I woke up in the afternoon after catching up on sleep and recovering from a later-than-usual night. I get baguettes from my favorite supermarket some weekends, and that began after learning that if you stick them in the oven for a while they make for excellent breakfast sandwich housing. Very sorry for the shitty picture, I usually use my real camera for this but what you see here is iPhone work, indoors, on a cloudy day, letter from a friend on the left.
I haven’t been going out much lately, in fact for a couple of weeks almost not at all. It’s OK, but occasionally I do step back and am like wow, I haven’t hung out since… I can’t even remember, two weeks ago? Three weeks ago? I get into these modes where after a regular workday all I want to do is race home and resume wherever I left off on whatever I started the night before– aside from little things, there’s a dissertation underway in there somewhere.
But yesterday a friend called and asked if I wanted to try a place that just opened two weeks ago called “Jacobs Pickles” on the Upper West Side, a few stops down from me and like two blocks from where he lives.
The main idea is that they have tons of pickle varieties, beers, and a few main courses that are complimented by both. It’s not like I’m in love with pickles or anything, but I was definitely interested to see what they had going on there.
I arrived at around 8 and we stayed until 1:30a, which is pretty insane, but time flew. I’d never actually hung out with the guy alone before and we ended up covering many interesting things while knocking back high-powered speciality beers and weirdo pickle varieties in massive quantities. Evidence at right.
The beet pickles were the best.
The bartenders were all hot chicks and they had huge tits (sorry mom), apparently all chosen for that reason and possibly/probably told to make sure everyone was aware of it. A couple of them chatted with us the entire time, too, so it wouldn’t be accurate to say staying there until 1:30a wasn’t influenced by that. When you haven’t been out in a while, something like a pair flirty tits can seem appealing for an extra hour or two, even when you know it’s for the sake of a tip.
At least that’s what you assume… and you question for a moment…
… and then realize that it’s about tits and faces and while it’s a natural draw, life is a bit larger and there are quickly more interesting things to do with one’s time and…
… all the sudden her name is Felicity and her no. is 646 825 ****.
At that point, and only at that point do you wonder how many of the:
Allagash-Black 10% Alc/Vol 9|17|33 Belgian style stout, chocolate notes, roasted coffee
‘s you’ve had.
The bill says 8.
HOLY SHIT.
As if you’d ever call that number, the number of the tits.
“This next song is called The Number of the Tits! 1, 2, 3, 4!”
Anyway, wake up was very late, early afternoon in fact. I coffeed up and and helped a friend with her MBA admission essay for a while, which I was happy to do (do you use Brit spelling for an Oxford MBA essay, or do you show your American pedigree by not?), and then cranked up a new band I’m marginally connected to called Tides (demos here) and broke out the remaining Electric Orange™. Still trying to figure out how controllable the white gas combo is and worked on a few small canvasses (the last I have, of what was left here after the late unpleasantness). Here’s what came out:
I know they all suck and it’s tough going but it’s strangely cathartic to paint, I think because of things from the past year. Even though I’m just producing shit, I like doing it and it’s for myself I guess. It’s quite a thing to see what happens when you push color around for a while, almost like a form of therapy. It’s a good way to spend an hour or two on a Sunday afternoon anyway, before returning to other things that are equally underway– a grant app, a project proposal, an article…
<SOMEWHERE IN THERE A DISSERTATION>
My back is in much better shape lately and I trained again today, strong on the upper body but being careful of pressure levels and sensations. Pull-ups, my favorite exercise after the heavy bag and deadlifts, are a mainstay while my lower back gets re-strengthened. For you athletes, try 10×10 pull-ups with 30-60 seconds between sets. After the 6th or 7th set if you can still do 10 (all the way up, all the way down of course) you’re a strong motherfucker. Right now I get to about the 7th set and have to rest after 5-6 reps, essentially breaking the last 3 sets in half in order to finish. By the end, your back will be blown up like a barn door and your arms will be begging for mercy, which of course you shoudn’t ever give them. Arms can always take more and you have to train them to be able to punch completely through the bodies of your enemies, armor or not.
Why? Besides how much fun it is, the one punch knockout is the best way to go– safe, reliable, satisfying. Get your arms conditioned for it or they can break right when you need them most, like when removing douchebaggery from their conscious life, and ensuring a fast passage into their dreamworld where they’re able to be as douchey as they like, without getting in the way of people who actually matter.
Once home I did it right, sticking with The Regimin:
Boiled spinach, potatoes and then chopped garlic chicken on top. A-OK, plenty of leftovers for a late meal (which I just finished) and tomorrow. The bowl above was drawn up from a massive pot of boiled vegetables and a massive pan of cooked chicken.
Day off tomorrow for MLK day, will be going 100% on an article pretty much from wake-up, and can’t wait to dive in.
Every few minutes of idle time makes me think too much about stupid, painful things, and every sudden intense commitment to an objective keeps me moving forward.
Never, ever, ever sell out. Life it too short to be fake, or to kid yourself about your own decisions and where they come from, what the motivations are and why. Get control of that shit and you’ll be great at everything you want to do. But trying to get there through being fake, through pretending… nope. People with half a brain see through that shit in a second and write you off just as fast, and the people who don’t are probably trying to use you in one way or another because they know how insecure you are with the self that’s in there somewhere, and they’ll never want you to change or grow because then you won’t let them use you any more. In fact, their biggest fear is that you’ll catch on to what they really want, to what they really think of you– not the stuff they do or say to keep you around.
So fuck that shit, you know who you are.
Let’s bleed together so the victory is that much sweeter, as sweet as our lives are when we’re honest.
Go punch some shit for a while and I’ll catch up with you guys soon.
