Sexpigeon

Oct
21st
Sun
permalink
Kept going to the waffle truck and ordering waffles. Everyone who tried a waffle flipped over how good the waffles were, and everyone who hadn’t had a waffle yet decided that they should try a waffle too, so to the waffle truck they went. And then the original wafflers saw the new waffles and were reminded of how good the waffles were, so they went and got waffles anew. The waffles were very good. Now it’s hours and hours later and everyone is sick and sad. Jen is curled up into a ball and is clammy and hot and shaking. I don’t blame the waffles. The waffles were very good. 

There’s nothing to do anymore except for eat and drink and watch things. I’m filled with what’s almost certainly going to be puke and still all I can think about is what things might be fun to eat, or if maybe I should go out and drink, or if I should watch stuff on Hulu that I’ve already watched before.

Driving up the coast tomorrow to munch oysters right out of a bay and to drink beers while doing so. Not so much to “watch” up there, per se. Ripples and birds and shit, I guess. 

Talking to people is nice, but now that I’ve lived in New York all I think about when I talk to people is about how famous they might be and how famous they might make me. Maybe that’s callous but maybe fame is a decent way to score interesting work. Maybe fame is a decent alternative to drudgery. 

In San Francisco for four more weeks. San Francisco is pretty great. You can stuff yourself sick on what are certainly the greatest waffles you’ll ever eat. You can do so in the company of some of the finest, most entertaining people on the planet. And oh, the jokes. You won’t believe me when I say so, but: the jokes are better here. But the jokes are fleeting, too. No one commits them to the pages of a nationally-circulated magazine, for example. The jokes here just bounce around and then vaporize. They are good and then they are gone, and that’s that.

Sorry. I’m quite blue, to be frank. I’d rather that this blueness wasn’t discoloring my work, but it is. 

Here’s a picture I didn’t take today: a skinhead on the bus, early forties. Had an enormous “88” tattooed on the back of his head, eight inches tall or so and angrily stylized. Was yell-chatting with another white-power type a few rows back. What they were discussing was this: what is the best Walgreens in the city? They were headed to it, apparently, and were both quite excited. Wherever it is is past 16th and Bryant on the 22 headed to Potrero Hill, because that’s where I got off and that’s where they stayed on. 

I’ve got to find this Walgreens. It sounds really great. I just don’t know when I’ll find the time.

Kept going to the waffle truck and ordering waffles. Everyone who tried a waffle flipped over how good the waffles were, and everyone who hadn’t had a waffle yet decided that they should try a waffle too, so to the waffle truck they went. And then the original wafflers saw the new waffles and were reminded of how good the waffles were, so they went and got waffles anew. The waffles were very good. Now it’s hours and hours later and everyone is sick and sad. Jen is curled up into a ball and is clammy and hot and shaking. I don’t blame the waffles. The waffles were very good.

There’s nothing to do anymore except for eat and drink and watch things. I’m filled with what’s almost certainly going to be puke and still all I can think about is what things might be fun to eat, or if maybe I should go out and drink, or if I should watch stuff on Hulu that I’ve already watched before.

Driving up the coast tomorrow to munch oysters right out of a bay and to drink beers while doing so. Not so much to “watch” up there, per se. Ripples and birds and shit, I guess.

Talking to people is nice, but now that I’ve lived in New York all I think about when I talk to people is about how famous they might be and how famous they might make me. Maybe that’s callous but maybe fame is a decent way to score interesting work. Maybe fame is a decent alternative to drudgery.

In San Francisco for four more weeks. San Francisco is pretty great. You can stuff yourself sick on what are certainly the greatest waffles you’ll ever eat. You can do so in the company of some of the finest, most entertaining people on the planet. And oh, the jokes. You won’t believe me when I say so, but: the jokes are better here. But the jokes are fleeting, too. No one commits them to the pages of a nationally-circulated magazine, for example. The jokes here just bounce around and then vaporize. They are good and then they are gone, and that’s that.

Sorry. I’m quite blue, to be frank. I’d rather that this blueness wasn’t discoloring my work, but it is.

Here’s a picture I didn’t take today: a skinhead on the bus, early forties. Had an enormous “88” tattooed on the back of his head, eight inches tall or so and angrily stylized. Was yell-chatting with another white-power type a few rows back. What they were discussing was this: what is the best Walgreens in the city? They were headed to it, apparently, and were both quite excited. Wherever it is is past 16th and Bryant on the 22 headed to Potrero Hill, because that’s where I got off and that’s where they stayed on.

I’ve got to find this Walgreens. It sounds really great. I just don’t know when I’ll find the time.