One of the biggest regrets of my life is that I never learned how to ride a wheelie on my bike. I am constantly being humiliated by hot shots who ride by me on one wheel. They can barely contain their contempt for a rider who chooses to have both tires planted firmly on terra firma. I’m sure that they are smirking at me, but I’m too busy staring down at the ground in shame to take note of their derision. And don’t even bother with the “it’s never too late to learn” crap. It’s no use; I can’t do it.
I don’t think it’s asking too much out of this life to be able to pull a wheelie for a few feet. It’s not like I’m out to perform in the circus or like I asked God to make me taller. I was about nine years old when I came to the horrible realization that I would never make it in the wheelie department, not in this life. That’s just about the exact same age that I decided that I was an atheist. You do the math and come to your own conclusions as to the reason for my split with the church. And don’t try to sell me that “you’ll be able to pull wheelies in heaven” shit. Show me where it says that in the Bible or the Koran or the Book of Mormon. Actually, the Book of Mormon has an entire chapter devoted to the issue of wheelies in heaven, but you have to ride one of those dorky Mormon bikes with no gears and a bell on the handlebars. No thanks, and I don’t care how many wives you dangle in front of me.
And please spare me the “God has given you other talents” lecture because I just don’t care. What am I supposed to do the next time some bike messenger stud rolls by me on a wheelie? Do you think that if I yell at him that I can play some of the Goldberg Variations on the piano that I will somehow feel more like a man?
And speaking of not feeling like a man, have any of you guys ever been on a date and the woman you are with has to hail the cab because you can’t do one of those ear-splitting whistles where you put two fingers in your mouth and she can? It takes about a wheelbarrow full of Viagra and a case of Pabst to make me feel like a man after something like that.
“No one said that life is fair.” You know what, I’d like to find the guy who said that life isn’t fair and kick the living shit out of him for making such a grotesque understatement, because if you can’t pull a wheelie, or whistle so loudly that it makes ears bleed, then life is a hell of a lot worse than unfair, it is unspeakably cruel. What about hell? I’m so scared (insert sarcastic sneer). Don’t try to threaten me with eternal damnation, because it is hard to frighten a guy who has spent his entire life riding a bike with both wheels on the ground and not whistling very loudly.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
What, and Give Up Show Business?
(based on a true story)
A man goes to the doctor for a terrible rash on his arm. The doctor asks him what he does for a living. He tells the doctor that he works at the circus. He shoves suppositories up elephants’ butts. The doctor tells him to get another job and the rash will go away. “What, and give up show business?”
I don’t like to drop names but I know Kevin Spacey’s personal assistant’s ex-dog walker. Yes, there is quite a view from up here but I promise that I won’t let the stardom that I now enjoy change me in any way. I won’t forget where I came from and all of the people who have helped me to get where I am now. Life is so different for me, I won’t kid you. No more waiting in those humiliating lines at popular night clubs. I always get the table up front by the window in the best restaurants in town. If I were still a lowly dirt bag like you, it would be hard for me not to be jealous of me.
It’s not like my fame doesn’t come at a price. I just wish that I could go out and have dinner with friends like a normal person without being interrupted constantly by fans. I always try to be polite to people but knowing Kevin Spacey’s personal assistant’s ex-dog walker isn’t always a bowl of cherries. Dark sunglasses are a pretty effective disguise. I wear them all the time—even when I’m sleeping.
This is going to be difficult for you but I just don’t think we can hang out anymore. I need to be around other famous superstars. They are the only people who are capable of understanding what it is like to be me. I mean, Mick’s musical career has slipped a little, but he used to be pretty huge, so he knows what it is like for an A-list celebrity like me. Maybe Johnny Depp just likes to bask in the glow of stardom that surrounds me, but he’s not a bad guy, and he always picks up the check.
How is my sex life these days? Call me spoiled but I won’t even look twice at super models. Guys like me only date super-duper models. Let me just say that those letters to Penthouse Forum now seem like harmless bedtime stories for the kids compared to what life is like for a guy who knows Kevin Spacey’s personal assistant’s ex-dog walker. I try not to let my insecurities bother me because I know all famous people wonder at times if the woman lying beside them loves them for who they really are. Lying beside me now are Siamese twins, a transvestite midget nun, an entire women’s softball team (fast pitch), Mrs. Howell from Gilligan’s Island, a blow-up doll that looks like Oprah, and an Amish hooker. I’ll be honest with you; I’m too damn tired right now to care if they love me for who I am or if they just want to be with a guy who knows Kevin Spacey’s personal assistant’s ex-dog walker.
It may all come crashing down on me some day; I won’t be the first celebrity to take a bad fall. Substance abuse, divorce, paternity suits, plastic surgery, drunk driving, eating disorders, weight gain, bad hair cuts, and sometimes even murder--these are all occupational hazards of the rich and famous. We are only human, after all. Not loser not-famous human like you, but celebrity human. My star may fade. I’ll be stuck doing Hollywood Squares and late night infomercials for exercise equipment, but I’ll still be more famous than your sorry, unfamous ass. You have absolutely no idea what it’s like for us people in show business.
A man goes to the doctor for a terrible rash on his arm. The doctor asks him what he does for a living. He tells the doctor that he works at the circus. He shoves suppositories up elephants’ butts. The doctor tells him to get another job and the rash will go away. “What, and give up show business?”
I don’t like to drop names but I know Kevin Spacey’s personal assistant’s ex-dog walker. Yes, there is quite a view from up here but I promise that I won’t let the stardom that I now enjoy change me in any way. I won’t forget where I came from and all of the people who have helped me to get where I am now. Life is so different for me, I won’t kid you. No more waiting in those humiliating lines at popular night clubs. I always get the table up front by the window in the best restaurants in town. If I were still a lowly dirt bag like you, it would be hard for me not to be jealous of me.
It’s not like my fame doesn’t come at a price. I just wish that I could go out and have dinner with friends like a normal person without being interrupted constantly by fans. I always try to be polite to people but knowing Kevin Spacey’s personal assistant’s ex-dog walker isn’t always a bowl of cherries. Dark sunglasses are a pretty effective disguise. I wear them all the time—even when I’m sleeping.
This is going to be difficult for you but I just don’t think we can hang out anymore. I need to be around other famous superstars. They are the only people who are capable of understanding what it is like to be me. I mean, Mick’s musical career has slipped a little, but he used to be pretty huge, so he knows what it is like for an A-list celebrity like me. Maybe Johnny Depp just likes to bask in the glow of stardom that surrounds me, but he’s not a bad guy, and he always picks up the check.
How is my sex life these days? Call me spoiled but I won’t even look twice at super models. Guys like me only date super-duper models. Let me just say that those letters to Penthouse Forum now seem like harmless bedtime stories for the kids compared to what life is like for a guy who knows Kevin Spacey’s personal assistant’s ex-dog walker. I try not to let my insecurities bother me because I know all famous people wonder at times if the woman lying beside them loves them for who they really are. Lying beside me now are Siamese twins, a transvestite midget nun, an entire women’s softball team (fast pitch), Mrs. Howell from Gilligan’s Island, a blow-up doll that looks like Oprah, and an Amish hooker. I’ll be honest with you; I’m too damn tired right now to care if they love me for who I am or if they just want to be with a guy who knows Kevin Spacey’s personal assistant’s ex-dog walker.
It may all come crashing down on me some day; I won’t be the first celebrity to take a bad fall. Substance abuse, divorce, paternity suits, plastic surgery, drunk driving, eating disorders, weight gain, bad hair cuts, and sometimes even murder--these are all occupational hazards of the rich and famous. We are only human, after all. Not loser not-famous human like you, but celebrity human. My star may fade. I’ll be stuck doing Hollywood Squares and late night infomercials for exercise equipment, but I’ll still be more famous than your sorry, unfamous ass. You have absolutely no idea what it’s like for us people in show business.
Sunday, August 08, 2004
Road Trip
ROAD TRIP
There is a wonderful sense of freedom when you have a few days off, a tank of gas, a debit card, and a bicycle on the back of your car. Living in Washington State is as good a place as anywhere I have ever lived when it comes to short road trips. I had extremely vague plans made on extremely short notice. I was only planning on going out for the day. Ten minutes before I was to leave, the person I was supposed to ride with canceled. I decided to at least stay over night somewhere. I grabbed a tooth brush. I’m a terrifically light traveler.
This was the third consecutive week that I have left town to do some serious mountain road riding. I’m still in my Tour de France frenzy so the more hills that I can ride the better. Last week we rode up the 18 miles to the highest point you can reach on Mount Rainier on a bicycle. For this trip I had seen a road the map a little north of Seattle that I wanted to check out. A little black line on a map was about all of the planning I had put into this trip.
I got a cup of coffee and headed north on I-5. The radio in my car is on the fritz so it was just the road, coffee, and me. I used the blank space of driving to work on my funny foreign accents. If someone had a recording of me singing songs in a heavy Arabic accent I would pay a lot of money to buy it back and destroy it. An idle mind can be pretty frightening at times.
I turned off I-5 at Marysville and headed east towards the Cascade Mountains. I liked what I saw on the map. Small towns with names like Granite Falls and Verlot were surrounded by five, six, and seven thousand feet peaks. This part of the State is dominated by the mountains and small communities that make their living from logging and playing host to travelers. I drive pretty slowly through beautiful country like this so try not to get stuck behind me.
State road #92 goes to Granite Falls, after that the road doesn’t have a number. They call it the Mountain Loop Highway. There were signs saying that the Mountain Loop was out up ahead. I thought it was worth it to check it out anyway, for future reference if nothing else. I pulled in at a ranger station.
The Mountain Loop was washed-out in three places before it got to Darrington from this side. They had pictures of the wash-outs; there was no way to make it through in a vehicle—even if I had a Hummer. I did think that I could ford the wash-out on foot carrying my bike. The park ranger told me that the Mountain Loop Highway included 14 miles of gravel. I had my racing bike with me so that was pretty much out of the question. This route had too much road for it to be much fun on my mountain bike. I had flirted with the idea of buying a Bianchi cycle-cross bike that would have filled this void in my bicycle collection nicely.
I abandoned this idea and drove around the other way, taking highway 530 to Darrington. As I drove into Darrington the clouds were lifting to expose Whitehorse Mountain that dominates that town. It was already about 1:30 in the afternoon. If I couldn’t ride here my other option was to cross over the mountains through North Cascades National Park, find a place to stay in Winthrop, and then do some riding. The motel in Darrington looked decent. Staying there would certainly be the easiest option so I ditched what little I brought in the room and started riding.
Because the road is closed there was almost no traffic on this end of the loop. The highway follows the Sauk River and rises slowly enough that I didn’t know I was even ascending. I soon got over my disappointment that I wasn’t getting my ass kicked humping up some cruelly steep mountain pass. Fooled by the false flat, I couldn’t understand how I was having such a hard time keeping my speed up to an acceptable level. What would Lance think if he saw me plugging along like grandma?
I can’t tell you what a luxury it is not to have to dodge cars on a ride like this. I didn’t have a single person pass me until two sheriff vehicles came along side of me. One stopped immediately in front of me while the other boxed me in on my left. I rode right around the stopped car and rode on. Who knows what they were up to? I had expected them to question me on matters relating to Homeland Security or something. I guess they had bigger fish to fry. I hope to fuck they have bigger fish to fry than a recreational cyclist.
It was getting pretty warm as the clouds evaporated and the sun came out in force. I was standing up on the pedals hammering for all I was worth for a lot of the ride—both up and back. I checked out a nice pool in the river on the way up so on the way down I dismounted and disrobed and plunged into the icy stream. It was a beautiful calm pool about chest deep and clear as glass. If you have never spent a day riding hard up a road and then taken a swim in a mountain river, then you are letting one of the best things in life pass you right by.
On the flip side of this, let me tell you about one experience you should definitely pass you by. The next day I drove up to North Cascades National Park to ride. I only got about an hour and a half into it when it started to rain. I could tell it was going to get a lot worse so I turned around and headed back. By the time I got to the steepest descent it was raining pretty good which means that I had to grind up a tough mountain pass without getting the satisfaction of ripping down the descent. On top of this I got stuck at a construction spot on the road that held up traffic for 20 minutes. It was pretty cold and all I was wearing was a lycra jersey. This whole thing wasn’t really my fault because the weather report called for rain.
I stayed in a hotel in Darrington. Darrington has two bars on the same street. I had a beer in the Red Top Tavern on one night and the following night I had a beer across the street at the Triple B’s Elk Horn Restaurant and Saloon. There was a Mariners’ game on both nights. The only clothes I brought were a pair of shorts and a Mariners’ T-shirt so I had street cred in any bar in Washington and Oregon. I have a Mariners sticker on my laptop so when I pulled it out to do some work, instead of stares I got compliments.
There is a wonderful sense of freedom when you have a few days off, a tank of gas, a debit card, and a bicycle on the back of your car. Living in Washington State is as good a place as anywhere I have ever lived when it comes to short road trips. I had extremely vague plans made on extremely short notice. I was only planning on going out for the day. Ten minutes before I was to leave, the person I was supposed to ride with canceled. I decided to at least stay over night somewhere. I grabbed a tooth brush. I’m a terrifically light traveler.
This was the third consecutive week that I have left town to do some serious mountain road riding. I’m still in my Tour de France frenzy so the more hills that I can ride the better. Last week we rode up the 18 miles to the highest point you can reach on Mount Rainier on a bicycle. For this trip I had seen a road the map a little north of Seattle that I wanted to check out. A little black line on a map was about all of the planning I had put into this trip.
I got a cup of coffee and headed north on I-5. The radio in my car is on the fritz so it was just the road, coffee, and me. I used the blank space of driving to work on my funny foreign accents. If someone had a recording of me singing songs in a heavy Arabic accent I would pay a lot of money to buy it back and destroy it. An idle mind can be pretty frightening at times.
I turned off I-5 at Marysville and headed east towards the Cascade Mountains. I liked what I saw on the map. Small towns with names like Granite Falls and Verlot were surrounded by five, six, and seven thousand feet peaks. This part of the State is dominated by the mountains and small communities that make their living from logging and playing host to travelers. I drive pretty slowly through beautiful country like this so try not to get stuck behind me.
State road #92 goes to Granite Falls, after that the road doesn’t have a number. They call it the Mountain Loop Highway. There were signs saying that the Mountain Loop was out up ahead. I thought it was worth it to check it out anyway, for future reference if nothing else. I pulled in at a ranger station.
The Mountain Loop was washed-out in three places before it got to Darrington from this side. They had pictures of the wash-outs; there was no way to make it through in a vehicle—even if I had a Hummer. I did think that I could ford the wash-out on foot carrying my bike. The park ranger told me that the Mountain Loop Highway included 14 miles of gravel. I had my racing bike with me so that was pretty much out of the question. This route had too much road for it to be much fun on my mountain bike. I had flirted with the idea of buying a Bianchi cycle-cross bike that would have filled this void in my bicycle collection nicely.
I abandoned this idea and drove around the other way, taking highway 530 to Darrington. As I drove into Darrington the clouds were lifting to expose Whitehorse Mountain that dominates that town. It was already about 1:30 in the afternoon. If I couldn’t ride here my other option was to cross over the mountains through North Cascades National Park, find a place to stay in Winthrop, and then do some riding. The motel in Darrington looked decent. Staying there would certainly be the easiest option so I ditched what little I brought in the room and started riding.
Because the road is closed there was almost no traffic on this end of the loop. The highway follows the Sauk River and rises slowly enough that I didn’t know I was even ascending. I soon got over my disappointment that I wasn’t getting my ass kicked humping up some cruelly steep mountain pass. Fooled by the false flat, I couldn’t understand how I was having such a hard time keeping my speed up to an acceptable level. What would Lance think if he saw me plugging along like grandma?
I can’t tell you what a luxury it is not to have to dodge cars on a ride like this. I didn’t have a single person pass me until two sheriff vehicles came along side of me. One stopped immediately in front of me while the other boxed me in on my left. I rode right around the stopped car and rode on. Who knows what they were up to? I had expected them to question me on matters relating to Homeland Security or something. I guess they had bigger fish to fry. I hope to fuck they have bigger fish to fry than a recreational cyclist.
It was getting pretty warm as the clouds evaporated and the sun came out in force. I was standing up on the pedals hammering for all I was worth for a lot of the ride—both up and back. I checked out a nice pool in the river on the way up so on the way down I dismounted and disrobed and plunged into the icy stream. It was a beautiful calm pool about chest deep and clear as glass. If you have never spent a day riding hard up a road and then taken a swim in a mountain river, then you are letting one of the best things in life pass you right by.
On the flip side of this, let me tell you about one experience you should definitely pass you by. The next day I drove up to North Cascades National Park to ride. I only got about an hour and a half into it when it started to rain. I could tell it was going to get a lot worse so I turned around and headed back. By the time I got to the steepest descent it was raining pretty good which means that I had to grind up a tough mountain pass without getting the satisfaction of ripping down the descent. On top of this I got stuck at a construction spot on the road that held up traffic for 20 minutes. It was pretty cold and all I was wearing was a lycra jersey. This whole thing wasn’t really my fault because the weather report called for rain.
I stayed in a hotel in Darrington. Darrington has two bars on the same street. I had a beer in the Red Top Tavern on one night and the following night I had a beer across the street at the Triple B’s Elk Horn Restaurant and Saloon. There was a Mariners’ game on both nights. The only clothes I brought were a pair of shorts and a Mariners’ T-shirt so I had street cred in any bar in Washington and Oregon. I have a Mariners sticker on my laptop so when I pulled it out to do some work, instead of stares I got compliments.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Zen and the Art
ZEN AND THE ART OF TAKING IT TO THE SHOP AND LEAVING IT THERE FOR A WEEK AND A HALF.
OR
ZEN AND THE ART OF JUST RIDING IT UNTIL IT BLOWS UP AND THEN BUYING A NEW ONE
Maintenance, of motorcycles or any other thing, isn’t exactly my strong suit. Much like I turn a blind eye to kitchen untidiness, I also ignore (or try to ignore) the less-than-state-of-the-art level of tuning on my three bicycles. All three of them work, but they have a few quirks. That isn’t being completely honest with you. Replace “a few quirks” with “potentially life-threatening flaws” and you are closer to where my bicycles stand in the maintenance department.
I can’t really get around to repairing them all now because the window to the Seattle bicycle season is open. I have to climb through it and fall two floors to the street to get in as much riding as I can before the monsoon season begins in October. I’m more of a bike rider than a bike geek. You can be both a rider and a geek. Being a geek requires a little too much curiosity about any given subject than I seem to be able to muster. I do have a lot of curiosity about one subject, but in that endeavor they don’t say geek, they say pervert.
I suppose that it wouldn’t kill me to spend a few hours a week making sure all of my bikes were in top working order, but that might cut into the time that I sit on my butt daydreaming about helping the Incas kill off Pizarro and the Spanish conquistadors. Bike maintenance might interfere with the time I sit at my piano thinking that, although I can’t play piano worth a shit, I could probably kick Chopin’s skinny little tuberculosis-ridden ass. You could put Mozart and Franz Schubert into the ring along with Chopin and I’d walk away after the first round without breaking a sweat. So like I said; I’m too busy to do my own bicycle maintenance.
Just like Robert Pirsig can find Zen in monkeying around with motorcycles, I can find Zen in being a lazy slob. I think there is definitely a Zen-like devotion that I attach to staring off into space for hours and hours each day. Daydreaming is like watching TV but without the TV. I rarely ask people, “Did you see that show on TV last night?” I do ask people dumb shit like, “If the Incas had kicked Pizarro’s ass at Cajamarca, how long do you think their empire would have endured?”
Just using the word ‘Zen’ in the title of a book has to be worth about 100,000 units in sales in our purpose-starved culture. If you want to call your geeky devotion to whatever it is you do ‘Zen’ then go right ahead. Two can play that game. Or, come to think about it, you can go play it by yourself. If you want to say that you want to be a Zen master at golf, that’s your business. I will just put myself into what you would call a Zen-like trance. I call it a nap.
OR
ZEN AND THE ART OF JUST RIDING IT UNTIL IT BLOWS UP AND THEN BUYING A NEW ONE
Maintenance, of motorcycles or any other thing, isn’t exactly my strong suit. Much like I turn a blind eye to kitchen untidiness, I also ignore (or try to ignore) the less-than-state-of-the-art level of tuning on my three bicycles. All three of them work, but they have a few quirks. That isn’t being completely honest with you. Replace “a few quirks” with “potentially life-threatening flaws” and you are closer to where my bicycles stand in the maintenance department.
I can’t really get around to repairing them all now because the window to the Seattle bicycle season is open. I have to climb through it and fall two floors to the street to get in as much riding as I can before the monsoon season begins in October. I’m more of a bike rider than a bike geek. You can be both a rider and a geek. Being a geek requires a little too much curiosity about any given subject than I seem to be able to muster. I do have a lot of curiosity about one subject, but in that endeavor they don’t say geek, they say pervert.
I suppose that it wouldn’t kill me to spend a few hours a week making sure all of my bikes were in top working order, but that might cut into the time that I sit on my butt daydreaming about helping the Incas kill off Pizarro and the Spanish conquistadors. Bike maintenance might interfere with the time I sit at my piano thinking that, although I can’t play piano worth a shit, I could probably kick Chopin’s skinny little tuberculosis-ridden ass. You could put Mozart and Franz Schubert into the ring along with Chopin and I’d walk away after the first round without breaking a sweat. So like I said; I’m too busy to do my own bicycle maintenance.
Just like Robert Pirsig can find Zen in monkeying around with motorcycles, I can find Zen in being a lazy slob. I think there is definitely a Zen-like devotion that I attach to staring off into space for hours and hours each day. Daydreaming is like watching TV but without the TV. I rarely ask people, “Did you see that show on TV last night?” I do ask people dumb shit like, “If the Incas had kicked Pizarro’s ass at Cajamarca, how long do you think their empire would have endured?”
Just using the word ‘Zen’ in the title of a book has to be worth about 100,000 units in sales in our purpose-starved culture. If you want to call your geeky devotion to whatever it is you do ‘Zen’ then go right ahead. Two can play that game. Or, come to think about it, you can go play it by yourself. If you want to say that you want to be a Zen master at golf, that’s your business. I will just put myself into what you would call a Zen-like trance. I call it a nap.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Household Hints
In this stressed-out, over-booked, over-worked, under-paid, short-handed, terrorist-infested world in which we live, we could all use a little help around the house. I have a few secrets of my own that I would like to share with you today that I’m sure will save you money and may very well save your life.
Nobody likes a dirty kitchen, although, from the looks of mine, I think it is fairly safe to say that I don’t like a dirty kitchen less than the average person doesn’t like a dirty kitchen. In fact, I have come to a sort of truce--a peaceful coexistence, if you will--with the forces that are responsible for kitchen dirty-ness. I wouldn’t want any daughter of mine to marry one of their kind, but we are able to live together in the same, small, inner-city apartment. A dirty kitchen seems to me like a really awful house guest, and I just don’t have the heart to ask him to leave.
This isn’t to say that I have completely given up on kitchen cleanliness. A week ago I cooked a big Mexican meal. I used every pot and pan in my very ample store of kitchen stuff. On top of that I cooked with a bunch of other objects around the house that are probably only meant to be ornamental. The next day the devastation was so thorough that police investigators theorized that someone had set off a C4 explosive charge wrapped with tamales.
It took some doing but I cleaned up the mess that the Mexican terrorists had inflicted on my kitchen. Then I got an idea. I thought to myself that maybe I shouldn’t invite the Mexican in me to come over and cook a huge meal. The next time the French chef impersonating me comes to the door with a bag of groceries, I'll pretend that I'm not home. Having a multiple personality disorder is really only a problem if you let one of them cook. Unfortunately, none of my multiple personalities is the obsessive-compulsive cleaning type.
Here is my amazing discovery: If you don’t cook then your kitchen doesn’t get fucked up. Inside my refrigerator I now only have a Britta water filter and half a bottle of Ketel One vodka. I don’t even have any mixer for the vodka that I could spill on the floor. Drunk and hungry isn’t the worst way to go through life. If you want to get rid of an unwanted house guest, just empty out the fridge (and hide the vodka).
Nobody likes a dirty kitchen, although, from the looks of mine, I think it is fairly safe to say that I don’t like a dirty kitchen less than the average person doesn’t like a dirty kitchen. In fact, I have come to a sort of truce--a peaceful coexistence, if you will--with the forces that are responsible for kitchen dirty-ness. I wouldn’t want any daughter of mine to marry one of their kind, but we are able to live together in the same, small, inner-city apartment. A dirty kitchen seems to me like a really awful house guest, and I just don’t have the heart to ask him to leave.
This isn’t to say that I have completely given up on kitchen cleanliness. A week ago I cooked a big Mexican meal. I used every pot and pan in my very ample store of kitchen stuff. On top of that I cooked with a bunch of other objects around the house that are probably only meant to be ornamental. The next day the devastation was so thorough that police investigators theorized that someone had set off a C4 explosive charge wrapped with tamales.
It took some doing but I cleaned up the mess that the Mexican terrorists had inflicted on my kitchen. Then I got an idea. I thought to myself that maybe I shouldn’t invite the Mexican in me to come over and cook a huge meal. The next time the French chef impersonating me comes to the door with a bag of groceries, I'll pretend that I'm not home. Having a multiple personality disorder is really only a problem if you let one of them cook. Unfortunately, none of my multiple personalities is the obsessive-compulsive cleaning type.
Here is my amazing discovery: If you don’t cook then your kitchen doesn’t get fucked up. Inside my refrigerator I now only have a Britta water filter and half a bottle of Ketel One vodka. I don’t even have any mixer for the vodka that I could spill on the floor. Drunk and hungry isn’t the worst way to go through life. If you want to get rid of an unwanted house guest, just empty out the fridge (and hide the vodka).
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