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Last weekend I visited The Getty, where I came across a male “art goer” compulsively take about twenty photos of J.W. Turner’s Modern Rome - Campo Vaccino (1839)which J. Paul Getty’s estate purchased for £30m. An old fan of Turner, I patiently waited for the man to finish before respectfully approaching the work, in order to fully gather the subtle minutiae of each tiny mark, whose aggregateas in the understanding one only gets from a distance—could present life itself, at least in some invented past where the light was better. Of course, his inclusion in my tumblr is in mockery, for he wore white socks and leather tasseled loafers, universally agreed as a grave Dad-like faux pas. His pink legs looked like uncooked chicken fennel sausages, the faint funk of his pubes hinting at some artisan brie in this imagined bougie hot dog from hell. 

Yesterday, as part of a bi-monthly dinner in this fashion, I brought a “super” carne asada burrito to The Page, a bar named after its cross street, in which a man was not only watching a baseball game, but being overtly emotional about it, at times conveying his anxiety and/or indignation with sudden ostentatious bursts. In one instance, a player did not get to first base when it seemed he had ample time to. The man in the colorful shirt began banging his fists and saying “come on,” and “fucking a,” while looking around him for sympathizers. I nervously looked away and ate my burrito, my head mechanically bobbing up and down, which seemed absurd the way a blowjob is. Here I close my eyes in inverse ecstasy, futilely shielding myself from visions of sour cream squirting into my mouth, as expunged by grimacing tools. Men are depressing. Women are depressed. This all makes sense now. 

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate suburbs, where one might console themselves with large quantities of calorically dense foods. I too would venture there, whose eternal aisles seemed like brightly lit expansive pews into whose crevices we paid our daily tithes.

The cashier at the café whose bathroom I had just inhabited has a full beard, round rimless spectacles, is bald and pasty, wears all black, and overall exudes an Edward Gorey vibe, like he’s his spoiled son with entitled notions of being a cartoonist. Given the stinky population of those who use café restrooms short of patronizing them, as the implicit contract in civilized society goes, we now need a 4-digit PIN in order to access the bathroom, which Edward Gorey’s son sullenly gave me. Per their “lock this door” note tapped inside, I secured the clasp lock, thoroughly wiped the seat, removed my pants, underwear, and pensively sat down. Of the Descartian I think, therefore I am, may I submit I sit, therefore I think. I thought about my plans for the day. I thought about my J. Crew shorts, and how swell they looked. I thought about cronyism, nepotism, Ivy league schools and cocktail parties, envisioning a bloody coup whose instigator — via a searing 30,000 word New Republic, Inquiry, or Yorker article — would be a humble me. I thought about being interviewed by Michael Silverblatt, to whom I would be reduced to constantly saying “thank you.” Someone jiggled the door handle. I prematurely pinched off a turd in fear. Why did Edward Gorey’s son give out the 4-digit PIN to a fellow patron when he knew it was being occupied by me? I know he’s probably getting paid minimum wage, and getting minimum head in his adult life, but how hard is it to remember one small yet critical fact? I quickly wiped, slipped my pants back on, and turned around to inspect my detritus, as I always do before flushing. The good news is I’m regular. The bad news is I’m abnormal. I exit the bathroom, give the entire café one nasty look, and create this blog post.