I think there’s a special place in hell, if it exists, for plagiarists, and I hope it involves incessant fountain pens up the ass and spitting-up of indelible black ink that tastes and feels like cheap vodka.
Archive for honesty
I won’t make myself clear enough to them, and that’s why they say their dripping and thipping won’t stop. They’ll never be satisfied as long as they harbor passive disgust for their own creative sterility, flaccidity.
They keep it so cruelly hot in here, in this effective oven, that they won’t come in, the sanctimonious pussies, the aimless who sling shit from afar and, in their hearts of hearts, on petty, irrelevant grounds.
I won’t say what they want me to say in the way they want me to say it, I won’t say what I want to say in the way they want me to say it, and I won’t say what they think I should want to say in the way they want me to say it—in the way they’re conditioned to hear it.
They’ve given me plenty of chances, goaded me relentlessly to abandon integrity, and I won’t; I’ve had plenty of chances to give up what makes me a man, what makes my aesthetic mine, and I will not.
The compassionate writer knows when to say “with all due respect, I don’t respect your opinion, and I suggest you fuck off before you begin to consciously see yourself as an addled fool.”
Dishwasher-bound glasses crashed chinkily. It wasn’t a wine bar—it was a coffee shop, The Drippery. I was sitting alone by the half-octagonal window outside which the city awaited me, or would have awaited me if I were that type of guy or it that type of city. The city was doing, that city of people and their projects. About seven cyclists rode by self-righteously in competitive gear, stopping traffic, prompting HOONs, BEEPS and, of course, as this is The City and its people are so important, bird flippage and a dissonant chorus of fuck-yous interspersed with at least one “this isn’t fuckin’ Westchester!” The hot-dog man brazenly pitched his stand at 9 AM and hid his lower face behind a newspaper as he scouted for incredibly eager business. Business men, like my father, talked their way to work cellularly or otherwise.
Inside the dark-wood-paneled-and-floored, red-brick-faced affair, typists typed—soul-patched guy, eyes crimped behind heavy frames; hemp-hatted, moon-faced co-ed girl versus a daunting cup of plain oatmeal, the latter was clearly winning; guy who resembled the lecturer who made me fall in love with philosophy, the cupid of discourse I might say if I were desperate enough to quip. There was a sexy, exotic-looking mocha-skinned lady behind the counter that day. I’d never seen her. I took a shot.
How to go about this, I wondered? Was it different? No—that’s racist. Just be natural. Just go. Just do. Just man up.
So I went up to the counter and ordered another coffee.
“Hey, I’ll take my regular.” I thought that was funny.
“This is my first day. What are you having?” She said, deadpan.
Ouch! Strike one, or was she playing? I called ball one—I pitched too high (low?) and she didn’t swing.
“I’ll have a medium Costa Rican and a formal introduction, pretty lady.” Nailed it!
“Okay, one Costa Rican coming up and then you should leave.”
I’m not a ten. All things considered I’m probably an eight-and-a-half. They say a confident male seven can bag an unconfident female ten. What does that say about a confident male eight-and-a-half and a confident female nine-and-a-half? Any case, I was undeterred and, frankly, falling in love with every further bit of data I gathered about this precious beauty—every bit of evidence suggesting towering self-respect and –esteem; restraint and skepticism in matters of love; oh-so-endearing and oh-so-deadpan coyness; and, of course, the sight of her made me gaga.
“You’re right—I have to go to work. But I’ll be gentlemanly calling again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that and so on. You’re a gem, lady, and now that I’ve discovered you I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to coax you out of your native mine. Have yourself a good first day.”
She overfilled my coffee cup. Nailed it!
I had oh boy did I wholly and utterly and sensually have that sweet, melt-in-your-mouth white chocolate and oh did it so wholly hit every spot I needed and wanted it to hit at that time! Oh, boy, did it make my heart knock at my sternum! But my tastes have changed: now I don’t need anything, and I want something less processed, something not quite as sweet, something that doesn’t melt too quickly. If it melts in your mouth and it’s sweet, it’s too easy to eat and will make you fat, soft, lethargic. Otherwise, you’re forced to find the goodness, derive, discern the goodness from a natural mess of true impressions. You’ll naturally come to appreciate even bitterness and rigidity—your sensation of bitterness will give way to richness, depth, complexity; your sense of crunchiness should need no transformation. Instead of calling it bitter, the refined palate calls it chocolaty, and instead of calling it rigid or hard, the refined palate calls it al dente all’inizio, nutriente e dopo. Just authentically chocolaty—no positive or negative connotation there, and so it is with people. No name is inherently positive or negative in connotation; no person is inherently positive or negative. The best you can be is honest in action at every possible moment, and the best chocolate is 85+% chocolaty.