Shahin: May 2007 Archives

is nice and pricey. my body weeps. developing lactose intolerance. chest muscle spasm. indigestion anomalies. alcohol is kicking in, it feels good, or not. define feeling. define good.

meet sherry. dark brown skin, dark hazel eyes, bright orange hair, five eleven, firm physique, french manicure and of course polished orange toe nails. looks you in the eyes if she passes you by, smiles sometimes. high heels everyday, designer wardrobe garnished by sleek accessories. born and raised detroit to an african american and an egyptian. she walked up to me the other day holding a pack of cd-r's, the label said data, she asked me if she could burn music instead, i assured her she could. then she said it. her name is shahrzad, from one thousand and one stories, her dad's favorite. i smiled that day.

meet virginia. born and raised in ukraine. married with two kids to an uzbek. never wears her ring. i mean she does wear rings, just not the ring. despises make up, any kind, anything. religiously avoids sticking any substances anywhere on her skin. never combs her hair, trust me on that. spends her entire paycheck on designer shoes, tight skirts, chic tops and matching scarves that go with her shoes. i asked her about the primary keys and then complemented her on her shoes, she said she's tired, but she said 'i could survive longer if men noticed such things'. on the same day she linked me in, and there i had it: her name is yevgeniya; i like her name.

meet aquarius. jet black skin, angel pasta hair. never talks, screams instead, from the top of her lungs, like there's no tomorrow. anally precise, of course, qa. diligent. responsible. she has one secret: spell checks her own name, in every single email. the other day she confronted omid, the annoying persian guy, then noone saw him again. she's alright.

meet nancy the attorney. nasally challenged. doesn't talk aloud, doesn't scream, doesn't even shriek, she doesn't need to: her chords strike at an ungodly pitch, let alone humane. thom york's muse for karma police. buzzing and fizzling and rebuzzing and sputtering every single brain cell of the living within five miles, and the dead too probably. i don't like nancy.

women.

and such.

this is not hollywood, like i understand... runaway...

he had barely embarked on the impossible task of deciding which cereal to buy when it occurred to him. having run out of dried-berry low-fat granola at 7:58am pea es tea(aka pee es tee, pea es tee, pee es tea, etc.) he had raised the priority level of a trip to tj's in his mental taskbar to 'do it now or die somehow' on the ride back home. he wore his red shorts and stepped into his comfy flip flops, popped some meditative tunes into his life's soundtrack player and beamed himself to aisle four, ignoring everything else including the savory thins. last time it had taken him an average of twenty minutes per trip when he finally managed to pick one on his third in four consecutive days.

life is a bowl of cereal and the events it entails. it's strawberries and a phone call. it's crunchy nuts and a deadline coming up. it's a bowl of muesli and yet another boring day. it's a bowl of anything but chocolate puffs, followed by anything but sanity.

then he lost focus somewhere in the midst of thinking about adjectives for bowls of cereal. why does a stupid cereal matter when women were beaten up on the streets of his hometown the other day or when someone's father passed away or when someone needs money for rent. why does anything matter? what matters?

then he lost his senses and stared at the woman in front of him. she smiled and apologized for blocking his view, conveniently ignoring the very obvious fact that she was the view.

then he went back home and did some homework. then he watched a show. then he read some with half a bottle of cheap wine.

then he went out for more beers. then he laughed at his ex-colleague's lame old jokes and shared some of his own. then he had sex. no not the colleague; he.

then he woke up and went to his bowl of cereal at work, and more events unfolded in his daily meaningless life. who needs meaning anyways. words make the greatest facade for misery. words are good. life is good. it's all good.

she said it calms her down when he talks to her. he said he doesn't know why but he couldn't discuss this with anyone but him. she said she hadn't felt so good about herself in the longest time. he said he manipulates people's minds into this temporary state of unreasonable lightness, something like a cheap drug, and he talks them into self-appreciation...

it's nice and all that but he doesn't really care for many of them. not that he's a mean person or anything, not the he doesn't like to make people feel good about themselves in general, it's all there. it's just that it's all a massive weak attempt at exonerating himself from his past, when the only one who ever mattered left for this and other reasons, because the very he failed to make her feel good about herself, and because someone else didn't.

ironic.

or not.

or that's how everybody lives their lives, exonerating themselves from their failures, their mess-ups, themselves.

"often, the state of the kitchen is the state of the mind, confused and unsure men, pliable men are the thinkers. their kitchens are like their minds, cluttered with garbage, dirty ware, impurity, but they are aware of their mind-state and find some humor in it. at times, with a violent burst of fire they defy the eternal deities and at times they will get half drunk and clean up their kitchens, but soon again all falls into disorder and they are in the darkness again, in need of BABO, pills, prayer, sex, luck and salvation. the man with the ever-orderly kitchen is the freak, however. beware of him. his kitchen-state is his mind-state: all in order, settled, he has let life condition him quickly to a basened and hardened complex of defensive and soothing thought-order. if you listen to him for ten minutes you will know that anything he says in a lifetime will be essentially meaningless and always dull. he is a cement man. there are more cement men than other kinds of men. so if you are looking for a living man, first check his kitchen and save yourself time.

now, the female with the dirty kitchen is another matter - from the male viewpoint. if she is not employed elsewhere and is childless, the cleanliness or dirtyness of her kitchen is almost always (exceptions be granted) in direct ratio to how much she cares for you. some women have theories on how to save the world but can't wash out a coffee cup. if you mention this to them, they will tell you: "washing out coffee cups is not important." unfortunately, it is. especially to a man who has put in 8 hours straight plus 2 overtime on a turret lathe. you begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics."

- Charles B.

on a side note, dolores o'riordian is growing old with me, with us. she lingered and so did we, she said don't argue but then we did, and now she wants to grow old, or so she says:

Funny how things just tasted better, When we were young
Funny how things just seemed so easy, When we were young
It's been a long day
I wanna get out
I wanna go home
Is anything better
Than you on the phone...

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replying to the inquiries we received over the weekend, yes you can order drinks in strip clubs in downtown san francisco for a small fortune, and yes they're fine with you dozing off by the catwalk, they just don't appreciate the snore, that's all.

broken bunch we have become. a heartache or two here and there, one married and the other compromised. struggling to keep a straight face, wasted, survived, hurt, resurrected, hunting: hi, i feel miserable and so do you, why don't you sleep with me and i'll hurt you too? round of drinks on me, come on and join the joyride. stand clear, doors are closing, next stop neverland in seven minutes.

life is a small restaurant in a crowded street. you pass by it a couple of times before you actually find it, then you spend an hour or so looking for a parking space before you go for the valet, just to find out that you reservation's canceled and there' a two hour wait, and by the time you sit down you've totally lost your appetite. you can of course wait by the bar, where they serve full price dishes in rip-off servings, mere appetizers and infinite drinks, cocktails, martinis and scotch on rocks, or neat for the elite. je suis iranian, suis desole, fatigue. c'est la vie. salut.

life 2.0 is going to be pretty conspicuous with a seven story parking structure and infinite tables for the guests. they won't serve drinks, just water no ice and a slice of lemon for your tasting pleasure. smiling is appreciated, tips won't be necessary, no dress code, no live jazz, no dessert menu. all you can eat, kids and seniors free. pets welcome. eat away, and have a nice day.

it's gotta be it: the commute.

that's what's keeping the californians dumb and making the new yorkers smarter. that's why europeans think more clearly, let me rephrase that actually, that's why the europeans think, period. that's what makes a city a city, riding, not driving. gotta take the ride man, you gotta take the ride. read till your eyes pop out, ipodeaf yourself to death, doze off, do whatever, it happens, thinking takes place. that's why californians are smiling all the time, they're not thinking, or else they'd be as gloomy and aloof and introvert and indifferent as all the normal people. it's gotta be the law, think, drink and don't drive.

rush hour, people doing the same thing at the same time everyday, the asian chick who pours me my small coffee without asking, paying with exact change without exactly talking, something about mass practice of routines, about stinking metro cars with the homeless and their shitloads of plastic bottles.

watch kontroll. read bukowski. fuck new york. live it la.

on the menu last night we served the infamous months old savory thins, two sliced roma tomatos soaked in balsamic, two spicy hot links wrapped in genuine intestine, ketchup and of course dijon and radish on the side for the main dish, followed by frozen chocolate mochi to tickle your taste buds. we're rinsing tonight's two course meal with 9 year old knob burboun on rocks, and trust me it's the perfect complement for the mochi. on the scale this morning we suffered on the painful realization that the pounds are back, all of them.

she said she's over the douchbag, i said she's not, or else she wouldn't refer to him like that, said she's not indifferent. i'm not indifferent, i'm not over her. sh and m said they never email their ex's, good for them, i think noone should, ever. what's gone is gone. rubbish. nothing's ever gone before i die, which by the way is rescheduled again. due to minor technicalities the suicidal plans are postponed for the time being. unmark your calendars.

on the menu this morning we're serving a momentary lapse of reason by dawn, paranoid self-destructive thoughts by sunrise and agony for breakfast, topped off by a nasty double shot of espresso. parents. los angeles. women. dreams. solitude. sister. passion. money. happiness. failure. void. whiskey. machines. coming soon to a theater near you in black and white superscope, my suicidal dreams are back.