Review: Small Business

I am a small business owner. It is a for-profit affair with a non-profit attitude.* Needless to say, it's worth less than the paper it's written on.

*I figured what's good for the hookers is good for business.

Review: The Green Dragon

I was just thinking--which always leads to trouble. The thought, in retrospect, is inconsequential, except with regards to the trouble which now consumes my meals for me. I don't even know what it was anymore, other than my starvation, which it could not possibly have been, but rather hypothesized. I think--and will therefore be shortly starving,  so as to fully come into my being, so they tell me. My troubles talk too much. This too is one of my troubles, and a bit of a transcendent one at that. 

The point, if this dull wit of mine could ever be sharpened to meet that end, is that my greatest meals have been thoughtless enterprises--so blissful as to render me completely ignorant of the world. Consequently, however, these meals cannot be contained in the meager capacities of memory. When asked about my fondest memories, (unfortunately, nobody seems to give a damn about my fondest mammaries), I must respond inconclusively. My fondest memories tend to also be my haziest memories. The very best experiences are the ones I can't remember at all. There is a certain optimism one gains from this perspective: namely that no matter how life may seem, I can trust, with the utmost faith that there is some overwhelmingly fond experience that, by its very nature, cannot possibly be remembered. 

So, when I say I have no recollection whatsoever of my last visit to The Green Dragon brewpub in Portland, this should compel you immediately to go. 

If I am not so far beside myself that I can give a sober and accurate account of the events of any given experience, you can bet your ass it couldn't have been nearly as good as some of those other experiences, which are so vague in my memory that the line between recollection and confabulation is crossed more often than something clever, which I can't think of right now, that might be funny. 

When I came to the The Green Dragon, I was eight years old, fully bearded, and in the company of a surprising unexpectedness, which was contained in the satchel under my arm. The crowd was wild, but I was rabid. I ate my satchel and was, perhaps predictably, surprised by what entered my stomach later that evening as a consequence. Nevertheless, I ordered their absinthe. 

When I came to, The Green Dragon was eight years old. 

Review: Icey Streets

When it is time to remove a man's shoe, it is time to ask the question "why?", although this is not necessarily true in the reverse--except in a mosque, where there is no need for this question, but a very great need for the bare, perhaps embarrassed, foot, unfettered of the unbearable shoe. 

I may be a charlatan and a swindler, a liar, a cheat and a thief, but I am still a gentleman. And being  as I am and, independent of this being, absent of any mosque, I maintain the question "why?". Though I'm sure you've deduced by now that I'm among some great crowd of barefooted people, undoubtedly by myself--in some awkward pair of boots, you are mistaken, as so many of the metaphorically illiterate are. If you think, on the other hand, that this is some sort of metaphor,  you should kill yourself for letting me lead you on. Perhaps then, you might say to yourself, this is just a bit of self-indulgent nonsense that passes itself off as meaningful prose. Here, too, you are mistaken. It is a simple fact that I am a gentleman and that I maintain the question "why." There is nothing more to it, other than your shame. 

Shame is what grips the barefooted person, especially when caught unprepared for the kinds of realities that demand a shoe. This is why I like the ice. Though I feel  betrayed by the very  pavement that I've pounded with the certainty and eroticism that perhaps crosses a line, I will always love the ice for keeping those damnable hippies off the street and out of my bedroom. 

Though I may slip, slide, fall, lose my balance, or be maimed by a collection of improperly labeled knives, I adore the ice for being so much like me. On the one hand it is cold, hard, and callous, on the other, ephemeral and frail: wholly dependent on its environment for its character. On yet another hand, its ability to gain control over thousands of pounds of car and to bring this to a crashing halt is something I must admire. On the last hand, I cannot emphasize enough how much I appreciate its effect on those damnable hippies.

 

Review: Merrel Traveler

A shoe, like a woman, must be able to endure the pains of childbirth, the wetness of rain, and the impatient protestations of the little goldsmith whose lifelong effort towards repairing the intricate layers of filigree that comprise my golden carpets is frustrated anew by the constant trampling.

A proper shoe must be well-behaved, and modest. Its greatest feet must be two light and run down dogs of a uniquely satisfied pedestrian. A proper shoe must empower its owner to go where naked nature would not take him (or her, if we allow women to be rugged). A proper shoe must be forged to greatness in the fires of Necessity, Coolness, and Comfort,  where the fate of every great hike or walk has already been determined. A proper shoe does not hesitiate at the mocking puddle, nor does it falter on the cold and callous ice or dancefloor. It must be self-posessed. It must be philosphical. It must demonstrate, to the boundless collection of inferior footwear that surrounds it, that there is no terrain that cannot yet be tread.

Perhaps this is why the Merrel Traveler may aptly be called the pedestrian's Range Rover. Its refined, yet rugged demeanor, composed in the face of adversity, yet sympathetic in the face of a screaming woman's blood-soaked hands, exudes an understated odor of the foot. It is the earth. It is toned, yet silent. It is muscular, yet free of the steroids that pervade its peers and indeed, to an overwhelming degree, the modern shoe in general. 

Review: A Hemorrhoid

It was a cold winter morning; I was Russian; and the street was a cloud of children in their respective delusions. Little did they know, in general. Nor could they hope to pretend to know, for they were children; and children are terrible actors. They were fooling nobody. This is not to say that I was somebody, but let's just say I wasn't being fooled either.

It might have been a sad sight, but I had been work*-hardened; my eyes were waterproof--no less than my pants. My pants, now that I've got you wondering, were made of a stiff military-grade wool which I'd soaked in Scotch Guard for three days. So when I say my pants were waterproof, I think you'll agree: it was an undeniable fact. 

The hemorrhoid, as you can surely tell by now, induces a sort of mindless rambling. As it blocks the passage of shit (bull and otherwise) through the appropriate avenues, it is now forced out through other passages: notably those intended for communication. The expulsion of waste, being of such basic necessity, then supercedes any constructive discussion, until the source of the shit has been exhausted. 

The hemorrhoid may take the form of an alarming amount of blood from various orifices, notably the ass, which may or may not make up the entire person. Alternatively, it may take the form of a disturbing little nub in the butt, the sensation of which resembles a small ass-raping. In either case, it will not be resolved. You may apply a number of creams, but chances are that you will continue expelling shit through your conversations, bleeding from most of your body, and walking around with that disturbing little nub we discussed. This builds character. Eventually you will find that you are also Russian, criticizing the children in the dead of winter.

If you like to kid yourself into thinking that things need not be so, you might try thisstuff. Or, otherwise, one of these.

*My work, I don't mind saying, is of an eroticnature.

Review: 2:34 a.m.

It's 2:33, so I've already got a head start. One thing I have to say is that 2:34 does keep me waiting, which, naturally is a strike against it. On the other hand, now that it's here, I'm not so sure I want it anymore. Yes, it is a bit disappointing. It seems to me that 2:34 is not worth the wait, unless you're there already, which, in this case, I forrtunately was. Now that it's over, I can't decide if I am further disappointed or relieved. I suppose I generally want more out of a given time, but these things always seem to fall short. Perhaps it should come as a relief, then, that 2:34 was very low-key. I had low expectations going into it, but at least I wasn't terribly let down by it. It made no promises and it kept to itself. It acts as its own excuse, in a sense. On the one hand, one might complain how dull and boring 2:34 can be, but on the other hand, it is 2:34 a.m.; what are you expecting?

Con: Work done at this time tends to suck more than otherwise

Pro: There is a higher chance that the sucking will be of an erotic nature

Con: Kind of dull and boring

Pro: Very discreet, almost unnoticable

Pro: Lends itself well to starting a new career

Con: Lends itself well to losing one's mind (maybe "career" was an overstatement?)

Conclusion: 2:34 is a basic, run-of-the-mill middle of the night sort of time, with few bells and whistles (one would at least hope, if one were trying to sleep!) and a homey kind of coziness to it. Alternatively, its extremely low-key nature can also be very isolating. You might miss it if you're not paying attention, but if you are paying attention you may realize that you're the only one, which is not necessarily a good thing at 2:34  a.m.  It may be a time to live or it may be a time to die, but for most it is a time to sleep.