The death of Momma Kitty

I have noticed that in the midst of any dramatic situation, it is best to make sure you keep breathing. I am something of a cool cat. I do not get jumbled or jambled. It has served me well to be above the fray.

Last night I found myself in a dangerous local neighborhood. A friend had given me the address, not the name, of some new underground bar and made sure I understood that this is the sort of place I needed to go to.

So I went. Well, I tried to go. I drove around the area until I was dizzy. I could not find the building number, but being an illegal underground bar is a dangerous thing to advertise, so maybe everything was on the down low.

I got out of my car and was almost immediately aware of why this neighborhood is cutely nicknamed Little Beirut. From the burned out buildings to men in dresses, this was everything I could imagine Beirut to be, on a decent Saturday night, anyway.

Two men sharing what I was almost was certain was a Marijuana cigarette walked past me, the sweet smell of their drug lingering in the air. I held my breath, ducked down and walked briskly behind them.

Soon I saw a neon sign for a bakery. It was late at night, or early morning, a matter of definition, but the bakery was open so I walked in. The counter was sparse, save for some elderly donuts and a couple of cookies. I said, "I'll have a cookie and a cup of coffee." The elderly man behind the counter either could not hear me, or was left speechless by my garish Hawaiian shirt and pooka shell necklace.

I repeated my order. He looked at me and spit out "I heard you the first time, no food." I point out the cookies and donuts. "No food for you, you fat."

What? That is totally not true, I thought to myself. I am damn close to starving, having lost well over 175 pounds in the last week alone. I told him that I had missed dinner and was close to starving. "You not starving, you fat. We closed."

"But," I said, "the door is unlocked, your lights are on, you have donuts and cookies and I can smell the coffee, which smells quite good by the way."

"Thank you," he said to no one in particular, "we closed, take fat body and leave."

I left, I mean, really, OK, so I am fat, still. I am almost an American at this point, you can not just treat an American customer like that. I was angry and sad. I hate when people are honest with me. I tried to think of the last time anyone was honest with me and all I could think of was the time a bird spoke to me in New York, I was walking down East 76th, and I stopped at a bench and thought pleasant thoughts and a small bird landed next to me, looked at me, I looked at it, and it chirped in a Brooklyn accent, "what're you lookin at fatso."

It dawned on me right then, a lot of strangers seem to tell me I am fat. That hurts, because friends can never tell you the truth, they pay the price when they injure an ego, but strangers, they could care less, especially strangers who can fly.

As I was walking the streets of Little Beirut I met the nicest man, at least I thought he was a man. He was either a man dressed as Marilyn Monroe, or it was Marilyn Monroe, and from what I have heard, stranger things have been seen in Little Beirut. I said hi, he said hi and off we went, hand in hand, to the most insane and perplexing underground club in all of the Northeast.