A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Chickpea Salad

I tend to vacillate, in my day-to-day life, between trying as hard as I can to regard my body as a holy temple—suited for only the richest greens, organic-est meats, nuttiest milks, the purest and most carbonated mineral waters—and another state, wherein I adopt a diet most suited to the task of taking your average human body and, within two days, killing it.

It is in this latter state that I tend to do things like, say, drink fifty beers, hollow out lightbulbs to smoke crack in, enjoy in one sitting what I like to call a “personal pound” of ballpark French fries, and try to sleep around 165 hours a week.

But I ask you, who among us would say they haven’t in their own way done something like the same? Truly. Because we are all magnificent fuckups—such is my particular brand of humanism. The people who run the hundred-mile borderline-unwinnable Barkley race, you think they’re paragons of all-around health? People only run like that when they’re running away from something—like their baser, lesser, natures, and usually also a heroin addiction.

Which brings me back to something that I reference often in my casual life, that ancient Greek principle of sophrosyne—everything in moderation. Are there any better maxims for human living than that little nugget of wisdom, and the classic “Do unto others” formulation of the Golden Rule? (Pecunia non olet, some could argue.)

So what we have here is the kind of sandwich that seems to me to be perfect for those spirited sprees of healthy-living we all get up to from time to time. I’m probably gonna make one later. You should come over! I live downtown, by the highway. My apartment is really super-cool.

Anyway. This is basically a thickened-out hummus spread, so this sandwich, in that light, is almost self-explanatory. Hummus is freaking delicious. But you have to make your own. My god, my god, it’s so simple, and so worth it, and so cheap and economical. I’ve already linked a sandwich-specific recipe, but for real basic hummus, you basically just need to throw a can of mostly-drained chickpeas, some tahini, a few cloves of garlic, lemon juice, some salt and pepper, whatever else you want, and some olive oil in a blender, blend it smooth, and then serve. It tastes so dang good. Serve with who gives a shit, and ravenously consume.

Anyway, that’s hummus. This spread, if we’re going full-vegan (which we are), requires vegenaise, and also onions or scallions (or carrots or green onions or seriously, whatever) chopped up and mixed in, to provide necessary crunch. Maybe raisins. Is anyone else feeling raisins?

Look at that frickin’ healthful monster. So good. So good for you. Enjoy with La Croix coconut sparkling water, red drink, Diet Coke, or whiskey. Like it’s said—everything in moderation.

May this sandwich help you on your way. I pray it serves you well and leaves you better for encountering it. Life’s journeys pose challenges to us all. Chickpea Salad Sandwich: Sticks to your ribs, not to your heart.

Photo Credit: Simple Veganista

A Journey Through The Sandwiches—Patty Melt

Once when I was younger, I asked my younger brother to take out me and my father to—and this is a rough quotation—”a nice local place” for dinner. We were going, two kids and papa, to see an Oklahoma City Thunder game, which is a thing we do, naturally, of course. (You may have heard that we are the best fans in the world, which is always awkward to mention alongside the shared and truly heartfelt sentiment, “condolences, Seattle.”)

So I ask my brother to take me and our dad to a good place. Not a chain—no Outback Steakhouse, right? Let’s get adventurous. My family is very midwestern—I’m always trying to push them into some sort of realm of adventurousness, culinary or otherwise.

One would think, my brother, two years younger than me—his name is Nicholas—would share a similar sort of sentiment—some high-minded pretentiousness—some shit that’s on my level. And indeed, he was, on some level, on my level. But it was the most jarring, shocking thing.

So there we were, me and my dad, driving into the twilight dusk of Oklahoma City, down the 35 Interstate into the fucking Industrial District, where my brother, a mad trickster of some sort, meets us in the parking lot of a gas station, inside of which is a buffet, the name of which is illuminated on a sign just beneath the sign of the gas station itself, which is called the Pesco Stopping Center. The name of the local restaurant that this stopping center houses is the Iron Skillet. There are also showers, for truck drivers. Adjacent to the station is a sprawling abandoned hotel. This is a place where one dumps bodies. No light shines there after dark.

So this was all extremely funny. He admitted under protest that, when he was drunk once, this spot had been a fantastic out-of-the-way place to get a bite to eat. A real gem, as it were.

Anyway, the patty melt is a sandwich you should think of as like a hamburger, but cozier. Everything is given room to stretch out and be its sloppiest self, here. We’re talking chewy, toasty, sourdough bread, thick of crust and soft inside, housing an American-made hamburger patty, and some Americanized sliced cheese. Cheddar, Swiss, Kraft single? Blend them all. Melt them all. Make a stacker. Lace with lettuce. Caramelize onions in hot oil, and layer them liberally inside. Moisten juicily with Thousand Island dressing—the crown jewel of it all, the flavor synthesizer, a close, close cousin, not so secretly, to that savory-sweet national treasure, Big Mac sauce.

Motherfucker, check your pretensions at the gate. Sandwiches are meant to be enjoyed. Life is meant to be enjoyed. Showers are meant to be enjoyed, at a truck stop, next to a restaurant where I eat with my family. Life is stupid. Serve with fries

Photo Credit: Serious Eats

Comprehensive List of Languages I’ll Never, Ever, Ever Learn

In 2011, a writer named Linda Holmes wrote a piece for NPR that did that rare thing most things you read don’t do, and carved out permanent residence in my mind. Called “The Sad, Beautiful Fact That We’re All Going To Miss Almost Everything”, it’s a great read, and I refer to it, often. There’s an elegance to its simplicity, its fundamental correctness; despite its revelatory nature, it’s one of those things you encounter that makes you go, oh, duh. And then you loop its lessons into your life and casually pretend that you came up with them. Give it a read; it made me feel good about things.

In this spirit, the following is a complete and comprehensive list of languages that I’ve decided I will never, ever learn. I doubt, soberly and in fact, that I will ever even really try. The others are either on-lock, or in-progress. I encourage everyone to make lists like this. It’s good to know your limits. Boundaries can make one feel quite safe.

1. Catalan.

2. Shona.

3. Xhosa.

4. Javanese.

5. Hiligaynon.

6. Bangi-me.

7. Kannada.

8. Amharic.

9. Assamese.

10. Esperanto.

11. Galician.

12. Gujarti

13. Linear A.

14. Ao.

15. Sindarin.

16. Oppish.

17. Berber.

18. Quechua.

19. Bodo.

20. Yue.

21. Wu.

22. Udu.

23. Telugu.

24. Yoruba.

25. Chhattisgarhi.

26. Kx’a.

27. Afrihili.

28. Nadsat.

29. Northern Min.

30. British Sign Language.

31. Setswana.

32. Al Bhed.

33. XML.

34. Laal.


I will likely also never “get” the International Phonetic Alphabet, read Harry Potter, or have an honest sit-down viewing of the 1915 seminal silent epic film Birth of a Nation.

Thank you for your time. Good luck on all your journeys. Selah.

Photo Credit: Barneys New York

Extremely Good Reasons to Vote for Me in 2016

You may have read on the front page of several major newspapers today that I am, officially, running for the office of President of the United States. In keeping with the forgotten tradition of former Emperor Norton, I also pledge, with my candidacy, to protect Mexico.

Here are myriad other reasons to make time on Election Day to vote for me to be the President of the United States.

1. I am, insanely, cool.

2. I am insanely kind of heart.

3. I don’t take shit from anybody.

4. I am an—insanely—good listener.

5. I am a tender lover.

6. I have been President before.

7. I am just as likely to destroy the world, violently and insanely, with nuclear weapons and rocket launchers, as any other asshole. In fact, I might be less likely to do that.

8. But I would if I had to.

9. I would do all of the cool radical shit that the people seem to want. I would grow weed on the White House lawn. I would ban Jesus. I actually would take all of the guns. I probably shouldn’t say any of this! But I will, insanely, do it.

10. There’s a part in the Divine Right of Kings doctrine that’s about me. I’m included. I count.

11. I’ve served this country for many years as a sitting judge for the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, with an exemplary record as a seasonal member of the Summer Court. We deal with the craziest and most insane cases.

12. I have three times in three separate municipalities been elected King of Spring Break.

13. I hate McDonald’s hamburgers. I would destroy them!!!

14. I am unmarried. The world would enjoy the swinging lifestyle of me, the Bachelor President, pansexual nightmare.

15. People will mostly be able to get away with almost anything, except the banks!!!


17. I am seventeen years old and in high school.

18. I am ridiculously smart for my age.

19. I’m smarter than every president combined!!!

20. I don’t do any dumb embarrassing shit.

21. I’m the kind of guy that you could grab a beer with.

22. Do you like the Grateful Dead?

23. Why not ?

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Toast Hawaii

Hawaiian cuisine is so lovable. It’s a whole kit and kaboodle of a culinary culture, built up from, it seems, two pillars: the stuff that grows and lives and swims around there, and everything that colonial people just had in their pockets when they showed up and moved in on the natives. None of it should work together, but it does. There’s a charming harmony to it. I bet syncing up went down like this.

Stacy from the Big Island: “Hey, my folks are Polynesian, want some poi? We have poi. It’s sweet, sort of a paste, like pudding.”

Johnnie from the 48: “Word, I love pudding. And I’m from America. Y’all eat ham?”

Stacy: “We’re down with ham.”

Johnnie: “Dope. I got this fake stuff in a metal box; the army gets it for me. You can’t even taste the difference, it’s the greatest thing in the world.”

Stacy: “Word.”

*they fistbump as a flag unfurls. There is applause, songs, mass flash photography. The date: August 21, 1959.*

I mean, seriously. Those kids down there eat Spam. Like, they’re down with it, it’s not a shame thing. They eat Spam in crazy ways. You couldn’t carry a bag of these around without breaking some hearts in my town. They’d treat you like they saw you eating dog food. The mere thought of a guy squatting in an alley eating tinned Spam with a plastic spoon, hands shivering from cold, and strokes? Good god. That’s dire.

Me, personally? On Spam? Hell, I’m for it. Anyway, there isn’t any Spam on this sandwich. Matter of fact, it’s not Hawaiian either.

The Toast Hawaii is a German thing, if you can wrap your head around it. It may have taken its inspiration from the flavors of the Hawaiian islands, but all signs indicate this simple little slice of Heaven was cooked up by the German Gordon Ramsey, Clemens Wilmenrod himself. You may have not have heard of him, memorialized forever in song and story, so famed in his homeland and abroad for his improvisation in the kitchen during times of austerity. like a regular Clara Cannucciari.

And really, I feel like no one needed me to tell them all of this. You can tell at a glance that this is a simple sandwich, of the rare one-bread variety. Open-face, they call them. It’s a simple construction, and also a simple pleasure, most common in west Germany during very trying times. All you need to make it is the fixins and a flame—toast, ham, cheese, pineapple ring, and a maraschino cherry. Hell. I dunno about you, but I could go for one of those.

I wonder if they’re any good with Spam?

Photo Credit: Vagabond Summer

Youtube Rabbit Hole: Great Depression Cooking

Wisdom > Power > Courage holla holla hyrule BOO-yah

Tattoo Guy: “You want to get the Triforce tattooed… where?”

Me: *v.quiet* “Uhhhmm, yes, just around my eyes, my pupils…nmnn..

Tattoo Guy: “Speak up. You have to tell me what you really want. Don’t be embarrassed, kid. Where do you want me to tattoo the Triforce?”

Me: *beginning v.quiet but my voice just rises & rises into a roar* “—my pupils & my eyes & in my ESSENCE & my SOUL!!!”

He jams the needle in my third psionic eye as my body is propelled upward into the clouds with sword in hand towards journeys most fantastic

Youtube Rabbit Hole: Boozie Bad Azz

Drunk Monkeys Anthology Volume 3 On Sale Now

Ah! You know, I suppose it’d be prudent, wise and kind for me to pimp this.

So, Drunk Monkeys is an (I believe? Primarily?) California-based web blog lit journal film crit megalith of a writing thing that I have written for that is producing works of writing that I and many more would call exemplary. I love it like the dickens; I love it with my soul!

A few months back or maybe more, the editorial staff at Drunk Monkeys was so kind as to accept a story of mine that I’d submitted, called Awake, which you may have read or heard of, for which I won an Adult Creative Writing Contest award from the Tulsa City-County Library. (This award, which I am extremely proud of, ensured the enshrinement of my story, from the day of that award ceremony forward, and henceforth into time immemorial, into their tucked-away archives, paper-clipped together, typos and all, clapped up inside a very specific and—y’know, one would hope—bulletproof binder.) This was the story about the guy that cannot sleep to death. It’s very Stephen King-y, which should surprise not many—King’s a major inspiration. The way he welds Americana with its sick, tormented underworlds, and makes it look so effortless. Who cares if his endings suck? Even if they always suck? Except for, maybe, Hearts in Atlantis, if that counts, which it should, because that book is great. Stephen King wrote a story about the American dream blooming in the Vietnam season; I wrote a sad, sad one-off about a guy that fuckin’ died.

Anyway, that insomnia story’s in this book.

And so are a lot of other things, actually. Better things—the sort of thing you maybe haven’t read before. Like Christopher James’ sexotron story; that was pretty fuckin’ funny.  And a poem by Michael Passafiume that made me sorta wanna cry, that’s in there too.

Anyway, I got the thing for free. I read it in an afternoon. A cooler me would leak it, but, y’know, well, idk. A saner me prevails.

That said, the Drunk Monkeys Anthology Volume 3 paperback (which I would happily arrange to sign and slobber on for you, should that be your bag) is available here.

And the Kindle edition of the Anthology, which costs $2.99, is available here! Shit! I bet some of you fools can even figure out how to get that for free!

All jokes aside, thank you sincerely for supporting me in what I try and like to do. And thank you, incidentally, to the editorial staff of Drunk Monkeys for supporting it. If you all didn’t seem to like it, I wouldn’t be here. So all my best to you, friends, always. Selah.

Drunk Monkeys header courtesy drunkmonkeys.us

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Cucumber

Do you recall when we discovered yesterday that the bacon sandwich is—according to wikipedia—a sandwich of UK origin? Do you remember how we all found that at least a little bit odd? No more. Let us not feel alienated. Check this sandwich out: this sandwich knows where it comes from. This soft and crispy little glory is as English as can be.

I wanna make it mighty clear right now that I fuck with cucumber sandwiches. These are delicate sandies, in a whole different corner of the proverbial store from the po’boys previously discussed. Where some sandwiches are all about math—y’know, with a focus on girth, mass, and real big loads—this sandwich is about craft. Art. A lightness of touch. If “poofter” weren’t to this day still an insult of some fair degree, I’d say this is the kind of sandwich that would best be handled by fingers rather poofty indeed.

We commence with crustless white bread. Cut it gently. It must be soft.

Butter your bread with room temperature butter. Butter it lightly—lightly…all the way to the edge of the slice.

Now, the cucumbers should be sitting aside with a thin all-over coating of lemon juice and salt. They should be skinless, thin enough to snap in twain, but not so thin as tissue. They should not be particularly wet. Take care, love, careful, careful. Mustn’t moisten the sandwich.

Cucumber sandwiches, as you can imagine, are a light snack, a daytime snack. Polite patio finger food for a visit with mom. The kind of sandwich that you eat with sunglasses on, absentmindedly. Like little cu-cu wafers.

There’s also always been something calming about the essence of the cucumber—the quality of its water, its coldness, its reputation for being refreshing. It’s a sandwich that feels good to eat. We’ve started very meat-heavy, I know—but our journey through the sandwiches will be an odyssey for omnivores. Make sure to bring your open mind.

Photo credit: Telegraph.co.uk

Tea Recommendation: Twinings

Youtube Rabbit Hole: Allie Knight’s trucking videos

Another Fun Thing that We Could Do, IN SPACE

I hope that you’re enjoying the occasional lunchtime sandwich thing. I get fulfillment out of writing them—heck, it’s my pretty earnest hope that we’re all getting something out of it. Hungry, maybe.

Anyway, that’ll continue. But I’ve been brainstorming this evening, yes I have… some tornadic inspiration! This most blustery eve. We’ve figured out how to make the site a lunchtime hotspot. But what about the nighttime? What about… Twitter After Dark…?

I propose we do a nocturne journey through the art of space music. I don’t know shit about it. Neither do you. Let’s discover it together…

All… freaky-like…

…In the Dark…?

Youtube Rabbit Hole (Tell Me You’re Not Down With This): And the Stars Go With You

Photo credit: pics-about-space.com

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Bacon sandwich

There was this bug-eyed ghost of a woman on America’s Next Top Model one time, at least ten years ago, who mentioned somewhere in the course of the show that among her favorite, favorite things were her grandmother’s bacon sandwiches. Which struck me as odd, for a model. She was very lanky. Very pale. Here’s the picture she provided.

Love that photo. That was on TV! She looks intoxicated, doesn’t she? Intoxified by bacon.

Anyway. This is a solid sandwich. Some white toast, or even just plain white bread, four or five strips of freshly-fried-up, crunchy, crumbly bacon? Little pools of grease still bubbling in the contours? Come the fuck on. That’s a post-run protein slammer of a sandwich, that is. Bacon sandwich and a big glass of chocolate milk. Fuck your heart.

Incidentally, this sandwich, according to the list, originates from the United Kingdom, which, okay, I can buy that. I have a good feeling that colonial America had a pretty deece familiarity with the so-called bacon sarnie well prior to 1776. How else would this nation have become a thing? What other fuel could sustain this fire?

One could argue that we left the simple bacon sanger behind as part of our mission to incorporate bacon into everything else, which is cool, and fine. But there’s always something to be said for simplicity.

Not that the bacon sandwich needs to be simple. In the UK, they’re often served with a topping of ketchup or brown sauce, which is a real thing! Bottled and everything, and it’s not gravy. What an amazing name for a thing. I’d slap that on a bacon sandie, tell you what. Fry up some onions for that bad boy. Feel like a real supermodel at lunch today.

Now more than ever.

I’m a beauty queen.

Photo credit: Popsugar.com

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—The Elvis

This is a heartbreakingly good-tasting sandwich. I mean that literally—this sandwich does arterial damage. If ever there was a sandwich with a body count—a confirmed kill—it’s this one. So it’s also an emotional wallop, should you happen to have a certain affection for the King.

My grandmother’s name was Shigeno Nango Morrow. Born in Japan, she married my grandpa, Jim, while he was stationed o’er there, in yon land of the rising sun, during the Korean War. She came back with him to Oklahoma, where she learned to eat with a fork and knife, instead of chopsticks, after wedding him. My mother was among their four children, raised in Tulsa, Collinsville, and thereabouts, living—I would hope—modestly.

The likely truth is that they lived in poverty. My mother bears the scars, but rarely talks about it, so I don’t know. But she hates looking cheap. Cheap reminds her of her childhood. I buy generic because I grew up cozy—she shuns generic because she was raised on it. People have their reasons, one learns, growing up.

My grandma, her mother, died before I ever got to meet her. My heart breaks every time I think about it. I grew up feeling robbed of her—here is this great lacuna, this missing link, the living symbol of my heritage. I love her with my entire heart—her round face, her olive-shaped eyes, her inexplicably curly black hair. I see my face in her face—I see my humor in her smile. I feel like she would like me. I know I would adore her.

I have heard, perhaps apocryphally, that her favorite song was an Elvis song, a beautiful song called “Can’t Help Falling In Love“, which is worth a listen if you haven’t heard it. My mother says my grandpa used to sing this song to her; when I hear it, I imagine it in his baritone, a younger, taller, slimmer man, so much more severe in mien than the jolly G-Pa I grew up with. I’ve never heard him sing it in my life, but I imagine it. Singing to my mother as a baby, singing to his bride when she fell ill. Sometimes I cry.

I don’t know how much this song meant to my grandmother, but I know it means a lot to me. It reminds me of my family—it reminds me of her, and connects us through time and space, in its tiny way.

Anyway. The Elvis sandwich is fuckoff delicious. It’s just a master class in sweet/savory harmony. Peanut butter, bacon, and banana, that’s it, fried altogether or served up plain on toasted bread. The flavor combination is decadent. Despite how filling it is, it’s also compulsively edible. My advice is make two—because if you can eat one, you’ll want another.

Make it if you’ve got the makings. It’s good for you, soul-wise. Trust me on this one, dammit; why you actin’ so suspicious?

Photo credit: Butter Than Toast

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Beef on weck

In order to get to the Wikipedia page for List_of_sandwiches, you have to either go directly to the page, search for it within Wikipedia, or Google it. This, I don’t recommend, because up until the final lap, Google tends to think you’re looking for a List of Sandy Hook victims, and that’s devastating. I didn’t need that. I still cry. No one needs to be dwelling on that sort of senseless carnage when it comes time to think of sandwiches, so please, bookmark the sandwich page. Save it to your home screen. It’s very convenient.



Anyway—today our attention turns to an obscure tradition of the east coast, the sandwich known as beef on weck, an example of which you can see up top. I’ve never had it, but I would.

Here we have what appears to be a relatively, if you’ll excuse the parlance of a gourmand, “normal-ass” roast beef sandwich, which would put it in a pretty high tier regardless of the specific alchemy it takes to turn a beef on bread to beef on weck. So what are the distinguishing features here?

  1. The bread. Take a closer look at that roll—they call that a kummelweck roll, from the Austrian kummelweckerl, which is a good name for a bread. This roll is made special not by sesame seeds, but fruits of caraway, products of the carum carvi plant. Small and similar-looking to sesame seeds, but a few shades darker, they are abundant in healthy natural minerals, such as calcium. They taste of anise.
  2. Another important part of the bread is that there is salt on it. You forget these kinds of things sometimes, but most breads, as served generally, do not come with extra salt. Interesting.
  3. The beef is rare, thin, and served in its own juices. That’s right mother fucker, take a dip of au jus. Auuuh JUS! JUS JUS JUS! Fun as hell to say that. Fun as hell to translate it. “Oy, gimme a beef on weck in its own juice, love, eh? Own juice, pour it in its own juice.” There’s a lot of iron in roast juice, which helps if you’re anemic. I am, slightly, and once when I was nineteen I stood up, and got so dizzy that I passed out for five seconds. You know what would’ve happened had there been a good guy there with a beef on weck for me before I dared to rise? That’s right, I would’ve married that fool.
  4. On top of the whole shebang is a load of horseradish, which is just my favorite little “fuck you” flavor. I love what the taste of horseradish does to the inside of my nose—it’s like you stuck a hair dryer in there. Did you know that most prepared wasabi is made from horseradish, because the real thing is so scarce? It sort of reminds me of how so many fish that are sold are mislabeled. Mislabeled in massive numbers, with reckless abandon. I’m serious, look it up. Matter of fact, I’m starting to get a little bit suspicious of the entire sushi industry. I’m seeing a lot of artifice, the more I think about it. I probably couldn’t take another lie.

Anyway, this fuckin’ sandwich looks good. They’re most common in western New York, in the vicinity of Buffalo, and for that, I’m proud. I have nothing to do with the city of Buffalo, but I have always admired the spirited nature of its people. Videos like this start to make sense, when you think about the beef on weck. This is a proud people, a proud tradition, and a kickass corner of the lower 48. Salut.

Photo: A beef on weck from TC Wheelers Bar & Pizzeria, Tonawanda NY.

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—the Po’boy

Po’boys are decadence. The goal is to mash as much meal into your maw as can be managed, jowls drippy with a creamy, hot, succulent sauce, tang of the lemon juice everywhere, and eyes, eyes teary with the pleasure.

Po’boys are a sort of ecstasy, existing not for any other reason than the number one imperative of any rational brain, which is, at any cost, keep this body alive. Your original, side of the gas station, bottom of the barrel, garden-variety perfunctory po’boy? That buys you about eight hours. A real fat one buys you a day. I’ve heard of one that lets you float for three days, impervious to any mortal interference, lil flecks of fried shrimp skin crinkling in your teeth, endowing you with power, and the greatest breath.

A good po’boy does something to you, where by the time he’s in your belly, you’re treating him like your own son. Thank you, son.

A real N’awlins émigré relayed to me one evening a simpler construction, that po’boys are love—and I agree with him, that’s what they are. A po’boy is greater than the sum of its parts in a visceral, nigh-religious way—indeed, a kind of magic.

Locally, I like LaSalle’s. 6th and Boston or some shit. They do these big monsters, man, comes wrapped in wax paper slung over the shoulder like a rolled-up rug; lettuce, tomato, onion, hot sauce, pile of shrimp in there. Or a pile of roast beef! I saw crayfish once. Pile of errything.

With this said, welcome to my new project: a journey through the sandwiches, in which every day, except on weekends, I will take an entry from my favorite website, List_of_sandwiches, and write about the sandwich in that entry—how it inspires me, and heck, how it makes me feel.

Sometimes I might eat one, and take a pic of it. I might fly to far-flung Belgium for a gen-u-ine demi-baguette mitraillette. Which is what…? Who knows! It’s got some sauces, and meats, and stringy things from the ground, all pulverized onto a toasty roll probably, so what the fuck? Are you in or are you out? What other way are we going to experience these sandwiches but the right way… my way?

Anyway, here you go. From Crabby Jack’s, New Orleans.

Disheveled-ass Depression Day Rigout Lvl.2

Wake up with a sound like this: “hoACK”

Brush hair into an angry ponytail. Very voluminous. Bangs lazily tucked behind the ears like little curlicues in what is rapidly becoming your Slugday Style. 

Wrinkled shirt from the floor. Pants from the top of the clothes pile, worn twice previously. 

City looks the same as yesterday, no smiling faces in the streets. No one around this corner, really.

No breakfast. Mouth still tastes like candy.

The sky is gray; your head is dull and aching. It feels like someone’s trying to talk to you. 

Who, from where? Can’t dwell on it. 

You dreamed, again, of being chased. Trying to escape. The fear of being caught, a charge of fraud, or framed for worse. Don’t wanna dwell on any of that. These are the indicators of fear.

Have four of these pills, and leave the rest here, in your closet, under something, somewhere hidden. You hopefully will not need them.

This week has been so weird. Tomorrow, you’ll know exactly why. 

I’ve spent half of it musing, smiling and shining on all the good things, feeling lightweight, carefree, free. Now my mind is at the other side, toes peeking over the cliff’s edge, eyes angling down every inch of the one hundred and something foot drop.

That’s what it feels like. That’s right. 

Lurch forward with dread. Lace up the boots you need to polish, with the shoestrings so long-frayed. 

Put on your big thick jacket, coil up into the carapace. You cannot find me here

Anyway. Fuckin’ Mondays, right?