Category Archives: Food

These Prices Are Nuts!

Why would anyone risk smuggling cocaine inside their asshole when Whole Foods is moving pine nuts for $30 per pound! I don’t know what platinum-plated pine cone species they’re harvesting these seeds from, but it’s driving up the cost of my spinach and toasted pine nut salad through the fucking roof!

I tried substituting the pine nuts with peanuts yesterday but that just made my salad totally unenjoyable because who knew it’s IMPOSSIBLE EAT PEANUTS WITH A EFFING FORK! It’s not like semi-soft pine nuts that conveniently slide between the fork tines. Peanuts either roll off the side of the fork like a fat kid on a see-saw or split in half without any regard for your spinach-to-nut ratio!

I’m sure the Whole Foods cartel is just running a racket on the general public right now; assassinating pine cone farmers in Guatemala, clear cutting pine trees, lowering the supply to drive up prices in the States – It’s basic nut economics folks. But I know that no seed on the planet is worth an asking price of $30 per pound unless it sprouts into the clouds where giants shuffle around scratching their asses. Whole Foods is nuts if they think I’m supporting their dirty practices.

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The 9th Floor

Since moving into my 9th floor studio apartment almost three years ago I’ve had a front row seat to the infamous putrid Tenderloin circus that roils below. A hodgepodge of crippled cavemen, deformed hookers, and drug-addled human trash that shuffle up and down the soiled sidewalks every day looking for pills or a cozy place to puke; scraping the cement cracks for cigarette butts or anything combustible enough to throw in a pipe. You know when you leave a dog to it’s own devices in the backyard for an afternoon it will inevitably manage to roll around in it’s own shit? Well that’s like the people in my neighborhood… but let’s not be silly, even dogs clean themselves, a trivial concept for a community of drug addicts all suffering from methadone-relaxed anuses.

The 9th floor. San Francisco 2014

This degree of squalor and human sludge wouldn’t fly in a war torn suburb of Yemen let alone in any community in America. However, San Francisco is the most liberal city in the USA and this somehow translates to a tolerance and understanding of a crack smoker’s right to urinate and explode his bowels over every square-inch of my neighborhood while the police sit in their cruisers hypnotized by the glow of their iphones, trading seeds on Farmville.

In the span of three years I have witnessed multiple assaults, 4 large apartment fires, countless shouting matches, 1 shooting, a store owner throwing fruit at a dealer on the corner, some drunk slapping his old lady around, CPR being performed on a junkie, and every night the trash is put out on the curb the troglodytes empty it looking for something to salvage… and there I am in the nosebleed section, 9 floors up, watching it all unfold night after night – usually after 2am because meth heads tend to get a late start on their day.

The building I live in is an old renovated 1930’s high-rise. The windows are still the original ones from 80 years prior, they swing wide open and if one were so inclined could fit a television or medium sized teenager through the large opening they provide – no screens, no stops; they certainly wouldn’t prevent anyone from throwing butter, stale tortillas or avocado pits out of them in order to fight some street crime. Around midnight, as the drunken Neanderthals climb out of their burrows, I’m up in my Texas School Book Depository gathering fuzzy strawberries and mold stricken boiler potatoes armed and ready to inflict swift justice on the approaching motorcade of tweekers.

So far I’m proud to say that I’ve broken up 2 fights with butter and mandarins. And hopefully word will  spread throughout the Homo-Erectus community not to venture down my block after dark.

A Marshmallow Among the Oats

My apartment building is inhabited by the most dumpy assortment of lowly blue-collar sloptards the galaxy has ever seen. At best, the most intelligent resident in the building works at the return counter at Target. But he could never afford San Francisco rent on a Target cashier’s salary; his side hustle is manufacturing meth that clocks in at about 11% purity. Cops can’t even arrest him because it’s technically closer to bug spray than meth. The kid’s got heart though.

Then there’s the low-watt trash heaps in apt #902 cussing up a storm while sitting on duck-taped beanbag chairs in an otherwise furniture-free apartment. Night after night spooning through a soggy bowl of Lucky Charms, looking for any remaining purple horseshoes leaking Red-40 among the cardboard-flavored oat pieces… Quite the metaphor really… This whole building is occupied by “oat pieces”; I feel like by comparison I’m the only goddamned “marshmallow” in the bowl! I’m different. I’m going places. My apartment smells like spring breeze and vanilla bean, everyone else’s smells like failure and hot diaper.

Screen shot 2013-12-30 at 11.35.07 PM

Every week or so there’s a passive-aggressively handwritten sign taped to the elevator stating they have to shut off the water to the building for a few hours to repair a pipe. Again. What the sign fails to mention is they have to repair a pipe again because Edgar up on the 12th floor continues to wipe his ass with Bounty Super-Duty paper towels, sabotaging the entire septic system.

Thanks Edgar! I didn’t want to wash the dishes anyway; I’d much rather chisel the oatmeal off of the bowl a day later, rather than rinse it off with running water like a modern human. I should stomp some sardines into his welcome mat – payback for not being able to flush my toilet once a week… but that’s something an oat would do; I’m a marshmallow.

Goddamned Flax Seeds!

Today I made a goddamned smoothie and decided to throw in some goddamned flax seeds for some added goddamned nutrition. But as I was preparing ingredients, the goddamned bag slipped from my grip and 16 oz. of flax seed proceeded to explode all over the goddamned kitchen floor. Seeds everywhere. Under the goddamned stove, under the goddamned fridge… I even found a flax seed in the goddamned broom closet!

By my calculations, that seed left the bag and travelled down the goddamned hall, over an oriental rug, and around 2 goddamned corners to arrive at the broom closet in the 7 seconds it took me to walk there to fetch the goddamned broom! That’s over 75 goddamned miles per hour!

flaxseed

I now see the health benefits of these goddamned seeds. Just today I burned 6,000 calories trying to sweep them up with a goddamned cracked dollar store dust pan… because running a vacuum over a pile of them only causes the tiny bastards to go flying 50 feet in every direction like a goddamned fertilizer spreader.

In a billion years when the Sun expands and engulfs the 4 goddamned inner planets, flax seeds will still be sprouting from the rubble of this goddamned apartment.

Calm Down There, Bartender

Every hipster bartender in San Francisco can take turns tweezing the hairs from my undercarriage. Every week there’s some new speakeasy-style cocktail bar popping up in the city, and sure shootin’ there is some smug suspender-clad dippity-doo with a waxed mustache trying show off his God-like abilities with a julep strainer. Calm down there buddy, no need for the pomp – your job is to combine liquids that eventually get filtered through some college student’s tired kidneys and end up in a puddle in the bathroom stall.

 

“Hey barkeep, let’s see some of those fancy mop tricks!”

The thing that really chaps my ass is the part where bartenders slam the shakers together as if to say: “HEY EVERYBODY WATCH ME I’M ABOUT TO DO THAT THING I DO WITH THE ICE NOW!” Earth to bartender, you are the only person in the solar system who thinks shaking ice looks cool – what you don’t see is your cheeks jiggling around like you’re trying to land a plane with potatoes for wheels. I liken it to a cashier doing a spin move every time the register opens. That shit ain’t cool, knock it off!

You know, sometimes people just want a simple cocktail with some well liquor and a lime wedge – they don’t need all this mad scientist, cirque du soleil-swinging-from-the-ceiling-fan balderdash just to combine the ingredients into a glass. Just a thought.

Take The Stairs, Fatty!

You should see some of the lumpy, sour cream and onion stuffed rhino ass out here today in Union Square… overgrown, lumbering tourists cramming their gaping gullets with Nestlé and Nabisco. A blatant disregard for one’s self. Climbing one staircase a month could prevent your ass from looking like a freezer bag filled with Greek yogurt.

In this world there are only two categories of glutes that will cause me to turn my head. One is athletic, toned and healthy looking – it signals reproductive health or at the very least indicates that she can reach to wipe herself clean and therefor would be a suitable mating partner. The other is an ass that looks like it’s storing walnuts and potatoes for the winter – it signals a lifetime of poor choices, chronic laziness, and a likely obsession with American Idol or some other basic cable trash. You only live once so make a healthy choice – and for crying out loud, take the stairs!

Fucking Foodies

Living in San Francisco you are constantly surrounded by talk of food trends and the latest restaurants; people drooling like idiots over the last place they ate, what their favorite dishes are… blah blah blah… go juggle pumpkins!

These holier-than-thou culinary crusaders refer to themselves as “foodies” which according to Webster’s thesaurus is a synonym for pretentious blow hard. Hearing these hob-nobs talk at length about food is like watching the WNBA preseason, I’d rather be slapped in the face with a dead fish. It leads me to believe the most exciting thing these “foodies” have done with their lives is pull lint from the dryer screen. The only time I talk in detail about food is when that one rogue nacho stabs the roof of my mouth and my girlfriend comes in asking me why I just yelled “motherfucker” out loud. I digress.

“Oh, the white bean skin sformato and chopped chive gluten-free asiago focaccia rolls are to die for! We should go fuck ourselves for dessert!”

What I really want to address is portion sizes in these trendsetting dinner douche-barns. Just the other day a couple of friends and I checked out a new spot we heard was “amazing!”. To spare you the salty details we each dropped $100 on some sautéed shrimp antennae bullshit and left ready to eat a second dinner. Now I’m no expert, but all I know is I felt like I just had one of those street magicians take my watch without me noticing: I sit down, the bill arrives and I’m still hungry – “amazing!”

“You should try this place called Copperfield’s on 24th street – they punch you in the neck, tear one sleeve off of your shirt and make your money disappear, it’s amazing!

In summary, there is no summary. Just keep your bacon wrapped steamed raisin husks and your dill stuffed corn kernel creations outta my grill – this man’s gotta eat!