Wednesday, April 11, 2012
observations from a literary gandhi
I got this new kind of coffee.
It is really good.
You don't even have to brew it.
The reason you do not have to actually brew it is because it isn't really coffee. It is crystal methamphetamine, which is more like coffee times atomic weaponry.
I figured if writing is so dependent upon the ingestion of the stimulant, caffeine, then it would greatly be enhanced by nuclear caffeine.
Nuclear caffeine is a more pleasant way of saying "crystal meth."
I think about Gandhi a lot.
I thought about Gandhi one time -- I said to myself, What would Gandhi do in this situation? -- when I was walking in Paris, France, and was punched in the back of my head by a prostitute.
It is a true story, the details of which I like to keep mysteriously vague, but, trust me, it did happen.
I think this coffee is interfering with what I am actually supposed to be doing right now, which is writing. Instead, I am rekindling memories of my youth in Paris, France, which is where I was not only punched in the back of my head by a prostitute (and, man, was she ever angry!), but was also thrown off a train.
That is also a true story.
These are also questions I am frequently asked: Drew, why did you get punched in the back of your head by a prostitute in Paris, France? and, Drew, why did you and your luggage get thrown off a train in Paris, France (Did I mention I had a sleeping compartment?)?
There is always some "tone" in the questioners' voices, too, which implies some prejudgement of initial wrongdoing on my part.
I am an innocent man!
I'll leave it at that.
This coffee is good.
Where was I?