Brotherhood of the Box

He speaks above the whir of fans in the darkness where the crispness of the air has a bite that stinks like old yogurt.  "Legend holds that, in time before time, there were but two factions: the perishable and shelf-stable. But as way gives on to way, the division of loyalties grew greater spread yet. Along the wayside of history fell the shelf-stable: archaic relics gathering dust and forever un-rotated. The custies required more from their product. And our founding father, Adam Trask devised a way to ship fresh products from land to land. In Trask we trust. We persevere. We are lords of the cold."
"We are lords of the cold." countless voices repeat in the darkness.
"It is through our might that the custies gain the grace of fresh food. It is our tireless toiling that grants them sustenance. We are the beginning and end of civilization."
"From time immortal man sought freshness," a choir of voices responds.
"There's none fresher than that which we give willingly."
"We are but chill on the frost," the voices chant.
"Today we welcome to our ranks young Stephen. He is being awarded the rank of neophyte. I grant unto him the green hoodie of initiation. The green of his hoodie represents a new life that he is born into," the speaker wears a black hoodie, all but imperceptible against the shadows of the room.
Stephen, shivering, takes the sweatshirt from the outstretched hands and burrows into it.
"We are the frost, we are the hum, we are the-" the voices begin to reply as  the fluorescents come up. Stephen's eyes grow wide. As light bathes the narrow and white-walled room, a door opens with a hiss like an airlock and beyond it stands the figure of a man, smiling.
"Stephen, come on," says the newcomer. "You work in a grocery store." Amidst the man in the black hoodie stand others, shrouded in hoodies. The hem of their cowls almost reaches where the light bounces against the diamond plating of the floor.
"You have no authority here," shouts a shrouded monk. The man at the doorway smirks.
"Nor you. C'mon, Stephen." The gathering of hoods hisses as Stephen rises from his knee and walks towards the door.
"None have ever left the brotherhood of the box and lived to tell the tale," says the man in black. Stephen quickens his pace.
"Of course they haven't," says the man at the door. "They've got better things to do with their lives."
Stephen slams the door behind him as he leaves. Several men in their twenties stand around in hoodies staring at the one in black. Among them, one speaks up, "he had tiny hands. He would have been perfect."
Stacks of yogurt and milk-crates surround the men in hoodies. "You think I don't know that?"
The man in the black hoodie shrugs. He takes his hood down. This is Fred. Fred sighs. "Just restock the eggs and the orange juice and get back to me." Two men in brown hoodies salute him and Fred sits down on a throne made of overturned milk-crates.

Morning writing

         Once upon a time, there was a little boy who had become trapped in the body of an adult. You see, he had been a child for all of his life and had grown very fond of the experience. But one day, his body was no longer his. His body had grown several feet. He had stubble. People called him sir.
And the child inside the body remained unable to process these changes, which had happened so subtly and over so much time that there was no moment when they actually happened yet there they were.
Suddenly, the world had so many demands and it seemed as though it was impossible to meet them all. The little boy was terrified by the constant bombardment of responsibility and wanted nothing more in the world than to shrink back down to the size of the middle-schooler he felt he was inside.
So the little boy looked up at the light-polluted night sky and when he finally saw a star, he made a wish with all his heart. He scrunched his eyes closed and felt every grown-up piece of him willing himself to be young again. He bargained and pleaded with the cosmos to return him to being a child. An ache, starting in his chest, crept through his body until it reached his eyes and a single droplet rolled down his cheek.
He went to bed that night, expecting to wake up ready for the first day of seventh grade.
But that’s not how the world works, and the next day they turned off the water.
The little boy spent the day spinning in his mind coming to terms with the fact that there was no going back. That he would never again effortlessly exist with his means of living provided simply because he was.
The little boy took a deep breath and pulled out his pocketbook and wrote out a check to the Department of Water and Power. Then he got dressed, ate an apple, and left for work.
The next day, the little boy woke again, still in the oddly aged body of some hairy twenty-something. He rose from bed with a sigh and wrote another check, this time to the Gas Company. Then he got dressed, ate an apple, and left for work.
Everyday the little boy got up, paid for the things he needed, ate the food he had to, and worked the job he needed to pay for the things that kept him alive. Everyday it got easier and easier. He learned to manage his income and expenditures.
Then, something magical happened. The phone rang and it was the little boy’s mother. She asked him how he was and if was seeing anyone and that she missed and loved him and oh, won’t you come visit soon, I know you’re so busy but I’d love to see you. And the little boy told her he loved her too and he’d love to visit, but maybe next month.
He said good-bye and hung up the phone, returning to his morning bill paying. As he comfortably slid a bill into an envelope that was just the right size for it, a proud smile crept across his bearded face.

Not quite a tweet.

I’m not very quick to form opinions. I’m not quick to form opinions, I’m still not sure how I feel about Swiss cheese. I know deep down that it’s cheese and therefore, I should like it. I know that I love cheese, the Platonic form of cheese, but I just don’t enjoy Swiss. I’ve never, not a single time, have I put Swiss cheese in my mouth and said “this is a pleasant experience.” But I still grab a slice from the platter at every party.

The Pho King

I was sick the last few days, and naturally craved soup. I, being the well cultured individual that I am, decided that I wanted to get pho. My decision was 80% based on a joke involving being the "king" of pho.

My fever had lead me to an odd sleep pattern. I found myself waking up at all odd hours of the day. Seven, Eight in the morning. I finally managed to gulp down enough green-dyed jager-flavored cough syrup to pass out until a far more manageable hour. Nine PM. At which point, I made the choice to seek the aforementioned pho.

Fortunately, I found a 24 hour pho place that was only a few miles from my place. Pho Citi in Silverlake. I arrived to be greeted by the kindly gentleman behind the counter whose v-neck was deep enough it revealed his chest stubble. He asked me to wait a minute. It's cool, I get it. I've worked shitty jobs too. He's got shit to do. And I had to decide which type of Pho was acceptable to order. Trite and tendon? Really?

I figure out what I want and set the menu back to let him know, ya know, I'm ready to order. No reaction, but it looks like he's kind of busy, so I don't say anything. Another customer comes to the counter. He helps them and goes back to what he's doing.

"I think I'm ready to order," I say. And he gives me this look like fucking whatever. Look, dude. Your job sucks. Bummer. Do it anyway.

I order the rare beef pho and he places the order with the cook in the back. In the meantime, his shift relief arrives. "I had to deal with the bitchiest customer today. It was like you wouldn't even believe." They do their respective eyerolls and the cook puts my to-go container at the window.

The cashier hands me my bag with the soup in it. And in the most bullshit passive-aggressive voice says "Thanks so much for coming. Come again soon." I honestly think he does shit like that to get a reaction out of people. Because his job is so tiresome, he can't help but want to provoke people with his sarcastic crybaby bullshit.

Pho was great though. Good Pho and I passed right the fuck back out.

I woke up at like 1pm. I slept like a narcoleptic. No, like a narcotics addict. I finally came out of my small coma and wanted more pho. So I drove back to this place, figuring asshole's shift was finally over.

I was right. When I arrived, he wasn't there. Turns out, he doesn't work 18 hour shifts so his job isn't really as bad as he thinks and he needs to shut the fuck up and stop being such a little girl. Or just kill himself. Seriously. No one cares about how bad his job is in this economy.

I arrived back at the 24 hour Pho place. At lunch time. The door is wide open, so I walk in. Two dudes are sitting at tables doing paper work. One of them tells me that they're closed.

"What?"
"Closed. No open."
"You're... 24 hours... "
"No Pho."
"But it's lunch time. All you serve is Pho."
"No pho."
"I really just want some soup. Do you know somewhere else that sells pho?"
"I don't work there. Go now!"
"You don't have any like... in the back I could—"
"No Pho! Go now!"

So yeah. Things got a little heated. Turns out, passive aggressive is a better attitude than aggressive aggressive, but aggression has no place in a business model. Especially not in a food service job that lives on tips. You wanna be a dick? Get a real job. The rest of us have shitty jobs and we just have to deal with it cause we know we're not hot pho king shit.

Space Brain Fever

I've been sick the last few days, and that's my excuse for not updating. Please, enjoy the following images I made while succumbed by Space Brain Fever.

Prom Queen of California

Fuck this town. The stars are ground down to gravel and paved in the sidewalk for everyone to walk on. It’s a dying behemoth, heaving under the weight of its final throes. Everyday a hundred thousand small town prom queens from all over Nebraska, Idaho, and all the other loser states come here to pay homage to the letters in the hills. Tomorrow they’ll bring me my coffee when I’m too hung over to speak. Back home they were hot shit. Now they spit in my eggs cause they know they’re not going anywhere, but they can’t go back.

They write their letters home. How they saw a movie star. A real-life movie star. They don’t mention he was a shitty tipper. They don’t talk about how many promises they’ve been seduced by. Then they’re thirty and the game is over. Just another weathered face, tired of filling my cup. There’s nothing left for them but they can’t go home. This is just how life is sometimes. But they can’t go home. Then they’re forty. An old apron on laundry day, hanging on the rim of the hamper, stained by strawberry jelly and God knows whatelse.

Fuck this town. If you’re not drowning you just haven’t realized it yet. So breathe in deep as you get off the bus. That haze is your life now. Fingers to the bone every day and you think you’re ready. Ha.

But buy that ticket, because fuck this town. Ain’t anywhere else on earth that’s got what she has. She’s the brightest star in the sky and you know she’ll kill you but the glint in her eye seduces you. She reels you in and sets you down on that couch. She’s all “ra-ra” and kisses your wounds and whispers those promises in your ear as you’re about to fall asleep. She’s a tease, but you’d do anything to have her. She’s the prom queen of California and God you want her so bad. Give it to her hard. Fuck this town.

No Careers for Young Men

In an interview yesterday, I was told that I wasn't interviewing for a job, or a career. I was interviewing for a lifestyle. It's an unrelenting force. You take it home with you. Your vacations become time with clients. Your hobbies become golf with executives. It consumes you and never lets you go.

Honestly, that sounds amazing. I want a job like that. I need something that I'm so passionately possessed by, I can't let it go. I don't want a job that I leave at the office. I want something that takes up all my time and grinds me to bits and leaves me wanting more.

Because I don't want a Hollywood career. I want the Hollywood life.

I've known it since I got here, that this is a beautiful city of people willing to help if you can help them. I'm always trying to help. You put enough in and you start to get returns. I've seen it already, and I'm gonna keep seeing it.

I don't know if I got the position. But I do know that if I did, I'm gonna be the best damn assistant possible. Not because it's good for my career, cause that's not a thing. And not because it's what my boss wants. I'll be the best damn assistant possible, because I have to be. I refuse to settle for anything less.

I'm not gonna stop till I'm more than everything I want to be.