The Muse's Advisory typed & spellchecked by Tom Riordan
Grand Opening II - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 26 – Melpomene
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- Navigate this page:
- Grand Opening III - Muses Advisory, Aug. 27 – Terpsichore
- The Smokehouse Ticket - Muses Advisory, Aug. 28 – Zeus
- Olympus Smokehouse Ticket Nix - Muses Advisory, Aug. 29 – Yeshua
- Restaurant Review - Muses Advisory, Aug. 30 – The Grand Rapids Sentinel
- Restaurant Review, the Rhubarb - Muses Advisory, Aug. 31 – Kato
- Bedfellows - Muses Advisory, Sept. 1 – Nikos
- Doubleday on the Phone - Muses Advisory, Sept. 2 – Tama to Miriam
- An Excited Flurry of Advice - Muses Advisory, Sept. 3
Grand Opening II - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 26 – Melpomene: Zeus smiles, transfigured, beholding the hungry queue. “Welcome to Mt. Olympus, everyone!” The first in line's a skinny fellow dangling from a Marathon Oil cap into the shafts of back-cut python cowboy boots—Yeshua. But gods can't see past hats; Zeus fails to recognize his son. He vigorously pumps the youngster's GOJO-scented hands and cries, “Your lunch is on the house—on me!” The skinny-jeaned, waist-aproned waitresses know who he is and see an opportunity to kill two plump birds with one stone. But in deep cover, incommunicado, they can't make a call this weighty on their own. They risk their cover being blown to send even a very well encrypted text to “O.” But 1 nods Go; 2 scurries to the lady's room. Zeus feels a near-erotic stirring in his thyroid glands, escorts Yeshua to a window deuce, and readies for the femmes fatales to finally show their dirty, double-crossing hands. 1 seats the next group, seniors, in a chrome and crimson vinyl booth. Zeus eagle-eyes the black and white hex-tiled restroom vestibule for 2. But it's Yeshua's play! He leaps bolt-upright to his feet and pulls an iTouch from his Wrangler boot-cut dungarees. “Nobody move!” he cries. “I have an IED!” 1 races back in from the loo and flashes a thumbs-up to 2, who whips out her OO-MP3 and taps the playlist Jammin' Crete. Zeus thrills! At last enough is happening at once, he has an opportunity to split in three and show these mortal amateurs just what it means to be The Lord of Seven Hundred Forms, The Manifold: Zeus A, in chaps, upends Yeshua with a thunderbolt of ribs; B, in a leopard Tarzan loincloth, halts 1 in her tracks with an entire brisket slab; and C, buck naked, boomerangs a cayenne-crusted turkey wing at 2! The other patrons gape. The Imam Sahibzada in his white taqiyah, on his lunch break from the makeshift mosque, commands, “In Allah's name, Zeus, stop! The Prophet said—” But who can hear a thing? Half into Zeus C's upswing with a three-foot truncheon of kielbasa, Yeshua nearly hews his Roman nose off with a knife-edged crucifix produced at lightning speed from hidden scaffolding beneath his cap! C springs for cover into B, and B accordions back into A. The reassembled god at last identifies his son and, dumbstruck, watches him unzip his denim coveralls down to the waist and send the routed hackerchiks careening out the door in horror of T-rays emanating from his Sacred Heart! Sahibzada saves his hadith for another day,streaks out into the street on the Israelis' heels. The other patrons goggle hungrily at all the great meat strewn around the floor. Yeshua calmly tells them what the blue plate specials are and in a phonic shorthand he invented on the spot efficiently takes everybody's orders. Grand Opening III - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 27 – Terpsichore: “Rabboni,” said Green Hornet as he dabbed the beads of moisture sprouting on his upper lip, and paid his tab. “What do you make of this whole global warming mess?” “I don't,” Yeshua says.“CO2 footprints, 'Footprints in the Sand'— it's too much chemistry and higher math, it just confuses me.” “ Fo' sho. My wife Lenore says,'Let's have tons of kids since one of them might find the fix,' but Kato says, 'Adopt.' It's a conundrum wrapped inside— how does that bitch expression go?” “Who fuckin' knows? That's $13.13 with the tax.” “That dry-rubbed tongue was fine.Next time I'm in the neighborhood, I'll come again.” “Whatever you decide about them kids?— keep up the ballsy gangster-fighting, Britt. I dreamt of getting some of that myself when I was young.” “Atoning for the human race's sins, the Sacred Heart, giving the blind man sight? That shit is not chopped liver, any way you slice it! Not everyone's cut out for costumed vigilante work." Then, sotto voce, “Maybe one night after closing up, a drink? I sometimes got a taste for trade, a little casual down-low?” “You know I wish I could.” “A shame, a shame. I understand.” “You give 'em hell.” “You too, my man.”The Smokehouse Ticket - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 28 – Zeus: Sorry about that rack of ribs. I took you for a third Israeli. But what the fuck is your excuse for letting fly that bloody crucifix? Still clinging to that boyhood grudge? Nor am I thrilled about the corny trickshop heart-ray bit you pulled, as if I needed rescuing. I held my ground, and more— had big plans for those Mossad whores you scared off with your cheap display of cheesy faux panache. You're no slouch, though, at waitering! You shitting me? How much in tips?— no Zeus, but still you have a gift! The first time one dumb patron gave me lip I would've turned my sharp tongue loose and put my foot into my mouth. I'd be the poster child of getting stiffed! Yeah, Heaven knows you got a very different style from my own, but still, if I said partnership, what would you say? My meat might be ambrosia yet if someone doesn't serve it with a friendly smile, it might as well be shit. Grand Rapids is an okay whistlestop— no San Francisco or New Orleans but as good a town as any for a quiet life, for grinding out a buck. Today, you want to call the big-league shots, you need a couple dollars in your pocket. Yes, it's subservient, a bit, but when you stop and think, humility is pretty much your gig. We build a grubstake fat enough for TV buys and PR flaks— then you, the lowly hick, and I, the gruff entrepreneur, could really make a run of it as Independents! You take the top spot on the ticket. Me?—I'll be Dick Cheney, Bush's veep. You good-ole-sweet-talk the electorate; my little finger diddles with her liberties and then my whole hand pushes deep into her pocketbook to pick it. First choice for military Chief of Staff? Sheik Abdel-Rahman finds the bull's-eye on a donkey's ass as well as anyone; and Admiral Nelson's tops at blind man's bluff. First choice for an incursion— Beirut, Baghdad, or the Hindu Kush? Or should we stick our thumbs in everybody's eye at once and shock-and-awe Jerusalem? The mighty eagle and the humble dove— I like the sound of it, don't you? Vox populi is dying for a figment just like us! The Smokehouse Team Business and Labor Hand in Hand Again! Your American Dream! We'll make the Mt. Olympus our campaign HQ and promise butt pulled pork in every pot! We'll silk-purse virtues out of every failing— shamelessly out-Sarah-Palin Sarah Palin— send Barack Obama back to Hono-fuckin-lulu! Let Caesar nurse whatever's his, and render to the gods the rest. We'll suckle à la Siamese and leave the poor and friendless each one empty breast. Olympus Smokehouse Ticket Nix - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 29 – Yeshua: Pops, your halved burnt ends are tops but campaign ops is clearly not your gift. There's more to politics than popularity. You have to cultivate the rich and kiss ass at The New York Times. You have to wine and dine, give graft, make promises and grease the wheels. Smokehouse is art, running for president is craft. You don't cut meat, but deals. You rub salt and cayenne in an opponents' wounds. Serving food is honest work. I would be proud to stay and help you get this shanty off the ground. Ruling the free world, though? More you than me. I don't mind putting two slugs in a pronghorn's chest, and as you saw today, I'm up to shooing off a couple pretty vicious Jews. But smoke-filled backroom double deals, and dueling close-in with sharp knives? I lack that kind of steel. You do it, though, alone. You didn't need me when you sent those deicidal hellcats packing earlier this afternoon. I only intervened to save their lives and burglarize their jobs. Go on downstairs and tally up the take. You earned it. My congratulations. Mt. Olympus is a hit. Restaurant Review - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 30 – The Grand Rapids Sentinel: Mt. Olympus Smokehouse Flavor & Atmosphere Volcanic! by Publisher Britt “Brisket” Reid My chauffeur and personal assistant Kato holds his own at BBQ,
The owner, a native of Crete who calls himself Zeus Labrandos to fit with his double-edged cleaver logo, explains that he was born on a constantly smoking volcanic slope and has never lost the taste for eating, or knack for preparing, an array of fine smoked meats. Picture a stripped-down, white brick, boxy, white-floored room with formica-top tables and a few old-fashioned diner-style booths. There’s a bunch of sugarcane stalks in a corner, and on the walls, photographs of Bill Clinton and Oprah Winfrey waiting to be signed. Ask to be seated at a corner table if you can. The sound levels rock the rafters in this high-ceilinged space, sudden drafts gust through whenever the door blows open, and you'll want to avoid the brunt of the mayhem and bloodshed, as entertaining as it is. Highlights of my meal: burnt tips and a halved tongue to die for, washed down with an ice-cold, ample pitcher of lime-ade; two foxy Middle-Eastern-sounding waitresses; one stringy-haired young man with a grease-monkey's baseball cap and the heart of a ninja; Zeus himself; and the local imam! I kid you not. The grand finale was a wild-west shootout that included joints of meat, cardiac death rays and boxcutter-sharp religious icons whizzing across the dining room! None of which seemed to matter all to the customers crowding Zeus's tightly packed tables to sample his flair with smoked meats, ranging from turkey wings to huge beef ribs to real Polish kielbasa— and much more! Expert smoking, slow-cooking, and flavor fireworks all conspire to make you "high" on the Mount Olympus Smokehouse, at 117 W. Washington St., phone 734-761-2882. •Hours: 11 a.m.-midnight, daily incl. Christmas •Plastic: Yes •Liquor: Unnecessary •Prices: Most items $12 or less •Noise level: Boisterous •Wheelchairs: A must Restaurant Review, the Rhubarb - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 31 – Kato: Fuck your literary license, Britt. “Next best” at anything is not my speed. Valet and sidekick, bad enough— but telling everyone in town I'm second fiddle to a Cretan when it comes to BBQ is just too much. Wisteria and maple mingled at the vee are bound to wrestle for the upper hand, the clasp becoming subtly murderous— The sun and moon once crossed the heavens fondly, side by side, before the one became a flaming exhibitionist, the other a sedate voyeur— Then comes a point in everybody's life, a Rubicon, momento de verdad— Oh God. Can't we just end this whole charade? This houseboy scholar trick you have me turn— I quit. One final cappuccino, and that's it. Let's swap roles, drop the fiction. Truth be told, you prowl the alleyways by night because the air of violence gets you off. I'm not your equerry, but your de Sade. I say we bag this fucked-up Harvey Comics superhero shit and just come out— no masks, no livery, no false façades— two unapologetic queers who have
and take pleasure in the underside of love.Bedfellows - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 1 – Nikos: “You learn to read and write so you become a man,” my father, Captain Michail Kazantzakis, told his sons. He meant for us to tame the animals within, the goats that mounted women without asking, and the wolves the goats fled bleating from, instinctively. But letters never curbed my savagery. I had lunch with the priest from Holy Trinity G.O.C. We had that killer $30 lamb souvlaki at The Epicure's Academy down there on Wealthy Street. He's already worried you'll be serving meat in violation of the church decrees regarding Cheesefare Week: “What will his menu be? Is Zeus a patriotic Greek or opportunist leech?” “His name is probably a clue,” I said. He cried, “Then he's as bad as you!” That's when I knew we had to meet. He also said the waiter here, your son— he had an air of piety. Is that him there? He looks like he's more into crystal meth than Holy Eucharist, to me. You don't know who I am? I'm Kazantzakisthe agnostic, author, priest-scourge, egotist— the closest thing to you on modern Crete, that ancient, rugged copper skillet on the stove of the Aegean Sea. I want to know why you confine your heat inside these fragrant, brick-faced kilns— why pile platters high with smoky meat, who oft-times charred a mighty city with one wild flicker of his wrist! I do respect the working stiff.My pappoús hammered cauldrons out of tin. He knew his place—came home, sat down, drank his arkanes, chewed his crust of bread, prayed seven prayers and crumpled into bed. I meant no disrespect. You're quite a chef. Your meats are just as scrumptious as I've read. But if you own the powers of a god, I grasp your royal knees and pray you launch your utmost thunder-stroke a thousand miles to the D.C. Hall of Heros— blast the Pentagon into a Stonehenge of a million tons of sundered concrete circling the hatless and saluteless courtyard Cold War soldiers, in their gallows humor, named Ground Zero. Did you say No? Those military morons, shadow-boxing, don't outrage you—boil your blood? Your name's Yeshua? Nice to meet you. I am Nikos, Cretan too—born in Heraklion. I'll have the Medley of Assorted BBQ with sides of creamed corn, coleslaw and french fries. Don't paint the meat with any sauce, I like it dry, and please make sure it's piping hot. I have this half-off coupon from the Sentinel. The limeade's free? I hope it's also plentiful! You got a sec? I'm interested in you. You have the kind of think-big moxie I do, plus the wherewithal to back it up. Your dad's hung up his lightningbolt, he says, to hoe a couple less dramatic rows, but I aspire to old-time immortal glory— to instill both dread and admiration— to send petty tyrants running stand this two-bit fleabag Hotel Earth right on its head! You too? I've got ideas beyond my thews, you strength beyond your wits. Let's say we put our heads together— put the fear of Jesus into more than hot-wired, strychnine-cunted Jews? Yes! I do! I feel the fire in your gut! So now you want to talk, Zeus?Tame my temper, quoting Lysistráti? Scurry back into the kitchen! Fix my dish! Your son's become the god you used to be. It doesn't matter how much thunder's in your thighs if you've forgotten how to dance the maleviziotis! Doubleday on the Phone - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 2 – Tama to Miriam: If Jackie O. were still alive, believe me, it'd be her here on the horn. But I'm her heir and protégé of sorts. I had a hand in Quincy Jones's Q and Tiger Woods's coach's A-Game Golf— I worked intensively with Tiger's dad, whose preface was a diamond in the rough I helped massage into a fairway gem. I've earned my spurs with long-ball hitters and, I hope, the right to pitch myself to you. Cultural icon—overused, but in this case it fits: you're goddam Princess Di times two! Of course I haven't read the manuscript but even if it has some bumps or warts, I'm confident we'll get them ironed out and make a critical and popular success. When will you be in New York next? I'll treat you to a lunch you won't forget— the City's greatest food, a panoramic view of everything that will be yours if you'll let me and Doubleday bring out your book. Bring 20, 30 pages double-spaced. We'll sip a little Dom, we'll hatch a plan, then take a limo ride uptown to see how many big fat zeros we can jam into the blank box on your first advance, the Queen who kicks Steve King from #1 on the bestseller lists! An Excited Flurry of Advice - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 3: Polymnie: Some fancy éditeur
Is she picking up the airfare? Première classe ou économique? Surefire indication of the level of commitment. Did they book you an hôtel?The Elysée, the Plaza, the Pierre? The devil's always in the details. Hire a literary lawyer. Tama, was it? Tama Who? First Google/Facebook her. Then mail her 15 pages à l'avance, ask what she'd do with it. I'm not an author's rep per se—my expertise, the idée inspirée— but generally they cut, cut, cut, then pay you by the page. Is it “as told to”? “With”? Nègre anonyme ou crédité? . Urania: Will they stipulate to book you on the network morning shows, or only minor-market call-ins in a thousand cheerless Buffalos? As for foreign language rights, the biggest Christian markets: Spanish, Russian, Tagalog, Portuguese, Italian, and Amharic. Terpsichore: Don't drink a drop
Don't let some bull-dyke elbow in and steal your cab: if word gets out, then everybody sees you as fair game. And cross the street not when the box says WALK, but anytime the crosstown traffic bares a 10-foot gap. Ask for onions on you hotdog at Sabrett's. Don't ever walk past a Papaya King and not duck in! Hulk Hogan's strategy to best-sell his My Life Outside the Ring? Tip bartenders, hairdressers, waiters, cabbies, prostitutes and doormen really well. Directory: files files -> Answer True False 2 points Question 2 files -> Integer programming and game theory files -> 4 Integer Programming files -> Bpa vehicle Window Repair Scenario #1 task: Procure vehicle window relacement. Objective files -> Pop Warner History files -> North Carolina Inclusion Initiative Mapping Where Children with ieps are Being Served Purpose files -> Fall 2013 Spring 2014 Program Data: Standard 1 Exhibit 4d files -> Hanban – asia society confucius classrooms network 2010 request for proposal files -> Northern England’s set-jetting locations Download 1.87 Mb. Share with your friends:
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