Chef Sukebe Ph.D.

Chef Sukebe Ph.D.
	Wind is five knots from the NE approximately 53 degrees. The chill in the air is due to the plains' exothermal release and the resulting change in air pressure. And although there are no similarities in barometric readings in my beloved homeland so far away, this time of day always reminds me of the coastal cliffs outside of Kagoshima. Home. They took from me my funding. How easy it is for cowards to close their eyes and hide from the truth. I am heartbroken. Even my colleagues shunned me, calling me a madman. Nihon, warrior country of my youth. Your katana forever sheathed. They took from me my work. Now here at 35 Latitude 23 minutes 3 seconds by 117 longitude 8 minutes 13 seconds, the Tiki Room. With concern only for their own physical pleasure, the patrons of this grotesque establishment enter and leave. Each more disfigured than the next. How long has it been? I get confused. Rage has a way of blinding you in that way. Is it my karma, my destiny that I should find my way here? I am a man of science, a physioculturalpharmalogical biologist, but here at the Tiki Room, I'm the cook. My test tubes and beakers were exchanged for a skillet and spatula. They took from me my research laboratory, but they could not take away my vision. The experiment continues. A quiet night. The shallow-minded are staying in their homes tonight. There must be something "good" on their television sets. It is fine with me-there are many computations to be made, and precious few hours in the day to calculate them. An order. Fortunately, I can run through most of these equations in my head as I work. Veal? Nobody ordered veal at the Tiki Room. Nobody except-oh, it's you. Out of a dark corner, too far from my one overhead 150/100/75-watt three-way lightbulb, came the idiot, "Hammer." As the light hit his face, I relaxed my grip on the hypodermic needle I have in a special fold of my coat. "How's it going, eggman?" the ignorant dullard torted. "Warm enough for you?" he smirked. I calculate that it took him most of the day to assemble that grouping of words into his primary form of communication. "Who ever thought of putting a place like the Tiki Room in the middle of the damn desert?" I casually replied. It was a frustrating and humiliating conversation, and at these times I must focus hard and remind myself of the great good at stake. "How about some eggs, Hammer?" Oh yes, I must mention that eggs are the only thing I cook. Eggs with bacon, eggs with ham, eggs with porkchops, eggs with pancakes, and in Hammer's case, my specialty, fried eggs with Portuguese sausage and white rice. I knew that was why he came here-either that or for the enjoyment of my discomfort. "So you think you've got me wired," he said as I cracked two eggs into a hot skillet. I ignored him as I splashed a touch of soy sauce on the rice. As he dug in, he quietly replied, "You don't know anything, eggman." I smiled as I watched him eat, first the sausage and then the eggs.

   Wind is five knots from the NE approximately 53 degrees. The chill in the air is due to the plains' exothermal release and the resulting change in air pressure. And although there are no similarities in barometric readings in my beloved homeland so far away, this time of day always reminds me of the coastal cliffs outside of Kagoshima. Home. They took from me my funding. How easy it is for cowards to close their eyes and hide from the truth. I am heartbroken. Even my colleagues shunned me, calling me a madman. Nihon, warrior country of my youth. Your katana forever sheathed. They took from me my work. Now here at 35 Latitude 23 minutes 3 seconds by 117 longitude 8 minutes 13 seconds, the Tiki Room.
   With concern only for their own physical pleasure, the patrons of this grotesque establishment enter and leave. Each more disfigured than the next. How long has it been? I get confused. Rage has a way of blinding you in that way. Is it my karma, my destiny that I should find my way here? I am a man of science, a physioculturalpharmalogical biologist, but here at the Tiki Room, I'm the cook. My test tubes and beakers were exchanged for a skillet and spatula. They took from me my research laboratory, but they could not take away my vision. The experiment continues.
   A quiet night. The shallow-minded are staying in their homes tonight. There must be something "good" on their television sets. It is fine with me-there are many computations to be made, and precious few hours in the day to calculate them. An order. Fortunately, I can run through most of these equations in my head as I work. Veal? Nobody ordered veal at the Tiki Room. Nobody except-oh, it's you. Out of a dark corner, too far from my one overhead 150/100/75-watt three-way lightbulb, came the idiot, "Hammer." As the light hit his face, I relaxed my grip on the hypodermic needle I have in a special fold of my coat. "How's it going, eggman?" the ignorant dullard torted. "Warm enough for you?" he smirked. I calculate that it took him most of the day to assemble that grouping of words into his primary form of communication. "Who ever thought of putting a place like the Tiki Room in the middle of the damn desert?" I casually replied. It was a frustrating and humiliating conversation, and at these times I must focus hard and remind myself of the great good at stake. "How about some eggs, Hammer?" Oh yes, I must mention that eggs are the only thing I cook. Eggs with bacon, eggs with ham, eggs with porkchops, eggs with pancakes, and in Hammer's case, my specialty, fried eggs with Portuguese sausage and white rice. I knew that was why he came here-either that or for the enjoyment of my discomfort. "So you think you've got me wired," he said as I cracked two eggs into a hot skillet. I ignored him as I splashed a touch of soy sauce on the rice. As he dug in, he quietly replied, "You don't know anything, eggman." I smiled as I watched him eat, first the sausage and then the eggs.