Monday, October 06, 2003
(2:02 PM) | Adam Kotsko:
Bohemian Like You
After a week during which Richard worked 72 hours and I was, you know, in grad school, the house is definitely looking a little bit shabby. I don't really know where I'm going to cram in the hour and a half of work that would be necessary to get it looking respectable again, and so I've decided on another strategy: we need to make the transition to a full-on bohemian dwelling. First off, we need to invest in a lot more ash trays with half-smoked cigarettes in them. We have to put all our efforts into dubious home-improvement projects that "would be cool" while neglecting all house-keeping concerns that our bourgeoise pig moms taught us to care about. So I can definitely see us putting a loft in my room, so we'll have more room, you know? For a foosball table, of course. Or a dart board that we would never use.
I already put my bed frame in storage, because it's more authentic to sleep on a mattress right on the floor, as Brett and Tara learned during their Bohemian Summer in our computer room. In fact, hell, why not invite Brett and Tara to live with us again? We'd need more couscous and Ramen -- we'd basically need to starve ourselves most of the time and subsist on Parliaments and bad coffee that I think someone brewed this morning -- yeah, it was definitely... wait. Me and Tara could be having a debate on Heidegerrian ontology while Brett trains the dog to piss on Kari and Richard plays Playstation on our 12" TV (we'll have to sell his big TV and plan to use the proceeds to get an anti-war billboard on the interstate, but then we'll have to use the money to replace the transmission in Kari's already-very-authentic car).
Once Kevin gets out of jail, he could come back here and audit classes at CTS, because even though he loves all this philosophy and theology shit, he's just not going to do the structured thing, man. One of our home-improvement tasks will be to make an official, library-style magazine rack for the bathroom, and by the time we get done, all our magazine subscriptions will have lapsed, except for that lifetime subscription that Tara has to Bitch. The cats will finally make their escape, and Richard's and Brett and Tara's dogs will embrace an alternative lifestyle. I'll kick the dogs apart on my way to bail Richard out of jail for his DUI. The officer will know my name.
But man, Friday we should totally have a Thanksgiving dinner. Yeah, I know that it's not Thanksgiving yet, but that's what's so cool, you know? Like, why should we have to wait until they tell us we can have Thanksgiving dinner. Screw that! I want some stuffing! Then we could all try to have a short-story contest that will degenerate into a bitch-fest about how McSweeney's has totally sold out. And man, yeah, I probably should have finished my MA, but I know I can keep up with those idiot PhD kids, and I don't have to put up with the bullshit.
I stole this book from Barnes and Noble about how we can do subsistence farming in the back yard. We could grow rice and soy and stuff and never have to go to the grocery store again. Think of it: tomatoes, cucumbers, fresh lettuce, potatoes, baby carrots, all the time, totally fresh, for like, no money! Then I could quit my job as a night stocker at Jewel.
You know what I've always wanted to do? Learn to play guitar....
