Deliriously Happy

by Larry Doyle

  The chef is also offering a personal favorite, his hot spiced rocks. These are igneous and sedimentary varietals, half-washed and heated to nine hundred degrees Fahrenheit, then gleefully sprinkled with international peppers.

  For the more adventurous, we have a selection of freshly purchased water crackers spread with unmarked pastes, jellies, and unguents found in our kitchen.

  We are also featuring a tasting gavage, in which every appetizer on the menu is wheeled to your table and forced down the gullets of two to four people. The price is twenty-eight dollars per person, plus a nominal service charge. To accompany this course, the chef recommends a bottle of the Pete, which is quite sneaky tonight. It comes in cherry or mixed berry, and is served in brown paper.

  Our special soup tonight is Georgian alligator turtle, prepared and presented in its own shell. This soup is served cold and slimy, and, in the traditional manner, with the head and legs attached. We recommend that you not touch the head, as it can snap your finger clean off before you can say, “Hey, this turtle is still alive.”

  In addition to our usual salad, our chef has prepared a faux tuna Niçoise, which he is recommending not be eaten by anyone trying to limit their mercury consumption.

  We also have an iceberg lettuce leaf, wetted and centered on the plate.

  With your soup and salad, the chef suggests two or three cocktails, and not cosmopolitans or candy martinis but real men’s drinks. He is recommending a very interesting Thai vodka he managed to get into this country; the “liquor” is chilled into an aspic, spooned into a shot glass, then served between the breasts of Alicia over there.

  Before I tell you the entrées, there is one change to the menu: we are out of the pan-fried squirrel brains tonight, as our supplier fell out of a tree this morning.

  Our fish is a Blue Happy, which is a euphemism. It is mostly filleted and sunbaked, then disinfected and served with what may or may not be capers. Blowholes can be requested for an additional charge.

  The pasta is a single, comically long strand of spaghetti with a surprise at the end. The sauce is of no consequence.

  And, finally, tonight we are offering a very special entrée that has been the subject of much debate in the kitchen. It is roast loin of Oliver, a pig that our chef has raised since infancy. Oliver was the runt in a litter of nine, and was, as you can see in this picture, bottle-fed by the chef as a young boy. Oliver grew strong and proud and was soon beating his siblings in their rutting games. Extremely smart, Oliver thrice saved our chef from fires caused by careless smoking. However, in his latter years Oliver has grown bitter and incontinent, and just yesterday he ate the chef’s brandnew iPhone.

  Once we receive our first order this evening, Oliver will be smothered by a pillow filled with virgin goose down. This may take the chef some time. Oliver will then be hacked to pieces and charbroiled on a specially blessed grill. His loin will then be laid to rest on a bed of tears, with asparagus and a confit of something. The chef would like to serve Oliver to you personally, and deliver a short eulogy. He will remain tableside, drinking steadily as you eat in silence. Because of the singular nature of this dish and its extreme emotional cost, it is priced at eighteen thousand dollars.

  Would you like to order now, or do you need a few moments?

  Date with an Angel*

  I’ve been to this restaurant before. When was that? Oh my God: embarrassing. I did a film here. It was called, I don’t know, Something Somethings Something. Didn’t win any awards. The shoot was totally hot, though. The air conditioning was, like, broken or something. That’s why we were so sweaty. Usually they spray it on.

  Yeah, I’ll have the lobster bisque, and then the lobster stuffed with steak, and do you still have that champagne, the cute one? I’ll have a bottle of that, thanks.

  Oh, and could I also get a lobster to go? My kitty, Fluffer, loves lobster and if I come home and he smells it on me and I don’t have one for him, look out! And better put another bottle of champagne in the bag, too.

  Not that hungry, huh? I am starving. I mean, after the day I had today.

  You don’t mind me talking about work, do you? Today was completely out of control. We had this new sound guy, and at lunch the director’s going over all the stuff we did in the morning, and the boom (that’s the microphone) is in every shot! In this one shot, it’s in my hair! So unprofessional! We had to shoot every scene over again! Which sucked, because I always do my best work in the morning. After lunch I’m basically worthless.

  Plus it was with Dom. Dom Juan. The “Destroyer”? He wishes. Anyway, I don’t like working with him.

  Because he’s inconsiderate. Those guys always are. I shouldn’t be telling you this, it’s supposed to be a secret. But Dom is… F… B… I. Everybody knows it. He’s part of some big undercover sting operation. You’d think after six years he’d have undercovered something. I mean, what’s left to infiltrate? He infiltrated me!

  eeHaw eeHaw eeHaw

  Anyway, I ended up making an extra $1,300 because they shot something they weren’t supposed to.

  Just something that wasn’t in the contract. If it’s not in the contract, and you do it and they shoot it, they have to pay you extra. Although there’s some stuff that’s not in the contract that I don’t do, ever, not even by accident. I’ve got to protect the J. B. Daniels brand.

  Oh, I just picked it. According to the union, your porn star name is supposed to be the name of the pet you had as a kid and then the name of the street you grew up on. But mine, Prince Charles, was already taken and not very indicative of what I do, so I went with J. B. Daniels. It’s sort of in honor of my dad.

  This is the best champagne.

  So, what do you do?

  That is so cool. I always wanted to be a doctor. I was going to be an anesthesiologist, because I thought it would be nice to take away people’s pain, you know what I mean? Or I guess I could just be one of those doctors who prescribe pain pills. But that’s like eight years of college, and I’d have to get my GED first.

  You don’t prescribe pain pills, do you?

  The weather? You’re a weatherman? Then why’d you say you were a doctor? Oh. I was wondering where my meteor was.

  eeHAW eeHAW eeeeeHAW eeeeehee

  No, ma’am, I will not quiet down. I am here, having some enjoyable conversation with my date, who paid, like, $8,000, and so if he says something funny, I’m going to laugh, okay? Honestly, I don’t give a shit what anniversary you’re having.

  Oh, look, now she’s going to the manager. DON’T FORGET TO TELL HIM HOW YOU’VE BEEN FARTING ALL NIGHT! I mean, talk about affecting the quality of everybody’s meal.

  I am never going back there again, and you shouldn’t either. They completely disrespected you. Listen, you can drop me here. I can’t have guys knowing exactly where I live. You understand.

  I had a great time, too, the with-you part. And thank you again; that was so generous of you to bid so much for me. But it’s for a good cause. Sick kids, right? I’m doing a PSA for them that’s going in the front of all my DVDs.

  So I guess this is “good night.” But don’t think I’m getting out of this car without a hug!

  Ooooooooooooooooooooooh. I love hugs.

  They feel real, don’t they?

  Disengagements

  Brynne Scavullo and Sean Martini hooked up at a party two weeks ago. Ms. Scavullo and Mr. Martini hooked up again at a party the following weekend. When they failed to hook up at a party this past Saturday, Ms. Scavullo lamented that it was the end of what could have been a beautiful arrangement.

  Alysa Maguire and Dustin Canfield met at a church pancake breakfast on January 9. They agreed to separate earlier this month, based on Ms. Maguire’s unwillingness to try specific new things. Mr. Canfield has agreed to find a new congregation, his fifth in the past two years.

  Tracy Hanky and Jerome Panke began dating last November based on a shared amusement at the thought of their potential hyphenated surname. In late February, Ms.
Hanky extended the riff to include “having a little Hanky-Panke,” at which point Mr. Panke felt the joke had played itself out.

  Cyndra Pettibone’s two-year office flirtation with Stanley Bendix came to an abrupt end last week when Mr. Bendix’s cubicle, adjacent to the women’s restroom, was moved as part of a legal settlement.

  Gwynne Weidner and Ian Buckman met on March 5 at the Hole, a local pub. Mr. Buckman proposed shortly before 1 a.m., and Ms. Weidner accepted. Mr. Buckman rescinded the proposal at approximately 4 a.m., at which point Ms. Weidner allegedly assaulted Mr. Buckman with his five-hundred-dollar Bose clock radio, according to police reports. Charges are pending, but both parties agree the relationship is probably over.

  Lara Bernard and Evan Farquar began an online romance in July 2010 after Ms. Bernard purchased a first edition of The Lost Princess of Oz on eBay and discovered the beautiful inscription Mr. Farquar had written to a previous girlfriend. A shared interest in the beloved characters of L. Frank Baum blossomed into online fantasy role-playing, with Ms. Bernard as Dorothy and Mr. Farquar as the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion, the Mayor of Munchkin Land, a flying monkey, or any combination thereof; and vice versa. When Ms. Bernard and Mr. Farquar finally met f2f at the Chittenango, New York, Oz-Stravaganza earlier this month, it became apparent there had been dissembling on both sides. Ms. Bernard and Mr. Farquar agreed to fornicate and part.

  Kym Wrona and Douglas Pasternak struck up a conversation February 22 at the Pink Tiger, Ms. Wrona’s place of employment. Their budding relationship hit an impasse on March 3 when Ms. Wrona learned that Mr. Pasternak is married and has four children, all under the age of six. Mr. Pasternak is hoping for reconciliation, and has been tipping accordingly.

  In October 2010, Sierra Duplaines and Hank Russell “met cute” at an antiabortion rally organized by Mr. Russell outside the Moline Women’s Health Co-Op, which is run by Dr. Duplaines. Contrary to their expectations of a screwball romance in the Adam’s Rib mold, what followed was eleven months of soul-crushing ugliness occasionally relieved by only slightly better-than-average sex. Dr. Duplaines is now reading all the available literature on lesbianism and Mr. Russell is spearheading an effort to pass a constitutional amendment taking away a woman’s right to talk.

  Ivy Wheeler has declared her torrid six-year affair with Kyle Brindley to be all a figment of Mr. Brindley’s fevered imagination. Mr. Brindley responds that Ms. Wheeler is simply angry about his recent fling with the cast of Glee.

  Paige Mellon and Serge Handler began dating at Ms. Mellon’s sister’s wedding in August 1999. They dated until February 2007 and again from October 2007 until last month. On February 14 of this year, Ms. Mellon suggested it was time for Mr. Handler “to shit or get off the pot.” Mr. Handler responded that if Ms. Mellon thought of herself as a toilet, perhaps she had some personal work to do before being ready for a serious relationship. Mr. Handler is now engaged to some girl right out of high school.

  Harley Wozniak and Peter May met in January at Discotyke, where they had brought their children from previous marriages. On March 7, Ms. Wozniak expressed reservations with continuing to see Mr. May, arguing that Mr. May had not left his previous marriage behind. Mr. May argued that yes he had left his previous marriage behind and that it was Ms. Wozniak who had called her ex-husband on her cell phone 112 times in the past month. Ms. Wozniak immediately ended the relationship and demanded that Mr. May hand back her daughter. Ms. Wozniak’s girlfriends have since pointed out that Mr. May’s theft of her garbage was evidence that he was no longer obsessed with his ex-wife. Ms. Wozniak’s and Mr. May’s four-year-old daughters have also become close, which is a factor. Ms. Wozniak is unsure what she will do when she sees Mr. May at their daughters’ Dirty Dancing class on Saturday.

  Lynda Schmeltzer and Geoff Punt began dating in November, ending Ms. Schmeltzer’s long string of unhealthy relationships with assholes. Mr. Punt is now an asshole.

  Life Without Leann: A Newsletter

  By the time you receive this, it will have been more than five hundred days and nearly seventy-five weeks since Leann and I broke up, and, while I cannot proclaim our long ordeal ended, I am pleased to report some encouraging developments in that direction.

  LEANN WATCHER OF THE WEEK…

  Kudos (and a two-year subscription to LWL) for Warren, of Evanston, Ill., who so eloquently and informatively captures a brief encounter he had with Leann on Nov. 13.

  “Leann has lost some weight,” Warren writes, “but she is no less beautiful for it. She says she has been exercising, taking classes, doing this, doing that. It appeared to me that she was struggling to fill some void. Your name didn’t come up, but it wasn’t so much what she said, as what she didn’t say.”

  OUR STRUGGLE CONTINUES…

  If only it could all be such good news. But unfortunately, OPERATION: TERRIBLE MISTAKE has not been the success we anticipated, and I’m afraid we may have to rethink our strategy.

  As you may recall (LWL #57), the operation’s objectives were to: (1) apply societal pressure; (2) foster emotional uncertainty; (3) precipitate re-evaluation; and ideally, (4) achieve reconciliation.

  The following conversation starter was suggested:

  LEANN, I WAS SO SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT YOU AND LARRY. YOU MAKE SUCH A WONDERFUL COUPLE. SO, I DON’T MIND TELLING YOU, I THINK YOU ARE MAKING A TERRIBLE MISTAKE. THIS IS MY OWN PERSONAL OPINION ON THE MATTER.

  Unfortunately, a number of well-meaning individuals took this suggestion rather more literally than intended, and repeated it verbatim to Leann, creating a cumulative effect other than the one desired.

  I have now received word through an intermediary that Leann requests I “call off the zombies.” I will honor her wishes, as always, though I must emphasize I cannot be held responsible for the behavior of individuals acting on their own initiative.

  LEANN ANONYMOUS…

  In our first meeting at Gatsby’s, the bartender, Ted, graciously accommodated us by closing off the back room and supplying extra folding chairs. All in attendance praised the wisdom of moving these mutual support sessions from my apartment, which some had complained was not neutral territory, and which had become quite cramped in any case. (On a related matter, Ted told me privately that while he appreciates our patronage, he’d prefer in the future we try not to monopolize the jukebox, or at least play a variety of songs. He says if he doesn’t see some improvement the Cowboy Junkies selections will have to go.)

  We ordered a round, and at Tom’s suggestion, dispensed with the reading of the minutes. We proceeded immediately to old business, continuing debate on Leann’s eyes and whether they are a turbulent sea green or a sand-flecked moon blue. It appeared there could be no middle ground on the issue, until Dick stood up and declared, “To paraphrase Elton John, ‘Who cares if they’re blue or if they’re green, those are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen.’”

  The motion to adopt Dick’s language carried unanimously, and we collected more change for the jukebox.

  We ordered another round, and conversation turned naturally to the rest of Leann: her quirky perky nose, her funny sunny smile, the perfect curve of her neck, her soft shoulders, and so on, until petty jealousies precluded further discussion.

  Soon thereafter, we took a break to order more refreshments, and then it was time to welcome new members. A stubby and not particularly attractive man, who had been spotted with Leann as recently as mid-October, stood up in the back of the room.

  “My name is Harry,” he said, “and I love Leann.”

  Harry then related his long, sad tale, the details of which we are all too familiar, ending with that same old refrain.

  “She met this guy,” he said. “She says she’s deliriously happy.”

  “Deliriously happy, eh?” Wolfgang said slowly, staring into his beer. “He’s doomed.”

  Those of us who could still laugh did so.

  “Really?” Harry said, cheering considerably. “So you think there’s a chance I can win
her back?”

  This question precipitated rancorous debate, leading to the inevitable threats of violence and ceasing only when Quentin moved we change the name of our group from Lovers of Leann to Victims of Leann. The motion was soundly defeated, and we voted to adjourn.

  Elmo closed the meeting by singing “Oh, Leann,” including a new verse that had recently come to him in a dream:

  Oh, Leann,

  I love you,

  Love you still,

  I love you,

  I love you,

  I love you still,

  I always will.

  LEANN ALERT…

  My special friend Jane, who has been so supportive during this difficult time, has suggested there is a need for a group addressing the concerns of the lovers of the Lovers of Leann. Anybody who knows somebody who might be interested in such a group should have them write to Leann Anon at this address.

  THIS WEEK’S LEANN CHALLENGE…

  Leann is what she eats, but how well do you know what she eats? Everybody knows Leann likes horseradish on her hamburgers, but how many of you know what kind of horseradish? (Here’s a hint: She received a case of it last Christmas.)

  The answer to last week’s challenge: From left to right.

  LEANN’S MAILBAG…

  The mail ran heavy this week with entries to the “Candid Leann” photo contest, and it’s obvious I need to remind everyone that the rules clearly stipulate that Leann must be the only person shown in the photograph.

  In consideration of those who may wish to resubmit, I’ve decided to extend the deadline two weeks, until Dec. 10. And remember, entries cannot be returned.