A friend of mine recently complained that my blog is frequently pointless, to which I replied by crouching, snorting loudly, and doing a couple of shuffle steps to the side. This, Jane Goodall once taught me in a vision, is a chimpanzee’s way of saying “No shit, Sherlock”.
Complaining that my blog is pointless is like complaining that the great wall of China is too big and overly focused on security, or that the Eiffel tower is in France and looks like a phallus-it would be an complaint against the very characteristics that make those structures unique-the Great Wall’s great walliness, the Eiffel tower’s eiffel cockiness.
I started this blog only to say I’m a “blogger”-Brooklyn speak for “unemployed but with creative tendencies”, and to have the outlet to slander a celebrity or two should we ever have the chance to pass in the subway. Beyond that, this is primarily an outlet to hone my jokes about chest hair (part of my comedy routine).
If the pen is mightier than the sword, then consider blogging my half-chewed crayon.
Speaking of pointless, it is worth noting in what manse in Breukelyn’s fair expanse I do live. ‘Tis a former opera house owned by a group of hasidic Jews who specialize in large buildings for artists and writers and unemployeders and bloggers such as myself, presumably as part of the lesser known Jewish world domination strategy known as “renovate opera houses for bearded artists”.
It is a lovely building, with the scent of rotting fruit, bad vegan cooking, and marijuana mingling in a skinny-legged vapor dance in the hallways. The first two floors are rather large lofts, while the third and fourth floors are studio apartments. I live in one of those plebeian bad boys with two other guys and a broken window (our pet window, Rufus).
The broken window is a welcome addition to my unemployment in that it keeps me up all night shivering and then makes me loathe to get out of bed in the morning. Another excellent feature of our apartment is the gap around the heating pipe, which allows us to be privy to all the conversations, christmas music, and…other activities of our downstairs neighbors, who, judging by their schedule, are also unemployed.
My personal favorite feature is the patio, or courtyard, and that our primary staircase is essentially just a large fire escape. In yester years, the courtyard was rumored to be used by the mysterious and powerful kind of Bushwick, resplendent in his full beard, purple scarves, and ironic ruffled collar. A brutal, but fair monarch, he was known to have married an entire female punk band, only to have them executed when he discovered that they didn’t own their own amplifiers.
The courtyard was used for the trials of various un-bearded baggy-jeaned serfs of his kingdom, and those who dared flout his rule. A favorite punishment was a tar-and-feathering involving non-organic honey and hansen t-shirts.
His reign mysteriously ended in a plot involving espresso, sound artistry, and wrongly applied organic grapefruit. Now the courtyard stands desolate, returning to its humble origins and littered with the natural vegetation of ikea bedframes and PBR cans.
Hope everyone got the underlying message in this post.