So I'm at dinner at an upscale "diner" and the special is Chilean Sea Bass, which is tasty, if indeed it IS Chilean Striped Sea Bass, but the "special" price make me suspicious, so I ask the waiter: Is this really Chilean Striped Sea Bass? I rarely ask Fine Dining Questions, or quiz the waiters on the food, but what is the point of ordering Chilean Striped Etc ETc if you're not going to get it? Better the boiled cabbage and corned beef. So it comes. I can tell right away. I motion the waiter. "Excuse me," I say politely, "but this is not a Chilean Striped Sea Bass. In fact it's not a bass at all. It's a tilapia." "No," he says. We exchange a few polite words and then: "No, sir, I know tilapia, and this is a tilapia." He demands to know how I know it's tilapia. "Because we used to see people fish for them off the Kalapawai Bridge in Kailua,'" I said. "No one I know would eat them because they're trash fish." And Lo and Behold, he agrees that it's tilapia, and he wouldn't eat it either.
So out of my window I can see the Manhattan skyline just above the Brooklyn skyline, which includes the Hansen Clock tower and Met Foods. So the three of us sit and peacefully watch the sunset and the stars - no, wait. Stars don't flit. Don't go after them, boys -----
Brooklyn fireflies. On the fire escape.
Brooklyn nights: Nothing like them ever was, and nothing like them ever will be again.
In her ubiquitous fur, ca. 1920, San Francisco, where she was a "flapper." Fox furs were all the rage, and she asked her dad, my Great Grandpa Wylie B. Duncan to "get her one." Wylie B spent the winters panning for gold and trapping for fur, and the summers building log cabins. He brought down the best fox fur, according to Aunt Mamie. FYI, all of you who are now rising up in arms, PETA did not exist, and plenty of folks made their livings trapping.
So I'm in a taxi on Fifth, and we stop at a light. To my right, I see a meter-ticket-giver is standing at the front of a mini-van, which is parked in a NO STOP OR DIE zone, shaking his ticket-scanner-thingie, which has refused to issue a ticket. Meanwhile, in the back of the van, a guy is nonchalantly loading boxes. Neither of them see each other. Before the light changes and we pull away, the meter-man has printed a ticket, but the guy loading is totally oblivious.
The taxi driver and I cannot stop laughing. He can't believe that they didn't see each other. His theory is that they're both very, very short. Only in New York.
for all the reasons which will be revealed later. Hooray Hooray! In honor of pen and ink, I had a hot pastrami, and sketched my favorite pastrami-sandwich-maker with ever-present toothpick. Brooklyn: Nobody does it better.
So the spy guys are back. Honestly. Our own Department of Defense Network Information Center (IP 184.108.40.206) visited me on July 12. Right behind them was the Russian Federation Information Network - Moscow, Moscow City (IP 220.127.116.11). So once again, I did a water color in their honor:
I am baffled. From time to time, various national intelligence agencies visit the blog, spend time on it, and download parts of it. The last time that happened, right on their tail were a couple other spy agencies in Israel and Palestine. It is obvious that our country's terrorism algorithm has run amok, finding words like "terrorist, Bin Laden, murder, bombs" inside different posts, and it probably kicks out "WARNING READ THIS" onto some hapless government spy's desk. And then, whoever is spying on our spies, decides that since the US is tracking the DianaBlog, they might as well drop by and see what's happening.
I could make all kinds of jokes, like "Tax dollars at work" and "Thanks for the new Thriller idea" and "Edward Snowden, where are you?" and on and on, but I won't. So whittle away those government-paid hours reading the blog, boys, it's better than working at Burger King.