Michael Kindt's Blog, page 435
December 14, 2011
December 13, 2011
Toulouse-Lautrec, an odeAre we right in seeingbetween the...
Toulouse-Lautrec, an ode
Are we right in seeing
between the pictures
that Lautrec finished
stylistic resemblances
peculiar to himself
Different worlds
shown with a cigarette
a half-empty bottle of wine
her tired face undoubtedly
haunting the cabarets
the streets
the circus devoted
The spirit reveals composition
created full of life
and not accidental
Lautrec painted ablaze with provocation
a vulture eying its prey
He was at his most eloquent
in describing the impression
of being determined by chance
:: Michael Kindt
Things I have noticed about becoming a vegetarian.
3 months ago BANG! I turned into a vegetarian. Some things have changed. For the better? I don't know.
Hungrier more often
Immediate weight loss, which has plateaued
I sleep deeper, but less
My toenails grow quicker. Seriously
Bizarre feelings of mental well-being
More frequent episodes of extreme happiness/giddiness/hypomania
Less of a desire to consume alcohol, and when I do
Hangovers no longer so bad
More and denser erections
Ok.
December 12, 2011
highsee replied to your post: The Singer Guy
Just don't ask me how I am.
That's a better...
Just don't ask me how I am.
That's a better title. BAM! Story is renamed: "Just Don't Ask Me How I Am".
The Singer Guy
edit: renamed to Just Don't Ask Me How I Am
+
It's the last night, the end of the season, my work here is done. I'm prancing around in the kitchen, drinking a beer in front of God and everyone. I got a spatula in one hand and a beer in another. Life is good.
My boss Shipwreck Steve is even drunker than I am, and periodically he pops back to see how I'm doing churning out the prime rib and sautéed onions and baked potatoes and pulled pork sandwiches and whatever the hell else. He's got on his fishing hat and Jimmy Buffet garb. Shipwreck's a retired container ship captain, you know, running a bar-and-grill here in the wilds of South Dakota, far away from any sea.
"How's it going, Mike?" he asks me, his eyes twinkling with 17 beers, a few shots, and a celebratory glass of champagne.
"Good," I say, telling the truth.
"You seem to be on top of it."
"Yep."
We've been slammed. All summer long the place rose and fell like the tide, dead one minute and rocking the next, but tonight we've been honest-to-God, balls-to-the-wall SLAMMED. Poor Brittany and Heidi are working their delectable asses off, but hopefully raking in dough.
Shipwreck even sprung for some advertising and hired a "band", i.e., a 65-year-old dude with a karaoke machine and an acoustic guitar. He played some Willie Nelson, though, so I'll give him a break.
Tomorrow is September 1st and a good and rowdy hangover, plus the first day of Fall. Screw the autumn equinox, man. When August dies, the summer dies with it.
Looking out my window I see that all the people are old. It's a veritable ice floe of gray heads out there. Clearly, this will be an early night. Come 11 pm these people will all be in bed and I will have the rest of the evening to ease into blissful unemployment.
It's almost 9 pm and the "band" launches into a Roy Orbison number. I dash out to the cooler to get another beer. Brittany grabs my arm as I'm flying by and asks me if I want a shot. Apparently her and Heidi have been enjoying their jobs as well.
"Not yet," I tell her. "Soon, though."
"Ok, let me know when you're ready."
I continue on to the cooler behind the bar and get the beer. I open it standing right there in front of God and everybody and take a long pull.
Heidi walks up to me and says, "That guy's about ready to eat."
"What guy?"
"That singer guy. He wanted me to tell you."
"Why? So I can poison him?"
She laughs. "He's says he's gonna play a few more songs then eat."
"I'll brace myself."
She laughs again and off she goes at waitress speed, causing my filthy apron to flutter in the wake.
The orders have slowed down. Most of the people have eaten and are now drinking. It's at this point that I should start the clean up, but I'm too drunk to care. Two hours ago I was fucking flying and the place looks like a typhoon went through it, which it did kinda, a typhoon named Mike.
So basically I just stand there on top of all the smashed food, drinking my beer and looking at the radio I wish I could play. "The Singer Guy" has left Orbison behind, which is a good thing because he couldn't even approach the soaring clarity of Roy's voice, and is now playing lame 50s doo-wop shit. I can't be sure, but I think he's goin' to the chapel and he's gonna get married.
Finally, eventually, the music stops and the silence is blessedly loud. Heidi turns in the last few tickets, one of which has the words THE SINGER GUY in bold sharpie across the top. He wants prime rib, does THE SINGER GUY, med-rare, with a baker.
Whistling, I put everything out and begin cleaning. I'm happy. In less than two hours I will be unemployed and free to spend the foreseeable future lounging around my apartment in boxers.
Then I see him coming. Out my window, here he comes. Moving my way, but slowly, like a tugboat, talking to people, shaking hands, being congratulated. Apparently, he's something of a celebrity in this geriatric world.
"The Singer Guy approacheth," I say out loud to no one.
Then he is here, poking his white head in through my window. "Are you the chef?" he asks.
"No," I say. "I'm the cook."
"It was a fine meal. Perfect. Thank you."
I give him a thumbs up.
"I'm Kenny," he says and sticks out his hand. "And you are?"
I take his hand in mine, smiling. "My name is Luka," I tell him. "I live on the second floor."
"Pot should be legal. It should be, but it won't because you fucking potheads aren't out there making..."
- Dave Attell
Leaving we sawthe came & leftNothing but holesjust space bereftEmpty & gonethe dark &...
Leaving we saw
the came & left
Nothing but holes
just space bereft
Empty & gone
the dark & black
No ground to stand
no up no back
December 11, 2011
Dog Men
I am convinced that some men get dogs simply to dominate them. They get off on the training, on being the alpha male in their own one man wolf pack. Through anger and noise and possible violence, they get the animal to cower, feeling awesome about it.
They want it obedient to a fault, sitting in the corner cage, speaking only when spoken to, reduced to a living machine, its own innate programming erased and replaced.
Why does this turn them on? Are they not embarrassed? If I were like that I would hide it, even from myself.
