Saturday, October 8


how many falafels is too many falafels?
that's a trick question,
designed to find out if you're an A*-hole or not.
if you answered with a number?
sorry, neighbors-
you're an A*-hole.
the correct response is:
too much is the right amount.
if you can't hang out like that,
then you can't hang out at all.
rules is rules.
over here, in the woodsly goodness,
and especially at the fryeburg fair,
and especially especially on friday,
there's a special sort of commitment that we've made to falafel-
a semi-sacred covenant with shark-gluttonous good times,
and instructive, counter-productive, self-destructive digestive derring-do.
....damn me for a weak-sauce diaperbaby
if i don't doo-doo that sort of foolhardily freaky-diki sh!t.
i'm serious.
it's a thing, and it's a three-parter,
and it always starts the same way-
with a whole lotta falafel.

feeling awesome is the first step.
the special was in full effect,
with pickledy-poppin' carrots and cukes, along with that righteous hummus,
and the lettuce and tomato and tahini that always
compliment a full complement of chick-pea chunks across a fired-up flatbread.
it's SO GOOD.
and i love it.
and i always want MORE.
that's real.
and so,
i have more, for phase two of the plan, man:

feeling full?
that means you're doing it right.
that's good news,
because a couple more specials make you feel special.
that's the good news.
four falafels is a LOT of falafels, duders.
you may or may not believe me,
but, if you;re skeptical, go munch up a quartet today.
then come back and tell me how you've got a little exxxtra room in there somewhere.
go ahead, i'll wait.
oh. well then,
please allow me to continue....
the final step in the holy trinity of self-imposed punitive cumulative
overindulgent dinnertime dopeness is to turn it up,
to eleven,
and really plug up any last little bit of space in your stomach with another 'nother other one.
check the teleport:

it's called
for a mutha-'ucking reason!!
being full is no reason not to have one more.
that's the whole dang point, as a matter of fact.
here's the thing-
i don't really do things that other people do.
no barbecues on long weekends.
no sportsgame beer times with the bros.
no talking about television programs the next day at work.
none of the things my 40-year old peers are into interest me.
not one little teeny-tiny bit.
i eat all the vegan food.
and i make up little alliterative games and challenges for fun...
nobody else is playing,
nobody else even cares,
but it's a task i've set myself,
and it's a small sliver of joy in an otherwise long and arduous trek from sunup to sundown.
eight days of dining out amongst a giant congregation of strangers,
doing stranger things,
and me, making a unerring laser-guided pinpoint-accurate beeline navigation
straight through all of it,
with my sole focus, and my singular purpose clearly defined.
i like the thing that i like,
and all the rest of it is static, irrelevant, and not to be regarded.
still haven't seen a single F*ing other thing besides the falafel stand.
like i said, rules is rules,
and honestly,
falafels are the TRUTH.
everything else is a grey negotiable sh!t-hot no-thank-you.
warrior poetry is a meandering style of speech, for sure,
but in deed, it's very direct.
feel awful falafel friday is the only really-real way to span time
when it's the designated day.
it's a reminder,
a ritual,
an allegorical little memo to myself-
everything single thing that i will ever love,
at the level of intensity, the active participation, and professional appreciation
with which i insist on i experiencing it,
will absolutely try to destroy me.
i think it's better that i make that choice with my eyes open
and my mouth full.
it's all really happening, on every level, at all times.
that's the whole point;
never quiet, never soft.....

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