The strip club got turned into a cash for gold. Culinary dreams turned into a gig tossing pies at Lil Caesar’s. You got caught on Cheater’s, wound up transient in scummy motels, painting shofars for the fuck of it (rough and rugged shit). Smuggling kugel and quiche into the Lil Caesar’s because man cannot live on pizza pizza alone. Smoking weed, winding up with too-tight braids. Reminding yourself that you shouldn’t really be smoking weed.
The bar at the strip club is too short. Tall woman have to bend over too far. It’s very awkward. A woman named Iron has a tattoo of Ambrosia, just like in the Odyssey. The strip club manager Rosa seems like a nice woman. You really like her. It’s a shame that this place is going to be turned into a cash for gold. You need gold too, or at least longer hours at the strip club on Sunday — or at least the option of going on Monday. Your unemployment just ended. You know that your girl is cheating. She has five phones. No one needs five phones. She’s gone every weekend. You call up Cheaters, but they’re too busy to even take you. You’ll never be able to afford a painting.
You used to be the Shabbas Goy, warming up the Kugel. Now you’re making minimum wage, boy. Serengeti writes better short fiction than Denis Johnson, doomed comic hungover vignettes about what happens when life becomes wrong directions and lost turns. Fictional truths. When you rub your eyes and want to wake but you can’t. It’s the opposite of inspirational rap, thankfully leavened by bleak prophetic humor and cryptic jokes.The beat comes from DJ Crucial. The animation from HighDroPhonics. The doom from David Cohn. As for the strippers, ask the dust.
