I sat drinking my third mocha frappe something or other of the morning, while pondering my current state of affairs. I had been on some weird Truman Show vibe ever since my pseudo psychic phenomena of last issue's dining adventure. It was kind of like I was living in some surreal TV show where everything around me was a set built without my knowledge, and what ever I did was dictated by some script I hadn't read.

After ordering another caffinated fog lifter to go, I decided to test my theory by announcing out loud where I was heading but actually going somewhere else. I had noticed a sidewalk sign close to my house a few days ago (strangely the only one for miles) that boasted "the best breakfast in DTC." (Strangely, I noticed it just after saying something about getting some breakfast.) Although the sign had been gone ever since I had first seen it, I decided this would be my actual destination.

So heading for the highway I said, "I think I'll head downtown for some lunch and write my review." Just as I reached the onramp though, I hung a quick Dukes of Hazard U turn and sped in the other direction. Coffee splashed over the dashboard, cigarette ashes flew in my eyes, and Ozzy's "Crazy Train" blared in my ears as I slid through parking lots and screeched down side streets. Then just before I reached my secret destination, I got caught up in a strangely convenient traffic jam. I can't imagine what a cement truck was doing parked in the middle of a side street, where no construction was going on (last minute script addition, I guess).

Shortly after, I was standing outside what was supposed to be the DTC place to meet and eat. It seemed like just another average little strip mall joint, nothing extraordinary, almost contrived in its inconspicuousness. "It's kind of like the set department didn't have enough lead time," I thought to myself as I finished off my umpteenth cigarette of the day. Eying the place suspiciously, I headed inside. I was greeted by a very friendly waiter, who sat me at a window seat and poured me a cup of java.

Still nothing special, the place was clean and neat but lacked any character. It was almost as if it had been put together too quickly to add any finishing touches. The other patrons lacked the yuppieness one would expect of DTC. One disheveled man sat at a table alone, reading over some nondescript papers, in a very nondescript way. A trio occupied another table, leaning close to one another and speaking in hushed tones. The cook stood before the grill, engrossed in some indefinable task as the waiter spoke quietly into the phone appearing to take notes. No one in the restaurant seemed to notice anyone else, kind of like they were extras on a movie set, all assigned to occupy a particular portion of background without actually having a role in the scene.

Before long, the waiter nodded, hung up the phone and came over to my table.

"Got your lines ready?" I said with a knowing look.

He looked puzzled and laughed nervously before asking for my order.

"The special looks good," I said nodding toward the sign next to the cash register.

"Sorry, that's the weekend special. It's not available today," he said apologetically as the phone rang. He then added, "I'll g ive you a few more, minutes" and went to pick up the phone.

I sipped my coffee and looked back over the menu as he returned to his obvious directorial instruction.

"I've seen better actors in B horror flicks, better screenplays, too," I thought to myself as I pretended not to notice the production taking place around me.

Once my waiter returned from his call, I ordered the rock climber skillet: bacon, eggs, ham and hash browns, with biscuits and gravy.

He returned shortly to tell my they were out of ham and offered to replace it with more bacon. I agreed. Then he came back and told me they had no gravy. It was on the truck (production truck, I suppose) which hadn't arrived yet. I decided that pancakes would do.

When the food arrived, it looked fine but that was where it ended. The perfectly shaped eggs were barely cooked, the golden brown potatoes had the consistency of cardboard, the bacon was rubbery even though it appeared to be cooked perfectly and the pancakes were still batter inside. All props! They were perfectly shaped and colored, but inedible!

I took a drink of my very orange juice. It was a little bland but tasted okay. I felt a little orange pulp in my mouth and thought, "Well, at least that's real." Then I realized that it was actually uncooked pancake batter that had adhered itself to my teeth!

The cook showed up at my table asking if everything was all right as I was gulping down the rest of my coffee.

"Lines! "Who's writing these lines?" I thought to myself.

"Can I get you another cup of --" the waiter trailed off.

He had obviously caught my wild-eyed glare. My heart was racing and everything was starting to look like I was in a fish bowl. Too much coffee and too many cigarettes was all taking its toll. I threw some money on the table and ran for the door. "How many cups of coffee did I have? Five, six, maybe ten?" I thought as I listened to my heart pound.

Okay, maybe my life isn't some TV show. Maybe there isn't a production department in charge of all I see, or a casting department responsible for who I meet. Maybe this was just a bad restaurant on a bad day, punctuated by a single vehicle car chase, all seen through the eyes of caffinated sleep deprivation.

The many deranged voices crowding my head began to morph into one undeniable resounding message. One word of deep philosophical importance echoed in my head as I pulled away, DEEECAFFF!

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