I called in to the feb 27 episode of “shut up, weirdo” (not online yet) (who cares) (I hate the internet) (update: it’s up) (I start around the 23:45 mark) (it’s a pretty boring show) and almost won best caller of the week but then an erotic lesbian caller beat me out at the last minute (update: it turns out I won) (I don’t know what I win) (fedex me your digital camera and I’ll “post” whatever they send me) (zzzZ).
- reminding myself to take a look at this sometime
- if you hate smoking marijuana, and then tonight get seduced by fun-loving hipsters to smoke some pot, and it gives you insomnia, like it always does, and you’re twitchy and you couldn’t possibly eat another pb&marshmallow sandwich, and it’s 2 a.m., why not crank up old 88.5 FM (in the bay area) or the live stream and listen to the final broadcast of “my” interview with Okkervil River’s Will Sheff! That’s tonight, 2 a.m. PST. What is the point of all this self-promotion? The genre of blogging has self-promotion as one of its automatic and well-worn grooves.
- I’m stoked to watch Plebiscite moderate his 826 panel — in 8 minutes!
- Today I finally ended my week-long borrowed-car shopping spree at Mission St’s BigLots! I’d never been in there. It’s like a dessicated, apocalyptic TARGET. Awesome.
- PG&E is going to inspect my gas connection and appliances this Tuesday, so I’ll wait for them turn the oven’s pilot light on. This means I am going to get heavy into Rice Cooker Cookery this week. I’m actually really stoked about this!!
- also very stoked to see Malkmus tonight!
- I might try to write an article about this. I guess normally I’d try to be circumspect about saying something about a potential ‘scoop’ before following through, but I want them to get as much press as possible, so we should both write about them. I just applied for a press pass to see their presentation next month at ETech! I don’t know what I’m doing!!!
NOTE: The following is a work of FICTION. All characters, events, places, and emotions described herein are
“something invented,” from L. fictionem (nom. fictio) “a fashioning or feigning,” from fingere “to shape, form, devise, feign,” originally “to knead, form out of clay,” from PIE *dheigh- (cf. O.E. dag “dough;” see dough). As a type of literature, 1599. Fictitious is 1615, from M.L. fictitus, a misspelling of L. ficticius “artificial, counterfeit,” from fictus, pp. of fingere.
I leave the office around three. Go home, grab my extended move-in shopping list, jump in the borrowed car. Take a misguided loop around Precita, where I should just turn around to go the other way up Folsom. Whatever, it’s cool, the windows are rolled down, we’re driving, life is good. I’m borrowing a coworker’s car for a week while she’s out of town. I had grabbed some promo CDs from the office, tried something out called the “Knw-Yr-Own Compilation.” It’s OK, sounds a bit like a lower-case K records, or something. Middle-aged lady in a Subaru pulls up alongside me at a four-way stop, hears my tunes, sees my Jewfro, gives me a sexy, astonished look. Hey, momma! I take a long pull off the day-old chai I left in the car the evening before. Life is gooooood!
I try to get to Bed Bath and Beyónce for the 2nd time in a week. First time encountered major difficulties. Haven’t learned my lesson. Get so confused and frazzled circling around that SOMA freeway/one-way industrial turning-lane vortex that I actually end up getting on the I-80 East, the on-ramp after which there are no off-ramps until Treasure Island. This is a huge misstep. This is the point at which the playful swishing of ice cubes in one’s glass without regard for droplets sprinkling out now and again becomes a soaking lap full of gin and tonic. Yowch!
I decide to go to Emeryville. Fuck it; I shall lean into the curve. Like all great jazz musicians, I am turing my mistakes into improvisatory innovations. Of course! Ikea is Bed Bath and Beyond 2.0! I’m going to buy a fucking Swedish meatball!
I walk into Ikea and immediately feel alienated. I walk directly to the restaurant and eat a buffalo chicken wrap and a plate of meatballs with gravy. I try to read the Ikea catalog, which makes me realize I hate Ikea and don’t need anything from Ikea. There is a pair of college-age girls nearby, with a half-finished plate of fries in front of them. One of them has polished off a garden vegetable soup, too, from the look of it. They seem like they’re having fun when I sit down, but by the time both of them have watched me furtively, despondently eat my meatballs and dip my chicken wrap into the little tub of bleu cheese, they have fallen silent. I bus my tray.
All I look at in Ikea are the Swedish design books they use for display on the showroom’s bookshelves. There is nothing for me here. I get lost. I start walking very quickly without regard to where I am going, hoping that if I walk quickly for long enough I will arrive at the exit. I end up following a skinny, short-haired woman into one of the bedroom displays. We are in what looks like a film set——a hive of half-built bedrooms. I imagine how I would feel if I turned the corner and saw one of the many young couples roaming the store on this Tuesday afternoon half-dressed and fucking on top of one of the made beds. I would not hold it against them. Go for it, guys!
I end up accidentally stalking the short-haired woman. She picks up a pillow, sets it down, continues walking. I then automatically decide that I am interested in pillows, too, pick one up, put it down, follow after her. Thankfully, eventually, I lose her. I am following the floor-arrows in reverse, walking as fast as I can, searching for the next arrow pointed toward me, (I’m going the wrong way), so I can walk into and against its vector. I pick up a pair of book-ends, carry them for a half-acre, then set them down in a grove of lamps.
When I finally find the exit, proud to have purchased nothing beyond my “early dinner”, I have an urge to buy several hot dogs. Instead, when I hit the sidewalk, I jog all the way to the car. It feels like escape. The self-loathing is strong.
Driving back across the bay bridge, I listen to another promo, the Flaming Lips’ Christmas on Mars soundtrack. It’s not so good, but the bombastic, pretentious alien melodrama soundtrack suits my purposes. I make up lyrics to the instrumentals, glare at other drivers, pick my nose, roll the windows up and down, etc. About halfway across the bridge I spot the Golden Gate. It’s nice to see one major landmark bridge from another. I feel connected. I remind myself of my love for the San Francisco Bay Area. “These bridges are like webs of jizz spinning out from god’s cock,” I think. “Hot spurts of love that connect the people and places I love.”
I make it to B, B & B with significantly less difficulty. Eat a seven-layer bar from Peet’s Coffee. The clerk is ostentatiously more efficient than any of his customers could ever be. He is clearly too smart for his job, and he’s paying way too much attention. He is driving himself insane. I have a bite of the cookie in my mouth before I’ve left the coffeeshop.
Walking in to BB&B, I set off the security alarm. I realize I’ve forgotten to retrieve a shopping cart; walking out of the store a moment later, I set off the alarm again. Same thing as I return with my cart. The security guard is frazzled and good-natured. A new customer enters the store behind me, setting off the alarm.
I make up for my alienated consumerist Ikea panic by buying lots of things in BB&B. As I’m checking out, I see Dodie Bellamy. It takes me a moment to recognize her. We lock eyes as I’m leaving. I hope she doesn’t notice the fucking awesome cutting board in my shopping cart. I want her to imagine that I only eat home-dried apricots, that I am a poet, that I cannot afford a cutting board, or things, beyond apricots, to cut.
Then I drive to Rainbow. I’m breaking the bank. I’m on a shopping spree. I need to stock up the shack. The shack is a bomb-shelter. I buy many, many cans of vegetables. I almost buy a beeswax candle, but realize I’ve gone too far and set it back on the shelf. A Rainbow employee says to a customer, “What are you looking for, Gary?” Gary says, “Where’s ya ghee??” Everyone smiles.
Returning to the car, the sun has gone down. I have to drive home in the dark with my severe night blindness. I don’t kill anyone (that I know of. I often imagine that I’ve probably unwittingly killed several people while driving, that they get silently mowed under my car without my even noticing, Mr. Magoo–style. I’m just tapping along with the cuica on a deafeningly loud Tom Zé song while a newly widowed woman in sweatpants weeps and shakes her fist at my car’s receding ass.) I find a parking space directly in front of my house.
stock apology for not blogging. I’ve been moving, traveling, working, and not working. I’ve forgotten how to work. What do I need to do again? I click on the shit, but then what happens after I click? I have to, like, highlight the text? I can’t remember. Lemme know.
Yesterday went to Kamei Restaurant Supply, more or less lost my shit completely. Maybe my favorite store in San Francisco. Very cheap, thrift-store comparable prices (for some stuff), amazing selection. I always thought of the dish and glassware at Japanese and Chinese restaurants in the same category as, like, movie actors — I’m deeply intimate with them, but I can never bring them home. They’re for me, but not at the end of the day. They have their own homes. I’m just “hiring” them for a fun night out. But now, with Kamei Restaurant Supply, my shack can have its very own collection of weird rice bowls!!!! Kamei Restaurant Supply lets you take the Renee Zellweger home with you — forever. I bought a rice cooker. I still haven’t lit the pilot light on my stove, so the Sanyo is getting a workout. I am afraid I am going to blow myself up if I light the pilot light. This is what you get for asking me to start blogging again. Blandishments!!!
Let’s end with a two-item list.
- Ohtis is Christian and totally sweet.
- A promotional video for Art Spiegelman’s new book out from McSweeney’s, with original music by Pat from the Black Keys
P.S. I am getting rid of a very nice queen bed before Saturday, lemme know if you want an insider’s friendship discount. Serious offers only
Also my Will Sheff / City Arts and Lectures interview aired on Sunday!! I heard almost all of it. I sounded profoundly nervous, but Sheff is a great talker and the whole thing makes for a “good listen,” I hope/think. They edited out the kid in the audience who, as his “question,” recited the lyrics to an entire song, which was probably a good idea. Anyway it’s airing again tonight at 8 on KQED. bye
K: I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU WERE TOO TIRED TO GO DANCING BUT THEN I SAW ON PAVEMENT OR FACEBOOK WHEREEVER YOU UPDATED YOUR “LIKES” TO INCLUDE “VIETNAMESE SANDWICHES” SO IT LOOKS LIKE WHO’S NOT TOO TIRED TO SURF THE FUCKING NET
K: EFF THAT I FEEL SICK CAN’T SPEAK. OUT NOW -.OUT OUT NOW OUT
K: SHUTIT- JUST CANNIT POCKO. MAKE IT UP BY PUTTING ON THAT GREASER OUTFIT I LOVE AND TAKE ME TO THE SUPERCHUNK SOCK-HOP LINDY PARTY THAT SUPERCHUNK IS GOING TO BE PLAYING ALL “TRAIN FROM KANSAS CITY”–STYLE GIRL-GROUP COVERS AND EVERYONE DRESSED TO THE NINES TO THE TENS
K2: oh sweetie I love you too it’s just that sometimes when i look in the mirror i don’t see a dude, i don’t see your husband, i don’t see the lovable veterinarian who all the town loves to wave to and even hang out in the vet’s lobby drinking the free coffee and listening to the awesome noisy loud “indie rock” we play all the time because the animals don’t mind but
HERE IT COMES
SHIELD YOUR FACE
I TRIED TO GO FOR A RUN THIS MORNING BUT MY KNEES HURT TOO BADLY AND SO I RETURNED HOME, frustrated and incensed, by which I mean I smelled like incense, because on the way home I broke into my neighbors’ house and stood in billowing sheathes of sheaving, heaving sweetsmoke——————the neighbors had like eighty sticks of Nag Champa going and were rutting on a half-oval throw rug in their living room. I just stood there gaping, gasping in my running shorts as I watched them heave and cleave each other into beauty. Into futureshards. Into babes. (Fuck you????)
[ANDREW: MAYBE DELETE THIS LAST PARENTHETICAL “FUCK YOU”? SOME READERS WILL THINK IT’S AIMED AT THEM, AND WILL MAKE THEM LESS INCLINED TO WANT TO GIVE SEXUAL FAVORS TO THE NARRATOR, WHO — IF I’M READING THIS CORRECTLY — IS REALLY A STAND-IN FOR YOU. AND I FIGURE THAT YOU’RE NO DIFFERENT FROM ALL OF US, WHICH IS TO SAY, CURRYING CURRIED SEXUAL FAVORS (PUMPKIN CURRY? LOL) IS THE MAIN GOAL IN LIFE. THAT, AND THE FEEDING OF THE HOMELESS, CLOTHING OF THE NAKED, POUNDING THE UNPOUNDABLE, AD. INF.]
Returned home and, though I haven’t packed anything in my room yet, absently, spookily took all of my food out of the pantry and fridge while simultaneously preparing a pb and honey sammnitch, which I ate absently while filling a filthy milkcrate I found on the street with all the foods, which are a bogus accumulation of things I never eat: the jar of tahini from the one time I made baba ghanouj out of my ex-roommate’s ex-wife’s gigantic, near-rotten gift eggplant; the brown-rice miso paste I bought because I want to be like Stephen Dixon, who makes himself miso soup sometimes in his stories (see I.); the sherry vinegar I bought because I thought it would give me a shot at curried sexual favoritude with Deborah Madison.
Carried the filthy milkcrate full of sherry, black sesame seeds, and unused powdered milk to my new home. Started to walk to work, began getting drenched. Ducked into new local coffee shop. Drank a cup of decaf, worked for a while. Got bummed out, got a free refill with regular. Did more “work.” It stopped raining. Went to work. (Fuck you??????)