Don't Friend Request Strangers

Corey Sleazemore found me on the facebook. I think he sent blanket invites to all who are friends with Blow Up. His personal information is just a long list of mp3 remix hypemachine bands. I feel like the genre is validated by the Missy and Joy Division mashup "Love Will Freak Us" but is still mostly a vehicle for young people to gain a sense of exclusivity.

I did not accept or deny the friend request.

James Joyce's Araby is not something I read closely, but I got the jist of it. I am telling Bren Sutter in a car about all of these supposed feelings I've been having, labored interpretations of post-sexual affection, not even in my own words but in a second rate Elephant Six song. She claims to get it, beetroot faced flattery, and I feel love for love.

I never so much as touched her. I was not interested in knowing her even. I was just pushing for triumph and esteem. I get sick thinking about it, my transcription of fulfillment onto a vessel completely unprepared and unable to provide it, but I guess I'm not the only person to be so stupid.

Hence, Araby.

Now I would like to tell you if you would let me about the chai I drank today. There are shit tons of Indian buffets in the city, some virtuous, some perilous. The one I tried today was at the end of the N line, and also serves Pizza. I assumed it was only able to survive because of the beach blanket Babylonians, but apparently the pizza is good enough that yelpers travel for it.

Most of the helpings were unremarkable. The Tikka had that vague starchy aftertaste like the secret ingredient is a KRAFT mac n' cheese packet, which would also explain how a drop of the shit was able to permanently stain my shoelace. One of the curries had hard boiled eggs in it, and it was unclear when the trays were last empty. I would not have any desire to ever return to this place again, were it not for the chai being so fan fucking tastic.

It's as though they commissioned the same people who make the flavor compounds that revive frozen McDonald's food and told them to work on the perfect clovesauce. Carefully measured drips of the stuff from an eyedropper are placed into a cauldron of angel milk, which is then heated and cooled six times for no fucking reason. After this stage, the black tea is added and the resulting compound is placed inside a chamber of supreme containment and thermal retention, or a thermos.

Then I drink it, and I can only think to text message friends and family about the miracle liquid. And I do, the only person in the goddamn restaurant.

Last night I saw Ramon Sender (he was the guy I posted the youtube video on here of with the breathing exercises) and his amazing hat. He was part of a panel discussion at the library about the San Francisco Tape Music Center. The songs they played as part of the demonstration could have been totally off the wall ballsy crazy if it were 1963 and I had never heard of Pierre Henry or John Cage or music with the electrons now, but it is not 1963, and most of the stuff sounded righteous in it's own distortion and disregard for song structure.

Cryptic people are no genius, but they did bring toys, including a synthesizer that had a panel of red lights on the front and looked at least as interactive as a vending machine. It was an hour before the event was to begin, and the old beardos were trying to align their looping tapes, I stood in the corner and tried learning stoic.

Online dating websites are weird, and fairly uncharted cultural territory when it comes to the kind of idle class analysis those raised on Ira Glass demand of life. I think I am prone to mini-Arabys on the Internet, except I'm older now and have a kind of resigned, cynical, adult sexuality that doesn't allow me to dream.

I have ten more minutes on this library computer. I like my young body but I wish I wasn't such an old soul. I wish I wasn't alone typing articulations of mistakes I made when I was seventeen and thinking about the next smoke, shit, and sit down. I'll be a friend to get a friend, if I have to. Do whatever it takes to retain people I know in the pocket, so I can't see that I'm falling.

X's and O's would be nice but I honestly don't jones for it anymore. It's like cocaine in that I'm sure if I had some, just remembered how good it felt, I'd do what it takes to get a hold of it, but it's gone from my system entirely. Smoke, shit, sit down.

I think I was a lover. I certainly think the bride is beautiful in that video.