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Knights of the Rainbow Table

The day that our lawyer told us that the DA had added a federal conspiracy charge to the rap sheet, I immediately flashed on what Abbie Hoffman said when they served papers on him for the Chicago 8 conspiracy trial:
“Conspiracy? Man, we can’t even agree on where to have dinner!” I would have said it, but just after Moszkowski gave us the bad news, our waitress showed up and asked Sir Tristan what he wanted to order.

We Knights of the Rainbow Table had always had a problem with restaurants: that problem’s name was Sir Tristan Erkko, who was intolerant of lactose, processed carbohydrates, salt, vegans, forks with bent tines and people with poor grammar. Tristan never spoke above a whisper, and he affected a huge mustache that made it impossible for waitresses to read his lips, which made the lengthy negotiations even longer. Normally, the Knights of the Rainbow Table tried to find quiet restaurants where Sir Tristan could dicker at length without having to whisper directly into the server’s ear, but Moszkowski had chosen the place, a busy pizza parlor on Telegraph Hill filled with noisy Berkeley kids. I suppose he thought it would allow us to converse without being overheard. He was a paranoid old civil rights fixer, but Knights of the Rainbow Table could have taught him volumes about the practical limits of privacy.

Read the full Tomorrow Project, Ch. 2: Knights of the Rainbow Table.

The day that our lawyer told us that the DA had added a federal conspiracy charge to the rap sheet, I immediately flashed on what Abbie Hoffman said when they served papers on him for the Chicago 8 conspiracy trial:
“Conspiracy? Man, we can’t even agree on where to have dinner!” I would have said it, but just after Moszkowski gave us the bad news, our waitress showed up and asked Sir Tristan what he wanted to order.

We Knights of the Rainbow Table had always had a problem with restaurants: that problem’s name was Sir Tristan Erkko, who was intolerant of lactose, processed carbohydrates, salt, vegans, forks with bent tines and people with poor grammar. Tristan never spoke above a whisper, and he affected a huge mustache that made it impossible for waitresses to read his lips, which made the lengthy negotiations even longer. Normally, the Knights of the Rainbow Table tried to find quiet restaurants where Sir Tristan could dicker at length without having to whisper directly into the server’s ear, but Moszkowski had chosen the place, a busy pizza parlor on Telegraph Hill filled with noisy Berkeley kids. I suppose he thought it would allow us to converse without being overheard. He was a paranoid old civil rights fixer, but Knights of the Rainbow Table could have taught him volumes about the practical limits of privacy.

Read the full Tomorrow Project, Ch. 2: Knights of the Rainbow Table.

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