I am the anti-chef
Many of you have been clamoring for my old episodes of “From My Squalid Kitchen,” my cooking series that takes poverty and obscurity and serves them up ungarnished on a chipped plated. With “LOVE.” Gag me with an egg beater that’s been left in the sink for two weeks!
No one has been clamoring for that at all. Or anything, really. It’s all made up. Fake. A big conspiracy about nothin’. A great, big zero-calorie Empty Burger, hold the bun. A salad with One Very Small Island Dressing.
Thanks a bunch, Vimeo! You said I’d be accepted at Sundance, and I wasn’t! You never said I had to submit anything! Way to waste mes anneés crépusculaires!
The sheer tedium of my own company these past—it’s a thousand years since the pandemic started, right? Or is that since Trump appeared on the scene like Narko the Narwhale and turned our lives into an inexplicable ending to a mysterious art film—the slow thud thud thud of the seconds falling on the slack drum head of my existence as my life ground to even more of a halt has me thinking I should revive these little masterpieces of wry wit, served with my choice of salad or fries.
Yes, no? Listen, bub, If I’d taken on everyone’s well-meaning advice I’d still be walking down Yonge Street on a snowy day in February, 1991, wearing Presbyterian minister-type toe rubbers.
So without any further, previous or plain old ado, here’s the series so far.