I keep running into one of Chicago's young musicians around town. For reasons of privacy, we will call him Cap'n Joan of Owls. During one particular week, I saw Cap'n Joan of Owls three times at Lula Cafe alone. He popped up here and there, everywhere. I'd briefly talked with him once during the winter, when he sported what I considered an unfortunate mustache—a mustn'tstache, if you will. Anyway, the point is, we've never been introduced, but surely he has to think it's weird that we keep showing up at the same places. We're probably both thinking, "Argh, there's that weirdo again! Am I being stalked? Whatever would bring one person to Lula three times within five days? I will pretend that I saw nobody, and carry on smoothly with my normal day."

I hadn't seen Cap'n Joan of Owls in a couple of weeks, so I thought maybe the planets had realigned, keeping us on our normal paths away from each other. But then, I was shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue, and there he was sitting with his ladyfriend. Finally I decided to say something. "Why do we keep running into each other?" I said to Cap'n Joan of Owls. "I mean, don't you notice that we're always at the same places? This is kind of weird."

Cap'n Joan of Owls just smiled sweetly at me. "And why are you at Saks Fifth Avenue?" I continued. "I didn't know you liked Marc Jacobs."

With a gentle shrug, Cap'n Joan of Owls said, "Man, who doesn't?" and then walked away.

Oh, I should mention that all of the Saks bit was a dream. But it was pretty convincing, eh?

7.1.2002

Last Thursday I went to the Salvation Army to look for a bicycle. Like all the lame-o hipsters concerned with cycling aesthetics, I want an old Schwinn. Disregard the fact that my laziness has reached the point where I am too much of a sloth to cross the street for some Gatorade; if only my bicycle were cute, surely I’d get off my bum. So I scooted over to the ol’ thriftorium and checked out the wares. No bicycles were to be found (other than a Huffy Sweet Style, anyway), but I figured it couldn’t hurt to take a look-see at the clothing.

I started moving through a rack of some shirts, standing about four feet from a woman in her late thirties. She looked like your typical blue jeans & t-shirt kind of Chicagoan, the kind of person who wears Oakleys and rocks out to Foreigner when she’s feeling saucy. She was browsing and coming my way, as I was going her way. When we were about two feet from each other, I excused myself and moved to her right. She glared at me. I started flipping through the racks again, when suddenly the woman violently shoved the blouses my way. I jumped a little as she yelled, “GET YOUR OWN DAMN BLOUSE RACK! THIS IS MINE! I WAS HERE FIRST!” I then realized that I was dealing with the modern equivalent of the Jabberwocky.

“I’m sure there’s room for both of us,” I offered meekly. Because let’s be honest, Jabberwocky didn’t need the whole 6-foot rack to find the finest in poly-rayon blends. “YOU LISTEN HERE, MISSY,” growled Jabberwocky. “MAYBE NOBODY EVER TAUGHT YOU ANY MANNERS, BUT YOU NEED TO KEEP TO YOURSELF.” I suppressed the urge to inform her that one of my favorite columnists is Miss Manners, and instead, evenly explained, “Oh, but you’re the one being rude.” The rabid Jabberwocky then snarled and continued her shopping. I could have given her a saucy comeback, but then I thought, “What would Audrey Hepburn do?” For starters, Audrey Hepburn wouldn’t be shopping at the goshdamned Salvation Army. So I left, hopped on my Vespa, and pretended to ride down the streets of Rome.