For many, like the Buddha sippin some madhupyasa before attaining enlightenment, or a 125-lb engineering student at UC-Riverside eating a Cup-a-Noodles as he finishes the night’s final problem set, food is fuel, an essential tool without which progress would never be made.
For me, food is an obstacle. It’s a breaded fortress-wall that separates me from intellectual triumph. On a Sunday morning I wake with five drained beer bottles winging around my bed like cartoon head-injury birds. I drink my stupid San Francisco fad-coffee and read upon the New Yorker. Awesome thoughts begin to pierce my Helmet of Complacency:
What if Rondleskins were Unkindled from one other, releasing the possibility of Nodelessness? No one has ever contemplated this unlikelihood. The Godhead owes me a Master’s Degree. I’ve become engorged with Progress! My belly is Full with Mastery*!
Then I eat a bagel, and my thoughts become like the sun-baked mud-statue weathering its first rainstorm. My giant, proud Cincinnatus melts down to crap.
It’s days like this that I wish I was a friend and colleague of Q-Tip, the rapper from A Tribe Called Quest. I would love it if Q-Tip were hanging out with me today, letting me have sips off of his Vitamin Water, making jokes, sharing with me all the particolours of his sensibility. Why has the Lord denied me this very simple Right that all men should have, the Right of Chilling with Q-Tip whenever I’d like to, esp. on a Sunday which, through no fault but my own, I must spend indoors, in my sunlit, many-couched office?
No one is crankier than the fully functional crankshaft. No animal’s metabolism is faster than the cartoon rabbit’s. There is a society of microscopic homeless men and women who live in my carpal tunnels, just as real and full-sized people live in the New York City subway tunnels.
This street fair must be shut down. These rabbits must be eaten. This woman must be respected. These signatures must be accounted for. These lymphnodes must [do the medical thing that lymphnodes do]. You two charlatans make a lot of hay from the idea of “free-association.” Contrarian that I am, today I’ll grab the mantle of constrained association. Fettered association. The Lateral Argument.
You cannot write about your friends without losing them. You cannot write about food without eating it. You cannot read this blog without feeling a harsh boredom that starts in your bowels and radiates outward. There’s no such thing as a “free” association. I’m a Calvinist when it comes to spontaneity. I have no idea what I’m talking about. These are just “notes.”
Wired Magazine just bought this blog. They’ll be paying me $900/month to write about technology and faith in the 90s and beyond. This is my first entry. It’s been through round after round of edits with my very smart and affable editor there, and now it’s finally making its way to you, the Malaysian teenager who is this blog’s target demo. In the coming weeks, “look out” (in the most urgent sense, e.g. There’s an angry African Grey about to dive-bomb ya head!!!) for essays about the Midwest and Postmodern aesthetics, Game Theory, Memesnacks, Yelp Fatigue, Chow Hounds, Chow Prostitutes, Twitter Pain, Taxonomies of Prof. Wrest., Megafauna, The Hot New Trend in Pornography: Silentporn; Punctuation Fatigue, and so on. The site will be password protected beginning tomorrow, so to stay in the Club, just email me.
There’s no such thing as nudity, in my new conception of the world. If a television plays in the bedroom, and no one is there to watch it, is it still entertaining? Really, I’m just kidding. I don’t owe you an apology, because, like the vampire’s boyfriend, you weren’t invited.