Musings of the 25-year-old Male
So. There is your life. Slapped down in front of you, on a silver platter (slightly dented as if it was used before) rather harsh it seems by a waiter who, according to his black and golden brimmed name tag, listens to the name Earl.
The backbone of your dish consists of a sturdy, almost cement like blob of mashed potatoes. Good mashed potatoes, have been selected carefully, washed and peeled, boiled for around 20 minutes, and then mashed with a bit of rich cream, and a lump of butter.
For vegetables, a careful selection of this seasons most delicate offerings. There is chives, spring union, sprouts, beetroot, peppers, cucumber, ginger, lettuce, baby carrots and to top it of.. broccoli.
As your eyes wonder over your plate, looking for the meat, the sound of the waiter’s squeeking shoes echoes through the restaurant. Well. Maybe restaurant is a big word. Diner is probably more close to it. Greasy tabletops, plastic seats bolted to the ground, a toilet with an odor so foul that dogs begin to shiver with delight. It has been know to instantly clear out the nostrils of a men with permanently clogged sinuses.
Anyway. Back to your life. The meat looks awesome. Its a perfectly encrusted piece of roast beef, encrusted because of the bacon wrapped around it. It smells delicious, it’s not to big, or to small, it’s in perfect size. It gently wafts its smell over the table, seducing even that lonely fly to sit down for a while, and savor the moment.
Next to your plate, there is a bowl of gravy. Not just any gravy. It’s ‘the’ gravy. The jackpot amongst gravies. Other gravies fear it. Only a few of father gravy’s illegitimate children have turned out alright. But this, is the father itself. It has a nice, dark color. It’s a rich, thick gravy, and it contains, besides the secret ingredient (not to be named here because, after all, it’s a secret) some cooking juice of the potatoes, some cooking juice of the vegetables, and of course the remnants from the roast beef tray.
There you have it. The tray, the meal, the gravy. The diner, the toilet, the fly and the waiter. All together, they represent your life. All the ingredients. Now, it wouldn’t be very much of a parable to explain what is what. All I can say, is that it’s a damn shame the waiter forgot to bring me the wine that was suppose to accompany this excellent food.
0.o ^.^ :’-( :-| :-?
In case someone will ask me this question…how would your week look like, if it was drawn in emoticons?
Well, the title of this post will suffice. So, much wiser now?
Work: all was fine. Worked really hard, partially out of desire to finish, partially to forget everything else. My weekend started Friday 21.00.
Music: hurrah! Hopefully I’ll make some new recordings this weekend. There is lots to listen to, lots to play myself. Without music, I wouldn’t know what to do.
Books: Once again Murakami proves himself. With each line I read, my sense of awe increases. Kafka on the shore is my poison.
Love: Well. All is well. Is it?
Drugs: I drank a bit. Got really stoned. Really enjoyed myself. Spaced out into oblivion last night at three, woke up this morning with a throat full of cotton, but, sometimes we measure how much fun we had by how much it has fucked us up.
Weekend: Enjoy 
On holidays
Well, it was an interesting evening, the one that supposedly brings us a new year. I’m a bit of a killjoy when it comes to ‘agreed’ dates of that kind. New year’s eve, Christmas, Halloween. It’s all a big load of rubbish. It’s strange: the whole year I can happily go have dinner with my family, or drink with mates, sharing quality time. But the moment society starts telling me that I really should do it on specific dates…well, that kills it for me really. I mean, if you think of it, the day a new year starts, depends on which day you start counting. In fact, every day is a start of a new year, and every night is the end of a previous year. To me, the changing seasons are more important. When nature shifts from one bag of tricks to the next. That is a true wonder, and to me a better reason to feast then because ‘we all agreed on it’. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years… For some reason we invented that. To keep track of time. Track of time? Now that is a bit of a waisted effort, isn’t it? Sure, it makes understanding, or remembering the past easier, but it doesn’t do shit for the future. ‘Meet me when the sun is in the middle of the sky,’ is just as good as ‘meet me at noon.’ in my opinion. But, back to the main topic.
Christmas today is dictated by what the marketing people throw at us. Supposedly it was the birth of Jesus Christ, until in the late 40’s the advertisement and marketing departments took a spin on it. Don’t get me started on Halloween… (seriously, I got nothing there, given the fact I don’t do Halloween, as a proper non American)
I know I’m merely repeating here what a lot of people think about the holidays. I’m not the only one. Yet, every year the sales records are broken. Always up. Everybody seems to have a really big mouth about it, rebellious even. But, when the date comes… everybody swallows their pride and, albeit somewhat reluctant, take part in the festiveties. I am, no exception.