Just shared my first and last cigarette so far today with my brother, on this the first day of the big cold turk. The withdrawal, unremarkably, breeds aggression and anxiety; brooding results. Booze does not help. Nothing helps.
I’m reminded of the Colorless M&M review from McSweeney’s New Food Reviews:
Submitted by Michael de Leeuw
In the midst of the grayest, coldest winter in thirty-seven years, the candy man has taken the last pigment from my bleak existence. I commute, I work, I eat lunch, I work late, I go home. Daylight wakes me up but does not sustain me and does not figure into the rest of my life. My office building is a tower of ugliness in lower Manhattan, and I spend far too much of my life—my prime—here. Somewhere outside, there is a nineteen-year-old film student drawing on her cigarette and getting used to the mouth-feel of her new tongue stud. I will never meet her. Somewhere outside, there is an ignored old man on a park bench with a head full of stories that would captivate anyone who would dare to listen. I won’t dare to listen.
And now Colorless M&Ms. They are white, black, and shades of gray. I try them after lunch. They disappoint. I know I am losing my mind: it’s the same candy! I work on a brief and distractedly reach for more. Again, they are not the same. I have lost my mind. I walk down the hall and everything is black and white and gray. I feel panic set in. I duck into a conference room to compose myself. I lean my face against the cool window and look out on the chunks of ice floating in the Hudson River. They are gray. The snow in Battery Park is gray. Tomorrow, I will buy Skittles.
Separately – but somehow parallel – is today’s discovery of Load Records, whose auspicious roster includes some wildly great groups (Harry Pussy, the Hospitals, Yellow Swans, Sightings).
Updates on not having any grits, Load Records, the South Miami election and The Bens forthcoming.