Lost

I drove upstate for the weekend to Accord, NY. There it is above, marked by the "A".

I drank beers with the guys. I climbed halfway up a waterfall. I caught bugs in a bug jar and shot a .22 rifle at bottles of Snapple.

It was the first time I had made the trip without referring to a map and I figured it would be just as easy to get back, except it was not. I took one turn that felt unfamiliar and kept going, thinking I could always turn around, that I could stop at some gas station and ask for directions--but the road wound up and down across nameless mountains, with the sun setting behind all those trees. And I was lost and cursing and shouting Avett Brother songs and I remembered something my new boss had told me, since he shares his favorite literary lines with me every time we converse; something about how we always come back, that growing up is a continual regression, that we seek what we had in childhood the further away we get from it.

Verbatim, that quote is not, but the sentiment rang through my head, and I thought about the weekend of freedom, away from the pizzeria, with good friends in a place where little changes--watching water splash over moss-covered rocks, spilling out from somewhere intangible, coming back all over again. So I turned back on my choice and eventually found the thruway, the wide moon resting on the night.

Still without my own computer, I get to experience moments like: Mom trying to change Sex and the City before a sex scene, making a funny face while Miranda gets her sultry on.

Having Never

Working a pizzeria has me all confused, confundido. I argue with faceless strangers over change and orders and misunderstandings. I argue with co-workers over different methods for different and equally unimportant things. I daydream about nothing and I feel hungry when I'm not. I think about all the different ways you can waste your life, and it really is amazing.

"Trapito". The Spanish word trapo, means rag or cloth, the kind we use at work to wipe down counters, tables, everything. There's some wacked-philosophy to the thing, which attempts to explain how there's always something to do, to wipe down, always something to replace, refill, clean, put away...to prepare for the Rush, instead of relaxing. When I'm too relaxed, I'll hear it from Neris, Trapito.

Look busy.
Wipe those tables.
They left cheese everywhere.
Hijue...

I've heard that insanity is doing something repeatedly and expecting a different outcome, and I really don't think the second part of that is always necessary. I believe it's insanity to work men out of fatherhood, a decent pay, and a respectable living, just because of their inability to secure another means of survival. And then what? No prognosis, no labels of insanity...just the cherubic boy at the counter, eye-level with the counter, repeating over and over

"excuse me...

"excuse me...

"excuse me...

for an ice after his ice cream.

There's an old man, an ancient, barely-living man, who comes in occasionally and orders a slice and he always has a scratch-off in his shirt's pocket...and he always make me think, but I'm not sure about what.

"What's the difference between the grandma and grandpa slices?"

I like to think about flesh, and the way it can burn, mostly within the job setting. I think about the brown oil in the fryer, the oil dripping off pies, the instantaneous brandings, heat rising out of an open oven, and how watching a miniature pizzeria run by curious children would be a terribly gruesome show.

"Can I have this corner slice, no, not that one, this one"

I don't plan on ever asking somebody how they're doing without actually having the mind to listen.

...I'm such a good person.

The Myth of Viruses

So viruses are real. They do exist. One's taken over my laptop and the way you can tell is if your computer only allows you to purchase anti-virus software, i.e. enter your billing information and sealing your own bleak fate.

If this happens to you, don't take it to the Geek Squad at Best Buy...use your money for Chick-fil-A instead.