The solace of dark beer and cooking

(listening to "That's Not Really Reggae" by Frank Zappa, drinking Dogwood Stout)

It is an overcast Monday. It is muggy, and I am off work today. I have to force myself to have any direction at all. I did a couple of minor domestic chores this morning, and then I went out into the world.

I had intended to visit a restaurant supply store in Durham. I wanted to get a part for a piece of equipment at work, and I wanted to look at all the fun cooking equipment. Well, I have to write myself a reminder note: Never go to Durham. I've been there before; I should have learned my lesson then. What a fucking toilet. They don't believe in legible street signs, either. The restaurant store may have still been in business, but they were being pretty stealthy about it. No cars in the parking lot, boards in the windows. I thought I was going to be shot fairly soon, so I declined to linger.

("I'm Not Satisfied" by Fine Young Cannibals)

I didn't feel like going home. I drove to a shopping center and wandered around in a hardware store and a bookstore before I entered that oasis of goodness, Whole Foods Market. I had an idea or two of what to do there; I was not just wandering aimlessly. WFM has a very good beer selection, particularly obscure microbrews. I saw plenty of stuff I wanted, but I went for the Dogwood Stout. It has that chocolate milk thing going on, with a bit of bitterness as a backbone. Nice. I wandered the aisles, looking at superlative hunks of cheese, loaves of bread, cuts of lamb, and mysterious dietary supplements. I decided to get a couple of things for dinner. I wish to create a dish named after my brother Bryan, since he did so for me.

A girl with a nose ring handled my transaction (I don't believe I have ever been to a WFM without being rung up by a girl with a nose ring). I like it. In fact, I should apply there. The people working at Whole Foods don't appear to be miserable or brainwashed, and they sell good shit. They like what they do (they're excited to talk to you about a particular type of cheese or whatever it is you might be buying). I had looked at jobs online this morning again, and there is jack shit out there. I should just sell meat or bread or cheese at a good store; I actually care about that stuff, and I've seen for myself that meat and bread actually exist. I'm starting to think that the "real jobs" that I'm looking for are just part of a cruel joke. There are no real jobs, and everyone I see who look like they have more than $40 in the bank is merely a paid actor put there to confound me.

(Show Me a Little Shame" by Ben Harper)

It's raining. I have bread dough rising in the kitchen, and I have beer in my glass. Yes, I have that much. I can also do that trick whereby I simulate removing my finger (always a crowd-pleaser). All is not lost.