Can I Shoot Junk in This Joint?

Maybe the Refugee is a bad influence. Most people, I suppose, would consider that an obvious statement. But, I always assumed he was such a repugnant loser that none of his characteristics would be appealing and infiltrate my personality, consciously or subconsciously. Turns out I was wrong and joined the ranks of social pariah, destroying community and the goodwill of men.
Sunday afternoon was beautiful. Sun. Blue Sky. Slight breeze causing a comfortable chill. I just showered from the gym, having come one step closer to attaining the body of a Greek god. Feeling sprite and energetic, I thought it would be a good idea to venture outside the confines of my luxurious estate and see what commonfolk do on a day like this. So, laptop in tow, I went to the local coffee shop. After reviewing the beverage menu, I opted for tea, wanting caffeine stimulation without the bitter kick of coffee. I decided on Burroughs Brew, which is Black Tea infused with coconut taste. One must assume the tea is named after William Burroughs and has something to do with his travels through Tunisia and Morocco. What exactly, I can’t say. Is it the tea? Coconut? Or maybe they were only after the alliteration and hipster, over-the-top literary reference. There is also a stylized portrait of Burroughs on the wall. The coffee shop cannot be blamed for the indulgence as they probably don’t pick the artists collection. Still, I wonder if I can shoot heroin in a place like this. Anyway, the tea was pretty good. The sweet coconut cut the bitterness of the Black, creating a mild but jittery drink.

Let’s backtrack, though. It’s getting too pleasant.

First, after I order the drink and it was served in the French Press, in a clumsy stupor, I knocked the French Press containing the full order of tea onto the floor. After dumbfoundedly staring at the spilled tea for a few seconds, I told the counter girl that I spilled the tea. She said she was aware and kindly refilled the tea while somebody mopped up my mess. They probably thought I was in a drug stupor, as that seems to be the crowd they are angling for. So, really, up to this point, I was just fulfilling the shop's mission.

I found myself a quiet table, unfolded my laptop, and sought to hop onto the internet via the shop's free wireless service. After several minutes of indications that my signal was low to good but unable to connect, I started banging my fists and wailing in frustration. I frantically roamed up and down the length of the shop with my laptop, murmuring incoherently about getting on the goddam internets, and finally returned to my seat in a huff. I continued banging on my laptop keyboard, hoping this would do the trick. After several minutes, some dude came up to my table and said "I'm gonna clue you in, they shut off the server on weekends to foster community." This took a minute to register, as I was staring at a huge mole protruding from his left nostril. Then I thought to myself, damn, I ruined this communal vibe. Everyone must hate me now that I destroyed their temporary, humane connection and are left to wallow in the crushing loneliness of modernity. I felt like the Refugee.

Later I'll write about how I got gay Nate's phone number.

One More

This picture looks a little dirty, eh?

Good Night and Go Fuck Yourself

I'm way too tired and my internet connection is far too spotty for me to actually put in the effort of writing a full post, which is liable to put cut short by any whim of the wireless gods. They are truly merciless and wrathful creatures. To tide you over, dear dedicated readers, here are some photos of a recent sandwich delight whipped up by the Refugee, that hateful and sorry asshole. He assured me that he'd get drunk tonight, as if I needed any assurance of that, and write something about sandwiches. This is the most you can expect of the Refugee, which is not enough for a normal human being, but we take what we can get from the Refugee, as long as its not infectious.

Perspective

This sentence, in the "Findings" section of the latest Harper's Magazine, sort of sums up my worldview:

"Scientists announced that human beings are still evolving, and a family of retarded people who walk on all fours was discovered in Turkey."

It's a sad and wonderful world.

Adverse Conditions

the Refugee, in some angry and jealous spat (as always), accused me of taking too much care when writing my blogs. So, just to prove that my superior writings are not a product of over-attention, I have set up some pretty major obstacles in composing this entry. First of all, I am sitting in the belly of the beast, that most foul of places, the public library. I am trying to keep a clear head while contending with the stench of homeless people, hippies, and socialism. This is everything I hate. It's true, it's hard to perform outside of my usual environment of plush leather chairs, soft music and fine brandy, but I think I'm doing pretty well considering that my good looks, alone, probably indicates to everyone around that I don't belong here. Additionally, being on a publically rationed service, internet time is limited and I must write without the benefit of planning or editing. So take your complaints elsewhere, people, if anything is misspelled or grammar off. Is off a preposition? No time to think about it. Just keep typing. I think my time is just about up, and I didn't even have a chance to report anew on the awfulness of the Refugee. Two seats over to my right sits a girl with pink dredlocks and a nosering. What do I have to say about this? Well, first, she probably grew up on Mercer Island and maybe still lives there. Second, white people can get away with aping black style and culture in this city because there are no black people. You're soooo fucking radical, asshole, go back to software programming and snowboarding on the weekends.

I was watching the Anthony Bourdain show on TV the other night, and, posing as tough-guy-cum-gourmet-star-chef, he was showing off in front of Canadian culinary students. One awestruck lassie asked him about a legendary incident in which he ate the beating heart of a cobra in Vietnam, and with the swagger of a rock star, he spouted some self-aggrandizing bullshit about being a chef and trying everything. Well, that ain't shit, Anthony, I'm a bougie asshole and eat poor Irish babies for sport and pleasure. That's some tender meat, though, perhaps, culturally sensitive. Have a problem with it? I'm just trying everything, so take it up with my adventurous, worldly spirit. Speaking of which, did anybody else read that article about those weird dudes who operate an S/M dungeon in North Carolina, who found a volunteer to castrate and subsequently eat his testicles. For some people, this is both sexually gratifying and perhaps delicious. How would you prepare human testicles, Anthony, come on, you're a chef, it's your job to serve food that people eat without judgment. OK. My time is up. If you want to meet me, I'll be at Town Hall for the Harvey Pekar reading tonight. I'll be the best dressed motherfucker in the joint.

Full Disclosure

Many people my think I cast too sharp of a critical gaze onto the Refugee, and never report his successes and my failures. In the interest of fairness and full disclosure, I admit, this past weekend I set out with the goal of having mutually consensual sex with at least one hot lady, preferably two. And while I went home alone, the Refugee fucked a trannie. Nothing wrong with that, just thought you should know.

I Remind Me of Jesus

the Refugee has made great effort in the last few posts to lay waste to my persona and self-esteem. He made a few, seemingly, good points to which I drew up a detailed and aggresively indignant defense, deflating every argument and skewering each sentence with the precision of a trained assassin. But, he's right, I'm a perfectionist. Which wouldn't, all together, be a bad thing. Except, he's missing the second half of the equation. I'm fucking lazy and easily thwarted. You see, perfectionism can be a succesful personality trait if fueled by a dogged persistence to complete a task originally set upon. Ambitious perfectionists may work day and night, fraying their nerves and severing personal relationships, but they do things and do them well. Hard work is rewarded by fulfilling a personal vision, and a resilient perfectionist may accomplish many worthy and rewarding goals in his/her lifetime. But, for me, I become broken and distracted once the fruits of my labor do not live up to the vision that inspired them. So, here I am, after I don't know how many years of fucking education, tapping away on a laptop in a corporate office tower, performing a ridiculously monotonous and underwhelming job, writing posts for an incoherent blog that basically nobody reads.

Under mostly any other circumstance, I would have given up long ago. Maybe, I would have posted a few brilliant and promising screeds, but then succumb to fatigue, boredom and lack of immediate gratification. But, alas, here, I continue, toiling away. I respond to the unpredictable violence and unrelentingly hateful energies of the Refugee (tell us, the Refugee, what else do you hate? Let me sip on my flavored water and take in the utter lack of joy that fills you). I allow myself to be a guinea pig for his cheap and improvised meals, which may be tasty but, when described, sound like ingredients thrown together by a blind man after fishing through the dumpster of a family on welfare (last weekend, I ingested a meal comprised of sweet potato, mozarella, apples, and collared greens. Rhyme? Reason? Fuck no.) Attention continues to be paid to this blog, because I know, as the Refugee has told me numerous times, it is the best and most meaningful thing that he has or has ever had in his life. What more can you expect from a man who pleads with his boss to demote him to pizza guy? I brave these waters of insult and depravity for him, the Refugee - beggar, sinner, whore, leper, social outcast all rolled into one. And that is why, during this Easter holiday, I remind me of Jesus.

Bad Bet, Dipshit

If you are actually a fan of the Refugee - as he claims to have - be discouraged, very very discouraged. First, you are a fan of the fucking Refugee, how pathetic is that? Second, he suffered a humiliating defeat to his supposed aura of insanity and tolerance for discomfort. But, I guess a big part of the appeal of being a fan of the Rufgee is all the expected loss, failure and broken dreams. For those who expected him to win - this competition or any other measure of worth and skill - ummmm, you're fucking idiots.

First Impressions

A book came out not too long ago, Blink, exploring the science of why immediate, gut-instinct, first impressions are often correct. I did not read this book, but I did read the New York Times Book Review review, and in the retarded circles which I currently travel (read the Refugee), that's as good as a Ph. D. Science, however, is not needed to explain the phenomna of the following anecdote and the precise accuracy of a stranger's immediate reading of a persona familiar to us all. the Refugee was drinking at a bar (surprise surprise - note how these stories never begin with, the Refugee was at a bookstore, or, the Refugee was on a date, or, the Refugee was engaged in interesting conversation ... ), anyway, the Refugee was at a bar becoming inebriadetly numb to the devastating pain of his life, when a woman approached him. That's a kind rendering of the situation, I'm sure; the bravery of this woman to voluntarily approach the vicinity of this asshole is astounding, almost unbelievable, leading me to believe the Refugee was doing something highly inappropriate which prompted the woman to engage him. Stinking from his depressingly lonely day, the Refugee turned in shock when he heard a feminine voice address him directly. He stammered something unintelligible while ogling her crudely. He may have even made a groping gesture. Charitably, she did not run, or duck, or cower. No, she had a simple statement of fact and observation to relay, like a journalist telling an irreducible truth, for no other reason than just to say something so honest and indisputable it becomes good. A statement of shared understanding that allows everyone who was there, in that moment, to connect in collective reality. A world in which we can know each other, if only in the knowledge that the man the woman was speaking to, the Refugee, is "an absolutely worthless human being." When this woman, a complete stranger, stated those words, we all took comfort in at least one small bit of objective truth. Instictively, we all know the Refugee is a worthless human being, and amen to the stranger who said it for no good reason at all.

That was a true story, no lie.

Yes, tonight is a test of wills and stomachs. My jewishness has nothing to do with the selection of tofu dogs over beef or pork. It may, however, have something to do with my general suaveness.

Bored Bougie

Sorry for the extended absence, I've been in a bit of a mood lately. Normally, I take great joy in exposing the deficiencies of the Refugee and revelling in my overwhelming superiority to him in all respects. But, maybe that's just gotten too easy and explicit. The charm is waning. When there is no challenge, no competition, except for a sorry lush who mumbles and spits, something is lacking. I guess an overwhelming existential void is coming over me like clouds over this goddamn city. Or like urine over the Refugee's carpet. Saturated in it, really. the Refugee contents himself with liquor and food, and when the public drinking scene doesn't suffice, he contents himself with building a bar in his own excuse-for-an-apartment, because, after awhile, he can drink himself into the delusion that girls are in his proximity, which, of course, they aren't. Sigh. I'm not so easily amused or deranged. So, step up your game the Refugee. Calling me a liar gets you nowhere. I lie. It's what I do. I believe in lying, for the betterment of myself and those around me. If you don't believe me, well, good, I'm probably lying.

Tomorrow is the showdown. A mean and not-so-lean eating competition with my nemesis and pity-case, the Refugee. Located in the center of the universe, my apartment courtyard. Be there or, I guess, be somewhere else doing something better.