no mas

Motherfuckers at Mas(farmhouse) never called me back; was it because I dropped the bread? Now I drop resumes on the daily, still jobless but feeling less like Job. I sent an inquiry to Thomas Keller's restaurant, though I'm not "qualified," per se. I apply myself gradually. I state my purpose all day, but it always ends up more of a question.

At my local vegan coffee shop everyone wears their hats. The fat man tutors Spanish, often says "Muy bien!" The redheaded counterperson wears suspenders. A girl with socks higher than her boots requests a Steamed Pumpkin Soy Soother, conscientiously capitalizing. But whenever you offer a soothing suggestion to someone kranky for rheumatic reasons, you end up just steaming them.

Leah: You should boil quince pits and drink the water, it heals the respitory system.
Krank (cruelly): Oh yeah that's perfect, because I have quince growing in my garden at home!?!?!?!
Puns: What a quinceodince!

He hated that. But I wasn't trying to be funny, it's just that when's the last time "coincidence" coincided with another word? I realize this is unacceptable; I'm working on more Leah content.

eastville west

I've been in America about a month. I work at a restaurant called Mas, more or less. I've learned to serve bread with makeshift tongs fashioned of two forks, to align the silverware slate with the napkin ring, but that may not be enough. At home I cook kale & hearty soups and apply to hedge fund jobs. My mom alerts me to news items relating Wall Street to high modernism. I hone my communication skills. I self-start.

In these lean times I mince my words, I hedge my puns. I'm reading a book about text messaging, as if anyone read books anymore. New York puts one in mind of verticality; nowhere else are the metaphors Up and Down so literal. Little value is placed on simultaneity, on repetition. I feel hedged in. Maybe I'll become more of a quant, or obsessed with death (again).