my friends will be the life of me

So today I was cornered by a group of so-called friends demanding that I join up for a team-triathalon with them. Peer pressure used to be about drinking and smoking things, not running and swimming at the plumber-butt of dawn.

This whole situation was totally wiggidy, especially because the ring-leader was a professional pastry chef. How could a person who majored in cake tell me I need more exercise in my diet? Of course, she is one of those post-post-modern chefs of the French new school. In other words, she makes dessert that you look at, and if you try to touch it or take a picture, a volunteer docent from a nearby senior center asks you to stay behind the velvet rope. I'm obviously not a fan of having cake and not being able to eat it too, but I do appreciate some of her work -- she specializes in cakes with moving parts. Not like a flip-top so a naked lady can hide from the law, but like an Alexander Calder sculpture. It is almost hypnotic watching carefully balanced cake-parts swivel slowly with the wind. The way it turns toward people as they pass in a rush of air, it is like it is aware of their presence. I kind of get a little teary when I eat it -- I feel I am snuffing out some flicker of life, which is weird since I never think twice when eating gingerbread men, and those fuckers are always staring right at me.



At 10:49 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Dylan, I've known you for 20 years, but it's like I'm meeting you for the first time. I never would have guessed that you, my once diablo-obsessed brother, now post such clever and witty comments on an online blog. Oh joyous day indeed!
P.S. Two days before his birthday, dad got his first senior discount from the orowheat outlet. The cashier didn't even ask how old he was, he just assumed dad was old enough. Maybe it's just me, but I found this ridiculously funny.


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