Rolling in Royalties

Who got his first ever novel royalty check this week? This lucky buckaroo! One-hundred and two smackers and change. I’d post a picture, but I don’t want any of you sketchy Internet people ripping me off or Photoshopping stupid cat pictures over the top of it.

I now find myself with a quandary I’ve always wanted to have: how do I spend all of my writing profits? I’ve narrowed down the options to a group of finalists and ranked them from “yeah, that’s useful and I should buy that but I probably won’t” to “I shouldn’t waste my hard-earned income on this crap but I probably will anyway.”

  • Pots and pans. I’ve spent most of my adult years living with people who thought it was important to spend more than $8 on a frying pan. I kind of miss being able to mooch kitchen equipment off those people. A nice stainless steel saucepan can go a long way, especially if you ever need something sturdy to swing at a burglar. I don’t think it’s important to spend a lot of money on the kitchen, but I got used to a certain lifestyle.
  • A second desk or table. My current desk is way too small to hold all the change I’m piling atop it, hence why I’ve set up my second laptop atop a nightstand half of its size. It looks like some kind of half-assed podium or lectern. I really need another desk or table; running one computer at a time just is not working for me.
  • An electric bug swatter. I got to play with one of these a few weeks ago. I’m not sure I’ve ever had more fun. I felt like a predator stalking my helpless prey.
  • Four cab rides to work. Fuck taking the T in the morning. Thanks to my writing prowess, I can afford to commute in style in the back of a smelly cab.
  • A Chris Jericho-style blinking jacket. All of a sudden, the lights dim in the bar. Amid the shrieks and gasps, a series of gently pulsating lights shaped vaguely like a man cuts through the terrifying darkness. The house lights go back up, the music hits, and I turn around with a fist pump and order a Manhattan. And all the ladies swoon and rush to pay for my drink.
  • Beer. Yeah, Narragansett’s probably about to be one-hundred and two dollars and change richer.

I Stole Your Lunch

Business is booming in Boston’s Seaport District. For the last two years, swarms of construction workers have been busy turning a neighborhood that used to be a boring parking lot into a mecca of modern capitalism. Unfortunately, all those new buildings are full of people–and those people need lunch.

“No problem!” you might declare after checking out a map of the area. “There’s a restaurant on every corner, many of which weren’t there six months ago!” True dat. But what that map you so cleverly Googled doesn’t tell you is that none of those joints is any good for lunch. Although $12 crab rangoons make great appetizers for rich douche bags attempting to bed the gold digging skanks they meet on OKCupid, such fare is inappropriate for the midday meal. The Seaport lunch scene–which, let’s face it, was never all that great to begin with–is literally collapsing under the weight of the blue button-down shirts and khaki pants that have infested the neighborhood. Outside tables are always occupied. Special sandwiches are always gone way too quickly. And lines are perpetually clogged with snappily dressed yuppies intent on making sure the sandwich guy only puts “a little bit” of mayonnaise on their bread and that they get red onions instead of white onions and that the focaccia is cut at a precise 45 degree angle and OH JESUS CHRIST SOMEONE CALL NEXUS-INVASION-ERA DANIEL BRYAN CUZ I SEE SOME PEOPLE WHO SHOULD BE CHOKED OUT WITH THEIR OWN TIES.

Luckily, I’ve got a plan that will save my sanity, keep Daniel Bryan focused on regaining his World Heavyweight Championship, and improve the overall lunchability of Boston’s Seaport District: build a few dumps and stock them with cheap, good-but-not-great food. I’m talking greasy spoons here, people, not trendy food trucks or cafes staffed with hipsters who judge me because I don’t always eat my crust. I want narrow, stuffy joints with questionable air conditioning and bathrooms you wouldn’t use unless pissing in the nearby harbor would somehow make you spontaneously combust. I want food that won’t send me running to said bathroom but also won’t attract undo attention by being particularly good; Pour House or Squealing Pig quality would do. I want these places to be staffed by gruff, no-nonsense men and women with names like Sully and Val and Sketchy Pete. Most of all, I want places people who prefer to take care of business casually will turn their noses up at on their way to have $10 guacamole made right at their table by a man who can’t spell guacamole but sure smiles a lot at the rich folk while he makes it.

Get on this shit STAT, Mayor Menino. Your reelection might depend on it.