It's Saturday morning, the best morning of the week ("Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week," sings Frank Sinatra). Saturday afternoon has its qualities, too, and is fast approaching. I've really mellowed out lately, the past few days, or whatever—not in life, I don't think. I felt much better, but then came along Friday—my most feared and hated day of the week. I know I should just get over this—but—it's not just me. It's society. It's me. It's society. It's me. It's these damn lobsters. Thank god for the obsession with old movies, here on the west side, the Hollywood neighborhood. Breakfast here at The Casablanca Burger Counter is a nostalgic ride into the illustrious film history past—Jimmy Stewart's here, and he's fielding questions and settling arguments. "Here you go—NO TOAST." The waitress, old Norma Desmond, brings my breakfast—two eggs, potatoes, and no toast. I always have to specify "no toast" because of my wheat abstinence—it's interesting—a negative order (it certainly brings to mind the scene in Five Easy Pieces where Jack Nicholson tries to order toast by ordering a chicken salad sandwich: "hold the lettuce, hold the mayo, hold the chicken salad." It's gotten so they call me "No-Toast," one word, like it's my name. It's not the first time I've been named after food. When I used to frequent Kline's Market back in old Kent, Ohio, Mr. Kline would call me Cole Slaw ("How ya doin' Cole Slaw?") because for awhile I came in every day to the deli and ordered their excellent cole slaw. I guess I'm lucky he didn't call me "40 ounce Colt 45!"