Acronym. Medical term. Knicks-related anxiety. Frequently accompanied by nausea.
It's like post-traumatic stress syndrome, except it's happening right now. There's nothing 'post' about it. As I type, the K-Whoppers are down by eleven. But not to worry, there's still eight minutes left in the second quarter, so there's plenty of time for things to get worse.
Thus, as an act of avoidance, I blog. I'm blogging. What a stupid, fucking word blogging is. Picasso never blogged. He was protean.
I think of you as being more of a carbohydrate.
I know. That's the problem. I've got to get my shit together.
You're familiar with this painting?
I can't believe this is the best photo I have of it. All that glare makes it look like I used a flash. Anyway, it's on public view and you're welcome to go to Daisy Baker's, a lovely restaurant in the center of scenic downtown Troy, order a drink and stare at it. Bring a portable defibrillator, because it's powerful in the flesh.
Just so we're clear, the importance of this painting is that it, and others like it, are a precursor to my now famous Map paintings. But that is now and this is then.
I painted "Don't Order the Cold Noodles" and set it on an easel in my living room so that, when I called the Chinese restaurant across Monument Square to order some take-out, I would remember not to order the cold noodles. Because I'm a sucker for cold noodles and I needed something visceral to keep me from doing the wrong thing.
But now, as we both know, the painting is hanging in a public place, not my living room. So it was of no help when I called the Sushi King -- terrible name for a Chinese restaurant -- and ordered some fried dumplings, some hot and sour soup, an egg roll ... and some cold noodles.
The good thing about the Sushi King is that the food comes quickly. It's horrible, but at least it gets here fast. It's like that old joke where one woman says to the other "The food here is terrible!" and the other responds "I know. And the portions are so big!".
Here's a better one ...
A penguin walks into a bar. Says to the bartender "I'm supposed to meet my brother here. Have you seen him?" The bartender asks "What does he look like?"
Now that's a fucking joke. But not as good as this one ...
My girlfriend's addicted to brake fluid and it concerns me. She tells me not to worry -- she can stop at any time.
Anyway, the food arrives. I open up the cold noodles to find that they are steaming hot. Right out of the cooking water -- let's say, after cooling during transit, right at 200 degrees on the nose -- with a big dollop of the brown sesame sauce. Cold noodles that are hot.
A quick note on life: in a world full of disfunction, it's important to be able to honestly differentiate between your disfunction and that of the world around you.
I understand that this is my fault, not the restaurant's. I painted the painting. I knew they had this one profound weakness but I pressed ahead. It's like trading for Tim Tebow, thinking he'll play quarterback for you. I mean, what did I expect? That said, I called the restaurant and told them what the problem was. They sent some cold noodles over, which were only horrible. But they were cold.
And all the while I was on the phone, I was inspecting the round, plastic to-go container with the hot noodles in it. And I discovered that they've increased the capacity of their to-go containers.
So that's something.
Knicks down 34-48 at the half.