Been taking spitting classes for almost two years and I’m pretty good now. It’s sort of hard to break into but once you’re in the community, people are really supportive. And in New York there’s opportunity around every corner.

I spat some in middle school and high school but I never thought about honing my craft. In college I pretty much stopped spitting altogether. Then some co-workers saw me spit and convinced me to sign up for a class after work.

My spit was loose and crazy at first but what I lacked technique I made up for in confidence. With proper coaching, that confidence and willingness to spit turned into something I could work with. Soon I was spitting all over town.

Me and some kids from class started spitting together a new nights a week. It started out as long walks up the East Side but then it turned into bar crawls, then lunches, then volunteer work, and so on.

My latest class is great. It meets right by my place in Chinatown. My teacher Mr. Liu is a total spitting maniac. He’s been spitting for twenty years. And even though he never made it big time you can tell he’s the kind of guy who wants to teach the next generation of spitters. It’s his purpose.

I was feeling really comfortable with my spitting at the end of last year. I was arcing stuff over sidewalks. I was hitting street signage. I even took a fly down one night in my room. I was experimenting a lot with snot rockets, the ugly cousin of spitting.

People ask me all the time what I’m gonna do with all my spitting. Listen, it’s just how I cut loose. Spitting’s always going to be part of my life. If I can get a gig here and there so be it, but I’m not quitting my day job anytime soon.

Don’t use too many of my paper towels. If I come back and they’re all gone, I’m going to be mad. This is the bin where I keep my rags, hand towels and potholders. Use them instead of the paper towels when you can. Throw them in your laundry when possible.

I don’t have a dishwasher so here’s the deal: it’s hot water, soap, sponge, and gloves if you need them. If things get hectic in the dish rack, lay down a dishrag on the table and lay the dishes face down to dry.

I lost two cups, a bowl and a plate last year. It happens. Don’t feel bad if you break something, just know that you’re responsible for replacing it. Yeah, last year was tough.

I put my knives on this magnetic strip. Don’t leave them in the sink. It makes them dull. Cooking with a dull knife is a dangerous.

If you use the salad spinner, please, clean it thoroughly. It’s not going to clean itself. That goes for pasta strainers, too, or if you use any of these strainers or sifters hanging here.

Are you going to be fucking baking in here?

The oven. This drawer is a broiler. Some people don’t get that. Some people think it’s just a drawer. Don’t be stupid—it gets very hot in a broiler, even if you’re just using the oven and aren’t broiling.

Put things back where you found them. It’s a simple tip. It might sound obvious, but be vigilant, please. 

The thing is I hold the world record for most consecutive blindfolded meals prepared and eaten. I’ve been preparing three square meals a day, totally blindfolded, for seven months. I can roast a chicken, make crepes suzette, dress a salad and bake a cake, all totally blind. It started out rough, but now each meal I make I make and eat faster than the last.

This is an extra blindfold if you want to try cooking blind. But please, wait until you’re familiar with the kitchen before you try.

This is my bird. He’s old and he can barely tweet anymore. If he tweets at you, it means he wants you to feed him. Break off a piece of one of THESE crackers and feed him a bite. Do not feed him human crackers. These are special bird crackers that cater to his old age.

That’s my kitchen. If you hear me cooking or eating please give me a wide berth. I tend to thrash around quite a bit. It might look chaotic, but keep in mind I’m a world record holder—I know what I’m doing. Rent is $1,455 a month.

Anything can happen in heaven. If you want a banana simply think one into existence. Think a whole banana tree, even. And the bananas will always be perfect (if that’s what you want). When you snap your fingers your banana can be frozen, chocolate covered, and on a stick. Whatever.

Did you know there’s a lot of different kinds of bananas? There are sweet little bananas from Thailand. There are fat, fragrant bananas from Hawaii. There are even chalky, difficult bananas from Central and South America. They’re called plantains and you fry them and eat them like potatoes. You’re learning, even after death. Heaven is infinitely amazing—forever!

If bananas are your main concern in Heaven then you’re going to be okay. Because you’ll be able to crack open a banana whenever you want to. Other stuff— less natural stuff— is another question. Will there be laptops in heaven? I don’t know. Maybe not the latest models.

But can everyone have a gate to fence off their banana plantations?

I imagine no, there are no gates. There’d be no reason to have a gate or even property worth protecting. There is no property in heaven, just glowing daytime fog that magically manifests things like bananas.

Why would you want a whole banana plantation anyway? You aren’t selling them to anyone. There’s no money in heaven. Unless you like collecting rare coins. Maybe you just like the look of endless rows of banana trees. If that’s the vista you desire, think one into existence. And while you’re at it, how about a neat porch? With a rocking chair. And you know what? Make the whole scene look like a living, breathing Van Gogh painting. Go ahead, lose your mind. It’s your heaven. You’ve earned it.

There are bananas in heaven. There’s everything—so if you’re praying there’s ONLY bananas in heaven, you’re severely limiting yourself. Heaven is whatever you can dream!