The kind of billboard in West Hollywood that, when family members from the Midwest come to visit their bachelor uncle, makes them nervous.

I meet Bianca in West Hollywood yesterday for lunch at I-HOP.  I bring my copy of New York Magazine with Bernie Madoff made-up to look like the Joker on the cover.  The place is jammed.  It is hard to believe, I observe, that pancakes are even legal in West Hollywood.  "How," I ask, "can you be ripped, shredded, peeled and have less than 2 percent body fat with this place calling to you, mere footsteps from your front door, less than a block from the gym --"

"Chanel at 3 o'clock," Bianca whispers, cutting me off.  I turn and look.  All I see is a giant bald man in a white t-shirt leading what appears to be a shaky blonde curly wig, giant faux designer sunglasses, and a big slash of red lipstick, like Mr. Clean escorting a miniature Heath Ledger doing the Joker doing Baby Jane Hudson.

"Wow," I report.

"Pace yourself," Bianca advises when our pancakes come, because it is All You Can Eat Pancake Day, hence the crowd lined up at the door.  "Otherwise," she warns, "we'll order more.  You know we will."

My pancake levels are dangerously low, but I heed her advice.  Sort of.  In these difficult times, comfort food is not only reasonably priced, it is, well, comforting.  But I realize what can happen if I let myself lose control.  I notice how many old people are shuffling in with their family member advocates, bored grandchildren and ethnic caretakers.  Is it really wise, I wonder, to allow our elderly to eat such extremely high concentrations of fat and sugar and artificial maple syrup?  Then I realize it is no doubt intended to hasten their demise.  There are, I reason, worse ways to go.

On the other hand, an enormous Mama Cass collapses in a chair by the cash register, winded, wiping her brow and struggling to catch her breath.  "Couldn't even make it to her car," I say aloud with a note of distress.  "She's a cautionary tale, Bianca," I warn, ordering seconds no longer quite so appealing.  "I just hope I-HOP has shuttle service to the nearest ER, before her aorta slams shut."

"She hasn't eaten yet," Bianca explains.  "She's waiting for take-out."

"They have take-out?" I ask in disbelief, and heads turn.

"1904 Fodder," the title of the message from my dear friend MW at Rabbit Meets Hat reads, with a link.  Frank Wedekind (1864-1918), playwright and social critic, whose "Lulu" plays (Earth Spirit, 1895 and Pandora's Box, 1904) are said to be his best known works, although his 1891 play Spring Awakening was turned into a Broadway musical in 2006.  The 1929 silent film of Pandora's Box starring Louise Brooks is said to be amazing.  "It will be interesting to you," M. writes, "as it concerns sex, greed and lust."

My favorites, I think to myself.  In the booth next to ours two flawless young men, one light and one dark, with muscled torsos threatening to burst the seams of tiny tank-tops,  giggle as they are served.  We are all on sugar highs.  In here, the world is beautiful, and suddenly I am Joel Grey, not Heath Ledger, in Cabaret.  Everyone is beautiful.  Even the orchestra is beautiful, and there is no orchestra.  Frank Wedekind is dead before the Weimar Republic is even born but it doesn't matter.  Die Welt Ist Shon.