We are living in the megaphone era. Every minute activity must be broadcast in all forms of media and in rapid, real time. The assumption being that anyone cares. To be fair some people do care, but most just get mildly pissed off when they absent-mindedly scroll across the fact that you found a Jamba Juice in your neighborhood.
One of the more ubiquitous forms of broadcasting ourselves is the food porn photo. In an earlier post I was critical of the celebrity showcase of homes and this is our version of it. “Hey, look what I’m eating, it’s probably better than what you’re eating.” I hate to say I’ve done it, but it is a mild regret and not a major shame.
The food photo is probably a shot of sushi 80% of the time, it’s artistic, has great color and texture, it’s also expensive so it’s got a flaunt factor. You seldom see a photo of people at a buffet loading up on stuffing and spare ribs, but that might tell a more accurate story.
Getting a house in order can be dangerous work. I’m not talking about blending families, or pouring a foundation on a self-built dream house. I’m talking about the simple shit, folding clothes, scrubbing tubs, putting up the dishes. You can get hurt. Or more accurately, I can get hurt.
I have a small place and I’ve watched enough DIY shit to know that if you go with a theme you can tie a small space together nicely. My theme is bland short-term stay Best Western, with a twist of urban rage. I have a sofa that was gifted to me and was nicer than I deserved at the time, but it was showing some wear and tear, or giving my girlfriend an allergic reaction, I forget which. Instead of renting the Stanley Steamer and cleaning it or buying something new, I went with a slip cover.
The problem occurred right away. Sit on couch, cover pulls away, like ill-fitting sheets or sweatpants. It drove me crazy. I liked the way the cover brightened the room, and thought it was a cheap make-over until the cover followed me to the kitchen as I got up, like a wedgie from Bed Bath and Beyond. I was pissed.
In a fit of rage, as my girlfriend and I were heading out to enjoy Labor Day at the beach, I started stuffing the elastic waistband of the cover back into the couch. As I pushed and tucked I hit something like the spine of the couch, pulled my hand out and my finger looked broken at the first knuckle, or like I was hanging from a ledge by my fuck you finger. We re-routed from the beach to an urgent-care clinic. No hot-dog and beer for my labor day, well I had beer later, but you know what I’m saying.
Seven days later I am trying to leave the house in a rush, and trying to make my bed in haste, I don’t remove the pillows and jam my other hand against a taught comforter and do the same thing to a finger on the other hand. Fuck, right? I call my girl who thinks I’m joking and head to the same urgent-care.
I tore the mallet tendon on my right middle and left ring fingers a week apart. Trying to exlpain to people what I did to myself was more painful than the injuries, why do annoying people ask you the questions you don’t want to answer? To those of you who thought it was a cycling accident, now you know (Yo, Slick, blow). Stop asking me fucking questions and be careful out there.
Oh, and a quick safety tip, use a wood spoon to tuck in the slip cover, or buy a better one.
Comedy Club Cuisine is a term that doesn’t exist for a reason. There is barely an edible choice on any menu, in any club in the country. Actually, that’s not fair, much of it is edible, it’s often not good for you. It’s hard to stay on a diet on the road. My friend Michael Kosta and I were doing a gig in Missouri and took matters into our own hands and the result was not much better.
