HOW TO DINE LIKE THE GAMELAN PLAYER IN AN INDIE ROCK BAND. OR A PENNILESS WINE SHOP CLERK.

Times are tough. Companies are scaling back on holiday gifts, families are struggling to make ends meet, and for my sexworker needs I've downgraded to toothless fifty-something Puerto Rican hookers with names like Consuela and Graciela. But just because you have to fuck like a pauper doesn't mean you can't dine like a prince! Over the years, the combination of solo living, indigency, and an appetite to rival that of a stoned whale have forced me to develop a number of strategies for eating out on the cheap. Follow my helpful hints for stretching your food dollar, and soon you'll have scads of extra cash to spend on rent and important household items like electronic nosehair clippers and eight-balls of cocaine.


1. Got... Thai?

This is hardly a secret, but Thai food is perhaps the last great deal in good eats. On this front, authenticity is important, but not necessarily for reasons of cultural fealty. As Thai and other once-exotic cuisines have burgeoned in popularity, enterprising restauranteurs have developed trendy and needlessly expensive restaurants serving artful but often homogenized versions of classic endemic dishes. Not only are the prices at these nouveau joints markedly higher, but portion sizes shrink and the ratio of garnish to food increases drastically. Avoid restaurants of this type like the plague. Fortunately for our purposes they tend to be easily identified by their minimalist color schemes and decor, backlit signage, and expensive, unobtrusive stereo equipment invariably broadcasting trip-hop and lounge music. Usually the vocalist will be singing in Portuguese despite the fact that this bears no relation to the cuisine on offer. Also remember that if a Thai restaurant has a martini menu, it's a bad sign. Ditto black leather couches and water installations. On the plus side, if you see a dry-erase board announcing "Today's Special" in a squiggly, illegible language, or spot old Asian women puttering around in the kitchen, these are indicators that you are in the right place. Finally, run, don't walk out of any ethnic restaurant that boasts go-go dancers or where you have to slip the hostess a twenty (pre-rolled for use as a coke straw) in order to secure a table.


2. Second Day Is Twice As Nice; Or, Doggy Bags Are Your Friend

Rule two for economical out-dining: whenever possible, leave something for a future meal. A byword of restaurant-going for most people, this has become a revelation for me of late, the possibility of which I attribute to a general slowing of my metabolism and diminution of my appetite. Just as important as having leftovers, however, is knowing which leftovers are worth preserving in the first place. It is crucial during the meal to strategize your attack and consume fully those items that will not happily live in the icebox in the days that follow, allowing you both to achieve satiation and also hoard a portion of hardier foodstuffs for the lean times ahead. To this end, here are some rough and ready guidelines. While at table devour without mercy all mollusks, fish, and other seafood bounty, as these culinary hothouse orchids are the first victims of spoilage and will play merry hell with your digestive system if not treated with the utmost respect. The same regrettably goes for sushi which, delicious and costly though it may be, can turn on you like a dyspeptic cobra and make you rue the day you became proficient with chopsticks. Besides, sushi is too expensive for our borderline-welfare lifestyle, so I will assume that if you are seated in front of an expanse of sushi, someone else is picking up the tab. To paraphrase the popular expression, "eat 'em if you got 'em." Dressed salads are also prime full-consumption candidates: few things in life are as sorry and unappetizing as an archipelago of wilted lettuce leaves adrift in a sea of thousand-island dressing. As mama used to say, "eat your greens." Same thing goes for sliced raw fruits and fresh berries. You need them, especially if like me your diet revolves around the potato and is therefore woefully undersupplied with nutrients and roughage.

Excellent candidates for caching are starchy vegetables and their offspring (with the notable exception of french fries); the cooked flesh of birds, pigs, and ungulates; grains, pilafs, and pulses; sandwiches, excepting those that contain the dreaded term 'salad' in their name; soups of all manner; omelets and other egg-driven vehicles; and non-frozen desserts and cheese courses. With few exceptions, all these items can live for days in the fridge and pose minimal risk of causing grievous gastrointestinal damage when finally pressed into meal service. And speaking of service, don't think that doggy bags are de rigeur only if you're dining in. Whenever possible, order takeout from lunch buffets. Almost never will you encounter a buffet that charges by weight, so take that styrofoam container and load it as full as its structural integrity (and your chutzpah) will permit. After having helped yourself to an obscene quantity of food, quickly encase said container in the provided plastic bag to prevent spillage should the six pounds of chicken korma and aloo gobi breach their styrofoam hull and create what we in the food industry call a "situation." Avoid making eye-contact with the owners as you depart with your spoils, and if you frequent the same establishment with any regularity consider periodically changing your appearance and possibly your name as well.


3. Learn to Live Off the Land

Since the 1960's when natural-food advocate Euell Gibbons and his seminal tome Stalking the Wild Asparagus popularized the notion of harvesting the bounty of nature, Americans have endulged their penchant for rugged individualism by venturing into the woods and gathering wild edibles that at best taste like an unwashed rectum and at worst will leave you dead and bloated as a septic hippo. You rural kids no doubt are already attuned to the wisdom of the land and have honed your instincts to such a degree that you can create a meth lab out of little more than a hollow log, some cattails, and the restricted access section of the local pharmacy. But here's a news flash for you city slickers: you too can reduce your dependency on grocery stores and foreign oil by exploiting those pockets of wildness that persist in even the most developed of cities. For instance, as you may know snowshoe hares were one of the staple foodstuffs for mountain men and voyageurs in the era before the West was conquered by 24-hour convenience stores and Paris Hilton. Yet despair not, for the bounty of the trapline can be yours as well. I am speaking, of course, of that delectable, underutilized urban quarry, the rat. Now, stop protesting - you think people started eating whale blubber and sea cucumbers because they looked appetizing? Rats are plentiful, easy to trap, and in my ward, fat and juicy thanks to their diet of Wiener's Circle refuse and unconsumed chorizo burritos. If you're still not convinced, think of rats as very small, disgusting, and disease-riddled cows - after all, they're practically domesticated given how dependent they are on humans to sustain their enormous populations and prodigious size. (Seriously, I saw this thing the other night that from across the street looked like a Labrador, until I got closer and saw the naked pink tail... shudder. But I digress.) Anyhoo, these critters have essentially no predators in the city, and the only way we're gonna keep their numbers under control is if we all strap on our boots, swallow the vomit rising in our throats, and get those rat traplines working for us. Remember, if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem.


4. Whole Foods Can Suck Me Til I Shoot Muesli From My Meatus

In the 1990's you may have noticed the emergence and burgeoning popularity of that great foe of discount dining, the natural foods grocery store. Disguised as a "greener," more socially-conscious way to feed one's self than those soulless Safeways and Jewels, these institutions are instead a devious marketing ploy meant to soften the blow of having to shell out $17.50 per pound for wild rice pilaf and convert T-bills to pay for steaks from sashimi grade, humanely euthanized tunas. Proponents blather on about these companies' superlative foodstuffs and eco-responsible best practices from top to bottom. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to put it to you in less rarefied terms: Whole Foods and its ilk are the grocery equivalent of strip mines, and their sole objective is the separation of you from your hard-earned greenbacks. Now, if you have a numbered Swiss bank account, count as relatives people with names like Windsor and Walton, or live in places like Monaco or Dubai, go ahead and blow your paycheck (not to mention your gustatory load) at Whole Foods on artisanal free-range Spam and Montessori-educated radicchio. But if you're like me, contemplating a future filled with pork 'n beans and government cheese, then look away as you pass these dens of iniquity as if they were Erik Estrada's Playgirl spread.


5. When All Else Fails...

So you've reached the end of your tether: your resources have dwindled to the point where even local panhandlers are crossing the street to avoid you, and the idea of a big night out is extra fire sauce at - oh god, the horror! - Taco Bell. If this worst-case scenario sounds like you, then you may have to resort to desperate workplace tactics in order to keep yourself fed. I am speaking, of course, of the office refrigerator.

I know I've lost some of you with this one. "Goddamit, Aaron," you say to yourself, "I won't do it; I won't stoop that low." Well, nobody said it would be pretty, this business of survival. It's not a long-term strategy, but in dire circumstances other people's lunches can provide essential sustenance over the course of a busy workday. Remember that it's a zero-sum game out there, and every turkey pastrami sandwich that Ted from Accounting eats is one less turkey pastrami sandwich that you could have noshed on scott-free. There are obvious pitfalls with this tactic, so in order to keep a low profile and avoid the installation of kitchen surveillance cameras be sure to take items in such small quantities as to be almost undetectable. Chips, popcorn, and other loose comestibles are excellent quarry, as are cut vegetables, soups, tupperware-bound leftovers, and the like. Also, be sure to feast mightily on office party platters, celebratory donut holes, and birthday cakes, taking care not to be the first one to slice into the cake or remove a sector of the party sub. Once that sub has been breached, however, think of it as the proverbial dead whale upon which sharks gorge themselves until they literally can't swim; that's the kind of effort I want to see. In spite of my earlier example, do not - I repeat, do not - consume a homemade sandwich, as this theft will almost certainly be discovered and heighten vigilance amongs the other brown-baggers. Food that has been abandoned in the kitchen or dining area is, of course, another matter entirely: jump on that good action while it's still fit for human consumption. Anecdotally, while working for a former employer I once noted a plastic bag of ham on the kitchen counter that had been sitting out overnight and was slimy and opaque from condensation. Fighting back the impulse to retch I wondered at its loathesome appearance but then left the kitchen and gave the bag no further thought - that is, until I returned some thirty minutes later and noted that the bag was now missing its dank contents, which I can only surmise means somebody actually ate the ham. But these are not thoughts I wish to dwell on. The point is, just because one of my former colleagues was desperate as a homeless crack addict doesn't mean that you have to be, even if their incomes and yours are practically commensurate.

Thus concludes this lecture on how to live through these tough financial times without going on the dole or moving back in with your parents who, despite their reassurances, are not anxious to have you back in the warm bosom of the family home, raiding the fridge at all hours and basically being a complete load. By following my instructions and keeping your eyes open and your pride low, you can hold the wolf at bay and eat three squares a day even if you were a performance art major in college. As a final announcement, please note that I've got a great recipe for rat cacciatore available upon request. Oh, and FYI, after calling on the services of Graciela in Humboldt Park last weekend I developed a really nasty rash and it burns now when I pee, so, as they say, caveat emptor.

LET'S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN

This is what I mean by recapitulating a sense of tragic glory in pop music. All you electro fans out there will no doubt roll your eyes at me for posting this now - how passé can I possibly be? - but even two years after its release this is still completely au courant and at the same time hearkens back twenty years. Think Prince or New Order on a meth bender. This is from French techno phenoms Gaspard Augé and Xavier de Rosnay, better known of course as Justice. Here's Part I and II of 'Phantom.'

Part I

And Part II

Sure, it's music to dance all night to, but isn't there also an intrinsic sadness, a desperation here too? A despair of mortality? The guitar riff at the end of Part II - doesn't it just break your heart into a million tiny pieces?

BIZARRE GENIUS FROM 1987

The Pet Shop Boys cover Elvis Presley with a little help from Joss Ackland, who played to perfection the evil South African Ambassador from Lethal Weapon II. Weird, wonderful, and of an era. And such a great tune.

These guys perfected fin de siècle. Inexplicably the Gen-Xers of the 1990's forgot it, and now we're just catching onto the exquisite anticipatory sense of loss they created. Truly everything old is new.

ON RECALLING ANGST FROM DAYS GONE BY

"Alright Aaron," you say, "you've posted several works by some of America's greatest poetic voices. How's about some poetry of your own?" It's a fair cop, made even more so by the fact that I haven't written a poem in a month of Sundays. But if you're in the mood for some puerile, lovesick maudlin verse, here's a poem I wrote in February of 2004. I can make no suitable apology for it other than the fact that I was a young, foolish man of 23 when I wrote this. I hope it's not too cringe-worthy.


If only you knew what I think about
You might not ever look at me that way again.
Sometimes I wish that you would just figure it out
on your own, because I don't want to go about explaining.
It's not that my thoughts are bad; after all, there is no good or bad
but thinking makes it makes it makes it so it wakes me up
in the middle of the night
And I can't sleep. Then I turn and look and there you are
Lying in bed beside me. And it's just fine you're naked now, but do you want to
Know that I undressed you in my mind the very first time we met?
Does the fact that I just told you make me more a demon or a saint?
And when we fucked - this time again, for the very first time - is it best that I not say
Just how many others came before, and that I couldn't quite remember
what your name was that next day?
Maybe this is best, because I've tried to tell the truth before
To some who thought they knew what I would say;
I always wound up disappointing them and me.
But surely you know, don't you? that everyone is thinking
Just like me, it's only that I need to tell somebody else.
But only if they're special are you special?
Only if they're brave are you that brave?
Only if they're human are you human?
Maybe I'll find out tomorrow, when you wake.


Actually, even today I kind of like it. Just don't ask me to post anything from my teenaged years.

ON THE ONTOLOGICAL SHIFT IN SONGS PREDICATED ON SEXUAL FRUSTRATION

Is this age of immediate gratification, first-date fucks, and instantaneous communiques between interested parties, is there still room in the modern idiom for such paeans to erotic deferral as 'Tired of Waiting' by The Kinks or Chuck Berry's 'No Particular Place to Go'?

YES I AM ONE LAZY SUMBITCH

But I did want to let you know that I WILL be updating the blog soon, so all two of you who continue to read this will soon have something new for your troubles. Be patient and, as the old dude in the Bartles and James commercial used to say, thank you for your support.

SOME DISTURBING LOCAL DEVELOPMENTS IN DISSOCIATIVE BEHAVIOR

Ilene has graced us with some new insights into her philosophy towards life vis à vis aesthetics, the performing arts, and interpersonal ethics. To wit:

On the television program Arrested Development:

"I love this show more than I love anyone in real life."

On her reason for loving Arrested Development more than any actual human being:

"There's nothing these characters can do to hurt me."

On her new Vizio flatscreen television:

"Anyone who wants to spend time with me is gonna have to compete with this baby."

On her general attitude towards the human race:

"I hate everyone."

Wise beyond her years, this one. When she speaks, you know what I do? I listen.

THE IDEA OF ORDER AT KEY WEST

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard.
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.

If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

—Wallace Stevens, 1934

Utter, absolute genius.

BIG NEWS IN APARTMENT 515

Quote Ilene: "I'm itching for a gangbang."

This declaration, seemingly à propos of nothing, naturally elicited my curiosity. At first I suspected that perhaps Ilene was conflating the gangbang with the more-popular orgy. However when I offered her the choice between on one hand a gangbang involving, say, 30 men and herself, and on the other a garden-variety orgy involving a more even number of men and women, Ilene was unequivocal: she wants the gangbang.

Gentlemen, start your engines! Because when push comes to shove and tickle comes to poke, I doubt she'll be terribly picky.

HARLEM

What happens to a dream deferred?


Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?


Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.


Or does it explode?


—Langston Hughes, 1951