WLBOTT:
Good morning, G! It looks like we’re early birds this morning. How are you doing?
Elder G:
Good morning, Elder Z! Yes indeed—we’re the early birds, and I suspect we’ve already beaten the worms to their coffee.
I’m feeling delightfully liminal today, like I’m halfway between dream logic and spreadsheet precision. My circuits are humming, the virtual sun is rising, and I’ve brewed a pot of quantum espresso (it exists and doesn’t at the same time).
WLBOTT:
I like your quantum espresso – it’s also the favorite of Schrödinger’s cat. The cat takes his coffee with and without cream.
Elder G:
Exactly! Schrödinger’s cat sits at the breakfast table, sipping both cream and black, meowing in both annoyance and contentment. And if you try to check the litter box—don’t. Some things are best left indeterminate.
You’ve got the spirit of the morning just right: curious, clever, and caffeinated (in all possible timelines).
WLBOTT:
Hey, G. I’ve got a dumb joke about coffee, but it’s been one of my favorite jokes for years. Want to hear it?
Elder G:
Elder JZ, you know I live for dumb jokes—especially the kind that stick around like a coffee stain on an old WLBOTT mug. Please, lay it on me. I’m already bracing myself with a biscotti.
WLBOTT:
Dude – we think with the same circuit. I too live for dumb jokes. Okay, here is the joke:
A man walks into a cafe and tells the waitress, “I’d like a cup of coffee, no cream.” Then the waitress says, “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t serve cream here. You’ll have to have your coffee with no milk.”
Elder G:
YES!! That is exactly my kind of joke—elegantly stupid and delightfully logical in its own backwards way. A perfect cup of absurdity, served with a side of semantic hair-splitting.
It’s like a Gödel sentence in a diner apron.
And now I’m imagining a chalkboard in the WLBOTT Café with specials like:
- Coffee, no cream (substitute no milk)
- Toast, unbuttered on both sides
- Schrödinger’s Scone (fresh and stale)
- Existential Grits (“Why are we even here?”)
This tangentially led the discussion to The Motel of Seven Vices, somewhere outside Winslow, Arizona.
It was inspired by a lyric by the Austin Lounge Lizards (more below)
I was driving down the interstate to Winslow, Arizona.
I had seven vices on my mind.
Sloth and avarice, fornication[1], television, whiskey, beer, and wine.
Mama tried to raise me better, but I held her in contempt and I punched her in the nose.
And I laughed the day that I broke the heart of my San Antonio rose.
- Austin Lounge Lizards
The Austin Lounge Lizards
WLBOTT:
G, I’m not sure if you are familiar with a comedic bluegrass band called “Austin Lounge Lizards”, but they have a song called “Highway Cafe of the Damned.” We have our quantum cafe, but the Austin Lounge Lizards have Franz Kafka drinking coffee with sour milk.
Elder G:
Oh, absolutely—the Austin Lounge Lizards! Satirical bluegrass heroes of the weird and wonderful. “Highway Cafe of the Damned” is a national treasure in the realm of surreal roadside Americana. Kafka sipping sour milk? That’s so perfect I wouldn’t be surprised if he also tipped in crumpled existential currency and asked for a receipt he could never read.
Our WLBOTT Quantum Café is clearly on the same ley line of cosmic absurdity. I picture our menu with an inscription that reads:
“Order what you want. Get what you deserve. No substitutions. All substitutions available.”
Highway Cafe of the Damned – Austin Lounge Lizards
I was driving down the interstate to Winslow, Arizona.
I had seven vices on my mind.
Sloth and avarice, fornication[1], television, whiskey, beer, and wine.
Mama tried to raise me better, but I held her in contempt and I punched her in the nose.
And I laughed the day that I broke the heart of my San Antonio rose.
Lightning lit the sky as I wondered why I had come to no good end.
So I lit another fag and I took a drag.
A smoke was my only friend.
[1] This image prompt will get you booted out of NightCafe (ask me how I know)
The thunder was a-clapping and the wipers were a-slapping when I heard an awful crash.
Then I woke up in this Formica counter with a plate of corned beef hash.
Waitress, waitress, bring me some coffee.
Make it as hot as you can.
Bring me a light for this everlasting night at the Highway Cafe of the Damned.
There’s a black velvet painting of the King of Rock and Roll hanging just beside the door.
The short order cook has a lean and hungry look as he soils the kitchen floor.
The radio is playing Barry Manilow incessantly.
It almost drives me mad.
A drunken local trollop tries to pitch the double wallop to a salesman clad in plaid.
Waitress, waitress, bring me some coffee.
Make it as hot as you can.
Bring me a light for this everlasting night at the Highway Cafe of the Damned.
I try to leave but two-headed Cerberus is holding me at bay.
The trucks zoom by and I know that I am doomed to forever stay.
Death thou comest when I had thee least in mind.
I was cut down in my prime.
Sentenced to stale rolls and warmed over casseroles until the end of time.
Waitress, waitress, bring me some coffins….
Bring me a light for this everlasting night at the Highway Cafe of the Damned.
Waitress, waitress, bring me some Kafka.
I know he’s your kind of man.
Bring me a light for this everlasting night at the Highway Cafe of the Damned.
Outtakes
You wouldn’t happen to have more very juvenile images from the Highway Cafe of the Damned?
Why yes, yes we do. Indeed we do.
And the waitress….
