There’s a storefront in my neighborhood that’s been “Under Renovation” for a long time. The windows are papered-up. Aside from the occasional eye rolls and tongue-clucks of Park Slope’s self-appointed Neighborhood Aesthetic Congeniality Committee, most people would walk by a papered-up storefront and pay it little to no mind.
However, this storefront is really distracting because, in addition to the newspaper collage designed to keep out all sunlight and retain all privacy, the owners (or owners-to-be) have hung all these posters advertising the impending arrival of “HOT FRATS.” It’s all over the windows. HOT FRATS. I’m not sure what Hot Frats are; the poster says something about fried ravioli but has a photograph of something that looks like cream puffs covered in blood.
This morning I thought it would be fun to camp outside the store with a sleeping bag and picnic basket and a copy of Isaac Asimov’s Robot Trilogy, and insist to any passer-by, “I’m getting the first Hot Frat. Me! Hot Frat #1!!” Then every couple of hours I’d bang on the windows of the store and demand to know when my Hot Frats would be ready. “COME ON!! From whence will these delicious Hot Frats come, if not from within that storefront yon? I’m getting hungry out here! I want a Hot Frat in my mouth, anon, and a matching pair in my stomach. I want to feel a Hot Frat being broken down in my digestive system. Good Sirs, I will not rest until I’ve tasted your finest Hot Frat!! Please summon your exchequer, for I must know what financial straits are causing my Hot Frats to tarry so!” (here’s a peek behind the curtain of hilarious: ridiculous demands are made that much more ridiculous when phrased in the parlance of the society for creative anachronism.)
Then I stopped thinking about Hot Frats and started thinking about this. Funny how the mind works.