A tale of an Evil Strawberry. Thanks to Bill Wilson for the link.

Thanks to birthday girl, Keiko, who invited MHG and me to a hafla (that’s belly dancer talk for “gig”) benefit. Barika danced to Blondie’s Rapture. That’s pretty sweet.

The highlight of my evening, though, came the next day. Keiko had invited us afterward to eat korean food at Han Kuk Kwan, a nice little place where Izumi’s used to be. Jazzed after good conversations and gyrating hips, I was pretty hyper and I had to apologize to the waitress for acting up. She seemed unphased, as a good waitress will be.

Later, our American round-eyed devil faces were turned to her as she explained some of the dishes and how to turn lettuce into your feeding tool, when unluckily Keiko’s hot miso* sloshed over the bowl’s side and onto her arm and sweater. Her friends all offered napkins and condolences, hoping that she wasn’t scalded. As the commotion dissolved, the five of us noticed that the waitress had never discontinued her monologue.

After dinner, it was determined in each of our heads that her earlier smoke break involved limited amounts of tobacco.

The day after, MHG and I conversed as we drove. She relived the scenario in story form, and when she reached the part about the waitress, her exact words sounded like she might be channelling a David Cross or Denis Leary.

“I was thinking, ‘Can you slow down on the soliloquy for a sec, Hamlet, and get us a few napkins?'”

Is it any wonder that I love her?

* – not an innuendo, though Keiko was looking pretty scorching.