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The mother of excess…
is misery. Or so I read somewhere. I think it was in a fortune cookie.
I do not question the veracity of the truisms tucked away these cookies— especially after my last visit to The Chinese Musician Restaurant about a month ago. Follows is my husband’s fortune:
The greatest danger could be your stupidity.
And here is mine:
Do you want to be a power in the world? Then be yourself.
Correct-a-mundo on both counts!
In the noise-riven hellhole that was my apartment today I put my mother(fucking) misery to work. Somewhere among the metronome-esque pounding of Mr. Johnson’s tool, a couple of medicinal brewski’s, one hot glue gun and my own obstinate(ly persistent) nature a mighty crucible was formed. And thus, out of my personal hell came forth two bad-ASSSSS clocks:
Check out Ganesh’s grill! The mother of excess may be misery, but the fruits of excess (READ: glitter, glam and rhinestones) are fucking FABULOUS!
Although (obviously) incomplete, I felt this one also merited sharing. After a good 2-3 hours of near non-stop pile-driving, this really brightened my day. I hope it does the same for you. The peeps down the block can make my ‘nabe 130 condo units uglier, but that won’t stop me from trying to make it beautiful.
One clock at a time.
Miss Heather
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