Quitting the Nairobi Trio

Those of you who haven't read Jim Knipfel's book Quitting the Nairobi Trio absolutely should. It tells the true story of the author, a talented, nearly blind writer who is locked in an insane asylum and there finds comfort in the works of Ernie Kovacs while scheming to get out.

I found used copies on amazon for as low as forty cents, which is a huge fucking pity considering how well-written the book is.

*

The W ruins everything.

I've absolutely shattered two pairs of glasses there, so now I put my glasses on a shelf as soon as I get in. Yesterday, I forgot to do this immediately, and my glasses fell off my head five minutes into my shift and the left lens popped out.

I used some crazy glue to fix it. I've used crazy glue on them before, so I was putting glue on glue, causing an inevitably spilling over onto the lens. Plus, it was the crazy glue "pen" which requires prodding and manipulation to work, resulting in accidental strings of permanent cf.

The lens popped out yet again today, and required a liberal pouring of glue to put it back in place. It was as though I stuck it back in with industrial plaster. It looks as though I have absentmindedly smeared toothpaste on my glasses like some damn mathematician.

I wreck glasses. Just this year, one pair was smashed in the W, beyond repair. Another was lost, and then found, and then dropped and stepped on during the move to Townsend. Perhaps I can repair them, although it's unlikely. The ones I wear now have been broken multiple times.

I need to find an Internet site that will sell me cheap, sturdy, military type glasses. Whatever soldiers wear, that's what I want.

Because I'm broke, I can't afford a real pair. After all, I went through this entire week with only a few dollars in my pocket. I spent those dollars on an egg sandwich at a gas station. I was driving, opening up the package, and attempting to eat at the same time. Since I tried to open the package with my teeth, and since this worked somewhat better than expected, I also added a large dollop of diced eggs and mayonnaise to the already compromised left lens.

*

I made today's lunch last night, using whatever was lying around the house. The end result: brown and black rice with tuna and seaweed. I bought the package of seaweed for .99 cents at the Asian market in Littleton.

I had never tried cooking seaweed before. I crumbled some up and put it in with the rice.

When it was done, I pulled it out in long sheets, and it smelled like fish. It looked as though I was pulling it straight out of the Atlantic. It wasn't nice little miso soup seaweed. This was probably harvested with a crooked stick.

And, since I didn't soak it first, it was covered in sand!

As I ate, I thought: I wonder what beach that sand is from. Is it in China? The Sudan?

Despite it's sandiness, the dish was pretty good. I got the sauce right: a mix of chili, fish sauce, and soy sauce.

It was the type of nutrient dense dish of necessity that is warming and pleasing, and yet is something I would never, ever serve to another human being.

Part of that is the color. Because of the black rice, it looked like a big brown porridge, brimming with thick, serpent like green sheets of seaweed. Dead snakes in a cow's anus, if you will.

And part of it is that there is food we eat out of necessity that is near good. Good enough. Something we imagine only we would enjoy because it suits our own little needs in terms of nutrition and calories and flavor. And it suits them to such a fine degree that it isn't likely anyone else should be asked to tolerate it. And we even savor the rougher parts. It's a particular broken aesthetic. It is humble, but not self-denying, since there remains in there some buried impulse to create a dish that brings about a profound comfort.

*

Speaking of food, my mother invited me over for a "pizza party" on Tuesday. Now, because my favorite topping is anchovies, and because I rarely eat pizza, I never get to enjoy my favorite pie. The Dufflebag only likes cheese and Jess goes in more for veggies. But it began to bother me. It's my fucking birthday. I want salty fish. Bring on the salty fish!

Now, the logistics of the pizza party entail me paying for most of the pizza and then asking my mom for a ten spot to cover it. A special sale, I'll tell her.

But how do you feed four people when each has particular tastes? I pride myself on my flexibility when it comes to food and will adapt to company, since I enjoy most everything. In fact, I am suspicious of picky eaters, and I consider them to be moral failures, as well as artistic.

But to satisfy my own selfish desires, even on my selfish day, would entail the purchase of three pies for four people: one bland, one vegetal, one brutal. And I'm broke.

So.

I thought about it.

I'm on the fence.

Likely to shelve my anchovy cravings for yet another year.

But I won't do it without murmurs of despair. Oh, salty fish! How I long for thee!

(My problem here was later obviated by an invitation from Charlie, but I'll leave the details for a Sunday evening entry. Suffice to say the mention of good sausage causes my dognose to leave off the scent of the fishbones and lead me elsewhere. Deliciously elsewhere.)