Vacation

I didn't do anything today but watch Youtube.com. A while back, while I was in Nashville watching DVD's with my best friend, I remember us having a conversation about how I needed a vacation from my everyday life. Nashville was great for physical healing, but it was not helping nor producing anything else for my career or sanity after a certain point.

So, today I took such a vacation. There was a brief feeling of guilt because I could be out looking for work at a temp agency or calling people I know from the publishing industry. But I would as soon as not bother. It would just mean the real American rat race of a cup of Joe, two eggs on a roll with beef sausage from the Yemenite bodega near my subway and a Daily News; plus, having my balls chewed off by a successful New York PR firm executive that finds my attitude less than "serious'' because she can't get over the fact that I finished her simple stapling assignment and seem clueless to the fact that her newly Manhattanite blue-blooded-booty by marriagte gave three fifths of a shit to contact the same temp agency and hire me for a third day. "Most other firms would not let their interns let alone temp workers be entrusted with such an important task." she would say taking off her glasses and leaning over the desk, barely inhaling to recite her austere filth with a stationary set of molar and lips spread thin over a her patrician canines.

Fuck da Bitch!

So, I stayed home and watched Youtube.com. There were some great little films by some Swedish teenagers or twenty somethings that I thought were really funny. And I saw a great short from Mexico that dealt with violence and fags in the public toilets. I should link think them, but I will do that later.

Another interesting thing happened on Wednesday August 9th. I went out with the Harlem baker. First lunch at Republics, followed by a stroll in the village, a visit to the Adidas store and finally coffee at Cafe Borgia II.

There is a little used bookstore on Mercer I think, just south of 4th. We went in together, and to make a long story short (I could not see the categories because I have lost my glasses again, so I had to deal with the book attendant's sly, dry non-verbal stoic rancor), the Harlem baker told me upon exiting that he found the place too dry to stay inside. In fact, he had slipped away while I was looking for a copy of Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus because I had to turn mine into the library before coming up North. I bought a postcard with Wittgenstein's picture as a consolation prize and am using it as a bookmark.

There was something about the baker's frankness in the matter that caused a bubbling realization to formulate and hit me in the face like a succession of bricks. He just did not like the atmosphere of the bookstore, so he left. I feel that an intellectual would stay in such a situation to figure out what the problem is, why it feels wrong. And there my friends, is where the problem lies for our type of folk.



Well, I am done with that.