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A Day in the Life: This Is How I Always End Up With So Much Stupid Stuff

"Indian people rarely own cats in America—let alone two. I like them. They’re like dumb, independent dogs who shit in a box in the corner of the house and then throw sand all over the shit."
October 10, 2013, 2:51pm

WAITING FOR THE J TRAIN TO BEGIN THE EXTERNAL PART OF MY ADVENTURE.

I thought this week I’d take a break from my usual lists of shit I own and how I feel about them to write a list of things I did this past Sunday. Maybe it will give you, the reader, more of a glimpse into how I evaluate and acquire my panoply of precious objects, and in doing so, learn a little bit more about the person behind it all. The more you people know about me, the better.

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I woke up late, somewhere around noon, but I’d slept at 6:30 the night before, my first night drinking since I got bent and acted like a real dickhead two weeks ago (which I’m not going to tell you about). First thing in the morning, I amble over to my Cuisinart CPK-17 Perfectemp Cordless Electric Kettle and select my tea for the day. I try not to drink caffeine on days I don’t have much work to do to maximize the impact when I do decide to get busy. I have no idea if this is based on sound scientific principles, but it used to work with weed, so I’m sticking with it. On one of these low-stress days I’ll go for a Yogi Detox, Rooibos, or one of my recent favorites, a decaffeinated vanilla-flavored black tea I’ve been buying from ebay. Whatever it’s sprayed with does, in fact, taste like vanilla so please keep up the good work, fellas.

A SMALL SAMPLING OF MY TEA AND BOUNTY AND ASSORTED TOOLS.

While the water is heating in the kettle, I usually feed my cats. I feed them wet food twice a day, and dry food in the morning so they can pick at it as they please while I’m away. Indian people rarely own cats in America—let alone two. I like them. They’re like dumb, independent dogs who shit in a box in the corner of the house and then throw sand all over the shit. I refuse to have people see me bend over picking up dog shit off the street with a C-Town circular I found on the ground because I forgot to bring a plastic bag. And I certainly won’t let people see me sit down on the sidewalk, “Indian-style,” and consume the feces like a starving animal.

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I’ve been trying to take care of my skin over the last year. I’m afraid the years of heavy living might have an impact on my gorgeous visage and that cannot be allowed to happen. I’ve been rubbing smelly raw apple cider vinegar on my face after showering (and before moisturizing, duh) as a toner. Recently, I read something by Patricia Bragg (daughter of Bragg’s founder Paul) about how you can open your pores by putting a towel over your head and lurking above a just-boiled, steaming pot of water with a dash of vinegar in it. After this, you wipe your face off with apple cider vinegar, and repeat. I figured, why not? Other than the noxious, boiled vinegar fumes scorching my esophagus, I think it worked pretty well. This week I’m making my own pore mask with gelatin, milk, and a microwave.

MY CAT BEAKY WATCHING ME DO MY THING-THING.

After this it’s time to get into it and check my to-do list. This is in the form of a Google document I have access to anywhere with an internet/cellular connection. I refer to this list a dozen to probably around a hundred times a day. Not because it’s jammed with important tasks, but because I am a crazy, obsessive man who has to create the pretense of obligation to avoid flying off the rails. Next, I begin checking my emails, texts, and Twitter business. This is a stop-and-start process of writing and erasing responses, starring things for later, and feeling bad for ignoring people. But mostly it’s wading through listserv garbage and constantly refreshing my Twitter mentions. Sundays are a day of leisure though, so this was a thankfully brief task. I created a small (but typical) list of things to get done. On Sundays these usually include a lot of planning, video editing, further list-making, brainstorming, and, most importantly, leaving the house to perform a variety of mundane tasks.

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First up was popping by the boot store Kith’s downtown Manhattan location to check out the Florsheim Gaffney boot. Two years ago, I bought some Florsheim x Duckie Brown shoes and boots that were being sold at a wild, fire sale price by the no longer existent luxury clothing website CLAD. They were the wrong size, so I sent them back for a new, still-wrong size. There’s apparently no good way to make a boot fit comfortably when it is too big. I tried buying all sorts of insoles, but that didn’t do anything. I figured there would be some sort of putty that could be sculpted into the sides and back of the boot that would harden and shrink the interior of the boot. Maybe there is, I didn’t bother checking with any cobblers. After two years of buyer’s remorse for having them sit in the corner unworn, I decided to sell them at a loss on ebay and keep it moving. I’m currently in the process of buying a replacement. The Gaffney was not that shoe, as it looks, unlike the photo I saw of it, like doodoo in person.

ON THE LEFT, MY FINELY CRAFTED TOO-BIG SHOE. ON THE RIGHT, A PILE OF DOODOO.

I quickly popped into Patagonia to try on the classic Synchilla to see what size I am before buying a bunch of old and new joints on eBay. After this I swung uptown to Union Square to got to my bank branch to deposit five dollars into one of my accounts that was overdrawn by exactly that amount. I have three bank accounts: one that holds my not-spending money, one that holds money to spend on bills, rent, food, whatever and a third, pointless account that I keep because I don’t like the second account to not end in zeros. So if that account had 4.321.60 in it, I would probably transfer 21.60 into the second account. Or if I’m writing a check to somebody, I’ll transfer the exact amount of the check in. If I mistakenly use the card to buy a MetroCard or something, the check ends up bouncing. Anyways, I left that ATM with a satisfying $0.00 balance on the receipt (accidentally asked for a receipt).

GMO FISH RAVE WITH OPTIONAL BUBBLING VOLCANO.

Lastly, I quickly popped into the Petco near Union Square. The first order of business was buying the wildly expensive, corn-based cat litter that keeps my apartment smelling fresh and clean. It also works well with this self-cleaning litter box robot that sifts through the litter with a metal grate that flips all the shit into a closed, activated-carbon filtered plastic bag at the end. Secondly, I went downstairs to look at GloFish. These are genetically modified fish that glow, especially under blue LEDs. They were developed to help track pollution and stuff like that in bodies of water (according to the GloFish people), but have been sold as pets for a decade. I never seriously considered getting an aquarium because who gives a shit about that, but these things look identical to a small rave with crazy plants and a little bubbling volcano. I spent three days buying all sorts of wild shit and reading up on keeping the little fuckers alive. I’m thinking of adding a ghost shrimp and a little snail into the mix. We shall see.

After getting home I cracked open my latest internet purchase, an ounce of valerian root powder. This shit is supposed to help you sleep, so I decided to go straight for the raw. I was a little weary since drinking kava kava made me fall down like a hundred and times a few months back, but this went smooth as silk. I finished the day reading Sandman on an iPad.

Dapwell buys so much dumb shit but we love him for it. He's DJing tonight with @THEKIDMERO at Beloved Bar in Brooklyn. Find him on Twitter@dapwell