“It’s still earning interest.” Too bad earnest can’t be a noun like interest. And that interesting can’t be a gerund like earning.
I’m still interesting earnest.
“I’m still interesting, Ernest.”
The importance of being Ernest.
The importance of earning interest.
The interest in earning importance.
Well, well, if it isn’t derek, my old marijuana vendor. You certainly have gained a lot of weight since we last spoke, haven’t you, Derek?
DEREK, THE OLD MARIJUANA VENDOR: Yes, it’s true, I’ve gained probably close to sixteen, seventeen pounds since we met last fall, at the gay-guy festival.
Q: What’s been going on? Have you been depressed?
D: Can’t lie to you, Winthrop, I’ve been sad, so I’ve been eating. Although it’s an interesting question — have I been depressed. Sure I have — that’s one of the main things that’s compelled me to smoke so much marijuana, which in part is what then compelled me to eat four, five lunches at a time. Another way to look at it is I’ve eaten several breakfasts, followed closely by a brunch or two, then a lunch, then a dinner. Being hungry isn’t something I’ve been up to very much lately. But have I been depressed while I’ve been eating? Probably, although another part of me — the part that likes to toss other dudes’ salads — just kidding — thinks that mebbe I have been depressed over-all, sure, but not when I’m performing the ‘destructive’ behaviour — eating, smoking, pouring hot wax into my bungie [editor’s note: this is with a hard g, as in ‘ghee‘] — that I’m not depressed during those times. Also vending pot means there’s always a lot around. And it also means I’ve got funds, which means I’ve got frozen food galore.
I’ll often taken leftover marijuana — the ‘shake’ — and rub in into my erection until I have these weird ‘weed-chafes’ all over my shaft.
Q: Damn, son! Well that’s all the time we have
Not working begets not working. I’m out of practice. I was around mile 11 of a run, sun was going down on the Fillmore and I thought, “I love San Francisco. I love living here. I love it so much that, one day, I’d like to be the oldest man alive in San Francisco.” I was self-tickled by the idea of wanting to be the oldest living man in a place as a sign of affection for it. I’ve got some hummus coming at me courtesy a coworker. You’re allowed to listen to music with lyrics (incl. hiphop) while you write pointless blog posts. Behind at work. The narrator of The End of the Affair writes 500 words a day when he’s writing a novel. John (“Jack”) Hawkes taught Rick Moody to try 1,000 a day. I average like eighteen. (“I love San Francisco to the point where I want to be the oldest man alive in it.”) Here comes the weekend. Not even worth mentioning because of what with in regards to the behind-ness at work. Happy birthday to all of you guys.
“They’re gonna open a night school in the living room,” my landlord says. He stamps his boot in the puddle it’s built on the carpet. “All right,” I say. “Same rent, though,” he says. “That’ll be fine,” I tell him. We shake hands, and he leaves. Through the window, I can see him strapping on his snowshoes and bounding off–he’s so fast in those things I’d never get away in time, not when he stops by every few hours and it takes me twenty-five minutes to cover a mile out there, he’d catch me in a drift and have me strapped to that rescue sled he drags around and back in the flat before I’d made it halfway to a neighbor. Besides I dribble prints every few inches when I go out, so let’s say somehow I locked him in then enjoyed a full day of freedom before his uncle grew anxious and came looking, still he’d have me within the time I’d need to really conceal myself, to double back or dig in and fake a trail for him to follow after, so I don’t bother. Better to stay warm and dry.
I work from home, sorting amateur pornography for cnn.com’s user-generated content section. There’s eight of us who do that, more than any other news portal can afford, and that’s why a plurality of 29-46 year-olds still consider us to be their most trusted source for current events and pornography when taken together. I know this–I know that a person in his or her third decade is more likely to look to us for this sort of sustenance than to anyone else, I feel the gravity of their inclination teeter on my gut. I read the annual reports, and I know they’re wrong–“the average cnn.com reader expects to be apprised and aroused”–who writes that? What are they talking about? We give them a different thing, and nobody knows it.
real quietly–it’s late–he taps on the phone booth. It’s filled with kids, facing inward over an ipod. They’ve got a song on and headphones over the telephone so who knows who’s hearing it, their mom or a call-in show or someone who hung up after one track to look up stevie wonder memorabilia on ebay and resell it to rural dial-up customers via columbia house-style direct mail solicitations–memento speculation, they call it. He read about this last week, in his minesweeper discussion group. Everybody there has other interests, and they emphasize that. The kids are pressing the ipod’s viridescent display to the glass, it’s an audiobook.
No, thank you. I reject your generous offer. I will leave the envelope, still sealed, here on the table, and walk away, backwards, out the door. This is a robin wrapped in tape. I left it untaped near its face so it can still breathe and sing. Do you want to read some of my poems? This one is about coffee: Hey, let’s get some coffee. / Cool, that’s sounds good. I mean, ‘that sounds good.’ I mean, “that sounds good.” your critique is pretty harsh, Marsha. Mellow out. Marsha-mellow? Awesome. I can’t believe it’s taking him this long to sell us coffee! Let’s go to the cinema.
The robin tries to spread its wings, but my tape holds it in place. sliced deli turkey is mainting its temperature. Hup! The turkey’s getting colder. Hup! The turkey’s getting warmer. Peter doesn’t eat before he gets on the plane. “I’ll be sitting there all day,” he thinks. “No point in eating if I’m just sitting there all day.” Then, ravenous on the plane,
he drinks four bloody marys and gets an erection. Neither of his neighbor passengers is asleep. One is a man, one a woman. Peter’s in the middle. He thinks of them as his cartoon conscience: the devil on the left shoulder, angel on the right. The angel is flipping through an in-flight mail-order catalog. The devil reads Time.