It's pub quiz night. A guy asks questions, people write down answers. The contestants make up funny team names and win prizes. The questions are very hard. How many Kardashians are there?
People ask me questions. What's in a Mai Tai? You tell me. Do you know how to get to Downtown? No. Why don't you smile? I have a low I.Q. Is this all you do, work in a bar? ...
I ask questions. Like Socrates. Do you desire a squeeze... of lime? How much have you had to drink already? Can I get you a coke? Why have flying saucers landed on your eyeballs? Do you want to stay behind after hours and have sex on the pool table?
All these questions, they just open up more peripatetic wonderment, as I walk up and down the bar plank pouring Hemlock for those already far down the worn path.
After hours, when the quizzers have all gone home learned, I rack the pool balls and ask, what is this game? Stripes and spots, zebras and leopards running across the green-baized savannah. He kisses the red. She pots the blue, and the cue ball vanishes to return like the cycle of life. And then there is the 8-ball. And I'm thinking about the flying saucers on the eyeballs, as I sip a coke, and how everything is connected, if we can just find the right answers to the wrong questions.
6000 Kardashians, I think.