And the lord said "LET THERE BE SUSHI"

Holy fuck cunts, today was boring. It's a Sunday, so I wasn't hoping for much action today, but still, JESUS. What am I saying? I didn't even want today to be busy, I'm still super sore from paintball. We got a lot of cleaning done at least. All the table legs are clean, the spice racks and shelf above the cooking area are spotless, and the inversion grill looks brand spankin' new. We got the occasional ticket which broke up the monotony of cleaning, but it also kinda bothered us that someone had to interrupt us before we could get done. Almost every ticket though had sushi on it. MY GOD PEOPLE, ORDER SOMETHING ELSE. Get some fucking duck confit, or maybe a nice bowl of soup. Stop getting sushi. And to top it all off, most of these rolls were veggie rolls, the most labor intensive roll on the menu. I did get to make a crab nepolian, which is one of my favorite things to plate, so that kinda made up for it. I must have rolled 10-12 rolls of sushi today, 8 of which were veggie rolls.

We started cleaning at around 8:30, just so we could have something to do. We finished all the other cleaning, there were no tickets coming in, we were just standing around listening to music. So we cleaned. And wouldn't you know it, at 9:50we got an order.

It was for me.

It was sushi.

Not only that, but it was for a spot prawn roll, which requires the use of the deep fryer, and as luck would have it, I just put the frying baskets in the dish washer. This means I had to grab one of the small flour sifters we keep in the back and hold the basket in the oil. The handle on this thing is less than 6 inches long, and these prawns are big. As I lowered the prawns into the oil, I could feel little splashes of oil hitting my hand, like tiny burning suns pattering on my flesh. I hoped to god that I wouldn't somehow slip and punch my hand straight into the hot oil. This went on for 3-4 minutes, the hot oil mere inches from my knuckles, I couldn't let go of the basket or the prawns would sink to the bottom of the fryer, never to be seen again. The prawns finished, and the danger was over. I rolled that shit up in rice and nori with some green onions, and then layed it down on a plate, sexily dressed with tamarind sauce, spoon dragged, of course.

I got out today at 10:05, a whole hour-and-a-half sooner than last Sunday. I said my good-byes, and made my way. I got on the Blue line to Hillsboro, like usual. As I boarded the train, I ran across an odd site. It was a morbidly obese woman that I saw once at Good Will some months ago. She's not just morbidly obese, shes like Jabba the Hutt in what I guess is lady form, a power chair, and a Southern accent. She was more than half the width of the Max by herself. But enough about her, let's talk about another odd encounter on this magical Max. I ran into my old friend Kyler Gould (pictured below, just cause I wanted to talk about his beard). We talked of our wanting to zoo-bomb, and of our current lives. He's working, from what I understand, as a phone sex operator. We made plans to make bikes this Friday with our friend Quinlan. We parted ways at Sunset, but not before hitting each other, as men often do, in a playful manner.


This is Kyler. He enjoys being a badass , and living on the edge. He likes his whiskey like he likes his women, 12 years old and cut with coke. His beard gets more women than I've even seen. He looks like a goddamn urban pirate. He's ridden sharks, sank ships, and impregnated women, all at once.

He is everything I wish I could be. Well, except for being short and hairy. He's no Chef Luke, mind you, but he's some type of superman.

Well, that's all for today. Maybe something awesome will happen tomorrow, like I win the lottery, or get challenged to mud wrestle Olivia Wilde.