and there i am i'm in the clubhouse, in the kitchen, in the middle of a full-on saturday
slam, trying to keep track of time, to sequence things just right - i've got help, but i've
also got 12 orders on deck and a wedding buffet to serve. we've got the radio on. grill fire candles.
the waitresses bring in slips of paper and bring out food. between the pad-paper and
the plate, loren and i heat, flip, slice and assemble each lunch. people eat with their eyes.
plating remains crucial.
the radio sportscasters discuss the impending college football season within the present situation.
Lemon, garlic, oil. Pig parts, roasting. Self-evident: for 4 days, we've all lived in a
"present situation".
It's a kitchen 20 feet by 15 feet, packed with appliances and heat. my friends
(co-workers?) rushing to and fro, in dissonant concert, plates and platters, peppers and onions.
swinging around before something burns. fruit-flies. i don't know what time it is: the girls keep telling me, when i ask. they
move in and out of the room, the building, the tent, meal out, hotel pan out, garbage in.
there's a fury of spraying, my dishwasher humming in two minute cycles. i run downstairs to
the freezer, upstairs to the kitchen, downstairs to the closet, upstairs to the 58th floor,
down to my.... carrying a jar of pickles. four of my special clubs, with mayo and cranberry. beef.
open case with box cutter.
i had punched in at 8 am. i see sun only every few hours, should the window
present itself for a manic smoke break. i hate smoking. i hate orders. audio, i find they are interviewing
people on the street in small town america, for the heartland reaction. we are all new porkers. dinner rolls. a
boy calls for peace. woman calls for policy, a balance of blood and judgement.
How to explode this?
careful inspection reveals much of the pork to be quite undercooked. after consideration,
it's back in the oven. the radio's the thing, wherein i'll catch my conscience by the sink.
i run to the fryolater, and forget why i'd come. i'm split: we speak of an "attack on civilization", but these days i no longer believe
it to be self-evident that civilization should survive. star-striped flags had begun to reappear. orders
had begun to die down, and i sent the corn out to the wedding tent. the radio men tell us
they're discussing sports in case we want to set our minds at wrest, focus on something
else for a while. a single crock of chowder. they explain themselves as "sensitive to the pain and loss of the pesent situation".
they are right. avacado, easily browning itself. i scrub and scrape for a living.
i drop something. trading resumes. there are four meals to be timeshare prepared. the girls (my sister included)laugh: they have spent a few minutes in the tent, dancing to
YMCA and other DJed favorites. i never get hungry, witht the aromatic overload, constant snacking on
french fries, tasting of sauce. all over the city, there are photocopied photos. caesar. i'll
spit right in your...
they are being married, just outside. my salsa looks yummy. blue sky, through the corner
of the window, and the hip-hop station botches pop-songs and quotations in a fever of patriotic
tackiness, montaged, warm from the heatlamp, hot from the grill, dijon, convection, mop, teamwork.
the whole time, it was fall air somwhere through the kitchen door, sweater song, vigil.
11:50 PM
:::::::
Usually, a good meal is worth it. -
6 comments
That is a big ass gun. Jesus. The world is doomed.
sharedvoice.org: please sign.
earn money, spend money. repeat.
our enemy can't spell.
impossible tragic coincidences
more writing, less sleep. it's always the way for me. i just cant type quick enough, sleep hard enough.
all these thoughts into position, all these things.
and with that, violence was violence again.
moby's diary of late.
if possible, to recommune, rekindle.
I got options, I got cop shows, I get nauseous. And the sweat is day-glo.
