In the lonesome back corner of a strip mall on SE Powell there's this restaurant that is apparently called Husky Or Maltese Whatever. This is the name of the restaurant. Are you understanding me? Husky Or Maltese Whatever. Why? If you know what this name could possibly mean or signify I implore you to tell me because I've been up nights, theorizing and speculating. When we were there to take the pictures they were closed, otherwise I would've asked an employee, some official spokesperson, for clarification. There would have been gritted teeth and the grabbing of lapels, desperate demands for satisfaction. Instead I was up half the night pacing the floor, formulating and discarding one wild theory after another, like someone trying to make sense of maddeningly incomplete archaeological fragments or a bleary-eyed researcher lost in a blizzard of heavily redacted Warren Commission documents, like the guy in Libra.


There's simply got to be an explanation. Look here, I've spent my entire adult life becoming accustomed to a significant amount of cosmic pointlessness, but I have my limits. Furthermore, I don't ask much from life but I do seem to require the need to feel haughtily superior to the cultural life of strip malls. What else can I feel superior to if not strip malls? Get rid of everyone and everything I feel inferior to and just about all you have left is strip malls. And if strip malls start presenting me with baffling semiotic puzzles and harrowing enigmas then I am really going to get upset.


Life is a mystery, as renowned philosopher Madonna once warbled while gyrating seductively in front of a burning cross. Maybe my life would be enriched more by not knowing, by refusing to pursue this matter further.