Pea Soup Andersen’s flag flew at half-mast for the Republican National Convention.
Since I balk at foods that are diarrhea before you eat them, I declined Pea Soup’s eponymous dish in favor of a chicken sandwich. TJ spoon-fed herself all-you-can-eat green.
With my mouth full of fowl, I glanced around the (p)eatery. I counted multiple pink men with white beards.
I asked our waitress: “Which way to the Hemingway convention?”
At the counter, one ernestly pounded a milkshake his ‘way.
With TJ’s fantasy muffin-top satiated (she claims to have one, but nobody has ever been able to find it), we hit Pea Soup’s gift shop, browsing for a gift for Dreidel, our Aryan Jewish nephew.
Dreidel’s too young for Justin Beaver.
We couldn’t remember whether or not puppets are kosher.
When I suggested a boa,
TJ borrowed the cook’s pea-smashing mallet and tried to put fal’awful, a delicacy made of smashed gurbanz0, on the menu.
We signed Pea Soup’s guestbook
and left the gifts to scratch themselves.
I figured we’d find something for my sister’s toddler visiting my buddy Fish. She works at a winory.
Driving past stables, red barns, and along two lane roads flanked by hills that are tanned rumps springing oaks that are sexy bitches, squirrel crews scampered to greet us. They twerked and twerked.
A bluish roadrunner beep beeped. He sprinted alongside our Fit, reminiscent of the time I jogged with iguanas along the Mexican Riviera.
Vineyards dressed the earth. Oaken bitches looked upon these, still contorting with the memory of their sisters having been ripped out of the earth to make way for grape. From amidst grape, faceless scarecrows stared.
The rooftop of Fish’s workplace and then the whole winory and then its sign and I turned down its driveway and parked beside vines.
“Keep an eye on the car,” I told them. “If anybody tries anything, strangle them.”
Fish’s winory rambles. It’s a bulging hunting lodge gone California Casual. Its veranda reeked of alcoholic salad days and gave me a contact high that disinhibited me enough to act out poses of senior portraiture.
Grabbing the door handle, I thought, “I coon hardly wait!”
Teej and I entered a dim but inviting room. We pirouetted a beeline for the tasting counter.
A chipper geriatric in a grape-print Hawaiian shirt was serving. We insinuated ourselves among the tipplers, all were decked out in atrocious variations of California Casual, a requirement among the winory set, and I leaned against the counter, trying to attract Fish with my meager cleavage.
Wine snob to my right sneezed. Instead of saying excuse me, she asked, “Is there any food around here?”
“Pea Soup!” I barked.
She curled her lip. “I’ve got an old sandwich in the car,” she muttered.
To my left, a dead ringer for The Juice swished and spit .
The dead ringer couldn’t be OJ. OJ is in prison, and besides, this tippling doppelgänger’s squeeze was black.
Grape shirt was explaining to a bacchanalian, “The reason we’ve got coon skin caps stamped on the glasses is because Fess Parker played both Davy Crokett and Daniel Boone.”
Fish poured Teej a glass of magic…
…but Furvana called.
COON SKIN CAPS:
MERKINS OF THE AMERICAN FRONTIER
I Fess up.
It’s a weave.
Fish called me over to the counter. She poured a woman, who looked so good for her age she looked like a baby, a glass of port and explained, “Lesbrain, this vineyard slithers along Neverland Ranch. If you head that way, along that trail,” she pointed left, “you’ll wind up at the gates.”
“You ever been?”
“Neither have I. But I have a student who did. She and her little brother got invited and they got to ride Michael Jackson’s roller coaster, and when she was sitting next to him, she thought, ‘Now’s my chance to touch him.’ She reached out and touched him…first.”
TJ and I wandered back onto the veranda, too lazy to chase the winory dog, Yorick.
We marveled at all the babies. Babies were dangling from the oaks, crawling in the grass, and squeezing into empty bottles. I heard one slur, “Pinot.”
We stumbled to pluck a grape off the vine and since they were fed from earth Michael Jackson had sinned on,
they tasted of perverse innocence.