Hot Damn My Feet Are Cold As Ice (The Interruption Story)

Readability Index: Readable

You know I realized something while at work today, one really great thing about blogging is that no one fucking interrupts you. They just can’t do it. They can distract you if they comment on a previous post or like it and that star comes up. But they can’t interrupt. Which is great. Because I feel like I get interrupted all the god damn time. It’s annoying as hell.

For instance, today at the bar.

This dude comes in, he’s a salesmen that sells us liquor and shit, and I met him once before and can tell he’s just a smooth operator. And we exchanged names and a handshake and a howdy do and I haven’t seen him in a month. But he rolled in today and I knew I knew his name but I couldn’t remember it. Well he didn’t give a good god damn about that, just called me man and I was happy to do the same. Even when I remember people’s names I usually just call them man. Or yo.

Well I could see he wasn’t in a mood to talk and that was damn fine with me because I didn’t have any idea what to say to him.

And hot damn! My feet really are cold! Wish I had a Labrador Retriever to retrieve my slippers.

Well, I just went on about my business and then all the sudden he got his food and he wanted to start talking. So I drug my ass over there and said “Oh what’s up man.” And he said in a philosophical manner, “Can I have more ketchup?”

And you have to understand about the ketchup, it’s house made and they serve it in these what’s a call it’s and they only fill it about a quarter way up so you get enough to cover the top of four french fries. I may be revealing too much about where I work here because probably anyone who has seen these little fuckers…what do you call them…filled a quarter way with ketchup well that’s something you won’t forget.

So to get on with the get down, I knew what the hell was going on here. I was hip to the mother fucker’s jive in a way. I felt we connected on a personal level.

Myself me, I don’t even like that house-made bullshit. I like Heinz got damn it, probably because I read this review in a newspaper about house-made ketchup that said that shit was not worth doing since Heinz is the only ketchup that delivers a hit to each of the four sensations you can taste – sweet salty and bullshit bullshit whatever the others are. So I’m damn well mystified by these little…what the hell are they called…filled a little bit up with this strange version of ketchup that no one even wants. Okay, a lot of people really love it. But anyway.

So I’m happy go lucky as a mother fucker running over to the line and getting some extra ketchups. I grab one and I think shit man, this ain’t enough, so I go back and grab two. And I feel like I pretty muched hooked a brother up by the time I get back there. But our man the salesmen couldn’t give two shits I would soon learn.

I said, “Here man, I got you the double double.”

“Thanks,” he said and kept eating like a lonesome Rotweiller. Shit even WordPress doesn’t know how to correct that spelling of Rotweiller. But you get the point…perhaps.

Well I was ready to walk away and call it a day. But here this mother fucker, and got damn this story is going on forever, here he goes and says, “How come they only put a little bit?”

Well darn my socks I was happy as a lark.

Wait, now I got a recommended link for Rotweiller. So what the fuck am I spelling it right or not? Ah fuck it.

So I launch into this campaign of commiseration. I say “well shit man I been trying to figure that out myself! First of all…”

“You guys got any grapefruit juice?”

“…”

“…”

“…what?”

“Grapefruit juice?”

“Yeah. Yeah we…sure man no problem.”

Man that shit done fucked up the next five minutes I couldn’t believe it. And now that I spent twenty minutes writing about that shit, I really hate that mother fucker! Argh! He’s got kids too, the crazy son of a bitch. I’m a straight up go to his house, find his kid and smooth interrupt her when she’s telling a story.

Nah I’m just kidding about that. I’m sure she’s cute.

But shit! This mother fucker damn well knew we had grapefruit juice too because he sells the shit to us!

So yeah, I’ve always hated being interrupted. I hate when people don’t listen to me. I mean, especially because I don’t talk anywhere near as much as I write. I’m a quiet dude. If someone asks me a question, I’ll answer. And you’re going to damn well interrupt while I’m answering your question! Hoo shit!

First time I ever got amped on this blog so…well I’ll just publish this and take a deep breathe. Breath? Rotweiller.

Advertisements

I Could Sleep for Ages

Readability Index: Weak

Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep, but I never have trouble staying asleep. If my girlfriend didn’t wake me up, I’d sleep till two or three and I’d only get up then because I felt guilty.

But here I am, up early than a motherfucker, well, it was early when I originally got up at 7:30, and already jumping on the blog. Jumping on this shit like it’s an emergency.

My girl’s out the door on the way to her first culinary school field trip.

Looks like today, the sixth day of this blogs existence, I’ve already broken my personal best record for number of unique visitors. And we’re starting to get some traffic from places outside the US, which is super fucking cool.

I originally thought, all those six days ago, that I was going to use the blog mostly for recording my thoughts. I guess I have, but I just had no idea that most all of my thoughts would be about blogging.

I had a couple dreams. One was I was on a bus with some prisoners and they were planning an escape and I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I couldn’t figure out if I was a prisoner, a ghost, a cop… And the other one there was some big jewelry craft fair right at the top of the subway station and they wouldn’t let me get to work.

I had some coffee. I put brown sugar in it. Now I’m shaking.

That could be a poem right there

Cup of canned coffee

And some brown sugar

Shaking like a bean

Atop a Washing Machine

There you go.

But nah washing machine doesn’t have shit to do with anything. What else shakes. Atop a shaking machine. Atop a bacon machine.

There’s a bus in 33 minutes and another one in 53 minutes. I should take the 33 but…I want to just sit here.

Usually I jump into things pretty forcefully and then leave just as quickly. On that kind of timeline I guess I’ll be done with blogging pretty soon. My interest just wanes with everything eventually. Except of course my girlfriend and sleeping. And eating.

But before I go I do want to write something meaningful. Like how to make vodka taste like an orange julius. Or some kind of news article or something. I think I should probably write a non-fiction book.

I feel like I’m really having trouble getting the flow going this morning. I think it has something to do with the knowledge that I have to leave soon anyway, so I can’t keep it rolling. If I want to really get into a rollicking good time I have to know that I can stay with it for an inordinate amount of time.

Easy Skanking

Easy Skanking

Little Bit Easier

Excuse me while I light my spliff

Oh God I got to take a lift

From reality ya just can’t drift

That’s why I’m stickin with this riff

That reminded me of something while I was typing it. Oh yeah tags. It looks like when I tagged “WordPress” on my post “The End of the Day,” that created some kind of portal for some new people to arrive here. Or was it when I linked it…no it was a tag. None of my other tags have had that effect. Kind of cool.

This link suggestion tool is constantly trying to get me to connect to Rotten Tomatoes. I want to help them out with their promotional links and all, but I’m not going to link Oh God to whatever movie that corresponds to.

My whole life is the Party of Special Things To Do.

 

The End of the Day

Readability Index: Not Terrible If You’ve Got Time to Kill

That’s what it is. And so we have come to this. And so I have come to this.

Man, shit, I just got all caught up in reading a shit ton of blogs. I do it because I like reading other blogs. But also because I want people to come on here and read my dumb shit and like that shit. It’s funny because my girlfriend was just talking about how she gets high off people liking her pics on instagram.

Man it’s crazy as shit. I’m reading all these blogs, all up in these people’s brains like it’s Being John Malkovich in here. It’s pretty crazy because back in the day just a few months or years ago I wouldn’t read anything but the classic novels. I wouldn’t watch TV or anything. I just wanted to read things that stood the test of time, that were respectable, and respected. I thought that way I wouldn’t waste time winnowing through the endless stream of bullshit that’s out there. And now here I am, no longer concerned with winnowing even my own thoughts, just straight wallowing in bullshit. But you know, it’s not even bullshit out here. These swamps are filled with gold. I mean, people say the craziest shit. And everybody’s trying to figure shit out. People typing their hearts out here. A lot of it doesn’t boggle the mind when you read it. A lot of it doesn’t bear rereading. But almost all of it is worth reading once. It’s not like a stream of youTube comments out here.

I always tried to think of myself as a gifted writer. As a serious writer. I wanted only to write a novel. But now I don’t even know how I came to that conclusion. Or rather I know exactly how. It just sounded lie the right thing to do. Sounds nice. Novelist. Sounds like what you should do if you can write. A novel is just a respectable thing. All the way up until beyond my junior year of college, when I found myself in an advanced fiction writing workshop based around short fiction, I didn’t even know what a short story was. I thought it was a novel that had less words. Man, shit, you can just roll up on the blogosphere and start typing the dumbest shit and somebody’s going to read that shit, even just because you read their shit that they might didn’t think was worth nobody reading it. And what else is needed then? Should you have changed their life? Did you fail if you didn’t? Fuck if I know. Like I’m always saying, motherfucking sun’s bout to explode all over all our asses anyway so might as well get your kicks. Yeah I say that every five minutes, I’d say it more often but it takes about five minutes to say.

It’s crazy too because you can look around and pick out what people are good at. You can say, damn I wish I was funny as that girl, or attractive as that one, or I wish I had a shit ton of awesome pictures to post every five minutes and a service to offer, I wish I had mad insights like that dude or I wish I had the drive to spend a lot of time researching and putting together a kick ass factual jam like that dude. And everybody knows what you’re supposed to be doing is doing you, but that shit is never illustrated like it is here. Here it’s like you can find twenty-five real live motherfuckers failing miserably at doing what they think they should be doing, but succeeding at doing some kind of other thing. I don’t know. That shit is nonsensical but it makes sense to me. It’s weird because you know most people aren’t going to keep posting, just like most people aren’t going to keep doing anything besides breathing eating and going to the job that has a good health plan and doesn’t totally suck all the time. Most people that can post anyway. People that can’t even post like some cart runners in India they ain’t even half concerned with expressing themselves to the global community. Mother fuckers live in shantytowns with all the friends they care about impressing. And that’s what it comes down to, the idea of the over used word ‘community.’ Because really we’ve lost the real community, the extended family, the place where everybody knows your name and that your little sister had three abortions and is sleeping with the town mayor. And instead we have friends in cities thousands of miles away. We text a mother fucker who’s next door to ask for some salt. Just leave it outside the door thanks. And god damn, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Unless I could have free alcohol. Give me unlimited rye whiskey and a long wooden table and a bunch of people I know entirely too much about and I’ll be alright. But these kinds of perfect situations don’t exist even in the times of the past. Someone was always charging for  the whiskey, and the people all betrayed each other in horrendous ways, and they all died when flu season came around. And they killed all the Indians with smallpox blankets. And they burned homosexuals. Yeah it’s probably better that we’re all safe in our homes. Eating dope ass chicken salad and listening to music that’s made in little boxes with little boxes that have lights on them, burning a candle on the table to remind of us of the primeval fires we had to gather around so as not to get eaten by something bigger than us, and brushing our teeth with something probably made by a twelve pound pygmy getting paid a dollar a century. It’s a good life if you can get it. And this blogging shit, well, shit dude. How fucking great does it get. You can put your own head inside of a box and have people look at it and give you thumbs up. And you never once have to see them. And they can’t talk behind your back, because the little box is always in front of you.

Man this blogging shit is so crazy. I don’t even know what’s going on.

And my little WordPress comment indicator is lighting up so I’m going to just go ahead and push my favorite button and find out who the fuck wants to connect now.

Things I Just Ate

Yeah that’s how it’s going down around here. I don’t give a fuck to the point that I’m actually going to publish what I just ate. Millions of people do it every day. Take pictures of it. Blow it up on instagram. And that wild bastard, Matthew Inman, harpoons they’re stupid asses with dead on scalding satire straight a la Jonny Swift style. Man, I’m losing it. But yeah, The Oatmeal…oh shit my girlfriend just put on my old jam: Look What You’ve Done, by Jet. It’s got the John Lennon piano going and it’s repetitious. I love repetition. Anyway…The Oatmeal is the best thing going.

So for dinner, we just got up and started making some shit, just like we do this kind of thing every damn day. She brought home a whole damn chicken from school and I just ripped that shit up with my fingers and made some mayonnaise out of eggs and safflower oil. She threw some Trader Joe’s bread in the oven with some cheese on that shit and made a big salad with almonds and red peppers and Gorgonzola. Hot damn that shit was so good. I put the chicken salad on top of the salad. God damn. I don’t usually like to talk about food but that shit was banging! And we ate here at the table where we are both working, which is the highest high a mother fucker can get around here. Got damn, got my laundry too, and folded all that shit up and put it all over the table. We got dirty dishes up on this bitch, too. We’re just fucking splayed out.

So that’s what I ate for dinner. Hell yeah that shit was good. And I bought some Caramel Cone Haagan Dazs from the store today too so we’re going to eat that shit later. Then we’re going to wake up early and she has to read more and then go to school early so I’m just going to write my ass of then, too. I should write about some cocktails or something, shit. Plus I just got a new book on the Philippines. Two of them in fact and they look really bad. I’m thinking of rewriting one of them and selling it. I always think about writing some educational type shit in a more engaging style, but I haven’t tried it yet.

Time Marches On

I wasn’t thinking of it when I typed the title but now I’m thinking of “For Whom the Bell Tolls” by Metallica. Awesome song, shit it’s been a long time since I listened to anything by Metallica. I remember taking a survey in school, what’s your favorite band? the popular kid asked me. I was only allowed to listen to Christian Bands, and I knew I couldn’t say any of those, and this was before knowledge of obscure-ass bands was the cold hard currency of coolness. He suggested, Metallica? And of course I said, Hell yeah! And I didn’t hear my first Metallica song for another two years.

But shit, time does march on. I just found a super funny ass blog with a style that I like a lot, from a guy who also like Hunter S Thompson and quoting other people. Shit you can just about find anything in the blogosphere.

I don’t know where my friend Carmen went. Just disappeared all the sudden. Maybe computer problems.

Thanks to the new people liking my shit, I just got ten likes on this bitch! Things are happening around this place. I really don’t even know how. I really don’t. That’s my fucking catchphrase right there, or it might be if I’m not careful, and I’m nothing if not careful. Damn I wish I tried to be funny and succeeded.

Damn. Cup of Tia and UrbanWallArt are some heavy hitters up in this bitch, too. It’s crazy to have someone with mad followers like my blog post. Makes me angry that time is marching on like a mother fucker up in here. It’s already almost nine o’clock and my girlfriend is threatening to make some food when she’s done with this chapter, which means we’ll have to break up this fucking word fest. Ah but I love her. She’s so cray.

God damn a mother fucker just came down the stairs and picked up his delivery order. The shit sounded like they were old friends, too, but I never hear them getting delivery, so that dude just must be mad charismatical.

Well, I don’t have much to say. Just felt like publishing some more shit. Blogging is the craziest shit alive, I really don’t understand it.

Holy shit! My laundry has been sitting in the washer for like two hours straight! Holy fuck! Laundrageddon out this bitch.

About Today

Readability Index: Unreadable

Ok I finally put in some laundry. I had to try to shove the quarters into the machine like three hundred times. I set a timer for my French Press before I went down into the basement, four minutes, and it went off not halfway into my struggle. But it finally worked. There’s a note on the wall from 2001 saying that we tenants should let the landlord know if there are any problems with the machine, but I feel like we should probably have said something by now, so I’m definitely not bringing it up at this point.

I had some thoughts:

I should be a journalist

I should just read books all of the time

I should be a famous bartender

How did that guy on Top Chef get to be famous

The owner of that noodle place

He makes me think I could do some shit too

He just wants to have a good time

Wouldn’t it be funny to start a story with this guy’s next door neighbor lets him in the house, like inivites him over and the guy is kind of weary of the situation because he pretty much likes to be by himself anwyay…but then the neighbor says, “You want a beer?” and he says, “Well, by God, I would like a beer!”

Ok I’ll talk about that stuff later. Maybe.

So I left out of here to go get some shit done and I gotta say it did feel good. Getting shit done just feels good. I don’t know why. I was thinking about it at Stop and Shop while waiting for the bus. It’s like that Bob Marley song, Pass It On, “Live for yourself, you will live in vain, live for others, you will live again.” Well, I really don’t understand that shit at all because you are the only person you know, but then again, we’re all made out of the same elements so we’re really all the same thing, we’re all one, the universe just experiencing itself subjectively. I am everything that has gone before me. And yet I have an ego and can block the world out if I want to, and parts of me want to, one part. You know I’ve never read Freud or Jung. Should fix that. But I did read some Ruth Reichl on the bus, and you know I never have before. Well it was great. She’s awesome. But so Bob Marley, I should watch that documentary again. Marley was the creative title and it was the shit.

But I was thinking, that some of these errands, well I wouldn’t run them if it was just me. I wouldn’t probably run any of them if it was just me, but it was for my girlfriend. Well, not exactly. Like I had some stuff at the library, but so did she, so that was sort of for her. Really I only went because she asked me if I was going to go and I felt stupid saying no since she’d probably be like, well what the hell are you doing all day then?

So being productive. I’m sure it feels good because my mother was always all about being productive. Rather she still is. And so I grew up in an environment that reinforced my getting things done, or however Dr. What’s-his-face would say it. Skinner. BF Skinner. That was a fascinating read, Beyond Freedom and Dignity. If we’re not controlling the environment then we’re simply leaving control of the environment to someone else, because the environment will control the public. Or the society. Something like that.

All the muddled notions one arrives at by way of a thousand books one only read as fast as they could so they could say that they read them…could they be dangerously incomplete? Well. In reality I didn’t read them so I could say…well some of them, perhaps as many as half, could’ve been read that way…for that purpose rather. But mostly, like today, I just start a book and I get so wrapped up in “what happens next!?” that I can’t slow down to appreciate the way it’s done. Like the first page of Garlic and Sapphires, I was like, wow look how she does that, and look at all that alliteration and consternation, this is a beautiful piece of writing, and look at that formatting, but by page 3 I was like hot damn this shit is intense! Is she going to give Le Cirque a 3 star rating? 2 stars? Will she fold? Shit! And before you know it I finished the damn book and it’s two weeks from Friday and I don’t remember a damn thing.

Well I had to take a break here because my girlfriend came home and now I feel less on a roll. She’s pretty awesome, she just walked right in and made chicken stock. And gave me a chicken taco. Then I washed the dishes. Now she’s taking a shower. I made some more coffee because she said she wants some. She has a lot of reading to do which is awesome because it means I can just keep writing and writing. And finishing that damnable laundry.

But shit, what was the point. Yeah so just going out and doing errands, running them rather, well that was enough to make me feel pretty accomplished. At this point that feeling is starting to wear off. But at the time I didn’t feel anxious about whether I was wasting time and whatnot. I guess those are the kinds of things I feel are important. Daily drudgery type things that have nothing to do with art. I don’t know where I got the idea that working at art was a waste of time but I guess it’s down somewhere in my psyche because I don’t make time for it. Of course I have made plenty of time to blog. But then that’s not true, I had all the time there anyway. I just stopped doing a lot of other things like sleeping late, watching porn, watching movies, and washing the dishes, not to mention eating and reading about cocktails, and then all of the sudden I had all this time to blog. So I guess it is true, then, that I made time by clearing away those activities. What is it about blogging then that makes it ok?

Well I guess I haven’t given up entirely the idea that one can make money at writing. Even though by God I have tried. Merlin’s beard. I’ve tried to give up the idea. But it just seems right that I should make my money writing, even though I’ve never sold a damn thing I’ve written, or even tried to. Shit that’s not even true, now that I think about it! I sold a story on Amazon. I think I sold two of them for 99 cents each. Well there you go. That’s progress for you.

One of my favorite proverbs goes something like: Be not afraid of moving slowly, be afraid only of standing still.

Of course I spent most of my time going backwards. Or so it seems.

Where is all this leading to? What’s next?

Reminds me of that scene from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Damn that was a good movie. Hunter Thompson is everyone’s favorite. And Johnny Depp is my favorite actor. The scene at the hotel when he’s tripping out and trying to check in. “What’s the score here? What’s next?”

Well, I was thinking I could become a food writer. Or a journalist of some kind. I love writing, but I just love typing and typing and never looking back. Maybe I could send it in and someone else could edit it or something. Ah shit. But that’s how Thompson did it. Just let it go. Maybe if I spent enough time practicing, I could do it something like Jack Kerouac. But well that’s completely misunderstood. He worked really hard. I just finished reading a biography that came out recently called The Voice is All and it was by a Carol…something…Carol Johnson..shit I don’t know but it was damned interesting.

I shudder, I sit at my own dining room table, someone else’s dining room table for that matter, this furniture is a rental from the real occupant, I sit shuddering here listening to the demons all around. And by demons I mean those bastards that live upstairs and those bastards who live downstairs. I can hear their every breath. It’s a good thing they’re not big talkers or I’d go mad. No chance of that now. Not at all.

But God damn it. What is going on. I’m positively giddy with the notion, the idea of spending hours just typing random bullshit. I could even get down with typing Random Bullshit Random Bullshit Random Bullshit over and over again. You know, that’s a damn good way at getting better at typing, because the more you type one word the harder it becomes to do it without fucking up.

Positively giddy, where did I pick that phrase up? Either a book movie or TV show that’s for damn sure. Used to be I would pick a phrase or a mannerism up from one of my best friends. But I have moved away from them now, so whatever I say is probably from books or moving pictures.

Everything is unimaginable.

Ah, but damn, I need to get good at everything. Read all kinds of books about food and educate my simple palate. It doesn’t pick anything up at all. Lemongrass? What the fuck. I’ll tell you what an apple tastes like if you can tell me first. Like Ruth Reichl says, food writing is very subjective, to the point that I can’t be absolutely sure that what you taste when you eat an apple is the same thing as what I taste. Just like with colors and all that.

Well, shit. I think I’ll look at comments for a while.

I’m obsessed with myself. That’s for damn sure. Everything on this post has been for damn sure. I’m tired of that.

You know I really like looking at my stats. What for? Shit the writing is the fun thing right? But really, we only write so someone else can read. I never knew that before. And you’d think I didn’t know it now, the way I spew shit on the page like something I don’t want to talk about.

Damn, and I had a million ideas I wanted to talk about. And they all were me. I should write something that adds value to someones life. How do you spell someones? I don’t know. But I learned what a consomme is.

Oh yeah, but I was at The Breakers in the gift shop looking at all these boring ass books and thought, shit, I could be entertained for years just reading these dumb ass books. I should just bartend, make money, and read books.

Hot Damn I Can’t Get Anything Done in Life

Readability Index: Weak

Well I been home for about an hour, and I was productive as a bitch out there in the snowy wilderness, but now that I’m home, well shit I meant to do all kinds of stuff. And stuff that was fun, too, nothing crazy. Although I keep forgetting about my laundry. Like I meant to make some coffee. And also…something else that I forgot. And I barely took my coat off, I just had to sit down and check what was going on over here. This may prove to be an unsustainable addiction. Ok I’m going to make coffee for real now. And breathe deeply.

I’ll listen to the Frank Ocean song afterwards! 😛 Or wait what the fuck…the whole post has disappeared. Carmen, you’ll have to get that right before I come back.

Holy Shit It’s Snowing Again

Readability Index: Moderately Readable

Well this is pretty crazy. I’m sitting in the office, just reading shit and writing more shit and feeling like shit…no not really I feel pretty good. But I look up and there’s snow just falling like pieces of Styrofoam…or that stuff that falls out from the sky in a nuclear winter. I don’t know but it looks great, because I have no lights on in the house and it just got dark and the flakes are shiny and it’s cold as a bitch out there and it’s warm in here. So it’s pretty sweet. It was snowing the whole time I was outside, but not this heavy, and when you’re in the thick of it you don’t have much time or attention to devote to looking at it. And even if you did it’s a completely different perspective.