Sunday, June 30, 2013

A Letter To A Friend

My "friend" Jeff, in Spain. Total flake.
Hi, everybody.

I'm concerned about my friend, Jeff, because he's on a big trip in Spain, and he sent me a link to his blog, Double Daffy, and he asked me to read it. I didn't want to read it, though, because I am worried sick about him. What if he gets hurt in Europe?! Lots of people get hurt in Europe, and Asia. Here is the email response I wrote to him (I used lots of italics to create emphasis and hammer my point into his head):

Dear Jeff,

There's no one on the highway in Spain. 

Why's Kevin there? I have no idea what's going on. I can't keep track of that guy. He's all over the place. 

By the way, Jeff: reality check. Get a real job. I mean, when I see some of these paintings in these museums, I think, What's the point of art? It doesn't do anything. You know? At least contribute something to the world. I don't know why more school districts don't just cut funding for art class and other electives. It's such a waste of time and money. Kids can learn art on their own time. 

Also, we should not talk to our kids about sex, because it will give them ideas! Just go to church, watch the game, invest wisely, scrimp and save, have kids, and make their rooms the right colors (blue for the boy, pink for the girl) so they both choose to be straight. It's that simple, as you drive your Beamer. Afford the Beamer, drive the Beamer, total the Beamer on Storrow Drive. It's that simple. Get it through your thick skull. 

Get it together, Jeff. I'm sick of seeing you not in America. Just get an internship. That's how it starts. Get an internship at a management consulting firm, like Bain and Company, work hard, and who knows? Maybe one day you can look at your savings account and think, Man, I have a lot of money in my savings account; I'm gonna plan a trip to the Hamptons. Have you even once considered what's going on in the Hamptons? A lot. A lot is going on there, but you continue to traipse around in Spain, of all places, with your little beard and your little friend Kevin, while you film things with your camera and literally tilt at windmills. In the end, Jeff, we both know you're tilting at yourself. Hm? Possibly? Perhaps you tilt at the demons that reside in your soul. Stop it. Stop tilting. 

You're trying to live a pipe dream (or is it a PIPE NIGHTMARE?!!!) and it's really starting to make you look foolish. I mean, you're running around in Spain and Grenada--where we once had a war, you know, in the '80s, with howitzers and parachutes and rebel forces and all that stuff, just like Black Hawk Down, or Full Metal Jacket, or The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane--you're running around in these strange countries with your pants around your ankles, marking your territory, like some sort of dog--yeah, dog, you son of a bitch--and you expect me to be excited that you're creating so-called "art" with your "camera" and your "brain" and your "body," which is covered in blood, internally, by the way (but, of course you refuse to go to a doctor and get it checked out, because you don't have health insurance)? You expect me to be happy about that and read your "Double Daffy" blog? I decline, sir. I decline to read your travel blog. Instead, I'll do something constructive and go to the travel agent and book a trip for me and the wife to the Poconos, because Mount Airy Lodge is definitely still open. I'll be drinking a glass of Riesling, sitting in the hot tub, and driving my Beamer, thinking to myself, I hope Jeff's happy making his "art," and wasting his time on his films, because I'm damn happy driving my Beamer through this red light and into a pedestrian. That's what I'll be thinking, pal. 

Reality check. 

Your friend,


After sending him this email, I received an automated response:

I'll be on location in Spain until August 1st for this super fun job I'm doing.
I'm going to check emails as much as possible.


I don't understand why I can't get through to him. The kid's a loose cannon.

Monday, June 17, 2013

Timmy Disgustufson's Haus

I still haven't finished Moby-Dick. It's been about a year since I started. It's not even that the book is hard to read. It's actually not that hard to read. It's just that I haven't been reading at all for these last few months. It doesn't feel good not to read. The problem is that I no longer have a long subway commute. I ride my bike to work everyday, nowadays, and it's really great, but the trade off is that I don't get the train reading time.

I am getting ready to continue the book, though. I have been reading the SparkNotes on the chapters I have already read, just to refresh my memory. I had forgotten some stuff about the characters. For instance, I couldn't remember which guy was a dick: Stubb or Flask. Turns out it was Flask. What a dick that guy is. But Stubb is the one who got disrespected by Ahab. Ahab really put him in check.

The book is just sitting on my nightstand, as I write this. Just sitting there, neglected.

Today I had an artisan ice cream sandwich that really pissed me off. I got it from Cool Haus. They had a truck in the Prospect Park food truck rally. They just took two cookies and shoved a glob of ice cream in the middle, and charged me six bucks. Then, the ice cream melted at a geometric rate and dripped all over my hands and shoes. I was a mess. I had to hurry and finish the ice cream before it melted all over the place. As a result, I couldn't enjoy it. Melted ice cream disgusts me. Also, the chips in the chocolate chip cookies that bookended the ice cream were melting. I hate melted chocolate chips. The whole thing was a shitshow. Cool Haus sucks.

Cool Haus sucks so bad that the name of their food truck should be, "Crappy Chipwich," because that's what they give you. It's an ice cream dump truck that dumps poorly-constructed chocolate chip cookie sandwiches all over Grand Army Plaza. It takes a dump in your neighborhood and in your mouth. That truck sucks. I didn't like the guy in there, either. He would be the type to work in a truck that sucks. Nice sucks. Who wants to pay six bucks to a guy who sells stuff that sucks out of a truck that sucks? I think some dripped onto my shorts, too, because there's a stain there, now, that wasn't there before. My clothes are besmirched like those of a slovenly child. Cool Haus, unfortunately, is the house of Timmy Disgustufson, and I was foolish enough to cross its sloppy threshold.

I had a Nantucket Nectar earlier in the day that was good, though.