yes, there were. Tommy M with his trusty b-bender? Yup. And a stuffed grizzly bear? Why not? Dylan would be fine with that. And Rhythm Genius Steve “The People United Will Never Be Defeated” C on the congas.

Thanks to the tireless efforts of Michael McK, the high point of every Bob Dylan Night was the group reading of Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again. Yes, I said GROUP READING.

In case you don’t know the tune:

The original tune has about 12 verses, which gave rise to the GROUP READING.

Michael displaying his leadership skills. Note collector’s item poster in the window.

The group reading went like this: the band had the chord sheets and would play the tune. Michael had written the words to each verse on a separate sheet of paper.. We’d round up 12 people to sing a verse each, give ‘em the lyric sheet and they’d line up, taking turns singing their verse. We’d grab anyone. Don’t like to sing? That’s OK. Can’t stand Bob Dylan? Perfect. Never heard the song? You’ll be fine. Lots of Dylan-related chaos. A lot of singers would wander off waiting for their turn. It always worked out fine.

Everyone in the bar would sing the chorus.

If you haven’t heard a barroom full of aging boomers spiritedly singing “Oh mama, can this really be the end? To be stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis blues again,” at top drunken volume, you, my friend, have not experienced everything that life has to offer. Hats off to Michael for creating this annual Perfect Moment.