Yesterday, after a long day of not eating, I ended up at the Silver Clouds bar with my improv friends. They have some tasty stuff on the menu, so I ordered the chicken quesadillas. I inhaled them in about seven minutes. I didn’t feel uncomfortable in the least — even though I knew I would have to pay the price for speed-eating at some point. I had to meet a friend shortly, so I hiked to the bus stop at Fillmore and Lombard. A nice little old lady wearing a babushka was sitting there, fretting about the bus being late. I did my best to ease her Muni angst. I noticed she had a heavy accent. “Say, do you mind telling me, are you Russian?” I asked. She looked horribly offended, and in her now recognizable accent she said, “Noooo, I am Italian.” At that instant, powered only by my chugging of the quesadillas, I threw up. “Bwaaaaa!” She was offended. I don’t blame her.

Along similar lines, My friend, Pete, has been learning Spanish in an adult education class. Pete is an expansive man, eager to announce his presence. He came into class a few minutes late. In front of him were the two work tables pushed together, each seating about eight. They were full. With a large cup of tea in his hand he sauntered up, holding the crowd in his gaze like The World’s Most Interesting Man. He barked, “Ola,” swung his arm, and splashed tea on everybody. It was a mess, its saving grace being the fluids had not been ingested.

I like to tell these stories in groups of three, but I’d have to invent one and I’m too hungry at the moment to go to the trouble.