Subject: The Lost Thursday

Date: 15 Apr 1996 00:00:00 GMT

From: (MegEliz)

Organization: Gene Wolfe Library and Family Restaurant, East Wing

Newsgroups: alt.slack



I don't do this sort of thing very often, but hey, if you can't get a

grip on some real Slack, false slack will just have to do.


A couple of nights ago, the Rev brought me a little bitty bottle of

sparkling wine, which some dim part of my memory wants to call a

splitz. We were going to celebrate a bad day in style, so he gets the

faux beer and I get the little black splitz. I thought a rocket went

off in the kitchen, so I was really sorry to have missed the actual

uncorking of this handful of fuzz.


In my tribute to our dearly departed Lynch, I must mention that the

bottle stands 18.4cm high. The labeling is gold on black announcing

that it is a product of Casa Fundada 1889...


Cava Brut 187ml

Sparkling Wine Freixenet

Alc 11.5% by vol. Traditional Method

Fermented in this bottle Sant Sadurni d'Anoia, Spain

Product of Spain Cordon Negro

Plus the usual helpful disclaimers PLUS "CONTAINS SULFITES" if you're

not sufficiently frightened of operating large machinery after having

swigged down all three mouthfuls. As it was, I was not planning on

operating anything more complex than the remote control device.


Being a not-quite feather weight, I was completely toasted after two

toasts. I began to appreciate that my living room is the most lovely

and inviting place on the planet, the artwork is perfectly positioned

for enjoyment from my perch, and there is nothing of interest on TV as

usual. So what do I do? I watch TV anyway.


What I settled on was a Spanish soap opera. I recommend them to

anybody with more time and stress than they know how to describe. It

was beautiful. The bimbo quotient was MUCH higher than the big three

soaps, and the men were really repulsive. There was no suspension of

disbelief necessary, it was just blazingly stupid. Then the credits

rolled (BRAVO!) and we were into a comedy/variety show. I still didn't

need any linguistic gymnastics to enjoy it, every joke seemed to

consist of a scantily clad woman whispering something to an overly

astonished man. I could think of any number of winners that had

nothing to do with panties.


If I wasn't so concerned with the pitiful Slack-sucking potential, I'd

make regular visits to the Casa Fundada and watch some Japanese



Possibly Pontifette Meg



My sig is not under construction. It's dead.