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the buttery

2005-01-05 - 10:39 p.m.

I�ve known my friend Jay for at least twelve years, we met through my girlfriend in Baltimore, and became buddies instantly. There was this greasy diner in Balto. there that we all used to go to in the early 90�s called The Buttery. It was open all night and was home to transvestites and hard partiers mainly. We wanted to eat after dancing all night and The Buttery was a sea of fun. Jay and me made up a rap song there one night called �At the Buttery� and it went something like

(To be said in almost a whisper)

Where do you find - no peace of mind, where your jaw is ready to drop?

At the But�rey.

Where do you go - when you�d like to feel low � and you don�t mind a drunk crooked cop?

At the But�rey!

So a few months ago he emailed me, and said �whose email address is this?� Like he didn�t know. So since my name wasn�t included in my email address I wrote back �At the Buttery.� He must not have gotten the clue and wrote me, asking again who I was, appearing very frustrated. I only repeated my buttercry. Not amused, and pissed off , he signed off and that was it. Since I mistakenly assumed it was him iming me, I emailed him later and gave him a bit of ohell for being stuck up and stuffy.

Don�t you remember the freakin� Buttery?

I never heard back from him, so six months later, otherwise known as yesterday, I wrote him off in my mind. I placed him in the recycle bin to be ready for permanent deletion. Of course today day he called out of the blue, (= coincidence) and said he never sent any email like that to me, it may have been his assistant or ex girlfriend. The main reason I�m mentioning this is that coincidences are very common, but should be taken a little more seriously, and looked at a little more closely, and I do mean this to myself and anyone else who wants to look at their own thing.

Here are two more coincidences that happened in the past two days. I had a bag of pecans from the Farmer�s Market, and they still have shells (and dirt!) on the outside of them. My friend Roman said they taste like cookies, when we were looking at them at the Farmer�s Market last week. That is only halfway true. They would taste like cookies if they were baked inside of cookies. To me they taste like dirt. Anyway, they�re not horrible, it�s just a lot of work to constantly bash them in with a sturdy heeled shoe on your counter because you can�t find the fuckinnutcracker. And it�s messy and feels like gristle bits in your mouth, never mind I haven�t eaten a gristleburger in years. So I decided to give half the bag to Jacob (Caribbean nudist) at work, who will eat just about anything you give him. Two minutes later, Nasir (head of Warehouse) walked by so I gave him the rest of the bag. He said he was just thinking about buying nuts.

I can�t remember the other coincidence. But there was one time I was driving and asked my Mother for a sign since she saw fit not to give me any since she died, and I looked out the window of the car and there was a flatbed truck with about a billion folded cardboard boxes stacked and tied together and only one of them was plastered to the side of the flatbed and it said �Mother� on it in big letters. The boxes were stacked like this:

___ _____ _______ _ ______ _______ ________ _______
___ ______ ___________ __________ _________ ________
___________ ____________ ___________ _____________
________ ___________ __________ ____________ _____
_________ _________MOTHER ________________ __________ ___________ ______ ______________ _________
_________ ___________ ___________ ___________ _________

This entry is more or less lost on itself.

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