"Hey Rich, come on.  Got a stop to make on Capitol Hill.  I
gotta meet Lane--"
     "The guy from Alice in Chains?"
     "Yeah," said Paul.  "He owes me money."
     "He's worth a mint.  How does *that* work?"
     "Did some repair work on his habitrail.  Let's go."
     
     We headed over to Paul's van which was parked by Ravenna on a
cozy little side street.  I waited while Paul decamouflaged the Big
Bondura, first detaching the antlers then removing the hide.  
     "You can never be too careful," he said, then whispered, "it's
a damn police state out here."
     I nodded then entered through the fun doors.  I was
immediately struck by the fact that the triptych was gone.  In its
place was "The Waking Dream".  I whistled in admiration of the
Rosetti.
     "Yes," said Paul.  "Now is she a femme fatale or what?"
     I agreed and added, "There's an almost fifteenth-century feel
to it.  Why is that?"
     Paul pointed out one of the painting's many allusive motifs
and said, "Yet it conjures up a disquiet ambiguity and tension that
very much belong to the modern age."
     "Paul, just how many art chicks *have* you tapped since you hit
Seattle?"
     "They're everywhere!"
     
     Aside from the art, the van was a mess.  The floor was
littered with clothing, trash packed the wheel wells--even the
canopy was torn!  
     "Rich, do you know how hard it is to find a matching pair of
socks when you're living out of a van?"
     "Yeah, but do you know how hard it is to eat licorice without
molars?!"  
     "Damn I hate to be one-upped!"
     Paul got behind the wheel and lifted the engine casing.  
     "Do me a favor," he said.  "Hold the distributor cap in place. 
It's a bitch to drive and shift one-handed."  
     I did as requested and soon we were stopping for coffee at
Cafe Paradiso.  Huge soup bowl mugs.  Another latte for me.  An
Americano for Paul.
     I was amazed at the stupidity of the conversations that
surrounded us.  
     An armchair philosopher who obviously was on the make shouted
at his table of adoring nymphettes, "Yes, but can God create a
chair so heavy that even HE can't sit in it?!!"
     "What a weiner," I said, knowing I'd be overheard.
     The philosopher didn't miss a beat but turned to us and said,
"Are you aware that weiner, frank, and hot dog are interchanged
quite freely these days?"
     The nymphettes were clearly impressed.
     "Paul," I said, as we both turned to face our opponent, "isn't
Antoine Feuchtwanger responsible for introducing the frank to
America?"
     "Was he the Bavarian who sold piping hot franks at the
Louisiana Exposition in 1904?" added Paul.
     The nymphettes started looking us over.  The philosopher's
face began to redden.
     "Yes," I said, "In fact, he offered white cotton gloves so his
customers wouldn't burn their hands."
     Another nymphet moved her chair our way and said, "Oooh, is
that why they invented buns?"
     "Damn straight, sister!" I said.  "Gloves weren't cheap and
most of them were never returned."
     The philosopher was all a-fume and looking for shelter.  "But,
but, Coney Island," he offered.
     "Sure," said Paul, "it's common knowledge that the immigrant
Charles Feltman was another early entrepreneur of the frank."
     I said, "True, it was his Coney Island business from which his
employee, Nathan Handwerker departed in 1916 to found Nathan's
Famous."
     Paul now had two girls in his lap while a redhead stuck her
tongue in my ear and said, "Tell me more, tell me more."
     "Like does he have a car?"
     She giggled and the girls on Paul's lap provided the "Uh-huh, uh-huh" 
chorus.
     "Red hots!  Get your red-hot dachshund sausages!" Paul
bellowed.
     I said, "That, girls, was the vendors' lure who worked for the shrewd 
concessionaire, Harry M. Stevens.  His franks sold at the New York
Polo Grounds on cold days."
     The philosopher squirmed in his chair and loosened his
necktie.
     The redhead said, "So that's where the name hot dog comes
from!"
     "Actually," said Paul, "those vendors caught the eye of T. A.
"Tad" Dorgan, the sports humorist."  
     "Right," I said, "he was in the Polo Grounds' press box
covering a baseball game in 1900.  
     "Red hots!  Get your red-hot dachshund sausages!" said Paul's
brunette.
     "Right," said Paul, "That cry inspired Dorgan to draw a cartoon of a 
barking dachshund in a roll."
     "He called his character a hot dog," I added.  
     Paul said, "Because he couldn't spell 'dachshund'.  The name stuck."
     The deflated philosopher left.

     Moral of the story:  Don't fuck with Philly boys when it comes
down to hot dogs.
     "That's Doggs, Rich."
     "Laaaaaiiiiiid back." 

a RICHH/Paul joint