Ladies and Genitals,

I realize that I have been somewhat remiss in my recounting of “Adventures in Luncheon-land” and the therein-detailed descriptions of characters heretofore only available in more formal and certainly more published written works than mine. I apologize profusely and hope to make amends with some new material gleaned today from my usual Thursday jaunt to Sushi Wave in Costa Mesa.

As I strolled into the bar, I felt a certain level of calm that I have not felt at the SW in some time. I attribute this emotion largely to the fact that I arrived relatively early to the restaurant and was one of three prospective Nigiri-Noshers, waiting anxiously for the sushi chef’s wanton eye-contact like a ill-clad fat girl from the (909) trying to get someone to pay her $20 cover charge outside Aysia 101 on a Saturday night. (After all, she drove her lease-returned, re-leased 1997 Camaro, replete with a relief decal depicting Calvin (of Calvin ‘n’ Hobbes) urinating on what vaguely resembles a Ford Motor Company logo, all the way out to Newport, why should she have to pay her own cover?) In a matter of seconds, the sushi chef, J.J. (I have no idea what it stands for, don’t ask.) has an order of yellowtail sitting on my serving board, I have a bowl of steaming miso and a cup of hot green tea, steeped to perfection. All’s well right? Yeah. I wish.

And Along Came You… Approximately a minute after I begin on the former Mr. Yellowtail, a pair of roly-poly relics from 1987 are seated next to me. I don’t get too aggravated at this at first, as I’m seated on the corner (or the “L” as the sushi bar goes ’round the corner), better known as the best place to sit on the bar, so that my well-built, 44-inch, American shoulders aren’t forced to confine themselves to a narrow, I-work-six-days-a-week-and-haven’t-seen-my-wife-naked-in-fourteen-years Japanese standard of practically sitting on your neighbor’s lap. Presumably, this luckily afforded personal space would prevent anyone (particularly the aforementioned Philistines) from involving themselves in my circle within the Venn Diagram Universe that is The Wave for this hour-and-a-half. I presumed wrong. Bear in mind that I am a full two-and-a-half to three feet (approx. 1 meter for my European friends) from this mongoloid and as he squats to sit his hemmorhoidal bonne-bouche down, his hairy unmanicured hand swings out and hits my bowl of miso as I lift it to my lips for a swig. Now, as I’m certain his parents would attest, accidents are accidents, but this was getting ridiculous.

Naturally, I wouldn’t be so perturbed if I was likewise trussed-up in my finest Jethro Tull t-shirt and jeans shorts from Miller’s Outpost. Much to my chagrin, it’s Thursday, not Saturday, and I’m clad in an Ike Behar cotton shirt ($100, Macy’s Men’s Store), a DKNY silk tie ($68, DKNY) and a 2Xist Peruvian Pima cotton undershirt ($19, Macy’s Men’s Store). Not to mention that the pH balance of the miso would have a likely corrosive, if not at least sticky effect on my Montblanc Meisterstuck ($120 Montblanc store, San Francisco, pre-Price Club close-out). I calmly looked over at the Faulknerian Man-Child and with a scrunch of the forehead non-verbally inquired, “What the fuck just happened here?”. He utters back, “Dude. Sorry.”

I shake my head. I’m too old for this crap, I’m turning 29 the week after next and I can’t very well garrot a retard in one of my weekly haunts, can I? Would it be a hate crime? (These are questions for my attorney, Jeff Hegedus.) Unfortunately, hindsight is always better with your Black Flys on, and I probably could have gotten away with strangling the idiot, but I had to make do with what I had at hand. Now, as many of you know, part of the hard-wiring of my constitution is the overwhelming necessity for me to achieve balance. That is to say, if you are nice to me, I’m nice to you back, etc. Suffice it to say that I felt intensely balanced when I accidentally broke the bottle of soy sauce when reaching for the bottle in front of Mr. Flowers-for-Algernon (I had a legitimate excuse, I wanted the Low-So Kikkoman.) and the ebony liquid splendor with the signature green plastic screw-top spilled onto his $12.99 clearance-rack at Old Navy dungaree-shorts (You know, the ones that Morgan Fairchild wears in the commercials with the syphilitic dog Magic and the old bat with the East German art-critic spectacles). I wonder if he thinks it was intentional. No, I doubt he lacks the cerebral wherewithal to process such a complex set of impeti. Just as an added bonus, I didn’t bother to apologize. I had a fabulous order of albacore waiting for me. (Those of you “in the know” know that I didn’t even need the low-so soy sauce, for the albacore has a delightful citrus sauce covering it, to dip in wasabi and soy sauce would be sacrilegious.)

In any case, I left “The Wave” today feeling that the world wouldn’t spin into the sun because of an imbalance in the system and my Karma-Police badge shone brightly in the Orange County sun.

Thank you and goodnight,
Hosro Mostafavi
Singer, Songwriter, Producer & Director
Mad Flava Playas Productions / Skybar Exotic Films
Holly-Wood, CA (What’s your dream, baby?)