Eat Poorly

Takahachi [85 Avenue A]

What is in a name as sweet as the stank of raw fish? The most delectable sushi in the East Village. Takahachi draws in hipsters, Tompkins Square Park crusties and authentic slanty-eyed people with its wide array of oriental offerings.

You can get a full meal for about $14, which you can earn from two hours of going to work.

Eat Poorly Math:

1 Hour of Ringing Up Vegetables In Vegetative State =
1/2 Takahachi dinner or
1 salad from Kasimir or
1 cheap pasta dish from Max or
1 drink at The Els or
1 mojito from 7A or
3 PBRs

Perso, I try to work in a little Takahachi once a month. I recommend Maki Avenue A, which is an assortment of California Rolls, Tuna and Yellowtail, all safe options for the sensible sushi eater. Maki Avenue B is more exotic, like eel and fish eggs or some shit. Maki Avenue C is other peoples' leftover Maki Avenue As and Bs. Maki Avenue D is just a plate with a photograph of an AZN prostitute and a gun. On the whole, it's no Momofuku, but perfect for those who panic when leaving the Alphabets. 8.5/10

SOS from the LES

Real (Talk) Estate

Yes, I am still alive...a tragic admission. Weeks of walking to work in the rain with an open umbrella really doesn't have an interesting outcome.

I don't like giving life advice, other than, "shut the fuck up," but YALL should see the James Ensor show at the MoMA, if u want 2 like 'get' me via art (TM).

That's not Ensor; it's an etching I made of Pride earlier today.

Living La Vida Organica

Sorry I've been all M.I.A. pendant mai, mais je travaille beaucoup en ce moment. I've been spending a horrific--really horrific is the perfect adjective--amount of time working organic speed therapy. Today a customer named Marshall read me his poem called "Metamorphosis" that referenced Kafka and Kandinsky and was ultimately some smutty recount of a couple walking through Central Park and contained the phrase "bushy black toe hair." A woman came in all wide-eyed and twitching, telling me she was high on wheat grass. Trying to make conversation, I asked her where she got it and she said, "Second Avenue!!!! You know RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AVENUE!" I had images of her grazing outside chez Actual God + Tom. Another lady who is generally an incoherent mess and who without fail buys exactly 1 bottle of water, 1 tomato, 3 brazil nuts and 7 almonds, managed to have a well-informed discussion with me about health care and politics before telling me that her healing asteroid was in retrograde.

But, seriously, I don't mean to give the impression that all of the customers are crazy. Some are just hookers. I found a set of keys and a phone by a register tonight and good samaritanism dictates the finder calls the last number called in an attempt to return the items to the rightful owner. So I called "Mom." A man answered.

Mr. Mom: Hello?
Me: Hi! I found this phone and a set of keys, presumably belonging to your daughter...could you tell her that her stuff is at an organic supermarket at one sixty--
Mr. Mom: I don't have a daughter.
Me: Well, I just called the number for "Mom" and...I don't know...maybe...uh...
Mr. Mom: Well...uhh...this is weird...I don't know what to tell you. I'll ask my wife when she gets home.

So, naturally I went through the phone book: Dorky Jim, Scot the love of my life, Tony. All disconnected. I then went through the texts and oh me, oh my. The inbox was filled with names, dates, hourly rates, sordid details, emoticons, comments about rock-hard abs and changing someone's life last night. I called "Kiovanna" who nearly flipped her weave, screaming they definitely needed the keys tonight and someone would be by to get them. The end result wasn't exciting (ho got her phone) (and she was NOT CUTE), but I'm telling you this story to let you know that organic food is for everyone.

Then, as I walked home to Puerto Rico, I passed by a window belonging to the First Ave Houses (projects) like always where I usually witness a domestic dispute but tonight it was a group of guys just hanging out smoking a blunt. At this point my stride always turns into a paranoid jog to whatever music is pumping; sometimes it's Da Stanky Legg but esta noche los niños got a hold of the Best TV Theme Songs. The Price is Right and Entertainment Tonight are my jams. I rounded the corner to my building and noticed the same sorry shopping cart chained to a bike rack; you definitely need to lock that shit up. Every part of el barrio forms an extended metaphor for my life of unending organic slavery.

Let them eat Carrie Prejean cake

This is an example of a dessert you eat when you work for the Meme Machine.

Happy holiday...

...for those of you not too poor to vacay! Hope you packed the essentials!

Booooooooooooobama

Krusty Kremes (remarks on today's job #2)

The store sells organic donuts and at the end of the night if I'm closing, I take the unsold ones with me to give to the homeless. Organic Krispy Kremes for the Krusties, YALL. Tonight I shoved five or six into a paper bag...dilly-dallied for fifteen minutes...took a bite of one of the donuts...decided I didn't want it...then on my way home gave the 5.8 donuts to the street people. Is it rude that I included the one I bit into? We're all friends here, aren't we?

It's Tuesday!

I don't have to freelance specifically on Tuesdays; I think it's a case of e-masochism because I want to e-ndure the written abuse via e-mail from my Tuesday e-ditor.

Unrelated:

The freaks be freakier

First shift of the season yesterday at ye olde supermarché. For those of you playing along at home, yes I will be working multiple jobs for a lil' bit, lil' bit bit. I was so relieved/nauseated to see that the same freaks shop at the store two years later.

Psycho customer: Oh my god, it's been two years since I've seen you. I'm so happy you're back.
Me: Great, thanks.
Psycho customer: Can I get your number? I've been waiting two years to go on a date with you.
Me: No. You can probably find me here, with the counter as a permanent barrier between us.
PsYcHo: Can I touch your pretty hand?
Me: Absolutely not. Let's contain ourselves. Also, the exit is right there. NEXT.

Adding to the horrifying hormone level, I work exclusively with 16 year old girls, so when one of them rang up Rachel McAdams yesterday it was, like, SQUEAL FEST 2k9. I was oblivious to her even stopping by and couldn't even remember her name afterward when trying to retell the story. It's becoming increasingly easier to be so apathetic! She's the star of The Notebook, BTW! Tell every1 we were, like in the SAME ROOM for at least 10 mins! She kinda smiled @ me! It was totes the craziest thing ever!!1! Srsly. (Okay, that's all from a text I sent to J.)

When I returned home from my employment, I had a extensive discussion with the Fraynch I live with about how Americans are just too willing to talk about personal affairs with...well...anyone. Each time I ring someone up, I hear an abbreviated version of his/her/hir (most likely hir) LYFE story. Organic speed therapy. But I'm getting good at it. My go-to advice is weave a vine out of your two pounds of fiddlehead greens (like $14) and hang yourself. Viens voir le docteur! I'll distribute my work schedule via e-mail.

Another Reason i H8 Lyfe

Wake up. Open bedroom door. Pigeon s(h)itting on a statue in the living room.