july 5 2000
i was looking over some older entries today, seeing as how i'm inordinately preoccupied with anything having to do with me, and i realized that i've been doing too damn much writing about things that really happened. bah! who wants that, i say. give me narcissistic hyperbole and braggadocious delusions! cram them down my gullet until i can no longer breathe without reaching down there with a flexi-straw and chipping slowly away at the hardening mass of self-indulgence until it either sufficiently erodes to allow for some sort of quasi-asthmatic croaking or it dislodges completely and i take deep raking breaths like those of a man washed ashore into the ample bosom of a tahitian handmaid!
so keeping all that, as well as the need to construct reasonable readable sentences, in mind, i decided instead to regale you with things i saw and heard today, the day before, and the day before that. these things range from the crushingly banal to the hoo-doggy titillating, and most aren't even remotely entertaining. that's the beauty of my life; i take it, crumple it down into a densely-packed ball, leave it in my pocket while i trudge around the city, then uncrumple it only to find that it's transformed into some sort of magical chronicle of a singularly attractive and savvy young man who rides around doing fun things with famous people. actually, what happens is that i uncrumple it only to find that it's covered in lint and subpar third-world-manufactured wax from bazooka joe comix.
today
elevator conversation:
him: good holiday?
him #2: sure, sure. hot dogs, hamburgers, chicken.
him: go out of town?
him #2: nope. new jersey.
me (silently): shut up! just shut the hell up, both of you!
outside the 42nd street b/d/q/f/7 station there was a man who looked exactly like isaiah thomas. especially if isaiah thomas was really disheveled and wore a sweater in 85-degree heat and instead of being an articulate basketball commentator enjoyed making unintelligible hooting noises at passing women. i asked him for an autograph, but he just waved his arms around and hooted. fucking superstars, man. don't the fans matter anymore?
him: i haven't been doing my fanny squeezes lately. i just don't have the shape anymore.
me (silently): fanny?! shut up!
yesterday
yesterday i ate a japanese candy that purportedly tastes like cantaloupe. it tastes like cantaloupe, which isn't so weird when you consider that mr. melons taste like melon and alexander the grapes taste like grape, but cantaloupe remains a pariah in our jingoistic confectionary "industry," and as such isn't something that your palate expects in a decidedly non-juicy format. but yo, it tasted like cantaloupe. exactly.
her: i know spanish.
her (in an offensive spanish accent): hey! it's your turn, asshole!
me: (hysterical laughter)
her: oh, that wasn't it. i was just yelling at that car.
me: i know spanish! [in an offensive spanish accent] hey you! get away from my stuff! pendejo!
the day before
my laptop fell off a table on my toe. not on my foot, or on my toes, but on one toe. one sorry-looking raggedy-ass this-little-piggy-got-beat-like-robert-downey-in-prison toe. i don't mind telling you, i almost passed out.
to recap: the ample bosom of a tahitian handmaid. fanny squeezes. thank you.
p.
and yo. my full-on venture kneejerk.net is up and running, though not nearly full. go and getcha read on. for me.
props to darkcounter.com
and sitemeter