Not Open For Business

One of my employers is a vegetarian and we enjoy some of the same cuisines. We were going to go to a movie together, as part of the holiday season, and most of the team couldn’t make it…and another engineer backed out at the last moment. With just the two of us left (the two with the least interest in mainstream films) we opted to go to an Indian or Indian fusion or something cafe instead.

I’d eaten there once before and had a sort of Indian curry burrito that tasted exactly like Indian curry in a tortilla. I looked up the address again, to verify if a rumor was true, and found it had been closed. So I looked up a Vegan cafe in the area, found one, also out of business.

Eventually I found a “tea house” that served vegan lunches and was “open to the public”. I called and confirmed the location, inside a bed and breakfast, and we drove over there. We parked in the snow of the unkempt parking lot, and walked to the back door. The back door was just beyond a large sign reading “ENTRANCE” and it was also locked. We walked around to the front, the snowy sidewalks untouched after the snowfall, and found the front door. We stood under an awning at this optional locked door. There was a note to call if the door was so.

“I called earlier about the tea house” … “the front and rear doors are locked, we are at the front door now.”

The same woman had answered, “Oh, we aren’t open on Thursdays anymore.”

Why didn’t she tell me this when I called her the first time?

We talked in the car as we drove by places that were closed for the holiday, and then I just drove to the city adjacent to ours and sat down at a family Thai restaurant. I started with feeling adventurous, but in the end I got what I really wanted, minus adventure.

Nihilist’s Coffee

When I was 19 I was living in the Avenues of Salt Lake City. I was always broke, hungry, and worried about transportation to work. I lived with female goths and we spent a lot of time listening to music, drinking coffee, and smoking.

I like ridiculously spicy food, I’d eat things that I knew were going to be awful later. No one was making me do it and certainly no one was ever impressed. Or not in the positive way a young man would like to be seen. I knew that even then, most were just grossed out. But it wasn’t for shock value, I behaved the same when I was alone or whether I was with people. I’d often eat things that were too hot for me.

This led to me believing that bathrooms should install a support handle in front of toilets to lean on. I call this the oh-god-it-burns-bar.

On a particularly cash poor day I had no functioning vehicle and suddenly no job to get to. I had been out of coffee creamer or anything to pretend to be creamer for some time. On one afternoon, which I was then referring to as morning, I tapped a few drops of decidedly orange habenero chile sauce into my coffee. The first sip was good, each tasted worse and worse.

That didn’t stop me from continuing to spike my coffee with various hot sauces as a flavoring condiment much like the caramel and chocolate syrups used in a latte.

On one particular evening I was at Bill and Nadas with a friend drinking coffee. Bill and Nada’s is now gone but the nightlife of several decades all remember it. It had been a stop for many US presidents, complete with photos of some of them visiting with the original founders. Bill kept the place the same from 1946 until it finally closed after his death.

The friend I was with, was like most of my friends at the time, older than myself and gothic. She often spent the night at my apartment, but was like a sister to me, we were very close. She is now a bleach blonde Idaho resident, married with three kids, and dressing like a mother ten years older than she is. She also doesn’t talk to any of her old friends and I suspect she found god.

Anyhow, we were at Bill And Nada’s Cafe, where we frequently went for food before or after clubbing. I was drinking coffee with rye toast and pretending that the main reason we were there this evening wasn’t because I was trying to get the nerve to ask the waitress out. I didn’t need to ask for hot sauce, it was right there on each and every table. My friend’s mouth opened when I took the bottle and removed the cap and was obviously about to put it in my coffee. The waitress just then came to our table to ask us something but forgot what she was doing when she saw me do that. Her face made it obvious she didn’t approve.

“Why would you do that?” She couldn’t even look me in the eyes.

“I was abused as a child?” I queried for her approval.

My friend tried a sip, her nose wrinkled, and she said it was like drinking acid.

I said “death”.


“It’s like drinking death.”

The conversation changed or my memory just chose to forget anything else from that evening. I soon gave up the coffee hot sauce blend, dubbing it “nihilist’s coffee”. I never asked her out and months after she was hefting someone’s large baby around inside her petite frame, which blatantly meant she was already pregnant when I’d tried to ask her out.

Model Culture

When playing photographer, I usually use friends as muse but occasionally work with models. I am comfortable with strangers, in a one-on-one environment, and can keep them at ease by simply acting like we already know each other.

A repeat model has started opening up a lot, she is a well-balanced girl, I respect her. She told me, at the end of our last shoot, that most photographers ask her out on dates. This was within context of the conversation and not an esoteric pet-peeve shout-out. She is beautiful, tall, curvy, and athletic; so this is no surprise. However, I view asking a model on a date as breaking the trust. There is an expected atmosphere which is spoiled when the photographer then pursues an intimate relationship. I wouldn’t blame any model for no longer being comfortable modeling for someone in the wake of that interaction.

Having said all that, the last model I worked with asked me out. It feels odd, and the double-standard exists, but I still felt I should say no when instead I agreed.

How I Meet Women

Not the actual teen from my flight.

What few highlights I have, from my recent trip, involve the accidental abuse of an underage girl.

I was already boarded on the plane and listening to music on my MP3 player. I didn’t have the volume too high to hear the people around me but enough to tune them out. Sitting in my aisle seat I waited for the last few people to stow their literal baggage so the rest of us could get on with our lives. Yes, I was impatient to get going – in the smallest commercial jet I’ve been in.

A blonde girl, most obviously still of high school age, was decked out in her post-punk attire. Including white boots, layers of light jackets, tight pants, belly ring, and platinum hair wth low-lights. I remove the strap of my military map case (perfect for an eBook reader) only to accidentally get it caught on the chair arm and my hand slipped off. At that moment the blonde teen was putting her luggage right above me and so my elbow, slipping off the strap, gave her a quick forceful jab to the crotch. Without hesitation she leaned forward, her face in mine, both hands on her crotch, her headphones slip off her skull, and she says in a loud whisper, “fuck me with an elbow!”

So of course she was assigned to the aisle seat across from me. I apologized sincerely and was forgiven in the form of updates on pain-level; she made the entire flight with her hand on her crossbeam.

* No Sky Marshall or TSA agent got involved

Forced Hand Shaking

Unfortunately I cannot publicly disclose any further information – only that this is a letter received by a stranger only a few years ago.

Bang the Girl Slowly


So I was finally able to jerk off today. Nothing too aggressive, because I don’t want to set off the pain in my balls again. I’m just disappointed with myself because I spent about an hour and a half looking for something to treat myself to, and all that turned up was mediocre, at best. You’d think that after all these years I’d accept the fact that there’s no such thing as terrific porn. Except for this one clip a while back, but you just don’t get the same “high” the 5th time around.

An hour and a half… Like it’s the last time I’ll ever be able to do it… What a crappy investment. The only bigger waste of time would be watching Avatar or Happy Feet.

Well, only 19 more wanks to go until I can take my first fertility test. Then 20 more after that. I’m not a super avid wanker. Maybe anywhere between once and 4x a month is all. It feels like homework now.