A Wedge Salad

A wedge salad. At a table with one of those nineteen
70's style orange tinted light fixtures hanging above, a wicker back chair with a mauve seat cushion, a napkin folded into a weird triangle shape that somehow stands up and you aren't really sure what to do with but as you look around you get more comfortable because other people have them on their laps so you feel free to do so and those little bottles of salad oil and vinegar that probably have the original 1980's liquid at the bottom that have been refilled countless times, perhaps by a person watching the post 911 events unfold in front of a television that hangs above the bar, which is covered in Christmas lights that are white but some have been replaced over the years and are shining a tinge more yellow than the others and of course some exotic highly polished porcelain Italian replica art with fig leaves gently sloping over any bumpy parts that you see double of because they are reflecting back at you in the dusty mirror behind the bar which smells like carpet that's been freshly vacuumed with an old hoover with a burning belt that never really does anything but increase the wear in the foot trails winding between the tables and up to the door, where it is neatly and smartly covered up with one of those rugs they put in front of doors with the rubber edges that get all salt stained in the winter but they're too heavy duty to clean and even though there is no use for in the summer they keep them in place because they conveniently cover the worn out rug below which is pock marked with cigarette burns from the days when smoking was allowed, which also caused the tips of the fake plants hanging in front of the windows at your back to yellow and curl up but you would never notice any lingering cigarette smell even though a yellowing air conditioning vent which is no longer in use is just off to your right because the smell of wine, pasta and imported cologne looms strong in the air which you can taste as it collects on the outside of your sweating, plastic, 1980's coca cola cup with the lipstick smudge on the side that you will turn away from you because you are nervously thirsty and will drink out of anyway because you asked your server for a straw twice and she never brought it to you and we will politely keep out of discussion over dinner but will be discussed when it is time to tip and in the car on the ride home where we discuss whether or not the tip was proper because she did bring us out extra bread sticks and we didn't have to ask to get a refill on coffee.

Let's not kid ourselves. I've got those piss bottle blues.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, and maybe it was convenient, but when you woke up with your head spinning and a slightly tipped bottle with a wet spot on the floor around the neck you realize it didn't really serve you that well.

Beans. The kind that come in a can. Sealed, well, so you don't piss bottle can blues yourself.

The challenge is to open that can, without a can opener. You have some cotton swabs, an epee,( I could have said sword but epee I think would be more splendid) and a plunger. What are you going to do? Well I would fence the s**t out if until the f****r opened.

Now, take away the epee. Open it with the cotton swabs.

You can't eat your beans without an epee. Or an opener.

When they made the can with the gaseous goodness inside, the assumption was made that anyone wanting a side with their bratwurst would be properly equipped with an opener, (as well as an extra roll of toilet paper and a fresh pair of whitey tighties.) This is how the system works. Capitalism.

The tin producer is happy, the lumberjack with the reddened neck clear cutting is banking enough profit to stash his mistress in a loft on the east side,the migrant laborer is getting skin cancer working in the sun which will go untreated until the latest stages and result in a bill that will never be covered by national health insurance and be debated about by men in expensive suits furnished by the NRA which in turn makes the lumberjack even happier as publication records fall to Republican parties in the west,

the fence maker tips his waitress an extra dime he earned with a government contract building a fence to keep the migrant worker out of the country and off the hospital collection roster, and of course, the bourbon maker, whose small amount of Kentucky whisky contributes to that unmistakable, nutty fart smell that comes from the beans. Not to mention the banker, who gets fat on his own can of beans and the attorney who litigates the repossession of the migrant workers house when he is no longer able to afford his medical care.

So you've got this can, and you've had it a while. You can shake it around, and it sloshes. Like a can of beans reasonably should.

How do you know there's still beans in it? If they were beans when it was packaged? Are the beans still edible?

Does it even matter?

I don't like where this is going. I think I just want my epee back.

Incidentally, the coolest use of a a can of beans in film is from a scene in Kill Bill. While in a life or death battle in the trailer, Uma Thurman is splattered with beans, at which time both parties momentarily cease hostilities and say, "Gross" while allowing her to wipe the beans from her face before resuming.

Those are the moments I value most in life. Those connections you get, even when you hate someone.

Not currently feeling those connections.

Currently suffering one of those insufferable skin conditions which makes me look like someone punched me in the eye. Which would be all well and good, if by chance, someone had punched me in the eye. But they didn't. It's like if you're going to have streaks in your undies, you want to have earned them. You want to have eaten your beans. Believe me I can think of a few good ways to earn a black eye. It's not the condition that bothers me as much as people making such a fuss. What happened to you? I want to say shut the f**k up, give them their own figurative can of beans. But I won't.

So the question was asked: What do I need to do to be on the right path?

There is the pessimistic answer, which is I can't open my beans without the goddamn epee. (I don't want an opener. I would rather revel in the complexities of the epee.)

The pessimistic answer inevitably leads to an epic run on sentence which I would never share with anyone anyway and would be a colossal waste of time and energy and be about as useful as a congressional investigation into the complexities of gasoline prices.

The thing about congressional investigations is, no one really reads them. The answers are actually there, only what we learn about them is controlled by people with an agenda who pick and choose various snippets to inflame public sentiment. Timing is everything as well.

The positive answer is fa la la la bullshit. I'm being evasive because no one wants to hear the answers.

I was there when the beans were put in the can, I'm just not ready to spill them