“Was I coherent?”
“Yeah, you were doing karaoke.”
“Yeah. You were getting 98’s. You introduced us to the Parisian who does acupuncture. All were introduced.”
These two people sat in a restaurant (cuisine undisclosed) in Los Angeles (neighborhood undisclosed). [The picture above is from a different place, Plan Check, taken a different day.] While I feel an unexplained inclination to protect their identity, I cannot resist admitting that the blackout drinker was called Grand Master by his companion. The whole time. Which if you do martial arts, may not sound that strange. But I do not do martial arts. So all I could think was, Grandmaster Flash.
While I was sitting there noting clues laced into their snippets of chatter, I was able to find Grand Master’s place of business online, along with his Yelp reviews. Mixed. Heavy drinking not withstanding, I would guess he’s only marginally enlightened (yes, I’m aware that making such a judgment lowers my enlightenment score, as well).
I’ve loved eavesdropping long before it was suggested as an exercise by the incredibly smart teacher, Colette Sartor (see: Naming the World and other Exercises for the Creative Writer). But I need to force myself to follow through. As it is, the scraps of notes I have are like . . . oh, what’s a metaphor? . . . Not shiny buttons, that’s trite. Um, random forks and spoons from estate sales? Eh. About as trite as buttons. But you know, little trinkets that I’ve been meaning to poke holes in and solder together.
If Grandmaster makes it into a story, I’ll want to change his profession. Yoga? Yogacharya Jason. Yeah, that could work.