A song and a crepe

Shenyang, China, one dreary winter morning.

My black boots trudge through the black snow, inside my toes are kept insulated from the world by two pairs of black woolen socks.

I am wearing a black trenchcoat, black thermal gloves with black leather gloves over the top. A black balaclava as a neck warmer and a black beret.

Inside the black trenchcoat I am wearing black cotton dress pants over a pair of black thermal underwear. My chest is protected by a black skivvy covered by black tshirt proclaiming my love of Darth Vader.

Hanging on my black leather belt is a long razor sharp black combat knife. I stop at a grocers to pay a child of about 4 years a yuan for two lemons.

I have sugar sachets in my pocket, part of a cache of hundreds I stole from a coffee shop someplace last week. I think they were probably complimentary, much like the bottle of Heinz ketchup and Parmesan cheese I have sitting in my fridge. Condiments are always free; I take my money's worth.

I stop at a small, greasy restaurant. The grease comes standard in this part of China.

The door squeaks as I slide it open. I make my order of fried dough at the counter and wait in line. When my order is up I take it to a corner and pull out the lemons, sugar and my knife.

I slice the lemons into wedges and sprinkle the sugar on the dough, then squeeze the lemon juice over the sticky, greasy mess.

I wipe the lemon juice off the blade and put it back in its sheath. Nobody says anything.

I look down at my vague attempt at Crepes Suzette and a song comes into my head.

And so this is breakfast, and what have I done?
Another day over, a new one's just begun.
And so happy breakfast, I hope I have fun.
I have to stop drinking; I can't feel my tongue.



I thought it was an action movie, not a guy complaining about rules.