Fortune's Pawn

Lunch at the Chinese buffet around the corner, seated next to two men from India and one from Australia.  They are all co-workers, just getting to know each other.  One of the Indian men has a much thinker accent and the other one seems to be trying to help him with cultural acclimation.

One thing they have in common, aside from all being Unix geeks to one degree or another, is cricket.  The bulk of their table chatter was about the superiority of one or another team or captain or manager.

At the end of the meal the waitress brings fortune cookies.  The more seasoned Indian gentleman helpfully clues the other into the old trick, “When you read your fortune cookie you have to add ‘in bed’ to the end of whatever it says.”

The Aussie pipes up,  “The Austrailian National Team will best India in their next test match…in bed!”

After a round of chuckles the younger Indian reads his, “You can make that special someone happy with a gift of flowers…in bed.”

They leave, and I read my own fortune, “Your lucky number for this week is the number five…in bed.”

This evening Pawn found himself wandering over to The Jazz Estate on Milwaukee’s East Side for a little respite of delightful music.  The bookings read “Jeanne Woodall w/ The Jim Poalo Trio”  I have never heard them, but what the hell.

On the walk over the nice man sitting outside Beans & Barley says, “Hey white nigger!”  It’s always pleasant when strangers take it upon themselves to break the ice with a friendly greeting.

At the club, $5 cover paid, I settle into a seat at the bar and crack open my New Yorker under the dim green bulb for a little read whilst I await the trio.  The night unfolds with a wonderful journey through the mid-century songbook of American jazz.  Ms. Woodall favors Sarah Vaugn with some lovely renditions of old standards.  The pianist is inspired, Poalo on bass is steady and smooth.  Krause on drums is just the right prescription.

The arab in the corner nurses his Beck’s and speaks in resonant tones.  The hipster on the end works his Guiness and worries his mustache.  The black trombonist in the middle, his torso a short cubic yard of flesh, sipping a Cosmopolitan, the stem of the Martini glass impossibly small in his hefty mitt, mediates between them.

After two sets I strolled back home, towards Jupitor as he marches across the sky, my appetite for jazz sated for one night.  I’ll be back again soon.  I had forgotten how much I love this club.

Pawn was in a deli this morning, having breakfast, and another diner came in and took his seat at the counter. He leaned in conspiratorially and asked the waitress if she wanted to hear an Obama joke. He then proceeded to tell it.

Obama goes up to heaven and approaches the Pearly Gates. St. Peter is there waiting for him.
St. Peter: Can I help you?
Obama: I’m President Barack Obama.
St. Peter: You were president? I don’t think so.
Obama: Yes sir, I was.
St. Peter: When were you inaugurated?
Obama: Ten minutes ago.

The waitress looked at him with a blank expression. “Get it – he got assassinated. Ha, haha”

Pawn was inclined to offer this version of the joke:

McCain goes up to heaven and approaches the Pearly Gates. St. Peter is there waiting for him.
St. Peter: Can I help you?
McCain: I’m President John McCain.
St. Peter: You were president? I don’t think so.
McCain: Yes sir, I was.
St. Peter: When were you inaugurated?
McCain: Ten minutes ago.

Get it – he keeled over dead with a heart attack, or was it cancer…

Let’s face it, if the joke is offensive and just as unfunny when the shoe is on the other foot, then maybe it doesn’t need to be told.

Twenty Something Chick: Did Snow White give you a happy ending?

Customer: I’ll have an Amsteil Light, 2 rum & Cokes and what kinds of mandarin vodka do you have?

Bartender: Mandarin?!?

Landmark Lanes, Friday night

Nellie McKay to audience, during interactive portion of concert: Now try to cry if you can… Think of the saddest thing you can… Like Anne Coulter holding a puppy… or Dick Cheney’s smile.

( Audience member groans loudly)

Nellie: What, you like Dick Cheney? (under her breath) Ugh, Midwest…

*Note: I would have included a photo of Anne Coulter holding a puppy, but such an image apparently doesn’t exist.

Overdressed, pretty-lady: I don’t want to eat too much and get fat, you know. There’s only one place you want fat, and that’s here. I have just enough there, don’t you think?

Older gentleman: (mumbled response)

Pretty-lday: Oh, so you like Sherrie do you?

Overheard at Dehli restaurant during lunch buffet. Couple was seated behind Pawn.

White Tee-shirt mafia dude #1) What are your grandmother’s names?

WTMD #2) Mercedes and Unice

WTMD #1) Mercedes is like a stripper’s name

WTMD #2) It is so much not a stripper’s name, its my fucking grandmother’s name! Dude!