A second musing of La Beav's. Why, pray tell, when dining out in the United Greats must the eager-beaver waiters whisk away your dinner plate the minute your fourchette kisses the linen? Why ever can't they dally about until you've both finished nibbling away at whatever sub-standard sustenance they've placed upon your table? The hand appears, as if out of nowhere, and mid-sentence, there's that sigh; Er,yes, I suppose I'm finished. Your dining partner looks on in horror. You've finished before he has! He'd better hurry up now, hadn't he? Christ on crutches, the rhythm's all off! Got to hurry it up now, hurry, go, go, go! What were you just talking about? He can't seem to find it...something has shifted. All the candles have gone hiding! Only moments ago, he had images of white clapboard fences and bumblebees buzzing through his mind, but now there's that glaring, gaping space where your plate used to be. Why is he taking so utterly long to finish? A crumbly conundrum, just wrap it for the doggy! What in the world were we talking about, anyway?
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