Friday night dinners

We (just me) ate early, around 4 p.m. I pulled a lever at the health-food store to dispense some Zen Party Mix and accidentally filled the entire bag. “Oh well,” I thought. Then I ate it while perusing the outdoor book stall at Dog Eared Books. I saw three people I knew while I was browsing and munching. I browsed and munched for a long time. At the very end I unearthed a 1967 Noonday paperback of The Moviegoer.

the-moviegoer-151

Cover design by Milton Glaser

The Dog Eared guy I love, the guy who if I were a beautiful little indie princess (female) I would seduce and make him tutor me in the ways of World War I poetry in his monk’s bed, I am not gay, said, as I bought it from his coworker: “I’ve never read that.” Isn’t that adorable??? I love him!!! It’s very likely he’ll find this blog and ruin my career as a heterosexual seafood maitre’d. Breadstixxx keeps walking by and seeing that I’m not writing that email to Jenny I’m supposed to be. What the fuck is wrong with me? I had a large-scale panic attack yesterday. If you ever go to therapy or analysis and then stop going, it’s fun to say that  you’ve “fired” your therapist, even though you’ve really just stopped going. You didn’t actually say ” Bernstein, you’re fired!” or anything like that.

Part II of dinner was the chocolate cigar Boethius gave me when his son was born. I also stole some licorice from his bookshelf. The entire office immediately was all “OMG WHAT ARE YOU EATING WHERE DID YOU GET THAT??” So, Boethius– you should hide that licorice!

Tonight I’m going to covertly smoke marijuana by myself a la Hal Incandenza and either go to a huge indie rock show where exquisite girls in leggings and their rippling, serrated boyfriend-thugs with ninja stars where their hangin’ doodles should be will throng the throng right up to its throngy hilt. Or an approximation thereof [DELETE THIS? –ED.] I will twitch in place, the marijuana a beadly shroud that rapes my vocabulary with a deft, chai-spiced confidence. What??? I’m going to dance weirdly for a bit, and definitely try to hurt the feelings of anyone who recognizes me. So if you see me, maybe the Independent, who knows — watch out. I’ll get progressively more drunk on sweet sweet India Pale Ale (so named because the magic cobras that lined the bottom of the East India Company’s trade ships were as white as Michael Jackson’s eukaryotic organelles) and whip my night blindness around like a tube [that makes a great vibrating moan when you swing it lasso style above your head]. then it’s the  4 mile or whatever walk home, not getting mugged on the way but probably shouted at by someone angry . My hoodie and the 1.3 ounces of youth-culture strength it signifies will save my life. Then I will kiss an indie princess on the lips — on the other side of consciousness, in dreamy slumber. Her teeth will be made from candy corn. I go to wash my face and dicks pour out the faucet; angry bidets ollie  their skateboards over the vert ramp of my face, etc. Slumberland — you know how it is.  Right up till morning, when I’ll jog, shower, shave, and put in a full Saturday at the office.

candyland

You have an incredible body.

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