Last night I had a terrible time falling asleep. My heart hurt, not in a whiny emo sense, but literally. I've been having intermittent chest pains along with leg and arm numbness. It might be a good idea to go back to the doctor, but I am lazy, cheap, and scared of needles.
Saturday was one of those perfect sunny Autumn days, a promising beginning for the season. I woke up early because a telemarketer called, offering discounted subscriptions to magazines. He kept pushing Marie Claire, which Evan had given me for Christmas, and Shape. I told the telemarketer that I was not interested in buying magazines. He suggested Fitness, which made me wonder if somehow he knew that I hadn't been riding my bicycle enough. Finally I acquiesced and said that I would buy a subscription to either Bitch or Bust. He backed off. They do every time.
I then picked up some oil, fed it to Vespy, and gave her a good cleaning. Then I zipped into the sunshine and scooted around town, honking at other scooters and enjoying the day. At night, Arrin came over so that we could walk to a party at Evan and Jaime's. He seemed unusually worried that the cats would pee on his jacket. This might be understandable if I had mentioned their incontinence, but they're really good at using their litter box. The party was fun, because lots of people were there (including another Ann T. [for the record, I'm Anne with an -e, like Anne Shirley]). Erin and I left around midnight. We took Vespy north on Clark, and boy howdy, did we get attention from the rowdy, happy bar stumblers. It's great to have girl friends. We are living the days that we'll recall as old ladies. My mom has a collection of pictures from the mid-sixties, when she was my age. I have always wanted that photographed lifestyle, complete with girlfriends and picnics and the sun filtering through leaves in Lincoln Park. Except, you know, updated for today's youth and their Spock Rock style.
Anyway, after dropping Erin off, I scooted up to Andersonville, which is one of my favorite places to visit. Sometimes I like to ride my bicycle along the lakefront, stop at the Foster Avenue Beach, and then stroll around the neighborhood. There's a shop called The Acorn (!) as well as a feminist bookstore called Women and Children First. Anyway, I wandered into Simon's around 1. Generally speaking, I don't like bars, but for some reason I like Simon's. It's the place where hipsters come to die, in a way. The crowd is made up of locals and late-twentysomethings who have outgrown the Rainbo. Simon's has Schlitz signs, pretty colored lights in the front window, and comfortable sofas in the back. The bar was crowded but not packed, and I bought my Cherry Coke and sat on the corner bench by the front window. I tried to look nonchalant while reading my museum brochures, but it's hard to not feel a little pathetic when you're sipping a non-alcoholic beverage at a bar on a Saturday night. I just didn't want to be alone that night, and even in isolation, it was better to be alone with others than alone with self. Evan and I have a long-standing argument over whether Simon's is my bar or his bar. He claims it as his, because he goes there more often than I do (which makes sense, as he drinks and I don't). But I say it's mine, because Todd treated me to a soda there first.
This week is a decent concert week: Sigur Ros plays the Vic on Thursday. Tickets are $20 and they're probably already sold out, but I'm tempted to check it out. It's only a few blocks from home, and post-rockin' shows are slightly amusing in their un-fun-ness. Then, on John's birthday, zee American Analog Set is playing. Lots of head-nodding to ensue. It's too bad that every show couldn't be a Ted Leo show. Everybody would dance.
Saturday was one of those perfect sunny Autumn days, a promising beginning for the season. I woke up early because a telemarketer called, offering discounted subscriptions to magazines. He kept pushing Marie Claire, which Evan had given me for Christmas, and Shape. I told the telemarketer that I was not interested in buying magazines. He suggested Fitness, which made me wonder if somehow he knew that I hadn't been riding my bicycle enough. Finally I acquiesced and said that I would buy a subscription to either Bitch or Bust. He backed off. They do every time.
I then picked up some oil, fed it to Vespy, and gave her a good cleaning. Then I zipped into the sunshine and scooted around town, honking at other scooters and enjoying the day. At night, Arrin came over so that we could walk to a party at Evan and Jaime's. He seemed unusually worried that the cats would pee on his jacket. This might be understandable if I had mentioned their incontinence, but they're really good at using their litter box. The party was fun, because lots of people were there (including another Ann T. [for the record, I'm Anne with an -e, like Anne Shirley]). Erin and I left around midnight. We took Vespy north on Clark, and boy howdy, did we get attention from the rowdy, happy bar stumblers. It's great to have girl friends. We are living the days that we'll recall as old ladies. My mom has a collection of pictures from the mid-sixties, when she was my age. I have always wanted that photographed lifestyle, complete with girlfriends and picnics and the sun filtering through leaves in Lincoln Park. Except, you know, updated for today's youth and their Spock Rock style.
Anyway, after dropping Erin off, I scooted up to Andersonville, which is one of my favorite places to visit. Sometimes I like to ride my bicycle along the lakefront, stop at the Foster Avenue Beach, and then stroll around the neighborhood. There's a shop called The Acorn (!) as well as a feminist bookstore called Women and Children First. Anyway, I wandered into Simon's around 1. Generally speaking, I don't like bars, but for some reason I like Simon's. It's the place where hipsters come to die, in a way. The crowd is made up of locals and late-twentysomethings who have outgrown the Rainbo. Simon's has Schlitz signs, pretty colored lights in the front window, and comfortable sofas in the back. The bar was crowded but not packed, and I bought my Cherry Coke and sat on the corner bench by the front window. I tried to look nonchalant while reading my museum brochures, but it's hard to not feel a little pathetic when you're sipping a non-alcoholic beverage at a bar on a Saturday night. I just didn't want to be alone that night, and even in isolation, it was better to be alone with others than alone with self. Evan and I have a long-standing argument over whether Simon's is my bar or his bar. He claims it as his, because he goes there more often than I do (which makes sense, as he drinks and I don't). But I say it's mine, because Todd treated me to a soda there first.
This week is a decent concert week: Sigur Ros plays the Vic on Thursday. Tickets are $20 and they're probably already sold out, but I'm tempted to check it out. It's only a few blocks from home, and post-rockin' shows are slightly amusing in their un-fun-ness. Then, on John's birthday, zee American Analog Set is playing. Lots of head-nodding to ensue. It's too bad that every show couldn't be a Ted Leo show. Everybody would dance.
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