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.)

Oceans of Words and Notes

Brief break. Good work on the novel. Feel like I'm on to something.

Here's what I'm listening to:

1. "Val Jester" The National
2. "Blue Camel" Rabih Abou-Kalil
3. "I Was Lead to Believe" Thee Mighty Caesers
4. "Clear Spot" Mark Lanegan (a Beefheart cover, for those in the know)
5. "All Down the Line" Rolling Stones
6. "Apes-Ma" Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band
7. "Slow Blues" Thin Lizzy
8. "You're Wondering Now" The Specials
9. "Wake Up" The Arcade Fire
10. "Abraham, Martin and John" Dion (this song makes me teary-eyed sometimes -- it didn't tonight, but it could have under other circumstances)

The Other Good Samaritan

I was too spent when I turned to the novel last night, so I only got a few paragraphs in. I stayed up until after midnight, trying. Aside from those paragraphs, it was a huge amount of time spent on accomplishing little: drinking my last beer, a Sam Adams I was given at work, reading the last two pages of The Moviegoer, and the first few of a Barry Hannah novel.

*

It was frustrating. I spent all day thinking about my impass last night and, once again, wrote down notes while in the truck. I was lucky enough to be in the truck for more than a full day -- nine hours -- thanks to the weather slowing my runs down. So I'm not going to blog much tonight. I hope I can focus my writing energy there.

However, I wanted to mention an incident that happened a few weeks ago.

Jess and I returned home after a storm to find that our driveway had been plowed. Because of the close marks, it appeared that someone had actually shovelled our driveway, but it was done cleanly -- you might say immaculately, since the lines went right up to the edge of the house -- so some sort of machine must have been involved.

Today, I pulled up past my driveway. The street plows had created a furrow blocking me out and it had hardened into a thick, heavy slush.

While driving to my house, I noticed my neighbor from two houses down walking his snowplow. I realized he was following my car and planned on plowing out the end of my driveway.

He had the plow's engine gunning the whole time, so I couldn't really speak with him. I shouted: "Were you the guy who plowed our driveway last time? Someone did it."

He looked at me, unblinking. "Wasn't me. Must have been some other Good Samaritan." And he set about his work.

Sediment and Fermentation

It's almost nine and I still haven't gotten a word written on the novel.

After beer, clean-up, and processing (emotional), I'm just now getting ready. And, oh yeah, I made a sweet potato hot pot-style instant ramen noodle soup.

The beer?

Hum.

Ask again.

Ah yes, well the beer. The beer, you see it . . . well, it . . . hmm.

Well, it looks like ale and tastes like ale, sorta. Kind of unfinished. Clean. I drank a glass of it just to make sure it wouldn't kill me.

It didn't taste strong. I didn't get a buzz. It didn't taste "off." It just didn't taste right.

And, of course, the recipe calls for bottle fermentation.

But here's the problem.

It bothered me enough that I went on some Internet homebrew forums, read a few faqs, and noticed that there were quite a few things I did that I probably shouldn't have done. I was going according to the instructions.

For example: the instructions claimed that you could either fill the carboy with six gallons and hose the run-off, or you could simply do with less beer and fill it to five. Since it was my first batch, I filled to five.

But, according to new information, this is a mistake as the extra space within the carboy can create oxidation.

There were other problems: nuances in preparing the yeast, roasting versus cracking the barley, taking a hydrometer reading after seven days . . . .

I will now nervously await the results. Two weeks!

*

As soon as I began to draw the tap and transfer beer to bottle, I remember Charlie's advice that wine was easier to make. I think I may very well change to wine next time, even though I'm not a wine drinker.

We'll see.

But I am going to crack open the pickled radishes. They should be ready. Not perfect. But ready.
And that, after brushing my teeth and steeling my will, I'll try to turn to the novel. That damn, lumbering beast in the distance. If only I could work on it as much as I think about working on it; the real task pushed with unrelenting force to the margins of the day.

Yep. We'll see.

Ron Asheton

As most of you have heard, Ron Asheton passed away today.

I learned to play bass and guitar playing along with the Stooges. I don't know much about the man as a person, but I've probably listened to his music more intently, over a longer course of time, than just about any player out there. No reflection. Please to listen.

Splender!

I work until late teaching on Monday, so I have no time to write, but I got a lot of ideas yesterday. I was stuck in the w all day, so I filled up scrap paper with notes for the novel. Tonight, I'm going to transfer the ale to half-gallon bottles with the Dufflebag, where they will ferment for another few weeks before the tasting. After that, I'm going to turn my attention to the novel and try to press on with it.

*

Jess believes that she is constantly seeing the number 34. So often, in fact, that it is beyond coincidence.

I explained that this would involve two possible conclusions: 1. that the universe is bending and warping its own fabric to somehow impress upon you the importance of this number (and the attendent riddle: if the universe could do such a thing, why do it cryptically?) or 2. that cognitions works through filters, and we are consciously and unconsciously drawn to notice some items more often than others.

Still, it becomes eerie that, whenever she walks into the room, she'll note that the clock reads 4:34, or 2:34. You get the point.

Early Monday morning, the house phone, which we hardly use, rang. Seconds later, her cell phone rang. Jess sat up. "It's 4:34," she said, and chills ran up our spines.

She ran downstairs.

I rolled over and imagined all the terrible reasons for the twin calls.

She came backupstairs a few minutes later.

"It was the Dufflebag's school. There's a two hour delay because of the icy roads."

They called at four thirty in the fucking morning! Imagine how many others heard that ring, wondering for whom the bell tolled. Well, it didn't fucking toll for me. I needed sleep, goddamnit.

*

I'm out of cash. I steamed some sweet Chinese sausage and mixed it with mushrooms and brown rice and brought it to work, where I was going to divide it up for lunches this week. Billy, known to forage through my food, got a long lecture about my economic situation. I begged him not to go through my food. There wasn't much.

After work, I got a sheepish text message: "Goo Goo, I ate your delicious lunch."

I texted back wondering the f he was talking about. A flying f!

"I will pay for your lunch tomorrow."

Nevermind that I spent a long time preparing that food, and that it required special ingredients.

So today, he gave me a ten-spot and I ate at Sal's Pizza in Lowell -- the best local pizzeria, to my tastes.

Before I left today, he pulled me aside. "About that lunch I ate," he explained with great sincerity, "It's the mushrooms that made it."

*

Billy asked me to run to Dunkin Donuts for him and wrote down what he wanted: a blueberry ice coffee with two creams and one "splender."

"Splender? What the fuck is a splender? Do you mean 'Splenda?'"

"Splenda."

"But you didn't write that. You wrote, 'Splender.'"

For those of you who don't know, Splenda is a noxious sugar substitute.

Billy of New England just assumed he was dropping his r's in pronounciation and adjusted accordingly for writing.

I got to the Dunkin Donuts and ordered his large blueberry ice coffee with two creams and Splenda.

The woman who took my order -- older, I'll assume Eastern European -- looked at me, lost. "Do you mean "Splender?" she asked, emphasizing the r.

I can't make this shit up.

*

As I mentioned above, I've been taking notes for the novel on scrap pieces of paper. I just went over them to see if I scribbled anything about blog entries. Surprise, surprise! I had totally forgotten that I had used the "splender" note as a scrap.

I also forgot that I obnoxiously crossed out his word and wrote the correct one. That's me, being that way.

So it goes into the museum of cf's. On the same page where I outline my narrative theories, where I clarify the thematic structure of the novel, you'll find Billy's Dunkin Donut's request. There is meaning here. Somewhere. Please?

*

I walk into the W.

Billy tells me:

Eyes may shine
And teeth may glitter
But you cannot bullshit
A bull
Shitter.

The awkwardness of this little bit of folk wisdom troubles me. But I also question its validity.

Aren't children the biggest bullshitters around? And aren't they the most easily swindled? Santa Claus, Sponge Bob, candy shaped like hamburgers . . . .

*

The Boss seemed glassy eyed and strange today. He left early and unexpectedly. I wonder if the long hours have gotten to him. He has worked in a high stress, so-so paying job for a decade now, never putting in anything less than a ten hour day. Usually more.

Is he at that breaking point? The confluence of the bad economy, bad management, and poor health?

Humans hunger for other things. He had cold, animal eyes today. And it was scary enough that no one said anything. No rumor-mongering. At this point, we just shrug and try not to think about it.

Sunday Morning Chopping, Rolling, Washing, and Dicing

All three of us made pork and leek dumplings for lunch today, and we sat around the kitchen table, folding them into neat little packets. I used my bamboo steamer for the first time. I went on the internet to figure out ways of making a stand for the steamer so that it doesn't touch the water, but came across videos of people simply placing the steamer in a wok. I used that method, since it was the simplest.

To keep the dumplings from sticking to the bamboo slats, first I tried laying down some cheese cloth. But some of the threads still stuck to the dumplings. Then, I placed down a bed of spring lettuce. That worked better and imparted a subtle, "green" taste to the dumplings. I think next time I'll use spinach to further amplify this effect.

The first batch was somewhat overcooked and the dough hardened. The second was just about perfect.

Jess's mom came over to try them and she now wants us to make them for the next family function. The Dufflebag was excited about mixing his own dumpling sauce. He seemed skeptical of the dumplings themselves because of the leeks. He claims to hate all vegetables. But they didn't seem to bother him and he ate his fill.

*

I finally found my mandolin blades, so I made the pickled radish threads again, since I had left over jars. Unfortunately, I ran out of rice vinegar so I had to top off the jars with the apple cider type. Difference in taste. Big difference in color. Now, the fermenting pickles look like kim chee.

*

I went on another writing spurt last night and managed another 2,000 words. before going to bed at one-thirty. My biggest writing day yet. Somewhat pleased with the results. I overwrite, and then remove the parts I don't care for when the draft is finished. So I'm not too concerned with the occasional bad section. Sometimes, this can allow you to better develop your characters, even if you ultimately discard the bridge sections, or in-between sections, or warm-up parts, or whatever you'd like to call them.

Jess has spent much of the last week painting the kitchen and it now looks more spacious. A big difference! She even changed the countertops so that I have more room to cook on. It was too crowded before -- but now I no longer have to balance as many knives and dishes on the microwave.

*

I've been sleeping fitfully, and have strange dreams. I think this has less to do with psychology than our mattress, which is practically at a slant now. Time to flip that sucker!