why best buy just makes me want to quit work, by chris calloway, age 38

you peeping tom you.

another, sorry, i have been gone and your invitation of day after christmas
was seen days too late. i will call you at first op. which may not be urgently
soon. but will happen, nonetheless.

still another, your letter of warning for arrival at seven arrived at seven.
sorry, chum i have never met.

you can tell everything about a woman by the foods she prefers and dislikes.
there's a very exact science to this. i am forbidden to teach it to you,
however.

but there i was, at rebar, thinking i'd see, but not. but not, also, do
i see why rebar is so highly regarded. regard them i do. slow start,
build unto big hit song, then, dang, their future is bowie, fer sure.
but stunned i was not. ross says this is because i hate everything. but
i didn't hate them. just liked them a little bit. mercury birds win most
annoying indie rock cliche medal. imagine sp8 playing every cd on grass
records at once. well, imagine sp8 playing anything on grass records.

all this knowing, yes, distinctions are faux. i breathe and am distinct
as such, faux me. man without a cunt tree.

in retrospect, what i would have liked to be remembering, is whether
the lizard and the snake was open christmas day, as has been their wont
in years past. a bill mccormick christmas complete with turkey burrito.

anyway, there were lotsa frat boys on hand for rebar, as well, murkun
flags embroidered on jackets shadowed by the curved rim ball caps. they
trooped up to miami subs and lamented the number of women freaks on hand,
unsuitable to their mating habits. i followed them just to eavesdrop.

so we're riding around in the car the other day. something came on the air.
i asked if it was polvo. it was spatula. a few more seconds worth of listening
before asking and i would have realized this. but it was a funny moment.

so i decided to put theory to the test, went to mondo. o the sacrifices one
makes. i posed as a friend of the establishment and thusly received lots of
free shit. montrachet, foie gras, stuff from reims, gravlax, tartar, tawny.
and lots of gossip about he who would be hugged.

anyway, it's true, just as evil, for they gave comfort and solace to me,
the enemy. but twas ok in the presence of the last days of ltlpop.

from there, well fortified by wine, i went to carry out my assignment, which
i performed successfully, at least in form. anyway again, i don't think frank
was quite looking to be hugged. but he accepts these things with a minimum of
embarrassment, even though i'm sure this was a plot by ross to cause him
discomfort.

anyway still more, bi-q's were about to make an evening of it, so what was
there to do but pile twenty three blue ribbons on toppa europe's finest. a
fitting tribute, or so i thought at the time. so, it was only an ordinary
evening of bi-q, that is to say, they only unscrewed my ass rather than
both unscrewing my ass and shearing off my head. jenn i almost didn't
recognize. georgia came to be confused. my ex-rekkid-store-boss laughs at me
like he always does, coz i like this crazy college music. i can't seem to con
ross into any fool-hardy business deals even when i appear drunk and sincere.
all i wanted to know was how much? freakin nate lies like the devil to job.

shopping is a crazy thing i loathe. i distributed mine across big and small
bidnesses, crazy things i loathe. in the mom and pop book store, i paid high
dollar for alternative lines of children's books, so as to avoid mickey,
barney, and elmo. but curious george, harriet the spy, and classic pooh were
all there. later, when money was running low, i made the big purchase at the
best buy. it wasn't where i got it or even what i got. it was that i got it.

i spent most of a week off in a car, a condition i loathe.

well, they damn well oughta have gbv box at best buy, as much as they -paid-
to have it pushed into stores. the fuckers.

so this drummer girl is not down with going to the slavic heretics christmas
eve service but i saw some relatives there, had some of those yummy buns, and
listened to the ompah band. about as holiday as i got. whup. ee. as is my
wont, i noted the total preponderance of white people amongst the gathering.
when i went home later that evening, there was a story in the paper about a
black moravian church in the 1800's.

bunch of other stuff. mostly about my neice and electricity.

so i didn't think my research was complete, so i went to another mom and pop,
angus barn. well, it's part of a big conglomerate now. the result of which
is the service is more stuffy and all the good vintages were drunk up in the
interest of bidness. everything else about the same except it's easier to get
seated right away during the holidays. the muzak there is right happening
though. strictly, r&b from 1966. nothing else, no shit. anyway, a bargain:
chalone pinot. a vineyard sort of stradling the nonexistent fence between
mom and pop and congolomerate.

hear this plea: serve no port before its time. just coz the consumer demands
1977 doesn't mean it should be supplied now. lay that shit up for at least
fifty years, it's way too rockin for today. it's criminal what you're doing.

_jerry mcguire_ is one corny movie nearly ruint before it gets going by
interminable first person narration. we want bo to make situationist cinematic
masterpieces of confusing grainy understatement. anyway, cameron crowe was
a golden boy at rolling stone who made way more outta his connections than
he deserved. stinker script salvaged only by predictably industrial casting.
i'm supposed to sympathize with a character whose existential crisis is
solved in twelve hours and twenty five pages? fuh. lots to talk about and
i decline.

still, i thought more research was required. so i consented to be taken to
yet another mom and pop corporate restaurant, this time nana's, where i was
waited on hand and foot by platonic poets and high unelected officials.
dang free stuff kept showing up here, too, more champagne, more port, truffles,
cigars, and the motherfucker of all cognacs (the taste still lingers in the
back of my head). wassup wit dat? cant i pay for anything around here? free
shows, free booze, and free food everywhere i go. isis sum kinda consumer
paradise prepared for me here or what?

research conclusion: some mom and pops attain longevity by maintaining
consistency (barn). of new kids onna block, nana's knocks mondo's dick
inna dirt so one might see why one might attain longevity while the other
becomes a video store, who knows?

other research conclusion: i was fucking well fed during the holidays and
dey aint even over yet.

another research conclusion: much of the hubub over postmodern consumption
is not remorse over hyperconsumption but anger at quality of consumption.

yet another research conclusion: we already knew all this, just wanted a
chance to try it out yet again.

lastly, who is this 'hayden' feller who does the theme song to _trees
lounge_ and why does he sound so much like folk implosion? anyway, things
could be worse, one could be the model for a steve buscemi role. not a
bad directorial debut, although shot blocking sucked at times. make film,
not art. excellent script.

i'm feeling really weird today. as if you should know that.

so the other day, this guy knocks onna door, and he wants ten bucks to
buy kerosene for his heater coz it's cold. yeah, well, it's like eighty
degrees out, actually. well, more actually, he asks first if i'm walker's
dad. but he's persistent and christa is close by so i'm not in a position
to pitch a fit and piss off the guy; i just wanna get rid of the guy. so
i haul out the kerosene container i'm gonna give todd if he ever gets that
heater from me. i say, here, take this kerosene if you need it, i have a
three hundred dollar fuel bill i cant pay myself coz i shopped at the mom
and pop bookstore and i only get to go to mom and pop restaurants coz i have
friends in all the right places. well, his expression just goes blank. o, you
got some kerosene, he says, well, how 'bout lemme have ten dollars coz i'm
hungry and i need to buy some food?

no money but he did take the kerosene. something about money, see. it's
a money thing. not a product of production but an invention of consumption.
whatever. i'm pissing in the wind here. i could say you said stop but you'd
just deny it and this is the faux you love. for me, wine, song, and making
movies. hell, we make science outta crap around here even. fuck all that
zine shit, we might just write letters to one another. and what is it about
grading papers that just turns on peeps holier than thou censors? freak.

kerosene.

you know, i woulda loved to have eavesdropped on discussion of absolutes.
i bet that woulda made some radio art.

hey, i wanna tell you something about that article in the indy about mom and
pop coffeehouses. well, i worked at one of 'em cited and everything the owner
was quoted as saying about it was complete and utter crap. a total self-serving
fabrication. goddamn if some things aren't hyper-faux.

i hardly got any music this year so i couldn't tell ya what i think the best
release of the year is even if i believed in such nonsense. whatever, i'm
sure the most musical pleasure i received all year came again and again from
the bi-q's. and i'm sure that there's an overwhelming connection between
that and the apparent fact that i don't think i've ever paid to see them.
well maybe once or twice, but i think those were benefits.

o, btw, bo's birthday is thursday, he's gonna be 21, and he doesn't want
anyone to know.

i only saw five african-americans over the holidays. one was a beggar at
my doorstep. three were entertainers in a local rock band just hanging
out at the house. the fifth was a famous basketball star at my cousin's
going away party. my cousin is going to vietnam for two years. she markets
cigarettes. she has a voice like marge schott's. far east asians can't buy
cigarettes fast enough. they smoke four or five at a time. the average
per capita income in vietnam is the equivalent of about $200 per year.
the cost of a pack of cigarettes in vietnam is about $1. my cousin will
live in a $6000 per month diplomatic compound apartment with complete paid
food and entertainment expenses, a limo with driver, a cook, a maid, and an
interpreter. i asked her to send me back tapes of indochinese music.

you haven't known peace until you've seen the mayor in a white shirt and tie,
holding a basket and tongs, and asking, "would you puppies like some more
bread?"

i'm feeling really weird today. as if it were something i ate.

you figure it out.

"love,"

3.2.3