Infrequent blog posts, depressive summer, and modest impoverishment. If there’s anything I’ve learned these last few months, it’s that there’s a whole bevy of buxom badness waiting to unseat the fragile mind that is the one in possession of your author. Mostly, I’ve spent the last few months in a stew of existential meh of unfinished schoolwork, insomnia, self-abuse, and rewatching The Wire. Not that it’s all been a horror show. I’ve actually made some nice meals, undergone esoteric conversations, and generally kept myself above ground through sheer willful ignorance.
And the drumming. O! The drumming.
If you are a long time reader of gonzarro – and if you are, thank you – you’ll remember I wrote a nice little piece on a local restaurant. This was my go-to spot for a good gyro. Sadly, they’ve shuttrered recently and I am bereft with grief. Well, not bereft but pretty damned pissed. The staff was friendly and the food was unpretentious. And the gyros were dynamite. There are tons of replacement spots, even on the East Side of Cincy where I currently live, but none had the friendly atmosphere that the folks at Mediterranean Foods possessed. I work in Clifton, but the only spot currently around is a place called Chicago Gyros. Dorothy Parker wept!, who allowed these chuckle heads to create a Philly Gyro? Chicago Gyro is the Starbucks of Middle Eastern noshes. Don’t mess with a good thing, y’all.
Regarding the unrest in the world, Gaza, Ukraine, and elsewhere, one can’t help but think of the words from Mark Twain’s The Mysterious Stranger:
Man is made of dirt… Man is a museum of diseases, a home of impurities; he comes to-day and is gone to-morrow; he begins as dirt and departs as stench
We are here for a short time, and some are consigned to make it as miserable for themselves and others. I would prefer to avoid the unpleasantness and negativity. I’m often told that I am far too dark, too sarcastic, too cynical, too much the artiste. Granted, I’ve been punched around and beaten down these last few years so a marked misanthropy cum pessimism probably is not surprising. Generally, I feel I am a happy person but I do acknowledge my darkness. However, because I am not singing “Oh What A Beautiful Morning” day in and day out doesn’t mean I’m am 24/7 “the artiste of the slightly funny deal.”
It goes without saying that immediately pointing that I’m negative or dark sends me into a tailspin. Fuck it.
Last night, I dreamt that I was about to make love to a beautiful and unique woman, only to have a friend, one noted for his supine abilities with the women, cock block me in the most frustrating ways. If that wasn’t enough, I was also being interrupted by having several last minute projects pop up that needed to be satisfied before the woman. Even my subconscious has it out for me.
Also, Rik Mayall died. What the fuck was that all about?
Lest you think all is bad, I’ve seen several movies, was “married” my food wife (we were consecrated with the Sign of the Cross on our foreheads in steak oil), and have made some progress on my grief, pain, and suffering.
So I got that going for me.