Witness my father and I, watching the log fire thing on the TV for like no reason at all. The two of us got really confused upon seeing a hand put another log on the fire.
A debate ensued as to whether or not we should call KQED and ask them to stoke the fucker.
My father sees a kitten and decides what he must do is get out the golf balls. Later, lemons are chased.
At my mom’s, the Easy Listening channel is playing whatever Christmas music you play when you are trying to kill your family.
A note, written on an envelope. Note: Diane is my mom’s name.
Diane- Mike found this at dog school school
when he went to potty the girls - is it yours?
Underneath, my mom has written PENCILS, underlined it twice, put a box around it, and a square around that.
Merry Christmas.
jay
The MAKE crew got custom printed Moleskines.
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This has driven me ‘round the bend with jealousy. In other news, Nic’s been home sick for a week.
At the very least, I know he’s much worse off than I am.
Written a week or so ago. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Like I said, I haven’t written in like a month, so I have a whole heap of crazy to get out. It just keeps coming out in conversation. And not, you know. Here. Where it matters.
jay: it involves me cooking lunch...
jay: cooking lunch doesn't sound right at all
jay: people make lunch
jay: they cook dinner
ed: they make love
ed: and i love dinner
ed: see where i'm going with that?
ed: because i don't
Jay: “What are you sauteing this in?”
Dad: “Olive oil.”
(moments later)
Dad: “Did you put more olive oil in here?”
Jay: “No.”
Dad: “Did you mean to?”
Jay: “No.”
Dad: “Why did you ask me that question?”
Jay: “Okay, stop talking.”
“Everything we drink is different and separate.”
(to the refrigerator)
“That’s for the god damn dressing you idiot.”
“This is nerve wrecking. Why is this so nerve wrecking?”
Happy Thanksgiving.
12:23pm
My father is going off the fucking deep end. Him talking:
“Why do I want to cook Thanksgiving dinner? I’m out of my fucking mind! Are these all the radishes I brought? You should be doing this. Fuck, give me a fucking beer. Why does this happen?”
(minutes later)
“Nothing like cereal and beer.”
(at the stove)
“WHY ISN’T THIS COOKING? This must be right. It smells like onions and carrots, it must be right. All this ham goes in there? ONE AND A HALF POUNDS OF HAM.”
“What am I looking for? I’m looking for the… shit, that’s right. Pickles. Pickles go in there. Why am doing this now? What time is Mairin going to be here? Olives. What the fuck?”
“We’re not eating till 5 O’Clock. MOTHERFUCKER WHERE ARE THE OLIVES. Did you take the olives? You ate the olives for breakfast, didn’t you.”
“We’re under control now.”
DEAR NEW YORK TIMES DELIVERY PERSON:
How can you possibly think that if it is raining all fricking day, it’s a good idea to leave my sunday paper on the driveway, UNPROTECTED FROM THE ELEMENTS, with a HOLE in the bag? WITH THE HOLE FACING UP? TOWARDS THE RAIN?
HOW IS THIS PROGRESS? You know I hate the bag. I hate it AND YOU that much more when it AND YOU fail me.
This type of action leads me to believe you are one of the following:
a) a idiot fuckhead.
b) someone engaged in an intelligent scheme to kinda sorta specifically drive me nuts with something as small as a hole in a piece of effing plastic.
I know it’s not item B, because if it was, and you were female, I’d probably be in love with you. And that hasn’t happened.
It’s got to be A.
Which means I’m going to be walking around on your front lawn tonight. Clubbing baby seals.
I’ll supply my own seals.
I’m that pissed.
jay
whose apartment
lives upside down
from there.
So this writer is sitting on the toilet at work. Reading, etc.
Painting a word picture here. Imagery is key. Consider yourself warned.
Now, I really can’t recreate the thought process that led to this, but what is the thing that I absolutely must do at this point? I take off my watch. Now, why would I do this? No effin clue.
I’m reading. I’m crapping. Obviously, I can’t wear a watch at the same time.
Oh, fuck off.
So my next thought is, where does my watch go if it is not on my wrist?
The answer, of course, is I put it on top of my pants. Which are around my ankles.
This is the sort of post I write every like two months and delete before I put it up. But, here we are.
So I do my thing. Some time passes. I flush.
I stand up. I pull up my pants.
::metallic clink::
::rustle::
Cue major fucking spaz out.
To my credit, I didn’t fall down or anything like that. But, I mean, still.
jay
here on fibber island,
our house
is made of pie.
One of these days, try having this guy be your boss. It’s awesome.
Later, buddy!
