Friday, December 17, 2004


Yesterday the Falafel and More was bumpin', even sans fly strip. I'd never see it so crowded. Maybe it was because Oprah was on the tv (it was the "I shot my molester" show) but I doubt that was the reason. Also present was the really long haired bicycle messenger, whose hair, even in a braid, cascades down to his butt. I was going to ask him if his legs got cold, but the chance never presented itself. He wasn't interested in Oprah, only in the wall above the trash cans. I wonder what he saw that the rest of us were missing. Then all night long, the radiator made the most ungodly sounds imaginable. At first it was sort of just chugging or bursting of pipes sounds, sort of like what it'd sound like if you stuck a metal spatula in between someone's ribs and then turned it so they all cracked. That was the initial trend. I suggested that maybe Connie Chung was in there and needed help out. The others scoffed, but as the night wore four-thirty it was an all out blitzkrieg of noise. The radiator was rattling and grumbling and emitting more rib-popping sounds, these ones much louder than the others and much more frequent. And you could hear it happening in the other apartments as well, like a squadron of alien babies that had been gestating in our heaters were all being born simultanously.

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