Archives

March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
current

Blogs

No one must know my terrible secret...

House of Noh!

Sunday, January 01, 2006

I made it back from Zen Camp. It was a terrible ordeal, but one through which I discovered an increased ability to prostrate myself and perform sweat shop labor in silence, communicating only with improvised hand gestures.

Do you remember me telling you about my current landlord? He’s really really old and has just a little pink hair that he wears all messed up on top of his head and he walks all hunched over. I’m pretty sure he’s not faking the hunched-over walk either, because it’s not like a really cool gangsta limp AT ALL.

The most important thing you need to know about my landlord is that I was in his apartment one time when he was eating dinner, which looked like a bowl of sour cream. He was spooning it into his mouth and when he talked to me I could see the white goop coating the inside of his mouth like a slimy-tongued catfish that just ate a bunch of sour cream. It was gross.

He’s got a whole complex of several large box-canyoned buildings he rents out, built in the Chicago style, which he defers maintenance on with an iron fist. I see him sometimes, tuft of pink hair fluttering in the evening alley breeze as he takes out a handkerchief to mop his brow like a really satisfied cow-poke on the range after fixing a hundred miles of barbed wire or something. But I’m not sure that any actual work ever gets done.