skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Wednesday, 26 May
Last night the wife and I chose the venerated path of righteous laziness and decided to go out to to a local C-average Mexican restaurant rather than confront our rather denuded fridge. The path is not always an easy path.
For one thing, it's not so much a path when you drive there. Confronted with the choice of making the journey (a crushing 15 minute walk! Uphill! In the . . . balmy evening!), we wisely chose to take the car rather than risk anything like shin splints, rapid breaths, or exertion of any kind. We went down to the garage and climbed into our sad, embarrassed car, which huddles amongst the gleaming SUVs, BMWs and assorted other beautiful vehicles, trying not to be noticed.
In the Harry Potter books, which I have been reading lately (I have this thing about resisting literary phenomenons until the fire has died down--it's stupid), and enjoying, the little wiz-kiddies all have wonderful pet familiars, such as Harry's gorgeous owl or Hermione's disturbingly ugly (but nimble) cat.
In this context, our car is Ron Weasley's narcoleptic, tatterdemalion rat named Scabbers. The rat, I mean, is named Scabbers. Our car is named "car." But I might secretly start calling it Scabbers as a tribute.
I kind of get off on Scabbers. The rat. The car, eh, not so much.
Anyway. We drove up to 15th and found some parking, and I locked up Scabbers, who sat there looking forlorn as usual, with his ass pointing right at a shiny white sports car. Be proud, Scabbers! Your ass is literally right up in that fucker's grill. (I think ill of people who have nice cars, mainly out of purest jealously. I'd like to have a nice car, but I'd really rather not pay for it. So in the end, it's much easier--not to mention vastly cheaper--to simply resent people I've never met.)
And so we walked a block or so, heading towards the restaurant; I had visions of Cadillac margaritas tickling my skull, which probably made me careless. Normally, I'd be more adept at picking up danger signals, but not that night. We approached a coffee shop, whose doors were flung wide, and patrons spilled out onto the sidewalk, sitting at little round tables. They were all looking inside, not having individual conversations or anything: they were being attentive to something.
I failed to pick up on all these dire clues, and before I knew it, I was writhing on the sidewalk, screaming in agony. You see, the coffee shop was having an open mic poetry night. And I walked right into its awful-rays emanating from the open doors. "Bone in the night/And brass in the day/She ate my hair then/Parchment will not stay." I saw a young man with curly hair saying this into the microphone, and I flopped about like a mackerel, horribly aware that I had let my guard slip. The wife, clearly enjoying my tendon-snapping throes, laughed gaily at my misery; she's a peach, but every now and then she gets back at me for my habit of fraudulently insisting that she is "stinky." This was one of those times, and she cackled as I wailed: "MAKE HIM STOP! THIS IS 2004! ALL THE COFFEEHOUSE POETRY READERS SHOULD HAVE BEEN MURDERED BY NOW!"
My bad assumption. The torture continued. "Slippery night/Overbite/I remember Ted Knight." I beat the sidewalk helplessly with flailing arms, inadvertantly achieving a rather nice 7/8 rhythm that was lost on the rest of the onlookers, who soon turned away from my suffering for more, more ghastly verse. "Deep under the night-awning, I surrendered to mercy/Before emerging once more to clean the soul-gutters/That were so beautifully filled with weeping leaves of light/It is a rape." I confess without shame that it was here I passed out.
The wife told me later that she finally took pity on me--being unconscious and all--and rescued me by kicking me stoutly in the ribs until I had rolled out of earshot of the poetrocities. I woke up in the restaurant, staring at a plate of crisp tacos and a nicely sweating glass full of margarita.
"You blacked out," she said nonchalantly. "Eat your tacos."
"I don't know if I can eat after that," I whined. "Plus, my ribs hurt to fuck."
"Poetry," she replied in a wintry tone, "it can fuck you up. The old guys knew that. Maybe you learned something tonight."
I sure did. I can make my own goddamn tacos at home from now on.
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My God! I'm so glad you're okay. I once got caught INSIDE a coffee shop having a poetry reading.
I share your vehement dislike of popular literature. I figure, "Most people are stupid, so anything that most people like must be stupid as well."
I continue to think this even though I am repeated proven wrong.
"Poetrocities" is perhaps the best new word I've come across this year.
I too am tickled purple by "poetrocities". Good work!
This wasn't Victrola, was it? And you weren't heading to Jalisco's, were you? If so, you were right in my hood, and I can't believe you drove to Jalisco's...I've always been so disappointed in their food. That place down on Pike (near what used to be AroSPACE and across the street from the skateshop) is at least a tiny bit better? Maybe?
This wasn't Victrola, was it? And you weren't heading to Jalisco's, were you? If so, you were right in my hood, and I can't believe you drove to Jalisco's . . .
Sweet Jesus. You're right on all counts. What can I say? The wife wanted Mexican, and even Jalisco's beats La Cocina, which I'm pretty sure grinds up old tires for taco meat.
Really, we're just dumb. If we had any sense, we would have just gone to our default restaurant, Machiavelli's, which never disappoints.
There are some days I read Skot
I have read *every single* Izzle Pfaff posting and I just do not get the "I never watch TV" reference/joke. Please put me out of my misery and explain...
Someone a while ago commented on the incomprehensibility of a post due to the fact that he didn't watch TV (the NYPD Blue post), and people jumped on him.
It's no big deal one way or the other, but let's not pick fights, okay? Everyone onto the Slip 'N Slide.
I never play on Slip'n'Slides. Oh, I used to, but then I figured out how much time I was wasting when I could be doing more productive things like lifting weights and writing some new poetry for open-mic night at Victrola.
Really, it has been liberating to toss out the old Slip'n'Slide. Well, that's just figurative. I still have the Slip'n'Slide, of course. But I no longer slip or slide on it. Rather, I only use it to lose my footing and then move rapidly along its surface with a minimum of friction. It's turned my life around, really.
I'm with you, brudder. Not that the poetry is neccessarily that bad. At least its disposable. Its the nauseating faux-ingratiating mental masturbation that throws the peristalsis into reverse.
La Cocina, which I'm pretty sure grinds up old tires for taco meat.
Goddamn you skot, I don't rip on your peoples' white bread and bologna sandwiches, so why do you bitch about our rubbery foodstuffs? WHY DO YOU HATE THE BROWN MAN?
Ah, I'm a poetry reader myself. I'm proud of it, normally, but suddenly I feel the need to go throw myself under a fast-moving (ha!) Greyhound bus.
And poetrocity is almost as good as boiled despair.
Even when you piss me off you have me pissing my pants with laughter.
Pay attention to Eva. Unless, of course, you've already read all the way through HP and your car really is a transmogrified Death Eater.
Somehow it all fits . . .
As it turns out, I was about fifty pages away in the Harry Potter books from finding out the truth about Scabbers when I wrote the above. However, I will still insist upon thinking of my car as a large, amusing lazy rat, rather than as a treacherous wizard in hiding.
What a bummer. I really enjoyed Scabbers. However, "Pig" is shaping up to be just as amusing.
funny. we ate at La Cocina on tuesday. I join Ariel in mocking Skot for driving to Jalisco.
Viv and I often eat there, but we walk... allllll the way from 12th. I'm partial to Galerias for the hoity-toity mexifood, but I've been going to Jalisco long enough that I know things like, "That guy got married about two years ago," and "This is where the overweight gay couple sits." So I guess I have some sort of investment in the joint.
And Ariel, the other place is called 'La Puerta.' I love that there are soooo many mexican restaurants in this neighborhood.
When will we have the woefully underfunded Skot Kurruk Appreciation Night, and where?
Aw come on. Open mic poetry was the blogging of the '80s.
Watch who you call ugly, dude. Our cat looks pretty much like what Hermione's cat is described as (or so I'm told, never read the books myself.)
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