04/29
desires of the birth-given identity carry over to other identities with more intensity; personashifted identities lack the reserve and self-control of the birth identity.
2012/04/29
2012/04/16
04/16
Believe it or not, you can make, in your home and with your bare hands, french fries that are delicious. Just try it sometime. All you need is a potato, a knife, a pan, a stove, a spatula, some oil, some salt (I also use garlic powder, some seasoning, and pepper), some ketchup, some music, some beer, about fifteen minutes, something to read or someone to talk to, a pen, a notepad, a pair of hands, an eye or two, maybe an ear.
Believe it or not, you can make, in your home and with your bare hands, french fries that are delicious. Just try it sometime. All you need is a potato, a knife, a pan, a stove, a spatula, some oil, some salt (I also use garlic powder, some seasoning, and pepper), some ketchup, some music, some beer, about fifteen minutes, something to read or someone to talk to, a pen, a notepad, a pair of hands, an eye or two, maybe an ear.
2012/04/15
04/15
malaise. a clock ticking over my head on the wall, clothes clanking and the hum of a dryer in the basement below, something thudding on the floor of the room above then the whine of a vacuum cleaner and distant recorded voices over speakers.
an angry buzz from the dryer. the miniature refrigerator clicks on.
time for some music and a bloody mary.
malaise. a clock ticking over my head on the wall, clothes clanking and the hum of a dryer in the basement below, something thudding on the floor of the room above then the whine of a vacuum cleaner and distant recorded voices over speakers.
an angry buzz from the dryer. the miniature refrigerator clicks on.
time for some music and a bloody mary.
2012/04/11
2012/04/07
2012/04/06
04/06
Susceptibility. In a bar with black and white squares patterning the floor, wooden table sets of varying design decorated with yellow tulips and candles in red glass holders, and tall green walls that are adorned with gold-framed mirrors and that reach up to a white ceiling from which dim lights hang on long chains. The place is full of white people wearing glasses and striped and plaid clothes, conversing about anything trivial, about themselves; things they've experienced, people they know, drama, probably. The music is corny electronica, goofy bass synths and out of place vocal samples. The waitress is cute but wearing shorts that are far too short, too exposing. The guy that's been cleaning up and taking orders is wearing a plaid shirt with cut sleeves, and since they're cut so short I've been wondering if / speculating that he's gay.
04/05
Beer and cigarettes in sunlight.
A funky beat comes bouncing from a distance. Two young men walking side by side in jeans, matching sports coats, and red ties pass us on the sidewalk, one of them carrying on his shoulder a late '80s or early '90s boombox stereo which is playing Michael Jackson at maximum volume. Beat It. Fuck yes.
Again, I'm glad to be home.
Susceptibility. In a bar with black and white squares patterning the floor, wooden table sets of varying design decorated with yellow tulips and candles in red glass holders, and tall green walls that are adorned with gold-framed mirrors and that reach up to a white ceiling from which dim lights hang on long chains. The place is full of white people wearing glasses and striped and plaid clothes, conversing about anything trivial, about themselves; things they've experienced, people they know, drama, probably. The music is corny electronica, goofy bass synths and out of place vocal samples. The waitress is cute but wearing shorts that are far too short, too exposing. The guy that's been cleaning up and taking orders is wearing a plaid shirt with cut sleeves, and since they're cut so short I've been wondering if / speculating that he's gay.
04/05
Beer and cigarettes in sunlight.
A funky beat comes bouncing from a distance. Two young men walking side by side in jeans, matching sports coats, and red ties pass us on the sidewalk, one of them carrying on his shoulder a late '80s or early '90s boombox stereo which is playing Michael Jackson at maximum volume. Beat It. Fuck yes.
Again, I'm glad to be home.
2012/04/04
04/04
Tonopah, Nevada; old friends of Jurek's, which means cigars and scotch. I don't even know who's driving anymore. Mopy Keil, I suppose.
Jurek's pal has lived in this house since childhood. There are five cats; two or three smallish ones and two that are larger, one of which is black and has a lion's mane, the other of which is like a cow; it is fat and mostly white, and its sagging bellyflesh is an udder. One dog, a pit something, has a drooling cough, and another has a crumpled tail and a mutilated and decaying face; gashes near one eye, a crusty white ball where the other eye would be, and a mouth that won't open, so its tongue flicks out the side where teeth are missing.
The son is younger than I and already has a steady job, which I do not, and the daughter is younger still and already has a baby boy, which I do not. She changes the baby on the couch, comments on the greenness of the poo, then, after cleaning him up and letting him go, instead of washing her hands reaches for a french fry.
The grandchild looks at me from beneath a table. I make faces at him, moving up eyebrows and contorting my mouth. He smiles, and his own eyebrows shift around.
04/03
Within the bowels of the house, the Sneckson family secret: a handmade red-white-and-blue quilt, “UNITED STATES OFAMERICA” depicted in the center and images of all the states chronologically occupying their own hexagons throughout the quilt's body, accompanied by state birds, state flowers, and dates of induction. No thimble used.
“Wow Vander,” I say, “you're a true American. It's in your blood.”
“Blood!” laughs his father, “we don't need blood, we need beer!”
Tonopah, Nevada; old friends of Jurek's, which means cigars and scotch. I don't even know who's driving anymore. Mopy Keil, I suppose.
Jurek's pal has lived in this house since childhood. There are five cats; two or three smallish ones and two that are larger, one of which is black and has a lion's mane, the other of which is like a cow; it is fat and mostly white, and its sagging bellyflesh is an udder. One dog, a pit something, has a drooling cough, and another has a crumpled tail and a mutilated and decaying face; gashes near one eye, a crusty white ball where the other eye would be, and a mouth that won't open, so its tongue flicks out the side where teeth are missing.
The son is younger than I and already has a steady job, which I do not, and the daughter is younger still and already has a baby boy, which I do not. She changes the baby on the couch, comments on the greenness of the poo, then, after cleaning him up and letting him go, instead of washing her hands reaches for a french fry.
The grandchild looks at me from beneath a table. I make faces at him, moving up eyebrows and contorting my mouth. He smiles, and his own eyebrows shift around.
04/03
Within the bowels of the house, the Sneckson family secret: a handmade red-white-and-blue quilt, “UNITED STATES OFAMERICA” depicted in the center and images of all the states chronologically occupying their own hexagons throughout the quilt's body, accompanied by state birds, state flowers, and dates of induction. No thimble used.
“Wow Vander,” I say, “you're a true American. It's in your blood.”
“Blood!” laughs his father, “we don't need blood, we need beer!”
2012/04/02
04/02
“We
went out to a Chinese place and I told the boys I didn't want to hear
them saying 'flied lice' or any of that shit. Everything went okay
until dessert, when the waiter said for ice cream they had
strawberry, vanilla, and 'locky load.' We'd all been drinking, and
the boys about died. Man, that waiter was pissed. He yelled at
us:
“'China
boy got A-bomb too, you know!'”
2012/04/01
04/01
There is no hope left for white America. Currency flows out in all directions, but to no person who needs or deserves it. Hungry squirrels with long, slender flashing fingers and a hoard of stolen nuts.
There is no hope left for white America. Currency flows out in all directions, but to no person who needs or deserves it. Hungry squirrels with long, slender flashing fingers and a hoard of stolen nuts.
Case
in point: the Olive Garden. Big name, long wait, bright lights, high
price, yet box-worthy wine with negligible alcohol content and food that
looks and tastes like it was cooked in a microwave. I could make
exponentially better pasta while half-asleep and drunk.
“Spicy's
one thing, awful's another.”
Who's
idea was this? Vander's dad?
Time
to scramble. I toss down a tip for the cross-eyed, rabbit-toothed,
flair-adorned waiter—mostly out of pity—as we slip out and away, but there's no way in hell this
bill's getting paid.
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