This sidewalk is made of pavement, asphalt,
granite, slate, and wood.
New York's special blend of urb's and spices
gives the sidewalk its unique flavor.

Today’s soundtrack:
seven long year
lord knows I tried
everything I could
get along with,
my wife

Today at 8:02pm: fuming (in more ways than one)


My rent got raised so I’m fucking pissed off.

I just smoked my last goddamn Japanese cigarette. Mixed feelings.

Oh who am I kidding, it fucking bothers me.

My mind is still in Tokyo. It’s going to have to book its own flight and come back by itself. But at least it’s in Tokyo, lucky piece.

Still, the joke’s on my mind, ‘cause I’ve got my passport right here. I’d like to see it try and clear customs with no fucking paperwork.

The new waitress at the diner is really starting to fucking bother me. She just shouldn’t be a waitress. I’m the only bald Korean guy ever walks into that place, how hard is it to remember how I like my fucking coffee. She puts sugar in that bitch one more time I’m liable to decorate the wall with it. Every fucking morning we go over this.

I miss Josephine. She’d catch me coming in the front door out the corner of her eye and be slapping the lid on a proper coffee by the time I got to the counter. Nice smile, too. Sometimes she looked so tired in the mornings and it made me want to take her on a date and spoil her.

She went back to Malaysia, I don’t know what the circumstances were. I guess anyone smart enough to be a good waitress doesn’t stay a waitress for long.

You know what’s sad? I was a really good waiter. I’ve already found and rejected my life’s calling and it was slinging steaks. I started working in restaurants at fourteen and I don’t mind telling you I was the Amadeus fucking Mozart of waiting tables.

The next-to-last restaurant I waited tables at was called Spring Street. Not the joint on Lafayette, it was on West Broadway. I remember coming in early on Sunday mornings in a white shirt and black pants and unfurling tablecloths and glancing out the window at a fashion shoot taking place in the middle of the street. All day I watched other people’s lives.

One day the owner’s wife got up my ass and I quit, I think I walked out in the middle of a shift. She was a cranky piece. Anyways the place is an eyeglass store now. Looks very different and it’s always strange when I pass it, ‘cause I remember walking out of there exhausted after a shift with a fat wad of singles in my pocket and smelling like Mahi Mahi or whatever. I used to hate taking the A back to Brooklyn with all that cash and dressed like a penguin but I didn’t have much choice.

Where the hell was I, oh yeah. Now that the city’s gotten all soft, New York’s longtime vetting process has gone by the wayside. The service industry, forget about it. Waitresses, taxi drivers, bartenders, they’ve all lost their edge. It’s no longer survival of the fittest. Any punk can show up and make it. Something very, very sad about this.

The taxi drivers...jesus fuck. You gotta see some of these douchebags.

If I ever make any real money, maybe I’ll go over to that eyeglass store and buy the most expensive frames in the whole fucking place. Or maybe for old times’ sake I’ll go in there and open a bottle of wine and show the label to the cashier or whomever. But instead of pouring it for him I’ll just break it against the side of his head.

I’m so glad I didn’t die while I was still a waiter there. Or anywhere.

Anyways yeah, if you ever come to my house for dinner you’re pouring your own drinks.

Or if you get up my ass and I pop the top button and stroll out, you’ll know what I was thinking.