I'm not bothered by how important you say you are,
and even if my eyes moved (as those of some of my more expensive breathren do)
instead of just my up-stretched hand rocking to and fro,
I would not choose to watch you dipping small bits of expertly cut fish
that you haltingly pretend to pronounce.

The lady who put me on my shelf
as if it watch over fumbling chopstickery
explains that I bring good luck, but when
dinner is over and she goes home I know that much like you, her luck comes
from a flat screen television upon the wall

Yesterday I was in downtown Seattle, and got on the wrong bus. Not being in any particular hurry, I decided to see where it took me, and ended up in West Seattle.

After wandering around a bit, I came across a nice-looking sushi restaraunt called Mashiko. I wasn't really in the mood for sushi, but none of the other restaraunts were appealing, so I figured I'd give it a try.

For those who have forgotten, this mailing list list is and has always been the Sushi Cabal. We are the Bay Area incarnation of a semi-mythical group that gets together over sushi and, if we actually existed, would decide the fate of the Internet.

In other words, we're here to eat sushi and kick ass.

Sure, these days the Internet looks like it was planned at Taco Bell. It's arguable that we're all out of ass. But that's no reason to just give up! We're not the pasteurized process shit food cabal, we're the SUSHI CABAL! The not-sushi cabal is way over there on the right, sandwiched between the Menudo fan club and the First Amalgamated e-Church of MyWhining iHosebags.

The recent tenor of this list, even while choosing restaraunts, has been less palatable than Nestle's Strawberry Quik made with week-old bongwater. It has been a depressing reminder of all that is wrong with this world. It needs to stop.

So like, roll that in your futomaki and dip it.

Thank you, I be here all the week.