To the breast milk fed kid who grows up a fully nourished 6′ 2″ tall, with pleasant demeanor and perhaps biblical name, I hope you say thank you when — perhaps in line at the gates of heaven, or just Disneyland — I look up at you with longing eyes.
It was raining — or maybe I just think it was, like a false memory of it raining, convenient droplets forming a cinematic veil in front of me, like aestheticized atoms forming a friendlier universe, which is what lonely people tend to do, try to make beauty out of sadness. Without the memory of people, one settles for nature. Without nature, one settles for the mind. It doesn’t work.
Let me begin by saying that my employers have not particularly seduced me with my salary, whose compensatory effects are less than enthralling. Put simply, I get paid just enough to pay whatever the hell bills wind up in my mailbox, and if I’m lucky, at the end of the month, I can get the 16 year Scotch instead of the 12 year. Yes, I am into 16-year-olds; I hear that’s legal in France.
Winona Ryder, I really hope you Google yourself and find this article. It probably won’t be the first search result, so I hope you can scroll. Or I hope your friends, or agent, or somebody forwards this to you.
The following interview aims to exploit my mother’s confusion about the internet, its technologies, and her natural inclination towards it; transcribed in-person in the guest bedroom where I was staying, a verbatim account is offered herein.
Jon Rafman is a lucky man for at least two reasons: (1) his priceless sensibility is a veil through which he sees a more beautiful world, a precious one that reaches such a state through the very aesthetic of non-preciousness; (2) he, through scouring the near infinite territory of Google street views, is statistically even able to consistently find universal moments of “condensed being” which would make the greatest haiku poet weep.
I always get an Americano—a double-espresso with hot water, devised to mimic a regular cup of coffee; thus “Americano” is a euro-centric designation of the kind of drink it aims to be, namely, for Americans. Sometimes I see him on the weekends, downtown or something, outside of our respective jobs, and he calls out “Hey, Americano!” as he does not know my name.
In less than four hours, the purple fermented love potion which had been trapped inside for over 8 years had finally been exorcized into a glass, briefly, where it swirled as a miniature kind of hurricane-and then was emptied into my mouth, down my esophagus, where such swallowed Gods resided in my stomach, softly rippled by the faint beat of my drunken heart.
Meaning: go to work in order to obtain USD currency, as manifested abstractly via bi-weekly direct deposits into my checking account—cash I never actually touch or feel, but only see deplete when I pay my mortgage, groceries, taxes, and occasional hookers. And come back blue. Return home every day from work chronically depressed because I am stuck in this mid-30s life defined by societal expectations, financial fear, acute loneliness, spiritual resignation, and emotional denial.
And the Vietnamese are still rather touchy about the ’70s, and the Filipino—I guarantee you—are plotting a coup to take over all the cruise ships in the Pacific. Orientals seem socially benign because they/we tend to be well behaved, but that doesn’t mean they/we are not an extremely angry and hateful bunch. Oh, and my uncle hates exercise and the Jews.