This particular Who story might be famous, but I am not positive because so much other stuff is. The Genesis comments will be considered “filler” by most Who fans because they couldn’t give a shit. But I love Genesis, so fuck them. I threw in Lynyrd Skynyrd because I could.
The original Genesis, ( the one with Peter Gabriel), broke up along dietary lines. Vegetarians can’t get along. Of course, they rejuvenated around that meat eater Phil Collins. Goes to show ‘ya.
Smart vegetarians do not eat Chinese food. Genesis ( particularly in Germany) would tiresomely interrogate waiters about unrevealed ingredients. Of course, the mysterious and obscure is the foundation of all Chinese cuisine.
Chinese restaurants have slower and more hidden punishments for vegetarians.
Being interrogated by vegans is not something endured with much-cloaked civility in Mandarin kingdoms.
Vegetarians eat a lot of cruel pee as a consequence. Urine, of course, is animal-based, hence paradox, Asian style.
Lynyrd Skynyrd did not know China existed, let alone that they had restaurants. That’s it, all I have to say about them ( although I liked Ronnie.)
You need to allow for at least one of two possibilities with this Keith Moon story. The first requires a flexible personal belief system that acknowledges that fortune cookies can and do impart either wisdom or prediction.
If you can’t do that, then the second must be that the Chinese restaurant universe includes thousands of murderous bastards who have it in for rock stars.
I don’t know the truth. But no matter what, Moonie was soon dead.
The Who rarely ate together because they knew the financial risks, so I am guessing that someone else had lost their minds and offered to foot the bill that night. That he chose Chinese food means he wasn’t delusional.
Nothing unusual happened during dinner. There were at best ten of us.
The traditional bowl of fortune cookies showed up for the table at the end. We passed the bowl around reading our own as though there was some possible extrapolated meaning. Moon’s first was empty. No piece of paper. We finished the passing around, and then he took a second one, again nothing. He refused to take a third.
No one was unmoved—most of all, him.
I stopped working for Lynyrd Skynyrd months before they had their plane crash. If I had caught wind that they were eating take out Chinese on that flight, those oriental rascals would have no place to hide.