Marquis’ Intimate Diary

THURSDAY, 27 APRIL, 2000, PHILADELPHIA

At first, I wasn’t going to write this thing today, because, c’mon, how exciting is rusty lettuce, which is what I wish to discourse upon in a moment? Then, two things happened:

Three of my 17 (pardon me, “The Crabster”, 18!) readers sent immediate, successive emails saying, “Hellewwww!? Tu n’existes plus? Write something in your damn silly diary, you damn silly Marquis!” The thronging masses clamour for pithe — I deliver.
I saw that Lisa wrote about Cheez-Nips, and if she can make such a topic interesting then bigod, I should try too!

So … Ready?

Divination comes in many forms. You can read tarot cards, you can drink tea and gather wisdom from the patterns of leaves at the bottom of the cup, you can kill goats or other neighbourhood pets and discern meaning from how the intestines slosh about …

…Or you can go to the salad bar every day for lunch. The wonderful, mysterious, mighty-morphin’ salad bar that has different stuff every day, in varying quantities and qualities.

And the selection and quality of stuffs at the salad bar, without exception, fortell the future of the day.

Para ejemplo: If I see the Salad Gods have laid out bins of fresh, sproigy, weedy greens, hardboiled eggs, buxom cauliflower, the little paquettes of Italian dressing and (once) grilled chicken strips, then by gum, the rest of the day will be fruitful and lush as well.

Proper divination techniques don’t shy away from the ugly side of life however, and if one approaches the altar of vegetables with communion plate erect and finds, like today, rusty lettuce, some garbonzo beans and some broccoli that doesn’t look quite right, welll thennn … the fate of the day is not dissimilar.

The problem with lunchtime divination is that by the time you get the news, the day is half over — or half begun if you’re one of those damn chipper cheery types. I should like to know a little bit beforehand what the day holds for me, if only to know how to dress properly.

Ring-ring! Ring-ring! “Huh-huh-hulluh?”

“Hellew Salad Lady whose name I can’t remember either and who calls me ‘Eric’ by default! How’s the salad lookin’ today?”

“What the hell?! It’s 7:30 in the morning! We don’t put out the salad until 11:00! How’d you get my home number?”

“Ohhh, but can’t you just peek for me please? I need to know whether to wear the black linen button down or the scraggly Barbarella t-shirt, and whether or not I should bother shaving today.”

“Oh all right. Let me check.” (Rummage, rummage, rummage) “It’s lookin’ pretty rusty at the moment.”

“BUT WHAT ABOUT THE CONDIMENTS! WHAT ABOUT THE ACCOUTREMENTS!”

“Hang on, hang on.” (Rummage, rummage, rummage) “There’s some broccoli but it looks like it’s … turned. Oh, and some soupy garbonzo beans.”

“Dare I ask it? Be there croutons?”

“Keeryst. Hold on.” (Rummage, rummage, rummage) “Nopers.”

“Sigh. Thank you, Salad Lady. G’bye.” <click>

You see? At that point I would know to call in sick, for what good could possibly come from a Rusty Lettuce Day?

Today was an RLD (to use the TLA). It’s enough to drive a man to eating regular food again.

No one knows how I suffer.