With So Many Balls in the Air, The Earl Enjoys Room Service in Real Time
In a moment of weakness, during the course of my Babylonian Captivity, I dialed the telephone here in my room at seventy five cents for each fifteen seconds. Depew, upon answering, launched into a soliloquoy about ‘working conditions’ in the hopes of securing an inflationary increase in his hourly wage. I referred him to the Beige Book, wherein Fed Governors fret about this very thing. I urged him to ‘whip inflation now’ in the vain hopes of stirring his global sense of unease as low wages and high productivity are all that separate us from cost-push inflation. Chastened he admitted that the Bentley has a flat tyre. As if alien abduction were not enough on my plate, room service arrived forty minutes late with an order of sourdough toast, accompanied by boysenberry jam.
No matter. My new benefactor, Tony Prawns, assures me that the City of Ballard will no doubt pick up my hotel bill. In return I must wear my Kiss Me, I’m Norwegian baseball cap when out and about. Seattle PD is coordinating with the oafish DCI Borchardt in the matter of the beheaded Thuringian, exchanging emails from the Earl’s Own Dial-Up and Telephony equipment confiscated days ago.
I’ve offered to edit Tony’s query to Miss Snark which he slipped under the door in the wee hours. This is the text of his letter: Dear Miss Snark, You publish books, right? I wrote a book, so publish it already. Sincerely, Anthony ‘Tony Prawns’ Palmesano. Where to begin? I fear this forthright effort lacks finesse; now that I’ve had my fill of Boysenberry jam, I lift the only pen available in this two star establishment. Perhaps the Dutchess might be helpful here, if only I could call her when she’s not at home, or reverse the charges…hmm…My Beloved Miss Snark, Whose Radiance, Wit, and Wisdom…ah, the door buzzer. Where is that hat?