PCA 2023: Lunch with halfwheel Day 2

The bloody lunch was pizza! You happy now? Pizza under a heat lamp, like a reptile. Pizza in a white, cardboard coffin that one tips open for an underwhelming Christmas. Cheese, translucently thin pepperoni, and a whole lot of crust. Come on, it’s pizza for chrissake, not the fried foie gras we had last night. Or the octopus, the pork secreto, the Japanese milk bread with the honeycomb on t — sorry, haha, I mean the porridge.

A halfwheel lunch isn’t exactly communion. It’s automatic eating, a greasy lockstep with a finger kept always on the cursor. Any meal, during trade show hours, is merely digested getup, the naked fuel that toots the writers forth from the booth so that they may resume the job of work. Today, Brian looked to have mastered some kind of professional scarfing technique, because he ate like he wet the stuff. That flatbread vanished like a magic trick. Brooks, too, took a bite and said “NOT BAD,” at his usual jets overhead volume, and when I next looked, it was gone. As for the rest of them, who can say.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back. So long as I don’t enter the priesthood.

Semper sit in flores,

Kyle