9/26/2004
Baked Pork Chops With Apples
Oven baked pork chops with apples and brown sugar and onions, new potatoes and avocado salad.
9/25/2004
The Laundry Room
I get so mad. Turn down my music? At 1:00 in the afternoon? I need to know these things. I am moving to Queens. I have things that need to get done before that happens, like get approved for the lease. And I need the rent receipts, but he acts like I am not there, going about the business of ignoring someone. He has them.
I can't wait to get away from it, because I am the same way as him, and at the moment that means an asshole. So I walk out of my room into him coming towards my room, startled I am. He mumbles, I can't make out what he says. I assume he means turn down the music because he has the air of the pissed. I see it and quickly turn around and turn the volume down, too much coffee, my movements are jerky and quick. But then can I ask him one fucking simple question? Where are the rent receipts? No! He had turned around and gone back to his little shit hole. I am so fucking mad. I am making a fist.
I have a week left in the lease, but by gladly ceding control in the beginning, I have no recourse. He sends in the rent checks in, he got the apartment in the first place. My checks just sit on the sill, ignored, then bounce when weeks later they get deposited. I have no money.
I was dancing two minutes ago, with the music up, folding the first batch of laundry as batch two and three dry. I think of new moves for the video, staring me as the star wars kid twitching and flinging a pole. Watching the laundry room on the Television. Channel 98 is a direct feed from the basement. The content: people washing and drying clothes.
What is he doing? He hasn't even looked for a place. He is sleeping! How is he going to pay the full rent? The lease is up in a week. He just plods on. There goes the security deposit! Fuck him. I got to finish the laundry.
I make a point of snapping the jeans when folding them. Snap! Fold, fold, snap! Fuck him. The dinginess of my clothes. The slow seep to gray they all seem to fall into. I think about the unscrupulous characters in magazines and books. Their clothing is always drab and dingy. A description of a supporting character whose death is not the point.
Am I unscrupulous? Would my description be one that characterized the dirty, the greedy, the poor, the unsophisticated. In a Vanity Fair article about the murder of some dim-witted yet glamorous millionaire's daughter, would my description illicit sympathy or disgust or just a simple "Blah" as most people who have not "made it" based on the qualifications devised by the Vanity Fair staff?
"The somewhat baggy cotton trousers blended, not with the accompanying shirt, but with the crowd surrounding it." Or "The coworker of the suspect was unshaven, in a dingy t-shirt and swim trunks. He stuttered when describing the elegance of the victim's car."
Or maybe better it would be in a Sherlock Holmes story, where one's character is never hidden to the rather racist, exacting detective. Where Victorian standards define good breeding. My character would be summed up through deductive reasoning, in a description of the hole in my sock. "The hole, above the right heel, showed the witness favoured the right leg, tight shoes, and had a lack of caring with regards to appearance common to the lower classes."
I make two piles of t-shirts, still white and then brown egg white. The brown egg pile is repulsive, on most of them are my Dad's handwritten tag saying "JEPB 95". I was 28 then. He bought them for me after Mom was sick, I think as a gesture that said, "There will always be someone to buy you t-shirts."
My Mother had bought all what I will call essentials up until a ridiculous age for both of us. She would bestow them on me with my quarterly trips back to D.C., until she became ill. I gladly ceded early and now have no recourse. Looking at the pile now I can't throw them away unless there is some horrible sign indicating masturbation or fungus. Bleach is not the cure to either.
Now I am no longer angry as I go down to the basement for batch 2 and 3.
I can't wait to get away from it, because I am the same way as him, and at the moment that means an asshole. So I walk out of my room into him coming towards my room, startled I am. He mumbles, I can't make out what he says. I assume he means turn down the music because he has the air of the pissed. I see it and quickly turn around and turn the volume down, too much coffee, my movements are jerky and quick. But then can I ask him one fucking simple question? Where are the rent receipts? No! He had turned around and gone back to his little shit hole. I am so fucking mad. I am making a fist.
I have a week left in the lease, but by gladly ceding control in the beginning, I have no recourse. He sends in the rent checks in, he got the apartment in the first place. My checks just sit on the sill, ignored, then bounce when weeks later they get deposited. I have no money.
I was dancing two minutes ago, with the music up, folding the first batch of laundry as batch two and three dry. I think of new moves for the video, staring me as the star wars kid twitching and flinging a pole. Watching the laundry room on the Television. Channel 98 is a direct feed from the basement. The content: people washing and drying clothes.
What is he doing? He hasn't even looked for a place. He is sleeping! How is he going to pay the full rent? The lease is up in a week. He just plods on. There goes the security deposit! Fuck him. I got to finish the laundry.
I make a point of snapping the jeans when folding them. Snap! Fold, fold, snap! Fuck him. The dinginess of my clothes. The slow seep to gray they all seem to fall into. I think about the unscrupulous characters in magazines and books. Their clothing is always drab and dingy. A description of a supporting character whose death is not the point.
Am I unscrupulous? Would my description be one that characterized the dirty, the greedy, the poor, the unsophisticated. In a Vanity Fair article about the murder of some dim-witted yet glamorous millionaire's daughter, would my description illicit sympathy or disgust or just a simple "Blah" as most people who have not "made it" based on the qualifications devised by the Vanity Fair staff?
"The somewhat baggy cotton trousers blended, not with the accompanying shirt, but with the crowd surrounding it." Or "The coworker of the suspect was unshaven, in a dingy t-shirt and swim trunks. He stuttered when describing the elegance of the victim's car."
Or maybe better it would be in a Sherlock Holmes story, where one's character is never hidden to the rather racist, exacting detective. Where Victorian standards define good breeding. My character would be summed up through deductive reasoning, in a description of the hole in my sock. "The hole, above the right heel, showed the witness favoured the right leg, tight shoes, and had a lack of caring with regards to appearance common to the lower classes."
I make two piles of t-shirts, still white and then brown egg white. The brown egg pile is repulsive, on most of them are my Dad's handwritten tag saying "JEPB 95". I was 28 then. He bought them for me after Mom was sick, I think as a gesture that said, "There will always be someone to buy you t-shirts."
My Mother had bought all what I will call essentials up until a ridiculous age for both of us. She would bestow them on me with my quarterly trips back to D.C., until she became ill. I gladly ceded early and now have no recourse. Looking at the pile now I can't throw them away unless there is some horrible sign indicating masturbation or fungus. Bleach is not the cure to either.
Now I am no longer angry as I go down to the basement for batch 2 and 3.
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