anchises: (Default)
anchises ([personal profile] anchises) wrote2010-03-23 05:36 pm

The eighth epistle of JD Nielson. Mezzanine. Mature.

The eighth epistle of JD Nielson

by Anchises

Mezzanine universe. Mildly mature themes and content. A transformative work.

Creative Commons License

my very educated mitchell just served us nice pie (damn this "pluto is not a planet" nonsense all to hell),

i cannot fail to have absorbed, in our many years of acquaintance, cohabitation and buttfucking (do you think we need a new strap-on while i'm in dc, by the way?) your loathing for the joy of home delivery of foods that i have neither desire nor ability nor patience to prepare. i will allow, mitchell, my marvelously mammaried mnemosyne of mirth, magnanimity and merriment, that there are certain foods that do not lend themselves well to it. I would imagine that this is perchance (to dream, if not to sleep) the reason why there is no national franchise of southern home cooking. i barely wish to consider the possibility of greasy, gray grits nestling on a floppy, sloppy bed of cooling, congealed collard greens, to the side of tepid fried tomatoes and barely-warm barbecue pork. jesus, i think i threw up a little bit in my mouth.

however, mitchell, this house must disagree with the notion that that pizza, for example, can only be consumed if made fresh at home. notwithstanding the fact that i am currently stuck in a penthouse suite without so much as a toaster oven (and, believe me, mitchell, i will relate my rapturously delightful experience of why i am in a penthouse suite all on my lonesome, apart from chad, which rather more ravishingly ass-reamingly delicious experience i will also relate), there are many, many things i would prefer to do after a tiring day keeping you in lounge pants, tank tops and organic fairtrade single-plantation ghanaian eighty-five percent cocoa chocolate than try to make homemade pizza anywhere but your kitchen; my list would include root canals, taxes, construction contractors, banking, accountancy, and flying southwest. also chad, which is something of a given.

not, mitchell, that i have succumbed to the temptation that is the double pepperoni sicilian stuffed super slammer special supreme (or whatever) at domino's. (perish the thought!) no, rather, on my way in to our usual hotel (and may i say, mitchell, that, next time we need to be in dc, we are so upgrading to this particular suite, because the bath is about the size of kazakhstan and their towels are fluffier than your addled, addled mind) i passed a small italian bistro advertising "coal-fired stone-baked pizza".

frank's -- as my new favorite place in dc or possibly the entire east coast and most of the midwest is called -- delivers, but tonight i decided to call in on my way home to place an order, which followed me back to the suite twenty minutes later. it turns out that frank -- who is from new jersey rather than old napoli -- bought up an old-fashioned coal-fired pizza oven from a place in little italy that was being turned into apartments and had his daughter donna (an environmental engineer) fit an emissions capture system to it in order to abide by our nation's capital's "goddamn fascisti verdi laws, may they spend eternity in limbo for it", as he puts it. and sancta maria mater dei, o mio babbino mitchell, the man makes pizza that little baby pizzas want to be when they grow up big and strong because they listened to their mama pizzas and ate all their vegetables and did their chores and went to bed early. the crust was sublime, the tomato sauce ridiculous, the roasted vegetables bathetically, pathetically simpatico, the pizza an intensely holistic gestalt of loveliness, as the upturned face of the magdalene weeping 'neath the cross of our lord and saviour in his passion, as the sound of angels descending to speak unto the prophet elijah, as the six-wing'd seraphs and the sons of the morning speaking unto the children of god.

in short, o mio babbino mitchell, si si, ci voglio andare con te (not in that way, you horrible slut! although, well, yes, in that way too, you have a point there), and we will, the very next time that you accompany me to the district of columbia (columbia! columbia! to glory arise!), to explore il menu di frank. (he does a frutti di mare pizza, mitchell, which i did not have myself, that smelled so good that it almost made me want to ma per buttarmi in potomac.)

and he also has chad. chad is the delivery boy (the delivery boy!). from the day he was born, mitchell, he was trouble. the good sort of trouble, admittedly, the sort of trouble that makes men men and women nervous, because the boy has a salami like a zucchini. a really big zucchini, a zucchinissimo, one might say (as long as one did not have one's mouth around it, in which case one might say mmf-mmmmf-mmmfmmmf-mmf-mmmf-ghghghgh) and, in a funny coincidence, he just happened to be passing the hotel as he came off shift at ten this evening. (technically last evening, but you know my repudiation of the oppressive oligarchic diurnal norm system and all it represents. please tell me, mitchell, that we do not have to have this discussion again, because last time you bitched at me for staying up "all the goddamn night, an' turnin' the heatin' down until it's like goddamn thule in here" i had to replace two laptops, my favorite armchair and a set of stemware.)

anyway, i had chad. (and now i want a button to say that. please do feel free to design one for me, mitchell.) i had chad in bed. i had chad against the wall. i had chad on the sofa. i had chad on the dining room table. i had chad against the floor-to-ceiling windows. i had chad in the other bed. i had chad in the shower. i had chad in the bath. i was had, had by chad. chad, as you might say in your inimitable (not that it's stopping me) way, mitchell my darling, done had me, and he done had me good. (god, how do you talk like that?) chad can have me any time he damn well likes.

speaking of the sofa (and the dining room, and the kazakhstanesque bathroom, and the multiple beds), allow me to relate my exciting experiences with the mgt of this fine establshment upon my arrival. you will doubtless recall, oh baby baby (how was i supposed to know?), that we book in on the government rate and then use some of our 759,000-odd hotel points (and our platinum status with this particular chain) to upgrade ourselves to a room in which one actually might wish to spend time while conscious (see above re: i never sleep).

now, unless you are having one of your senior moments again, you will also recall my discussion via the medium of bell, alexander graham, last thursday, with the reservations hotline dedicated to our convenience as valued platinum members of the stayprioritypointplusgoldexecutive groupclub, in which i made the usual arrangements for an executive suite, which is what this sublative chain calls its suites with a separate bedroom and a living-dining room. (why is it, incidentally, that the dining tables are always an order of magnitude more comfortable to type on than the desks provided?) you will recall that marsha on the phone confirmed my reservation and upgrade.

i am self-righteously satisfied, mitchell, love me, hate me, say what you want about me (and you know what all of the girls and all of the boys are doing), that i have ingrained in us both the habit of confirming the name, rank, serial number and shoe size of our reservations and the reservations agents doing the reservationing. you will be as unsurprised as you are smart, sassy and sepulchrous (that is: exceedingly; mwah mwah to you too) that the reservation was lost in the system.

after my unusually miserable experience getting diverted to dulles via dallas and atlanta, us air and motherfucking moon buggy (i swear to god, mitchell, the russians can nuke dulles any time now), i was less tolerant than usual, which fortunately for all concerned meant that the duty manager was called before i had fully happened to the nice boy on the desk dedicated to our every desire as groveled-to platinum members of, &c. the duty manager -- such a nice man, mitchell, and he blanched so very prettily before the onslaught of precisely what i thought of the capabilities of his company's reservations line and how my basic needs as a nearly-canonized platinum, &c., namely that the room i booked be available for my use during the period for which i booked it -- met my needs shortly after i stated them in a clear, concise, conciliatory and (i will concede) crisp manner. no, mitchell, i didn't call him a goatfucker

which is why, mitchell, i write in my sodomitically sated, gloriously gomorrhic, homophilically happy, catamitically content, anally appreciative, pederastically pleased (why do these words sound so nasty?), beatifically beautifully brilliantly blessedly buggeredly bottomy fashion from the thirtieth floor penthouse duplex apartment high above the spacious skies, amber waves of traffic lights and fruity, fruity plains of l'enfant's magnum opus. i think i can see russia from here. (can i be vice president?)

i'll be here 'til thursday. (try the veal. don't forget to tip your waitress.)

i remain, as ever, mitchell

y'r ev'r-ob'd't (do not laugh) s'rv't,


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