Open Day At The Hate Fest.

It is funny to think how right Marcel Proust was.
Last night Anna and I baked our own pitabread and along with that we created our own falafel and which we we ate it in front of the TV watching the Track & Field World Cup. And I started thinking about Times Square. When I worked at Virgin there was this kosher-cart on 5th Ave that had the best falafels. It was an old jewish man that stood there and he always put pickles in the falafel and it was so damn good. And we are sitting there in front of the TV and I think about this and then I get up and get the pickles. I take a bite and suddenly I am sitting in the sun on the sidewalk right next to the old jewish man. And I can hear the traffic and I am wearing my Virgin shirt, smelling the city, loving the city. And this was in the middle of one of my Hemingway phases. And that is when, in front of the Track & Field on TV with a homemade falafel in my hand, that I decide to give up on On the Road. It is great and all but I just do not care anymore. So I take down one of Hemingway's short-story collections and I start to read. and for some reason everytime I do this I get equally surprised by how good of a writer he is. It is just insane. He seemingly says nothing and still it is all there. One story is called After the Storm and this is the first sentence:

It wasn't about anything, something about making punch, and then we started fighting and I slipped and he had me down kneeling on my chest and choking me with both hands like he was trying to kill me and all the time I was trying to get the knife out of my pocket to cut him loose.

And I remember sitting there in the sun with my book, my falafel and a soda watching the midtown traffic speed by, the men in suits running with the lattes-to-go, the homeless screaming man who always stood in that corner and one time tried to spit me in the face. And maybe the falafel there was not better than any other, maybe it was the view, the smell and maybe it was me and where I was in life then that made it the best. Or maybe that old jewish man just knew soemthing that the rest of us don't. I like to think that.

Listening to: Curve