read this to get stupidder

in the last 20 minutes my brazilian roommate has managed to ask me several of the stupidest questions i've ever heard. in more ways than one, he disproves the old adage that there are no stupid questions just stupid people, since i find him and his questions both EQUALLY stupid. i'm going to try and remember what they are, for your enjoyment.

while showing me a bowl of brown stuff that's 3 weeks old...

"is this still good?"

i looked at it and said, "that depends, what were they?"

he said, "black beans"

i said, "well, they're still mostly black"

then while he cooks them, smoke starts to billow around the apartment. he asks:

"why does it always do that?"

i said: "thermodynamics"

he said "what does that mean?"

i said, "it means you're burning your beans"

gradually it's getting harder for me to see the television set from the couch, which is pretty bad since it's only about 6 feet away. he asks:

"should i open a window?"

it seems he has mistaken me for a fire safety expert, or possibly someone with a SHRED OF COMMON SENSE, thus i respond, "well, i'm going to have to check my fire safety book to see if smoke inhalation is still DEADLY, but while i do, why don't you open the window, so i can see the tv screen."

and then he says:

"how long do you cook beans?"

now, i'm going to mention to you that these were REFRIED beans that he showed me, okay? that's important. so i say:

"well i'm pretty sure they are cooked already, you are only reheating them, so when they aren't cold anymore, they are done... unless you're trying to burn out every possible fungus and bacteria that has no doubt been inhabitting that lump of crap over the last 3 weeks."

"what?"

"5 minutes Artur, they take 5 minutes."

maybe i'm the only one who finds a sick type of humor in the way he always asks me stupid questions, i don't know.

hopefully you aren't TOTALLY averse to my mindless ramblings...

so, i give you a story about smoking a cigarette on the steps outside my apartment. or, as i like to say when i am lying, my studio apartment.

i have come to realize that the steps are mine. i own the steps. i know every stain on every concrete block within a 10-foot-radius. i decide who can go down my steps. i make a conscious effort not to hurtle any students over the thirty-five-foot railing. and i also know how the lights of the night reflect off of railing surfaces. and how when you block out the light's ray by looking through the railing, you can wonder if you see any fog in the distance between the steps and the light source. be it the moon, a lamp post, or aurora borealis. i can think back of the many times that i have flicked a cigarette and have it land perfectly on a ledge on the wall some thirty feet down. a one inch ledge. perfectly. i stop to wonder... how many times has it landed perfectly. four, maybe five times. should it bug me that the amount of times the cigarette has not indeed landed must far outnumber the number of times it has failed? who knows? all i know is that i own those damn steps.

so, i was on the steps of my apartment the other minute, and i couldn't help but ponder yet again on what i feel is my "scourge of the morning smoke," to use the parlance of times past. because it seems that every morning, after i awake, i go out for a morning smoke. i can relate it to the quote about how when a sober person wakes up, that's the best they're going to feel all day, but a hung over person will only feel better throughout the day, etc. etc. no matter how filthy i am, or feel, i feel better after a morning smoke. the filthy adam of the morning often sits and smokes, wondering in what ways the clean adam of last night fucked him over. made me oversleep, gave me a headache, made me sleep in my clothes on the couch, so on and so forth. despite this all, i always travel outside, usually sans shoes or socks, and appreciate at least one thing that is better then nothing. i smoke my cigarette, think a little, smoke it some more and flick it. i think most everyone does this. some folks may do without the thinking part, who knows. but something that irks me, is that some people can be so ignorant as to NOT flick their cigarette when they finish it. these nimrods instead just drop it and, get this, they stamp it out with their foot, smearing the ashes into the concrete. which is all fine and good until a filthy adam walks out barefoot and gets a skanky cigarette butt lodged between my pinky and next to pinky toes. it's not like we live in a barn, surrounded by hay piles, and any little ash will just make the place blow up. i know who the offender is, and next time i see him i'll yell down the stairs

"hey bitch! i'm onto you! you're on my list, motherfucker!".

he'll probably act all naive, but he won't be fooling anyone. this, i call my "scourge of the morning smoke." it's never pleasant.

i don't want to even get into the gum stains i've been finding.

i wrote the above bit about the smoking about a week ago, but never sent it, because i didn't like it. but i had to now, because wouldn't you fucking know it, i was walking through the vestibule of one of the adjacent apartment buldings looking for a flyer on the bulletin board, when i noticed a lone bale of hay. i couldn't believe it, i wanted to take a picture and post it too, because i doubt you'll believe me, but i don't have a camera, and i don't want those freaks at the moto-photo wondering why i find a bale of hay so interesting...

addendum - i was reading the guinness book of world records year 2000 edition the other day (did you know that guinness is the same guinness from the beer, guinness? well it is). and i started to think about heaven. because there was this guy who had his hand raised for the last 50 years in praise of allah. the gross thing was that his fingers like, fused together because of their lack of use. his hand was just like a misshapen ball with no distinct fingers left. that made me think of the guy on the cover of that 'rage against the machine' album. i'm sure you've seen it, he was a monk who set himself on fire during a religious protest. but he was sitting indian style the whole time he was engulfed in flames. he never moved. so i thought, with my luck, i'll be up in heaven, and st. peter will say: "this guy has kept his hand raised in praise of you for 50 years, and this guy set himself on fire because of his strong belief of religion..."

then they'll look at me and go

"ummmm, this guy makes a conscious effort not to push people down staircases... and when he was a kid, during lent he used to give up chocolate, WHICH HE NEVER EVEN LIKED ANYWAY."

okay, i swear to God, my roommate artur just yelled in to me asking what he should use to get the beans off of the pot.