Tastticles

Tonight I took Q out to meet Christ. I think it went well. We all arrived at Ragazza independently; first me, then Q and then Christ. It's a nice little Italian restaurant on Divisadero specializing in pizza. I'd walked in when I first got there and asked the hostess if she had a table available for three - what luck, she did. She asked when my party would be there and I said, "the party is right here." She smiled politely, trying hard not to reveal her disapproval, and waited for an actual response. "Ten minutes," I said shamefully. Then I walked outside into the cold San Franciscan night to spare myself the indignation of her condescension and the ignominy of my wit.

Soon Q appeared and we watched half in horror and half in humor as a morbidly obese man was birthed from an automobile that pulled in against the curb in front of us. Q and I were aghast, looking on incredulously as the man seemed to defy space-time, giving a full-size vehicle the appearance of a clown car. The man was so massive that he had to rock himself free of the vehicle in order to generate the necessary momentum to launch himself from the passenger seat. We watched him emerge through the door, his entire body expanding out from the opening as though he were squeezed from a tube of toothpaste. It had to be one of Christ's miracles. Then, there she was - hey guys! "Christ this is Q; Q, Christ." I never thought I'd see the day that Q would embrace Christ, but I watched it with my own two eyes.

We went inside and ordered some food. Christ got a delectable little salad - which was actually rather large - and Q and I ordered little meatballs. The three of us split an artisan thin-crust pizza with a golden yolk placed beautifully in the center. It was called the Amatriciana, if I recall correctly. We spoke of LSD, MDMA and cocaine - though none of us actually did any of these tonight - then of work and play, literature, art and Berlin, Romans and hard cheeses, penis tattoos of Super Mario; testicle tattoos of purple grapes, eyeballs, men with beards and the old man on the Moretti bottle; the secret underground dungeons at Disney and the mysterious intrigue of the Ouija Board, all before the server began to subtly indicate she was waiting for us to surrender our table to the next guests. Trying to pack in as much conversation as time would allow, pushing the envelope of social decency - and also courtesy - we crammed in another few topics; much like the sad fat clown-man forcibly reentering his vehicle in front of the restaurant. Which I imagine would be like trying to jam a swollen carry-on bag into a nearly full overhead storage compartment.

We stood outside and said farewell, solemnly swearing to do it again. I vigorously shook my magic eight ball - which was really just my right testicle, tattooed black, with the words you may rely on it inside a blue triangle - and asked it if we'd really all hang out again: outlook good. Q and I said goodbye to Christ:

"Peace be with you."

And also with you.

--------------------

My actual idea for a testicle tattoo, no one laughed at. On the odd chance it might humor someone out in cyberspace I'll relay it here:

I want a tattoo of Lance Armstrong's lone testicle on one ball, and a mirror reflecting it on the other.