Hi. Before we begin this installment of Swan Fungus on WFMU, I'd like to send a special birthday wish to my girlfriend Nicci. She's in Alabama right now acting in a play, and I'm very sad here in LA without her. My guess is she's very busy right now and will never read this. Still, I think it's important to share as many birthday wishes as possible with the girl I love. Maybe, somehow, my binary computer coded message will travel through the magical highways and byways of telecommunication wires and wireless signals to reach her little ears. Implausible? Yes. Moronic? Also yes.
I wanted to share with you all the Stephen David Heitkotter album Heitkotter today, because it is one of the most fascinating and highly sought-after private press albums in existence. Then I did a quick search of the Beware Of The Blog archives and saw that a commenter with the name Stephen David Heitkotter has visited this page before, and the last thing I want is for another post of mine to be removed due to it involving the intellectual property of a friend of WFMU. So, sorry, but no Heitkotter for you this week! Also, no Jerry Solomon. But if anyone owns a copy of Past The 20th Century you should get in touch with me ASAP.
Early today I traveled to Chipotle to find some inspiration for this blog entry. I haven't taken any cool trips lately due to a confluence of events that have necessitated my staying in place. As I stated above, I thought I might share an album download with you today, but wussed out at the last minute. So, in need of a fresh setting to help my brain hatch an idea baby, I packed up my car (with...uh...myself) and headed down the road to the new Chipotle in Glendale. Two bites into my chicken burrito and I noticed a curly black hair wrapped around one of the pieces of chicken in my taco de harina. Total bummer. I removed the hot sauce-speckled hair from its nest and dropped it on the floor in disgust. I contemplated saying something to the girl who made the burrito, but the place was packed with a large lunchtime crowd, and also I have an innate fear of sending back food even when there is a hair in it. Usually I am content to cry over my dish and simply throw it away, but I've been coveting a "little donkey" (that's the literal translation of the word burrito, duh) all week and I'm too poor to throw away a good meal, so I tried to wipe my memory like in that Men In Black movie with the fancy flashlight on my key chain, and continued to consume the chicken-y concoction.
Which brings me to my point: What wins in the battle of your favorite food vs. hair in your favorite food? Do you continue to eat when you've found some potentially gonorrhea-infected pube-looking-thing in your burrito? Or do you love burritos so much you can look past the hair and enjoy your meal?
When I was young my family had a yellow labrador retriever named Corky. Yes, this unfortunate dog's name is responsible for my horrifying-yet-hilarious porn star name: Corky Walnut. The dog shed a lot. I was raised in a house where I had to learn that there would be dog hair in all the food. Maybe not all the food, but more dishes than not probably wound up with little white/yellow hairs in them. I dealt with it. It never seemed to bother me. It bothered me a little more when Corky died and we replaced her with Sprocket, a black lab. It always sucked the life out of me when I was eating cereal before school and noticed a half dozen dog hairs floating in my milk after I'd finished my Cheerios. Again, somehow the fact that it was a dog's hair made it more palatable (pardon the pun) than if it were a human hair.
It's not like I look for hair in my food. I just think I'm unlucky enough to be the world's foremost expert when it comes to finding the most hair in food. In a span of two days I once found a hair in a cesar salad at the California Pizza Kitchen in the Short Hills Mall, then found a hair at the bottom of a burrito at Blue Moon or whatever that Mexican place is in the Essex Green complex in West Orange. What's worse is, after I found the 2nd hair, my friends tried to cheer me up with some ice cream from the Cold Stone Creamery next to the Mexican joint. Guess what? Two or three spoonfuls into my "Love It"-sized cake batter ice cream with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, my spoon became entangled in a long blond hair. I hurled the ice cream cup out the window at a passing car in what I like to call the defining moment of my finding-hairs-in-my-food life.
What I'm trying to say is, I could easily avoid all these decisions about eating a hair in my food if I wasn't such a pussy and did not fear that someone will spit in it. Is that what all you normal people do? I always thought that the crazy people are the ones who return food all the time because it's not hot enough or it's too hot or it's cold or too cold. I didn't know that the real crazy people are the ones who suffer in silence while they force themselves to eat potentially gonorrhea-infected chicken burrito pubes. Stupid Evan. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Wow. I think my blogging career just jumped the shark.