“Your meatballs float in my soup”
Lumps of fat and flesh
bobbing between waves of kale
in a sea of quinoa
harder than the rock in your chest
that you call a heart.
I fucking hate quinoa
and want to commit atrocities
to all members of the kale family.
Yet your little lumpy meatballs poke through
like pieces of shit in a bowl.
I’ll fuck you
I’ll eat you
I’ll flush you
NYC is a place for hustlers, no exceptions. Want proof? An 80-year old woman mugged me in a subway station in Queens. After the octogenarian stole my lunch money, I protested, but people turned on me, as if I were the crazy one. Seven years later and I still want my money back. But that’s the price you pay for living in the greatest city this side of the Hudson River. Think of it as a city tax or cover-charge- because sometimes I think New York City is an over-hyped night club . Nothing is free. The cash-letting begins in the morning when you open the door of your 400 square foot apartment in Alphabet City to a large bouncer leaning against the door frame, demanding cash. He goes by the name MTA, lunch, parking ticket, mugger, con-ed, and happy hour. Yesterday the bouncer outside my doorway charged a $93.57 cover charge. What does yours charge?
Cover Charge Breakdown:
$5- R/T subway
$30 – dinner
$45- parking ticket
Did CVS run out of pocket sized Kleenex?
Today I witnessed something odder than that time at PDX when the man in front of me, after being asked to remove his shoes, stripped to his foreskin and gingerly walked through the x-Ray and into waiting handcuffs.
I just witnessed a TSA agent swab a Himalayan long-haired cat for explosives. In the TSA’s defense, that was one hairy pussy.
Ever since Das Racist rapped about absurd American Fast-food culture in their 2010 song “I’m at the Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell,” I’ve been obsessed with America’s fascination with food.
Living in Brooklyn, I am witness to the ever-changing and persnickety food landscape. Or, more like a food pyramid scheme, as I often feel bamboozled into ordering expensive, over-salted, peasant food gussied up by overly-descriptive adjectives like “redolent,” “reclaimed”, “convivial”, “local,” and instead fed lies like “locally sourced by Fukushima orphans,” “all proceeds go to supporting a goat-farmer in the Hudson Valley,” and “delicious.”
But there’s been a backlash to this DIY-food aesthetic. Gone is the reclaimed wood, finally claimed by the dump, and foraged ramps wilting in the walk-in. Later, minimalist Nordic Cuisine; good-bye Nonna knock-offs; say kaddish for your banh mi sandwich; and say hello to chicken & waffles, lard and anything you can shove into a mason jar.
Clad in checkered table clothes, Southern and Soul Food have crossed the Mason-Dixon and stuck their drumstick-and-waffle Jolly Rogers into every hip Yankee kitchen this side of the Gowanus. Brooklyn already has numerous restaurants specializing in the dish and more are opening as I type. Places with names like Buttermilk Channel, Sweet Chick, Pies-n-thighs, and Popeye’s. That’s right, Popeye’s Chicken of strip-mall fame. Popeye’s has one-upped Brooklyn chefs by combining Chicken & Waffles into one dish, the chicken & waffle tender. See commercial, below:
I’m not sure how long the fascination will last but I know one thing for certain: a pickled chicken and waffle dish is coming to a Brooklyn restaurant near you. Maple syrup on the side.
I didn’t think writing would be so fucking hard. I suppose that’s what happens when you are out of practice. What do I write about? My neighbors’ campaign against my dog for defecating and piddling in their tree wells? Where else is he to poop? It’s not like I leave a steaming pile of dog shit next to their stoops, a little amuse-bouche with their morning paper. Did they really need to post flyers of him with the caption “curb your dog” on every tree? Thankfully they tacked it low enough for him to piss on. My dog doesn’t mind peeing on his likeness, nor does he understand irony.
I could write about that, and I just did, but I’d rather muse on the hideous 80-90s fashion styles that have infectedI young and old New Yorkers, symptoms include Mom jeans, overalls, cartoon sweaters, and denim on denim. aka Canadian tuxedo See exhibit (photo) A:
Bart Simpson sweater retail price $415
Curb your dog? Nah, curb your sweater.
At first I thought some kid tied his giant stuffed penguin to a pole because it was too large to bring into Eataly. But upon further inspection, I decided the penguin committed suicide after standing in line for gelato. Hey kids, no frozen treat is worth the life of your stuffed animal.
The view from the window at work.
Help I’m stuck in an internet blog loop. I can’t stop refreshing the same three blogs and it’s all just a front for some hardcore procrastination.
So what’s with the blog title? The phantom producer whom occupies the desk next to mine left a pile of his/her papers and various props from promos past and I’m being blamed for the mess, which predates me. So my response to my accuser was “I reject your spurious claims! I’m pigsty adjacent.”
And “royal vomit,” well I think Baby Prince of Cambridge and Baby North West should start a baby band named “royal vomit.” That’s all.
It’s been a long time since my last post. Sorry.